New Topic

Sadly, no one posted a new topic (no worries!). For efficiency's sake, I will post a replacement topic.

Inspired by the time of the year, I would like people to create a holiday-themed piece.

Next topic date will be 12/15/07.

Best of luck!

Fight

Zach's Topic: You are to write a fight scene.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

So I deviated a bit, but hey, that is what came out.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Write His Future”

Marcus was new to the Festival. The army had knocked on his family’s door just six months ago, so this was the first time he had been on break. He didn't know what to expect from the event, but he could feel the energy of the crowd. It was boiling over inside his mind and body. His words came out too quickly, his hand jittered, and he joined in the crowd’s anticipatory chanting even though he did not really grasp the lust the crowd craved.
“Are you having fun, little one?” Gravel, Marcus’s master, asked as he yelled above the crowd and bumped into others crammed into the small, makeshift “arena.” The arena had a dirt floor and not much else beyond hastily constructed benches and low walls. Benches were probably unnecessary in that the hundreds of soldiers who made up the crowd would stand in anticipation of the horse’s bleeding that would signal the Festival’s beginning.

“Yes, Mentor Gravel. I can't wait for it to start!” Marcus yelled over the crowd.

“You’ll have to little one! There’s reason no on tells you,” Gravel’s comment was cut off by the explosion in crowd noise as the general brought out his own warhorse. The general clenched his fist and crowd quickly quieted down. The horse remained absolutely calm as the general held its reins with one hand.

“This steed marks our beginning! May it reward our past and write our future!” The crowd cheered as the general pulled his sword and slit the horse’s neck. As the animal’s blood formed into a pool around his feet, the general did nothing but smile.

The general walked away from the center and two groups of armed soldiers forced two beleaguered looking men into the arena. One looked disgustingly obese in that his body seemed horribly disproportionate. His bulging stomach was not matched by equally fat legs or arms. Certainly, those body parts were larger; but not as large as they should have been. The other man looked thin, but not frail. However, his skin hung so loosely and sagged from all over his body that one could body wrap the excess skin around him once or twice more. Droopy described the man’s appearance in more ways than one. As they were shoved to the center by armed guards, a spear and sword were tossed on each side of dead horse.

Gravel’s eyes caught the perplexed look on Marcus’s face and Gravel laughed.

“Little one, you look confused! We fattened the skinny one and starved the fat one! The fatty is called Bacon and the skinny is called Droopy!” Gravel yelled as each contestant grabbed the weapon closest to him; the fat man grabbed the sword while the skinny one clutched the spear.

“Do they do this to our captured men?” Marcus asked Gravel as his voice cracked.

“Worse, little one. Much worse,” Gravel said quietly with a touch of knowing sadness. Marcus tried to think of something worse, but his mind lacked the imagination. Of the horrors he has seen so far, for some reason, he knew this would become the worst thing that plagued his already stormy dreams.

Marcus watched as the prisoners Bacon and Droopy awkwardly circled the horse’s body. As they both moved laterally away from the horse, Droopy’s loose skin caused him to lose his balance and fall to the ground. He was only saved by fact that Bacon’s massive weight kept him from changing direction quickly. By the time, Bacon reached his fallen foe, Droopy was back on his feet. Droopy began to jab at Bacon from a distance with his spear. After a close miss by Droopy, Bacon swung hard with his sword and caught a flap of Droopy’s skin hanging from his arm. But again, Bacon couldn’t move him arm quickly enough for a follow up and Droopy stabbed his former friend in his left eye socket. Bacon fell to the ground screaming and clutching his face as the blood mixed with the dirt and horse’s fluids. Instead of finishing the combat, Droopy dropped his sword and remained standing.

The crowd yelled and pleaded for an killing, but Droopy did not move. Finally, the guards reemerged and began to yell. Marcus could not read their lips or hear their words above the crowd noise, but after a moment he understood. Additional guards pulled a few of Droopy and Bacon’s fellow prisoners into the arena by leashes connected at the neck and put blades to the men’s throats. Marcus could tell that Droopy was crying and that the guards continued to yell. Finally, Droopy picked his sword up and walked towards Bacon. Just as Droopy raised his sword far above his head, a guard rushed over and knocked away the sword. The guard then gave Droopy a small dagger and laughed as pointed at the bruised and bloodied Bacon. Droopy mounted Bacon and began to plunge the knife into Bacon’s body without rhyme or reason as to location.

Marcus had to avert his gaze. Bacon would not die and Droopy would not stop. Bacon had already been covered in blood, but now Droopy arms and face were now covered as well. Where once there was horse’s blood and dirt, there was now human flesh and blood muddled together with the beast and the earth. As Droopy continued to plunge the short blade into his comrade, Marcus winced.

