A Weary Tale (I'm Tired and Sleepy and Exhausted)

Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women. This is equally true for boys, although you could substitute "men" for "not-yet-men" and "women" for "mothers." And none followed this saying with unwavering faith more than Boy. Boy was a practically minuscule six years old when he ran away from home, and naturally he gravitated towards the ocean. After all, it was the only thing he could point out on a map, and he was quite proud that he knew all three oceans by their name (forget that there are two more for a moment), and could even tell you what planet they're on (he got two out of three correct). 

So, naturally, living in New York City, he went straight to the beach and admired the Indian Ocean (he is six, mind you). His face was still wet with salty tears and salty sea spray but he paid it no mind, temporarily distracted by the might of the ocean. He laughed at the little fishes and crabs, and chased a seagull half a block before giving up and returning to the beach. Being mischievous in nature and still distraught by his abominable mistreatment at the hands of his mother—she had a kind heart, and only rarely yelled at him, but the dramatic flare of a six year old did help blow it out of proportion—Boy found a boat to climb aboard.

Boy sneaked into the cargo hold and promptly hid himself in an empty crate, giggling in excitement. Thus followed a long journey that holds no importance or interest since it involved a lot of bodily fluids and a general wane of excitement—and who can really be bothered to read about that? At the end of this long journey events happened that unfortunately found Boy outside the boat and impossibly on a rather large island inhabited by an equally large bear. And, of course, the center of the island was a rather large mountain.

And, as is the nature of such stories, the bear and Boy became the best of friends. Boy named the bear Boo in true creative fashion, and they went on lots of merry adventures together. Boy never forgot about his mother, and often he cried about home. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

. . .

Of course, this was just the zoo. Boy's mother snapped at him to stop whining and he ran off. Passed by the aquarium and had a right good time. Then he found the bear cage, and imagined a life together with the bear. His mother found him a few minutes later and he was overwhelmed with joy (as a few minutes is a life time to a six year old). But I think my story was way more interesting, don't you?

I Stole the Words Right Out of Your Mouth

"There is no conflict between the ideal of religion and the ideal of science, but science is opposed to theological dogmas because science is founded on fact. To me, the universe is simply a great machine which never came into being and never will end. The human being is no exception to the natural order. Man, like the universe, is a machine. Nothing enters our minds or determines our actions which is not directly or indirectly a response to stimuli beating upon our sense organs from without."
-Nikola Tesla
"If the genius of invention were to reveal to-morrow the secret of immortality, of eternal beauty and youth, for which all humanity is aching, the same inexorable agents which prevent a mass from changing suddenly its velocity would likewise resist the force of the new knowledge until time gradually modifies human thought."
-Nikola Tesla
"The future will show whether my foresight is as accurate now as it has proved heretofore."
-Nikola Tesla
"Life is and will ever remain an equation incapable of solution, but it contains certain known factors."
-Nikola Tesla

"You can fawn over your celebrities all you want, but in the end you're still amazed by the sayings of a man who's been dead for nearly a century. Ha."
-Zachary Boddy

Tyrant

"I decry the fact that our fear, and our ignorance," he paused for dramatic flare, "cannot speak for themselves." The room was silent as he paced on the long wooden stage. "They cannot voice their weaknesses. They cannot expect to be heard even if they could speak. There is evil in this world, and it is in the censors you place on us—on humanity. I decry the fact that we cannot speak out."

No one spoke. No one dared clap or applaud. No one dared to even breathe, waiting for the next word of treason. The speaker whirled suddenly, facing the crowd and pointing an accusing finger at them. He seemed to point at all of them, and his glare seemed to pierce all of them. "So why didn't you speak for them? Why didn't you stand up for your fellow man and speak for their fears, since yours can't speak for themselves? Why do we all stand together, yet are all completely alone? We can't speak for ourselves, so we can't speak for each other?"

A woman was brave enough to stand up. "We are esteemed by society because we are committed to the principles of law. We cannot throw that away for another man, when we do not know if they will speak for us as well!"

"How selfish are you that your reputation and humility means more to you then the freedom of your brothers and sisters? How selfish must you be to refuse to speak out against government for fear of the government? You are committed to your principles, yet government regulations compels us to die, and to deteriorate. And no good laws are appointed." The speaker spat out each word like venom,  his emotion invigorating the whole audience. "You are a coward. All of you are cowards. You are afraid that people are not as noble as you, so you refuse to be noble. If a tyrant pushes you down, you do not push back, because you're afraid no one else will push back. And this, this horrid truth that all of you must face, makes you pathetic."

