Moira Reid's Blog, page 4

Why Do We Have Pets?

Chances are either you or someone you know has a pet. They’re cuddly, warm, comforting, and even utilitarian. But why do we have them? When was it that a person decided, “you know what? I am going to keep this dog?” Was the decision originally purely utilitarian, or was there more at play in the minds of early mankind?

It might seem likely that the first creatures domesticated by humans would be farm animals. And that isn’t too far off. Goats and sheep are among the earliest creatures to be brought home to the villages of early humanity, with archeological records going back to 11,000 BCE. However, the dog wins when it comes to who came first to the human family. Earliest records of domesticated dogs go back to 14,000 BCE, the jawbone of a dog found in the Middle Eastern region of Iraq. Having dogs as pets could date back even further, as well.

Humans choosing dogs as their first pets makes sense when you consider the behavior of our species at the time. We were hunters, nomads, and wanderers. Dogs have a strong sense of pack hunting behavior, and would adapt quickly to life with humans. The bonds made back then have sense strengthened, hence the old adage, “dog is man’s best friend.” When it comes to the keeping of animals, dogs truly are man’s oldest, and best friend.

But why keep them as pets? After humanity discovered horticulture and began farming, building cities, and nations, dogs had been so interwoven into human culture that they were along for the ride. Different regions began breeding dogs to fit their own needs, creating new species. They were kept as guardians, trained for war, and still remained excellent hunting companions. But dogs became more than that. As they integrated into the story of mankind, they became loved. This bond, forged through time, eventually leads us to today, where dogs are owned for no other reason than because you wanted one. Many people own dogs that do not hunt, or guard, or are even of such small variety that they couldn’t do those things even if we wanted them to.

Pets, especially dogs, became companions to our species for many reasons. The simplicity of the connection is perhaps one of the greatest benefits. A dog won’t ask you why you are sad, or angry, or lonely; it will simply cuddle up to you and comfort you as it observes your emotion. The purr of a cat, or the coo of a parrot, or the lip smack of of a dog can have deep, comforting effects on their owners, letting them know that they are not alone, and that their efforts are noticed.

The simplicity of the compassion of pets is perhaps the greatest asset they provide to us. While hunting was and is important to many people, the keeping of domesticated creatures is more than for maintaining the needs of the belly. They fulfill the needs of the mind, the heart, and the soul. Many people have derived a sense of purpose from caring for animals. Leonhard Seppala, who ran dogsleds and was a principle sled runner in the Nome Serum Run of 1925, loved his dog Togo so much that he bred a new species, Seppela Siberian Sled dogs, to preserve his memory and bloodline.

No matter the reason, pets have become a major part of the human experience. People of all walks of life keep pets for various reasons, from managing livestock to managing emotions. It is a rich heritage, and one to be celebrated.

Stop Saying One Phrase and Sound Smarter

How we speak is almost as important as what we say and when we say it. Communication at its core is about sharing information, getting the others of our community to feel, see, or think what we are feeling, seeing, or thinking. It is through this substantive process of sharing our ideas that we as a species have been able to accomplish such amazing technological and scientific feats. No one accomplishment in our history has ever been completed by one person; it has always been performed by groups, even if the ideas came from a single being.

However, it is quite easy to speak with the equivalent of popcorn phrases: tasty, but empty. These phrases slip into our language all the time. Words like um or uh. They make for a good sound when you don’t know what to say, but cutting down on those fillers creates in the mind of the listener or reader a sense that you know what you’re talking about. Our brains are hardwired for language, as one article by Lera Boroditsky shows, and by taking time to trim your words like fat from a roast, you can create a more palatable string of thought for others to take in.

Language has not come easy to me. I have dyslexia, a condition of the mind that affects how I interpret information. After years of practice, I’ve turned this into a strength, allowing me to see things differently, think outside the box if you will. While I was serving a full-time proselyting mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I was tasked with speaking with many people on a daily basis. As a missionary, you always travel with a companion, another missionary. And this granted me a chance to see how other people communicated, and how people responded to that communication. Early on, I was awkward. After all, I was only 19, fresh out of high school, and had never been much of a socialite, let alone someone who sought out opportunities to share my thoughts with others on the regular. There were growing pains.

But as time progressed, I began to see how certain words worked better for sharing what I meant to say, while others did not. And this is where I discovered the one phrase that if you never say it, you automatically will sound smarter, and more aware of any topic you are speaking on. The phrase is, “all these different things.” It’s a phrase used most often when you are listing out a number of connected ideas. By dropping this phrase, you change a list of ideas from vague, to comprehensive. You will sound like you are an authority, every time, simply by leaving out this phrase as you share your words with others.