Droopy’s wail reached Marcus in a part of his soul that he thought was long dead. As the prisoner walked away from his dead friend, Marcus could feel tears welling up inside him. Killing on the field felt horrible, but nothing like this spectacle. Droopy’s scream seemed like the worse sound in the universe until Marcus heard the next noise: the roar of the crowd. Instead of feeling horrified by the site of the dying gladiator or the cries of friend, Marcus realized that he was stuck with people who were enamored at this awful site. How could men he called his friends enjoy this? He looked over to Gravel and saw a face so satisfied that Marcus’s blood went cold. If this is what he had to look forward to in the event of surrender or failure, he would take his own life before being captured.

“Ha! If they fought this hard in the beginning, the fuckers wouldn’t be stuck here now!” Gravel yelled to the horrified Marcus.

“Here come the next ones! Trunk and Stump!” Graveled yelled as the guards ushered in two new contestants. Stump, the first one, was missing both his hands; the second, Trunk, could not even stand. Marcus knew why when he saw that the man lacked both feet; his legs both stopped at the ankle. The cuts were new enough that a little bit of blood still leaked through the makeshift bandages that covered the ankle stumps.

Marcus stared at both men as they prayed on opposite sides of the messy pile of the horse and Bacon. The weaponless Stump hopped over Bacon’s body with ease and ran quickly towards the stranded Trunk. But Trunk, wielding a short sword, swung wildly at Stump’s feet while lying on his belly. Stump awkwardly lost his balance, fell to the ground and rolled away as Trunk failed to reach him with unfocused swinging of his sword. Taking his breath, Stump began to slowly circle the immobile Trunk and Trunk attempted to rotate his body to remain facing his enemy. Periodically, Stump would lunge only to fall back moments later as Trunk swung his sword inches above the ground.

“If we wanted a pussy we’d have cut your dick off!” Gravel yelled into Marcus’s ear. Mirroring Gravel’s feelings, the crowd began to boo. Marcus felt the crowd’s boredom turn to anxiousness and then he realized that he was feeling the same thing…

During the crowd’s booing, Stump stutter-stepped at Trunk, Trunk swung wildly again from right to left, and Stump burst past Trunk’s motion by lunging behind the sword’s arc. Before the crowd could recognize what had happened, Stump kicked Trunk in the face and began to stomp on the torso of his footless foe. With the first kick, Trunk was dazed; the additional boots only served as the killing strokes. First, Trunk’s torso turned pink. Before long, the torso turned a feverish red. Marcus could not help but stare when Trunk’s ribs started to bulge ever so slightly. Finally, the crowd roared when Trunk’s ribs burst from his body as though they were a baby bird poking its head through a hatching egg.

“Now that is what we kill for!” Gravel yelled. “I’m glad you made it far enough to see it!” Gravel yelled as he slapped Marcus’s back

Again, Marcus cringed at the thought that the fans of this monstrosity were his friends and masters. Marcus felt even worse than before when he felt how happy he was that Gravel wanted him here. He realized that even though he was disgusted, he still wanted to be one of them. Marcus smiled as best he could and slapped his chest in a sign of honor to his master.

“It’s time. You need to come with me, little one,” Gravel yelled at Marcus and they started to make their way away from the crowd. Marcus could see other masters and students walking away from the Festival. Before long, they approached the pens. This was the first time Marcus had seen where the prisoners were kept. If the enemy treated his side worse, Marcus couldn’t grasp the concept. He could hear chorus of tears and outrage, planning and despair. As though being surrounded by a fence of wooden walls and jagged spears wasn’t enough to pacify the prisoners, a giant column surrounded by a pile of limbs and organs stood at the center of the pen. Marcus understood the purpose fo the column he saw the long leases connected to the column and prisoners’ necks. Some men walked around the pen while others sat. The few women there seemed to stay near the children. The children, despite their frailty, seemed relatively unscathed when compared to the adults.

He was relieved that he wouldn’t actually need to enter the pen; the guards were bringing pairs of prisoners out to Marcus, Gravel, and the rest of the men.

“It is time for you become one of us. Write his future,” Gravel said as kicked the back of a male prisoner kneeling in front Marcus and the guards. Marcus looked at the prisoner and knew that both their lives were about to change. Marcus was still thinking as other students issued orders for how to main the prisoners kneeling before them.

“Write his future!” Gravel yelled as he stomped his foot and stared eye-to-eye with Marcus. Marcus looked back to Gravel, back towards the pen, and back at the kneeling prisoner before him. Gravel pacing and grumbling became louder.

“Master, why not use the children?” Marcus asked his master as he pointed back towards the pens. The guards looked at each other, at Marcus, and then back to Gravel.

“I told you all. A natural this boy here is,” Gravel said with an approving smile.

Radiohead

To much fanfare, Radiohead offered its latest album for free via download off the web. Fans would have the ability to pay whatever price they decided was appropriate for the album. Regardless of people's views on the subject of the music industry's business model, everyone agreed this was a bold move and eagerly awaited the results.

The gist of the article below is that ComScore, a company that measures online
activity, conducted a study focused on people downloading the Radiohead album. ComScore claims that the study proved that 62% paid nothing and most of the actual purchasers paid less less than $4.