"The legal councils!" A elderly man joined the young, vehement woman. "They oversee our personal and financial affairs. They signed an order authorizing intervention of any signs of rebellion. They appointed a 'just guardian' to oversee our justice should our overseers deem us unfit for society. What are we supposed to do in the face of this tyranny?"

The speaker bared his teeth in a feral grin. "You push back you trembling fools. You fight back. Shove their 'just guardian' up their anuses. Spit in their mouths. I will not stand such cowardice in the face of tyranny. So speak up for your fellow man, because if you don't, who will?" He gave everyone a cold, heartless grin as dozens of armed men poured out of doorways and crashed through windows, screaming orders. Their black masks shined in the dim light as they converged on the terrified crowd.

"Fight back you idiots! Protect your freedom! Speak out for your fellow—" Half a dozen men opened fire, and their bullets ripped through the speaker. Blood spattered across the front row of the crowd. The speaker's crumpled corpse collapsed in a bloody heap, and a pale man with an officer's uniform marched up and unloaded several rounds into the corpse's head.

The audience went home that night, sleeping with their loved ones. The following day, new laws were passed and many of the people who had listened to the speaker met horrid accidents. But the spark was still there, and courage rose up out of darkness. The people who had escaped identification whispered of the speaker's words, and of his gruesome death. Dissent was spread, and slowly it became more open. Dozens more people mysteriously died, and many were killed openly in public. But the rebellion still flared, and still breathed. More speakers rose up to preach their truth. And the people pushed back.

Memorable Passages

"Herein lies the heart and soul of the nations.
Their right to be free men,
Their desire to live in peace,
Their courage to seek out truth,
Herein lies the Sword of Shannara."

-Terry Brooks, The Sword of Shannara

 This passage marks an important turn in one of the most influential books in my life, The Sword of Shannara by Terry Brooks. The book was published in 1977 and was the first mainstream fantasy fiction novel. It was heavily influenced by The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien (as was evident in the characters and general plot) but Terry Brooks shed this blanket of influence in his second book, The Elfstones of Shannara, which is my personal favorite. Although The Sword of Shannara's high fantasy origins was highly apparent, it allowed Terry Brooks to evolve into his own unique writing style and world. The Sword of Shannara was the first fantasy fiction novel to become a New York Time's Bestseller and was #1 for a staggering three months (not even The Lord of the Rings had become a New York Time's Bestseller at this point) and marked the beginning of a long and fabulous career for Terry Brooks. His world is set thousands of years into the future, after an apocalyptic even where mankind was nearly destroyed and the layout of the earth was completely changed. Man was mutated into four different species: man, dwarf, troll, and gnome. The first book follows young Shea Ohmsford (who is half-elf) through the Four Lands, attempting to stop the seemingly inevitable conquest of the Warlock Lord. The passage above is important because it is inscribed into the tri-stone that held the Sword of Shannara before it was stolen. It foreshadows the power of the Sword of Shannara and its purpose. I love this book, and I wouldn't be the same reader—or writer—that I am today without it.

Writers as Readers

What genres (types of writing) interest you? What specifically about this genre interest you? Why are you draw to science fiction books, for example?

I have always been drawn to fantasy fiction. I can read anything, absorb anything, enjoy anything (speaking of genres, of course) but the epitome of literature has always been—for me—fantasy fiction. The fantastic, colorful worlds and cultures; the surreal, larger-than-life characters; the epic, engaging plots. The subtle twists in the stories and monumental impacts to life. The use of philosophy and virtues to drive a point across. Fantasy fiction is marvelous, because it doesn’t have to be grounded in our reality. It can be anything it wants to be, and I believe that that is a fantastic thing.

Which author do you think your writing style is most like? Do you purposely imitate certain writers and/or try to avoid writing like certain writers?

My writing style isn’t from one particular artist, but a culmination of dozens that I’ve read. I take most inspiration for epic fantasy fiction writers like Terry Brooks, Terry Goodkind, and Robert Jordan. I try to avoid imitating more mainstream authors like J.K. Rowling or Cassandra Claire as the simpler, straightforward and less detailed form of writing doesn’t appeal to me. I want mesmerizing detail and depth in a series or book.