Sometimes you may be tempted to say “all these different things,” rather than making a defined list of what things you mean. It’s easy to avoid being definitive. However, by being specific and naming the things you mean and those things only, you create a setting where you are now in control of your narrative. “All these different things” leaves room for your listener to add to your list. Leaving the phrase out sets a start and ending point for your thought. You set the tone, the parameters, and doing so makes you sound authoritative, and decisive.

Dropping this phrase is a great place to start if you want to clean up your language skills. This doesn’t mean that you are finished once you’ve done so, though. There are more phrases and words that are cluttering your vocabulary, and if you are serious about improving your communication skills, I suggest you do more research into the field of linguistics. A good place to start would be this article by Matthew McCreary.

Take some time to refine what you say. Don’t rely on platitudes to get your point across; they are too vague for others to truly grasp what you mean. There are better ways to speak and write, and in my experience, one of the best paths to being better with your words revolves around dropping “all these different things.” You don’t need it.

Mr. Cubbage in The Vault

Mr. Arnold Cubbage had worked from the ground up to become the Chief Executive Officer of the Bank of Scotland, Edinburgh branch. He’d maintained the absolute semblance of the sober mind to do it, and was quite proud of the fact. He didn’t drink, despite the frequent participation in the act by his friends and colleagues. He slept for precisely seven hours and fifteen minutes every night, went for a brisk walk every morning, and ate his meals with grace and dignity. Of course he’d hear the rumors in the break rooms and halls of how he was a prude, never living life beyond his own view, but that was how he liked it, so that was how he stayed.

Mr. Cubbage sat at his opulent red leather chair, twiddling a long, ornate silver and ebony fountain pen in his fingers; a gift from Chairmen. His curled mustache matched his curled golden hair, and the wrinkles around his eyes matched the small wrinkles in the end of his tie. He puffed a sigh of satisfaction as he again reviewed the current investments of the bank, and pressed his gold rimmed glasses back up his hooked nose.

A knock at the door shook him from his morning routine. Behind the stenciled glass Arnold could see Ms. Jean Heatherton, his chief of security. With a wave of his hand, she entered the room and came to the corner of his desk.

“Sir,” She said “There’s a man in the safety-deposit vault.”

That didn’t seem like something to interrupt his morning routine for, but he knew Ms. Heatherton not to be one to disrupt him without good cause. She could see from the look on his face that he didn’t grasp the severity of the situation.

“Let me clarify,” Jean continued. Arnold picked up his mug and started to slurp his coffee. “We didn’t let him in there.”

Arnold paused. Had it not been improper, he might have spit out the coffee and responded hastily. He swallowed, leaned back in his chair, and took off his glasses.

“You mean to tell me there is a robber in the vault, and you don’t know how he got there?” Arnold kept a perfect equilibrium in his voice. The image of self-importance hung about him like fog in the hills.

“We’re not sure if he’s a robber. He’s… Somehow he got in there, we can see him on the camera, but the vault is still locked—hasn’t been opened all day. The staff thought I should get you because—”

Arnold scoffed.

“I’m not the lock-smith! Come now, what would I be needed for here? Call the authorities.”

Arnold hoped his well-poised non-attitude toward the situation would defuse his growing concern. A man, in my vaults? The board could have my head for this…

“Well, that’s just the thing sir,” Jean continued. “The man in the vault is… It’s you.”

There was a lengthy silence before Arnold made a short laugh. Not the jovial kind of a man made the fool, but the mechanical laugh of good manners.

“Tell Joseph in HR his jokes are too much,” Arnold said, making a show of wiping the corners of his eyes. Jean didn’t move. She wasn’t smiling. This made Arnold uneasy. Surely this couldn’t be serious. It was a jest, perhaps put on by Tom in accounting, or Fredrick at home-office, one of his good-sport moments to keep the branch in high spirits.

Yet, there was a growing clump of people forming outside the office door, and hushed whispers could be heard of their conversations.

“Very well,” Arnold said, standing up and straightening his jib. He couldn’t well let this farce go on without allowing himself to be properly joked. Morale of the company was an important part of what made him the man he was, so he thought. “Take me to the vault, and we’ll have done with this whole prank.”

“Sir,” Jean replied, but Arnold cut her off with his assumptions.

“Yes, yes,” He said with a wink, “Not a prank,”

Jean smiled weakly, clearly confused by the entire situation. As the approached the door, the crowd outside dispersed as quickly as dandelion silk in a summer wind.

Arnold approached the vault door and found Greg, Jean’s second in command, was already there, pistol and club at the ready.

“Those shouldn’t be necessary,” Arnold said, waving his hand in command.

“Sir, I—” Greg protested.

“I’ll be out in a moment. No flash photography, hmm?”