Radiohead promptly contested the study's results and asserted that it was impossible for outside organizations to have accurate data. The band, however, declined to release its own sales figures.


More info can be found in the link or through normal searching.

Brief Radiohead Article

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

So what do we think about this experiment? Do you trust fans to pay for the album? If so, would the same result apply to less cultish, more mainstream fans? Can Radiohead's model successfully apply to writing i.e. Stephen King offers one of his books online via the same system?

Aharon's Topic

Just a reminder: it will be Aharon's turn to choose a topic on Monday, 11/12/07.

Historical Figure (Hemp)

Lane's topic: "...take an obviously famous historical figure (one that everyone has , or should have, heard of) and write a historical fiction piece that stars that character, good or bad."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Time to Post Something and Move On”

“Daddy, I’d like you meet Byron,” Zhang said to her father.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sun,” Byron said as he stuck his hand out to his girlfriend’s father. Mr. Sun’s hands remained at his sides as he said nothing; his hands only moved when he pulled the tobacco pipe from his mouth to blow smoke. After minutes of silence, Byron began to shift his weight from one foot to the other. Eventually, he broke down and asked, “So how is everything, sir?”

The old man continued to say nothing and stared into Byron’s eyes. Finally, the old man leaned forward and whispered in a raspy voice, “In making tactical dispositions, the highest pitch you can attain is to conceal them.”

Byron’s eyes slowly shifted to Zhang, but she simply looked back smiling.

“Daddy, don’t be like this again. Be nice,” Zhang jokingly pleaded with the smirk still on her face. “Why don’t we sit down over here and drink some tea.”

Zhang sat down on the love seat opposite a recliner and looked at Byron as she patted the cushion next to her. Byron began to walk in her direction, but Mr. Sun quickly slipped past him to nab the spot on the couch next to his daughter.

The bearded old man kissed his daughter’s cheek and then looked over at Byron to say, “Though we have heard of stupid haste in war, cleverness has never been seen associated with long delays.”

Byron sighed and sat in the recliner opposite his girlfriend. Byron waited for Mr. Sun to speak, but no words came from the old man; Mr. Sun simply waited. Again Byron broke down and decided to speak.

“So, Zhang said that you retired from the army, but are now a painter. How is the art world treating you?”

“Spies cannot be usefully employed without a certain intuitive sagacity. If a secret piece of news is divulged to a spy before the time is ripe, he must be put to death,” the old man said as he laughed and smoke flowed from his mouth.

“Look, I’m just trying to make conversation. You don’t need to make any accusations,” Byron said cutting off the old man’s laughter. Feeling the tension, Zhang cut into the conversation with:

“Daddy, why don’t you tell Byron about your time in the army? His little brother is thinking of joining up, but isn’t sure yet.”

Mr. Sun looked directly into Byron’s eyes and spoke, “Making no mistakes is what establishes the certainty of victory, for it means conquering an enemy that is already defeated.”

“Yah, I’ll be sure to tell him that right away,” Byron said as he rolled his eyes. Zhang kicked his ankle gently after he finished his comment.

“I need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” Zhang said as she stood up and left the room.

“Now that Zhang is gone, I just wanna say that I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I am not sure what happened here,” Byron said to the old man.

“We cannot enter into alliances until we are acquainted with the designs of our neighbors,” Mr. Sun responded.

“Well, I have nothing but good intentions for your daughter. I love her and I want you and me to get along.”

“In making tactical dispositions, the highest pitch you can attain is to conceal them,” Mr. Sun said.

“Would it be so hard to get a straight answer, from you?” Byron said as his tone tightened.

“All warfare is based on deception.”

“You are one crazy old man, you know that. I read your book, but I never realized how seriously you took this stuff.”

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear.”

“I’m not afraid of you. I just can’t win,” Byron said he stood up.

“The good fighters of old first put themselves beyond the possibility of defeat,” the old man said as he remained perfectly calm.

“How are you boys getting along?” Zhang said with a smile as she reentered the living room.

“That’s it. Zhang, I am not going to put up with this crap. I’ll call you later Zhang,” Byron said as he stormed out of the house. Zhang chased after him, but could not catch Byron until he had already shut the door of his car. She slammed the door as she reentered the house and looked at her father puffing away on his pipe.

“I hope you are happy. I really liked this one and you had to do it again,” Zhang said as she waited for a reply. When none came, she asked instead,” Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Mr. Sun looked up and said:

“Only after trials, do we finally know the truth about friends, foes, and ourselves.”

“I love you too, daddy.”

FYI: Comments Can Be E-mailed Now

Hi Guys,

Just so everyone knows, notifications of additional comments can be e-mailed to you so long as you:

1. write a comment in response to a post and
2. select the "Email follow-up comments to" box before clicking the orange "Publish your comment" button.

You must follow those instructions for any single post for which you wish to receive e-mail notifications of additional comments.

Best of luck!

Even if finished, is it still incomplete?