What is your favorite book or series? Why is this your favorite?

What a horrid question! How could anyone force another avid reader to choose a favorite? It is like choosing a favorite child (easier than you think). I would say Terry Brooks because he inspired me as a reader and a writer and continues to do so today. The first major fantasy fiction novel I ever read and the one I’ve read more than any other. But how can I forget David Rothfuss, who tells his stories in a marvelous, unique way and threads hidden meanings all throughout his books? Or Terry Goodkind, whose amazing philosophies and simple humanity can take your breath away, and send you reeling into a stupor for days, just thinking about what he said? Or Robert Jordan, whose world is more in depth and colorful than our own, complete with characters that you feel you know personally and dearly? Or Orson Scott Card, who takes time traveling and science fiction to a whole new level? What about the classics? Jane Eyre, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Giver? I couldn’t possibly choose.

When you write, do you continually envision the “reader” of your piece? Who do you think would be interested in reading your work? Does having a reader in mind affect how you choose your words, themes, ideas? What’s different if you just write for yourself knowing no one else will ever read what you come up with?

Of course I envision the reader. If you want someone to read your work, you must envision how they will perceive it. How will they imagine the setting you’re creating? How will they feel about your characters? Will they understand? When you’re writing for yourself, you omit what you already know, because reiterating what’s common knowledge to you is a waste of space. Writing for others comes with an explanation. Writing for yourself doesn’t.

Do you think that someone who reads a lot might become a stronger writer? Do you think we pick up vocabulary, sentence structures, themes, etc. from the books we read that come out directly or indirectly in our own writing?

I think the best writers—just like the best musicians—are always influenced by their favorite authors. We learn from other writers. We see what we do wrong, and what they do wrong so we won’t repeat those mistakes. We learn vocabulary, interesting structures, even get ideas from books that we read. Our writing styles evolve with the books we read.

A Stolen "Template"

If I were in charge of the world

I'd cancel all TV, just to annoy people

All sports to spark civil war

All wars to...stop wars, and also

Rude comebacks, as I'm in charge

If I were in charge of the world

There'd be free tablets to reward good behavior

No chargers for bad behavior, and

Better Netflix for everyone

If I were in charge of the world

You wouldn't have allergies

You wouldn't have sun burns

You wouldn't have full stomachs (keep eating)

Or "Listen to your elders"

You wouldn't even have elders

If I were in charge of the world

A tomato, regardless of what anyone says

Would be a vegetable

All bad music would be dstroyed

And a person who sometimes forgot about people

And sometimes forgot to socialize

Would still be allowed to be

In charge of the world

A Family Tradition

She was such a tiny thing. Frail, wailing among a waddle of pale blue blankets and strong, calloused hands. Her face was a bright pink, and her hair was thin threads of pale brown, drifting in the air of the hospital room. And she was precious. When she finally passed inspection and was cautiously handed to her teary-eyed, struggling-to-breathe-through-the-joy mother, she opened her eyes to study her new environment. Her eyes were a dark blue, stunningly deep in their clarity and intelligence.

When the girl was brought home, her grandmother was overwrought with excitement and unconditional love. She constantly joined the infant’s mother to fret and murmur over her curious noises and grasping hands. Before long, a trickle of sewing supplies entered the house. A couple needles found their way onto the kitchen counter, then various threads. Every time the grandmother wasn’t huddled over the beautiful baby, she was searching for materials, for substance of creativity and long lasting love. Eventually, there were cloths, threads, needles, down, and all manner of tiny insubstantial materials piled on the counters, the dressers, the couches, wherever it would fit.

The girl started to grow and learn, her curiosity festering as she impatiently explored every inch of her new home, bravely traversing the floor and recklessly getting into absolutely everything. As her noises were louder, more expressive, and as her legs grew stronger and she started to walk, her grandmother busied herself with a project that was altogether small but impossibly large. She flew through those materials she had gathered and exterminated them, one by one, until she found the perfect cloths and threads to use.