For some reason, I thought of the author Robert Jordan today. For those who don't know, Robert Jordan authored a series called "Wheel of Time;" it is a lengthy series that many fantasy lovers read and enjoyed. Jordan's ailing health caused many fans to fear that he would die before finishing the series and that is exactly what happened. However, before his death, he dictated most of the plot points for the final book to others and apparently, someone else will take up the mantle to finish the series. Christopher Tolkien's work on his father's universe is probably the most famous example of this situation, but others exist including Spielberg's takeover of "A.I." after Kubrick died.

My question is: how we do we feel about that concept in general? Would you want someone other than the original author to finish the series? Are these "co-written" books works less legitimate?
Would it be better to just publish the notes or unfinished story?

Whedon's New Show!

Whedon and Dushku Play with Dollhouse

Source: Variety

November 1, 2007

Joss Whedon is heading back to TV along with his "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" star, Eliza Dushku.

Variety says Dushku will star in the Whedon-penned series "Dollhouse," which has been given a seven-episode order by Fox.

Produced by 20th Century Fox TV -- the studio also behind "Buffy," "Angel" and Whedon's late, lamented "Firefly" -- "Dollhouse" follows a top-secret world of people programmed with different personalities, abilities and memories depending on their mission.

After each assignment -- which can be physical, romantic or even illegal -- the characters have their memories wiped clean, and are sent back to a lab (dubbed the "Dollhouse").

The show centers on Dushku's character, Echo, as she slowly begins to develop some self-awareness, which impacts her missions.

Whedon has already hammered out the basic outline for all seven episodes. Barring a strike, Fox hopes to have the show in production by spring, giving the network an opportunity to be so far ahead of schedule by fall that it could potentially air a full season uninterrupted by breaks.

Beyond Dushku's character, the show will also revolve around the people who run the mysterious "dollhouse" and two other "dolls," a man and woman who are friendly with Echo. Then there's the federal agent who has heard an urban myth about the dolls, and is trying to investigate their existence.

Whedon admitted there's a little dose of "The Matrix" in the plot -- "I do have that entire movie tattooed on my brain" -- and said "Dollhouse" will enable him and Dushku to explore some political and social issues.

http://www.comingsoon.net/news/tvnews.php?id=38948

Zach's Topic

Just as a reminder, barring a new member, Zach is next in line to pick a topic this upcoming Monday (11/5/07).

Dilemma (yes, the story)

Jack's Dilemma topic: This is a generic topic, but the dilemmas we face throughout our lives often tell us who we really are. We put ourselves or are put into situations where there are multiple ways to go, but none of which are truly ideal. Write a brief story, fictional or real, that centers around a dilemma -- moral, romantic, any kind you want.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Time To Move On"

I’ve never been a good employee. It would be a close call if I had to weigh the proposition of hiring myself or a bipolar illegal immigrant with one foot who can only speak in dead languages.

While I don’t steal from or lie to my masters, I have never really done anything exemplary. I do what I am told (unless it requires too much effort) and show up on time. That is about where my productivity as an employee ends; I won’t go to the extra effort or try to think of an innovative solution to a reoccurring problem. I’d rather just clock in, perform the tasks, and go home. Likewise, trolling the Internet or chatting up coworkers are not aversions of mine. These problems don’t revolve around laziness, but some grand combination of a general disinterest towards busy work and specific desire to avoid getting in trouble.

Despite my failings, supervisors often believe I possess some sort of untapped merit and routinely trust me with more important assignments. It is as if they think “Gangster’s Paradise” will begin playing at any moment. Usually, I find a way to finish the assignment in such a way that burns no bridges and satisfies the supervisor, but does not really revolutionize the fast food, museum attendant, or athletic ticket taking worlds. I often luck out in that the assignments end up being immeasurable and thus I cannot truly be evaluated my superiors.

The last time a supervisor trusted me with a crucial project, the project turned out to be more imposing than I first thought. While working at my real job post-college for my university’s football office, the supervisor called me in her office. Sharon was a short, husky woman who I never actually saw stand up. Her large bangs reminded me of the Mary Tyler Moore reruns from TV. That being said, she did not remind of me of Mary Tyler Moore; the razor burn over her lips and the cigarette-marred voice killed that illusion. Sharon had lived a hard life in a small town and she showed it. Suffice to say, people didn’t screw with this five feet of fury.

“Shawn, I’d like you to take over the new mailing program for the season ticket holders. You’ve done a good job so far this year and if this little experiment works out, you will be doing every year,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll make my assistant Kevin check in on you every once and a while. What do you say?” Sharon asked as the smoke emanated from the ash tray near her keyboard. Smoking was technically prohibited by the university, but no one dared to tell her.

“Yah. Sure, whatever,” I mumbled in response. The fate of the season ticket holders didn’t bother me either way. What did spark my interest was the fact that I wouldn’t be forced to handle the phones any more. With the football team nearing bowl-eligibility, the college football equivalent of the playoffs, the phones never stopped ringing. Alumni were desperate to score tickets for the perceived big game; people simply wouldn’t stop calling and when we explained that no tickets were available yet, they simply offered more money. It was like running at an auction that claimed to have the last puppy on earth.

Extricating myself from that ordeal seemed like a good plan even if it involved a little more responsibility. In fact, managing the mailing effort the season ticket holder program turned out to entail a lot more responsibility coupled with very little oversight. My task involved designing all the promotional materials, writing the content, selecting the printing companies, organizing the mailing effort of over 30,000 packets, coordinating the follow up phone calls, and managing a budget that ran into the thousands of dollars.

Up until this point in my life, I still confused the routing and accounting numbers of my checks. Very quickly, I realized I was over my head. And like any young professional entrusted with task important to the greater good, I lied about my progress at every opportunity.

“How’s that list coming, Shawn?” Kevin, the boss’s assistant, would ask.

“The vast majority of it is on its way to being tackled,” I would respond without realizing how my obfuscation had taken on a life of its own. Any competent assistant would have seen right through the nonsense I spouted, but Kevin was no such person. When the boss said that Kevin should check in on me, he simply poked in to say hello and reported back on my outstanding progress. In reality, he knew less about the project than me…and I knew nothing. His knowledge was somewhere in the negative zone; in fact, whenever he appeared, I began to forget the little that I knew. The fact that Sharon delegated more responsibility to Kevin whenever she needed to go to the doctor (which became more frequent as time went on) meant that I had less oversight than ever. I would come into work, stare at the reams of paper, and then wait until I could go home again. Having an office all to myself made my hiding much easier.

Sometimes I would attempt to begin, but the initial products of my work were so abysmal that I would abandon the attempt shortly thereafter and return to the previous plan: duck and cover. Having the trust and respect of my boss meant that these stall tactics appeared to reflect careful planning; a sentiment as untrue as your girlfriend’s statements about her sexual mileage. I didn’t really intend to deceive any one, but the enormous nature of the project intimidated me. Admitting I couldn’t do it was more than my pride could handle, so procrastination became the most effective focal point of my energies.

Periodically, Kevin would check in on me again and during those times I would highlight might impressive looking, but truly meager progress. After his visits, I would be spurred to action: phone calls would be made and documents drafted. But after a little while, I would again crumble under the pressure of a task I didn’t understand and feared I would fail. Instead of putting my effort into and failing, avoiding the task meant that I could I always reserve the “I could have done it if I really tried” excuse.

As the weeks went by, deadlines began to approach. The NCAA, the governing body of the college sports, dictates very specific deadlines for when any sport-related activity can occur. Most of the publicized rules apply to student athletes. For instance, due to a rule against gambling, a university once had to cut a hole through a hotel wall to prevent the players from walking through a casino to enter the arena. However, a whole host of regulations also deal with tickets and a school’s administration. Through my procrastination and dereliction of duty, I actually missed the deadline for when my project could be mailed out. To mail it afterwards would bring the Gods’ fury upon the university. My extremely preoccupied boss didn’t appear to know about the deadline.

The real question is, what would I do? I stewed over this issue for days as I waited for my boss to come through my office doors. I could stay silent and hope that no ever noticed. If asked, I could either lie or tell the truth. Recognizing the flaws in both those plans, I even considered mailing the forms anyway and hoping the NCAA didn’t catch me. One part of me felt guilty for screwing this project up; another really didn’t care all that much. Despite those competing emotions, what I really wanted was to avoid getting trouble. One thing was for sure, I had really committed a “fireable” offense. If the university found out, I would be promptly discharged without a second thought. I was going to be fired from my first real job. How was going to explain this to my dad?

Days past as I waited. By this time, a week had passed after the NCAA deadline. Yet, no one ever came to check on me. My plan to wait in silence appeared to be working. But finally, Kevin walked in with the grimmest look of any one I have ever seen.

“Shawn, you need to sit down. We need to talk,” he said. "But first, would you remind clearing out of this office. I don't think you'll be needing it any more."

“Okay,” I said. This was going to be it. I was going to be fired.

“I don’t really don’t want to hurt you, but something terrible has happened and I think its best that I treat you like a man and just tell you.” he said as he paused and put his hand on my shoulder. I could feel my heart thump as my job was put on the chopping block. “Shawn, Sharon died of pneumonia over the weekend.”

To this day, I am ashamed to admit that my first thought was Ya-fucking-hoo. Sharon was a great person and her loss was a sad day, but something more important had occurred: I was saved and no one would ever know. In the wake of Sharon’s death, the project would end up being forgotten and I could cover up my incompetence. And that is exactly what I did. For weeks, I transferred documents and evidence from the office to my car: every lunch a folder, every day a box. Slowly but surely I put Andy Dufresne to shame.

Weeks later, Kevin would be promoted to Sharon’s former job and another revelation would come: Kevin would be promoting me based on how well the season ticket plan was selling. He appeared to have no inkling whatsoever about my efforts. Tickets were selling at a record pace and my nonexistent “mailing plan” was being assigned the credit.