Then she started to sew. Soft, luscious purple crossed with gently curving vanilla stripes were sewn together with deft motions and concise, tight stitches. Over time the unassuming materials became a pillow, fluffed and soft beyond words. It was a tradition for the grandmother, and every pillow she made was more special than she could ever admit. Each pillow was a manifest of her pride, her love, her wisdom. It was a testimony to her motherhood. The pillow was for the beautiful little girl, who didn’t care much for the pillow at the time. But her grandmother didn’t moan, or complain. Her tears weren’t of sadness. She knew that in time her lovely grandchild would come to appreciate it, and even if she didn’t, her grandmother would always appreciate her.

Years and years later, there were still many nights where that infant, now a woman, could be found tracing the words stitched into the pillow, remembering her grandmother.

When you are tired or when you are weak

Lay your head down and let it kiss your cheek

No matter how cold the night may be

I will always be your loving family

Against the Wind

The wind howls like a man struck blind

And flings itself through the darkened sky

I rest on a cloud of life and dreams

But the wind strikes and closes my wings

The sun's light beats the earth like hail

And flies down my throat to halt my trill

I plummet from the place I struggled to be

And others try to rip my freedom from me

I know in my heart I am stronger than they

Against wind and sun I sing and fly away

Writers Dreaming

Angelou says she doesn’t even like to talk about her bad dreams because talking about them “gives them too much power.” Do you think talking about bad dreams or bad news or other bad things (or feeding into the “drama” at school or in life) gives those bad things more power? When have you known this to happen?

I’m a firm believer of a concept I call “self-deception.” In the end, the greatest enemy to ourselves, is our self. We give everything in our life power, be it good or bad. We are the ones who let a compliment—or an insult—affect our mood and how we feel about ourselves. We are the ones who let a triumph—or a mistake—affect our confidence and how we approach problems. Talking about bad things admits that those bad things affected you, and instantly gives them power. The moment you lash out at an insult, the insult is far more personal. The moment you complain about a mistake, the mistake is magnified tenfold. You acknowledge its effect on you, and you allow that effect harm you personally. Without that nod of approval, that whisper of reaction, an insult cannot touch you. A mistake can only be learned from. A bad dream is only a nightmare, and never more.

Angelou says, “There’s a world of difference between truth and fact.” What do you think she means by that? Do you think the same?

We constantly confused truth and fact. The truth of the matter is, they’re very much different concepts altogether. The fact of the matter is, most people have different ideas on what those differences are. In my opinion, the truth is simple. Truth is what you believe in, even if no one else believes in it. A Christian believes that God is truth, yet an atheist would disagree. Who is right? They both are, even if you don’t think so personally. A truth doesn’t have to be proven, it doesn’t have to be disputed, and you’ll never find a truth in math or science unless it’s a conjecture or a hypothesis. A truth may be based on facts, and on other truths, but in the end a truth is just a truth. It’s like a virtue, in that it’s based on what you believe in, except you act on virtues and use those to guide your life, while truths may hang more in the background and are more subtle. A fact, on the other hand, is indisputable. A fact is numbers. It’s data. It’s evidence. Facts might be used to back up truths, or they may just be facts. It’s not what we believe in, it simply what is. Although, when you think about it, it might all be truths. Who’s to say we didn’t get the facts wrong?

Angelou quotes Nathaniel West as saying, “Easy reading is damned hard writing” and says writing is “just hard work, you know?” Do you agree with this? What is easiest and hardest to you about writing? Is writing hard work?

Writing is a constant challenge, attempting to find the perfect words to convey a meaning only you fully know (and you may not be certain). You have to monitor yourself, making sure that what you write is something any reader could understand and interpret the way you want them to interpret. Night time must be night time, and a metaphor about snow cannot suddenly make it snow. The easiest part about writing is knowing what you want to write about, and envisioning how marvelous the final piece will be. The hardest part is getting there. More specifically, the hardest part might be how to start. Writing is a joy, and an art to be respected and loved, but it’s not exactly easy.

Angelou mentions being told that “one can’t really learn after one is twenty-five.” Do you think the older you get the harder it is to try to learn new things? Or do you think being older means you’re more focused on what’s important and not distracted by things that keep you from learning?

Becoming older does not make it harder to learn. If anything, it only increases your ability to constantly add to what you already know, learning and building on past knowledge and experiences. What does become more difficult is your ability to strip back what you learned wrong and rebuild that knowledge. The farther along in life you get, the harder it is to admit you’re wrong and relearn what you’ve already learned in a different light, but the easier it becomes to learn more things.