From this ordeal, I learned one simple fact: death can set you free.

Dilemma Topic (not a story)

Sadly, I will not be submitting the dilemma piece tonight. However, I made enough progress today that I will post a passable version of the story tomorrow. As of the historical fiction piece, I should be back on track.

How are everyone else's pieces coming along? wink wink nudge nudge

Blogs by Gaiman and Martin

Below are two links to blogs written by two of my favorite writers. The first is written by Neil Gaiman, of "Sandman" and "American Gods" fame; George R.R. Martin, author of "A Game of Thrones" writes the other. Gaiman comments on topics ranging from rice pudding recipes to Dumbledore's sexuality while Martin tends to discuss his hobbies such as football and miniatures.

http://www.neilgaiman.com/journal/
http://grrm.livejournal.com/

Fox Sucks Blood From Buffy; Whedon Responds

In an issue that speaks to the long-term business implications of writing, FOX put the kibosh on the fan-run Buffy-the-Musical sing-a-longs.

For the uninitiated, Buffy was a hit show centered around a young girl cursed (or blessed) to slay vampires, kill demons, and fight evil. In one of the episodes, a demon caused the the entire town to break out into Broadway-style song and dance routines. Since the end of the television show's demise, the musical episode has been shown in theaters along with a "cast" that sings and dances along. However, the studio lawyers are causing it all to end. See:

http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5if4Fv5TkZWZp21xkz1xzWjbRMJ2wD8S7TQT80

The basic gist of the problem seems to be that the Hollywood business structure (union fees, etc) doesn't know how to handle the issue; canceled television shows generally don't re-air in movie theaters years later. Although to be fair to the studio, if the Buffy sing-a-long crew is making a profit, I can see the need to step in.

Joss Whedon, the show's creator, responded negatively to the news and promised do everything in, "... my power to find out the exact reasoning for this and try to convince those responsible what a mistake it is." See:

http://www.ifmagazine.com/new.asp?article=5200

What do you think? Writers' rights? Evil studio oppressing the people's freedom? Allow profit-earning third-parties to use a creator's work in any way? Other?

Think of a story based on this photo: Go! ;)

Albus Dumbledore Likes...

"Harry Potter fans, the rumors are true: Albus Dumbledore, master wizard and Headmaster of Hogwarts, is gay. J.K. Rowling, author of the mega-selling fantasy series that ended last summer, outed the beloved character Friday night while appearing before a full house at Carnegie Hall."


See:

http://apnews.myway.com/article/20071020/D8SCUJG00.html

Scott Turow and John Grisham Charge More Than Gun Dealers During the L.A. Riots

In an odd occurrence, Scott Turow and John Grisham will be hosting an event sponsored by the Northwestern University School of Law Center for Wrongful Convictions. While I am not one of either writer's biggest fans, it seemed blogworthy.

On the other hand, $100 to see a guy who wrote about law school....

See:
http://www.law.northwestern.edu/wrongfulconvictions/Grisham_Turow.html

Happy birthday

We are a community; we few, we happy few, and we have a few rituals and traditions. Fiction and nonfiction, comment on each other’s stuff, weekly assignments. Honor Hemp.

It is this last point I am writing to today. It’s close enough to his birthday to matter, so I will start a WMW tradition, grab the microphone, and say a few words.

I first met Hemp when Aharon and I got together to check out “Alien v. Predator” in the theater. The movie was awful, but as we dissected the awfulness afterwards in the parking lot and then later at Denny’s, I knew that I’d found a kindred spirit.

Sharp, critical, and he made me laugh.

One of my memories of Hemp and I –
He and I drive downstate together to visit part of the tribe ( Hemp loves that word in this context, by the way ), and down there and back we invariably discuss everything, but a large part of the discussion always seems to be writing… stuff we’re doing sometimes, but more ideas that we both have. TV shows that need to be made, movies we could write.

Poetry that makes Hemp weep openly. He is very sensitive. : )

Anyway, these times down and back are some of my favorite memories of time with him... bouncing ideas off one another in this way, nothing is sacred, and it seems easy to criticize, to develop and get some really good stuff from our heads into some Word doc, for later use. It’s a kind of male bonding that I value lots and lots. It’s not always on the way up or downstate… sometimes it’s at Panera, sometimes it’s at a dimly lit table at this freakshow bar I drag him to now and again. But it’s amazing how we go from “Hi” to being off at the races, idea wise, so easily. Very very cool.

A very close second is the time he and I built a shed, at his parents place. This is a story best heard over alcohol.

My favorite bit of Hemp writing, from here –
Hands down, his Bio piece: “Hating people of the Mediterranean.” It’s something that I always put in a list of links if I’m telling someone about the blog, and in my own opinion so far it captures him the best, so far. He jokes ( or maybe he’s not joking ) about how he feels that no one would read it, for whatever reason. If you haven’t, I definitely recommend it.

Happy birthday, Hemp… Sorry if this embarrasses you.

Okay, no I’m not.

; )


Feel free to chime in, if you have a fav Hemp Memory or Hemp Writing. And if you've had a birthday so far and I've missed it, I won't do so again. So be watchful. And no, Hemp does not hate the people of the Med. He is both rational and grounded.

Question

Pete and I bounce this question around all the time: what existing movie do you wish that you could have written? Generally, I pick "Before Sunset" and Pete picks "Unbreakable," but for the purposes of the question, we'll call those films off limits.

How about you?

Hemp - "Waiting Game" (Myth)

Hemp's Topic: Modernize, rewrite, or reboot a myth.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Waiting Game"

“To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now two,” Charon, the ferryman, said to the two men standing on the river’s edge. Neither man could see entirely through the dark water on which the Charon’s skiff floated. Nor could either man entirely make out the coast line. Beyond being blacker than oil, the dark water seemed to absorb all the geographic signs the men were used to seeing.

“We both brought the obolus. One each. That’s the rule. You can’t ask for more now that we’re here,” Aristo, the younger of the two men argued as he shook the silver coin as the pointy-eared ferryman. With red hair, the young man usually stood out, but did he so even more in a cavern with the ferryman and the older man.

“To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now two,” Charon responded without tone or intonation as it stood in the boat unmoving and undisturbed.

“Ferryman, we can’t go back. If you don’t let us pass, we’ll have to wander the river banks for a hundred years. I miss my wife and she is waiting for me. It has been a long time since I’ve seen her and I am this close to touching her again. Please. Let me pass,” said Basil, whose graying hair was only out done by his grayer beard.

“To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now two,” said the ferryman.

Basil stared in disbelief at the ferryman and his red-haired counterpart and then walked away scraping his feet on the rock floor. As the older man turned away, Aristo mouthed the words, The toll is now two to himself

“I’m not going to wait here forever!” Aristo yelled as he charged at the ferryman’s skiff.

“To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now two,” Charon said as the red-haired man sailed through the ferryman’s formless body, plunged into the water headfirst, and slowly sank to the bottom of the Acheron River.

Time passed and talking proved useless with the ferryman. Begging, threats, negotiation: nothing persuaded the ferryman. The situation was all the more frustrating in that Basil’s eyes had adjusted and he could slightly make out the other shore; it wasn’t far at all. Basil even looked down the at river’s bottom where Aristo plunged into the water. Basil could make out the faintest outline of Aristo’s body; to Basil, it didn’t look that far. While the ferryman’s answer was always the same, Basil began to ponder his own question: How will I get another coin?

After what seemed like several days to Basil, a young woman appeared suddenly through the mist of the riverbanks. After she appeared Basil clutched the largest rock he could find and shrouded himself in the mist and darkness as best as possible. Walking past the old man with noticing him, she approached the ferryman,

“I wish to pass and I have brought the coin,” she said holding out the silver obolus.

“To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now two.”

“What do yo…” She turned suddenly to see the old man charging at her with a rock in his hand. She tripped the old man and the rock fell from his grasp as he tumbled to the ground. “Why are you d…” She stopped speaking as he haphazardly lunged at her. She sidestepped him once more and he fell to the ground harder this time hitting his head hard on the rock floor.

“To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now two,” the ferryman said as the woman stood there looking at the dazed old man a few feet in front of her. She looked at the ferryman, the man at her feet, and suddenly understood her situation. She began to bash the rock into Basil’s skull. With hands covered in blood, she picked up the old man’s obolus, approached the ferryman, and held both coins out to him.

“The toll is now paid. You may cross over,” the ferryman said after taking both coins from the woman and slipping them into the sleeve of his robe. She stepped in the skiff and ferryman carried her across in silence. Upon returning, the ferryman encountered a young male and female waiting for him. The old man’s body remained, surrounded in an ever expanding pool of blood.

“I wish to pass and I have brought the coin,” a blond woman named Daria said holding out the silver obolus.

“To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now four.”

“Four!” Both humans screamed. Both people explained their situations to the ferryman. They attempted to cajole, persuade, and even threaten him, but no tactics worked. After a few minutes, Daria walked away to think and the black haired man, Eustace, quietly asked the ferryman about the dead body a few feet from their presence.

“He could not pay the toll. The toll was two,” the ferryman replied.

“But he doesn’t even have one coin? And you said the price was four....” Eustace said to himself quietly before answering his own question. Now he understood the situation. He walked over to the blond woman and formulated a plan. They would jointly attack each new person until acquiring enough coins for each to pass. Once agreed, they waited in darkness.

Before long, an elderly old man limped by the pair. Once past, they leaped on him and smashed his skull with rocks until his screams were drowned in blood. With the coin gathered up, the duo waited once more.

Not soon after, a five-year old boy arrived whistling and tip-toeing near the water’s edge. Daria refused to attack the child, so Eustace proceeded on his own. The whistling was replaced by frantic gurgling as his head was held under water. Four more visitors arrived and were slain by Eustace and Daria. They each stood before the ferryman to present their coins.

“I wish to pass and I have brought the coins,” Daria said holding out the silver coins.

“The toll is now paid. You may cross over,” the ferryman said after taking all four coins from the woman and slipping them into the sleeve of his robe. She stepped in the skiff and ferryman carried her across in silence.

“I wish to pass and I have brought the coins,” Eustace said holding out the silver coins.

“To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now eight,” Charon said as the skiff moved away from the shore. Eustace stared as the ferrymen and Daria floated into the mist. As the skiff floated away, he noticed that he could still see the outline of the ferryman and Daria when they stopped. The shore wasn’t all that far away, perhaps forty feet; the black river was more like a black channel.

More new souls began to arrive. However, Eustace was unable to seize the advantage because the new souls were now arriving in groups and the presence of dead bodies on the banks of Acheron tipped them off. As the numbers increased, so did the violence and so did Charon’s price. From four to eight and then sixteen: the more visitors who secured the price, the more bodies piled up, and the more the Charon raised its toll. Even with widespread violence amongst the arrivals, no one could survive long enough to collect riches necessary to satisfy the Charon. Through plunder or coercion, someone could perhaps raise hundreds of coins, but few could keep up with the Charon’s staggering prices.

As Eustace looked around and he witnessed the kind of carnage that he thought he had left behind. Organs lay on ground next to their former owners and blood stained the rocky ground. Bodies were stacked on top of one another in front of the ferryman as though they were an offering.

Although meeting the Charon’s price seemed impossible, many still tried. However, distrust infested the ranks. Alliances bonded and then dissolved under the pressure of ferryman’s toll. Eustace himself had betrayed and been betrayed several times. Although Eustace could not raise the fee, he was still present when Charon raised the price to 2048 coins. The last of the Departed has won the toll through gambling.

Like Eustace, those who remained were all considering the same two questions: Where am I going to get two thousand coins and where do you go if die in the Land of the Dead? Above all the turmoil stood Charon in his ferry waiting to collect his toll. To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now two-thousand forty- eight.

After one his betrayals ended in him dumping a body into the black water, Eustace noticed something. He could still a vague outline of the body at the bottom of the river. Nothing else was in front of his eyes: to Eustace, it almost seemed as though a tunnel cleared the darkness from his eyes to the body at the river’s bottom. During this time, Eustace thought of something: earlier, he had seen how near the other side of the river was. If the other side was not that far, river was not that wide and if he could see the body hit the ground, the water couldn’t be that deep. And if the water wasn’t that deep or wide, the bodies could be used to…

Eustace began to run up and down the banks yelling and flailing his arms.

“Listen to me! I know how to get across,” he pleaded. Some stopped to listen, others ignored him. “Listen! We don’t to wait for the ferryman. I have a plan!” He screamed at his fellow souls. Some began to look up and pay attention. Eustace hoped that there were enough bodies to satisfy his plan. Eustace began to explain his plan to the others and their work commenced.

“Dump it in the same spot. They have to be in the exact same spot! We need to build across and up,” Eustace yelled to the people helping him dump the bodies into the water. Very quickly into the project, Eustace realized that this plan might work. He could see the pile of bodies increasing in height and length as the remaining souls tossed more and more bodies into the black water. During all this time the ferryman remained stoic and unmoving. To the Eustace and the other souls, he appeared either ambivalent or oblivious.

After hours of piling, the bridge of bodies was complete and Eustace was the first to cross. He eyed the ferryman at every carefully placed step on the rib cages and legs of the human fodder. Once Eustace reached the other side, a mad rush began to cross the bridge. While some souls were able to scramble across the bridge, others were forced off into the black water and slowly sank to the bottom next to those who had already been piled. The disorganized pressure began to make the bride wobbly. As all the rest of souls rushed the bridge, it began to give way. Some souls joined Eustace, but most either fell into the black water or remained on the other shore.

As Eustace looked around, he started to look around frantically. This side was exactly like the one he had just left. He saw no signs that the ferryman had ever deposited a person on this shore. Just like on the other side, Eustace was in an obsidian-colored rock cavern with high ceilings and the black water about twenty feet from the cavern’s walls. There was no door to for an exit or trail to light the way. Eustace heard the water rustling and turned around to see the ferryman’s skiff.

“You have not paid the toll and cannot cross over,” the ferryman said looking into the eyes of Eustace. Eustace waited for Charon to elaborate, but nothing further was said.

“Then can we go back?” Eustace asked.

“No, you have not paid the toll and cannot cross over,” Charon replied.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Eustace asked with panic in his voice.

“You must wait,” the ferryman said as the skiff glided away into the mist. After a moment, Eustace and the other heard what they wished to never hear again:

“To cross over, you must pay the toll. The toll is now two-thousand forty- eight.”

Another Writer's Blog

Hi guys,

Below is a blog created by some of the writers from the Gen Con writing seminars. I haven't examined it thoroughly, but it looks useful. Through the first posts so far, the writers discuss their takes on creating characters.


http://www.writerssymposium.blogspot.com/