Arnold turned the key and wound the tines into place. The door clanked and popped, opening slightly. In he stepped, and pulled the door shut behind him. And there in the vault stood a man—wearing the very same tweed suit, the same almond wing-tipped shoes, and the same face Arnold had seen in the mirror that morning, right down to the clock-wise curl of his waxed mustache.

“Good morning,” he said. It took Arnold a moment to realize it wasn’t he, but he, who had spoken.

“This is an impressive costume,” Arnold replied, deeply unsettled by the uncanny resemblance.

“No costume,” He replied. “I am you. In the skin.”

“No,” Arnold said, “You most certainly are not. This joke is getting on my nerves, now, good sir, and I demand you remove the mask and step out of the vault. If this is meant to be funny you could at least have the decency to start with a knock knock or some such.”

“It’s not a joke, I assure you. I wasn’t expecting to see me here, either.”

“How did you get in here?” Arnold demanded.

“Sub-containeously, I suppose.”

“What?” Arnold felt his forehead bristle. “I have no idea what that means. Now tell me, who are you, and how did you get here?”

“Well,” he continued. “I recently heard that subcutaneous had to do with being beneath the skin. And it seems, I’ve traveled beneath the skin of the world, you see, to get here. I suppose it isn’t a word, but I’ve just coined the phrase, it seems.” He giggled. “I was in one container of space, and now I’m in this one. Poof! Ha Ha!”

This annoyed Arnold even more. I do not giggle, he thought. This cannot be me.

“Who are you?” Arnold demanded.

“I’m me,” he said, pointing. Then with a timid point at Arnold he said, “And you are me.”

“No,” Arnold protested. “This is ridiculous.”

“I know, isn’t it great?”

Arnold wasn’t amused. His life was one of order. Always had been. He wouldn’t entertain this foolishness any longer.

“Now see here,” Arnold said, “I am a man of import. I will not have my name besmirched by some ridiculousness like this. You—” But as Arnold spoke, the other man disappeared and reappeared instantly on the other side of the vault.

“What was that?” Arnold said, too wrapped in what he was saying to grasp the absurdity of what had just happened.

“I moved, it seems,” he said. “It’s not that hard.”

“Right,” Arnold continued, “well, you are clearly disturbed, and I have no choice but to—” the man vanished again, and returned to the back of the vault.

“Stop that,” Arnold said in a fatherly tone of disapproval. But the other man just laughed.

“This is no laughing matter. Identity theft is—”

“I am you, and you are me, don’t you see? You could do this too, if you wanted.” the other man said.

“You’re a looney!” Arnold yelled. “I’ll have no more of this.”

“Who is really the crazy one?” He asked. “I’ve lived more in these last four minutes than you have in your whole life! Trust me, I know. Just give it a try, it’s exhilarating.”

Arnold grunted, and started to mumble angrily. Not because he was frustrated, but because he was actually considering it. He had tried a different flavor of jam on his toast that morning. Was this so different? Could he, too, move without moving? Yes, it was that different. It was ludicrous.

“Trust me,” the other man said, “If you don’t let go of your ego, in a few minutes things are going to be pretty weird.”

“You dare to threaten me?” Arnold said, his façade cracking. He had to hold back his smile. Clearly this man was insane, but his oddly good humor was contagious. “I am an important man here at the bank.”

“We sure are.”

“Prove that you’re me,” Arnold retorted.

“We had apple jam this morning instead of raspberry.”

“You could have just been at the restaurant this morning, is all.”

“When I was a child, I let the family dog out of the fence to chase a tom cat, and he ran into the road and was hit by a motorist. I never told my parents it was me who let him out.”

Arnold blanched. It was true. He’d never told anyone. Only he would know.

“Lucky guess,” Arnold said.

He laughed. A truly mirthful laugh, entirely unlike Arnold would.

“What time is it?” He asked. Arnold checked his watch.

“five minutes ‘til eleven,” Arnold said, then he perked up. “Aha! You cannot be me, for I always wear my watch.” He stood triumphant.

“True,” He said, “But the sub-containeous movement seems to have left my watch all wonky. I’ll be moving on now, or rather you will. Tada.” And at that, the other man was gone.

Arnold was stood still for a moment, wondering what it all meant. Then he hefted a breath, hitched his belt, and turned to leave. He hoped he hadn’t been in here too long, since he did have an important conference call at eleven thirty. He checked his watch as he approached the vault door, but found it was spinning wildly, the second hand running in reverse, the minute hand bouncing back and forth between seven and eight.

Confused, Arnold looked up, and found he was no longer facing the door, but was in the corner of the vault. Then he was back at the door, then he was in the middle of the floor.

“Oh, dear,” Arnold said aloud, smiling, “I’ve gone mad.” He chuckled. What was it he had said earlier? Sub-containeous?

The door clanked and popped, opening slightly. In he stepped, and pulled the door shut behind him. And there in the vault stood a man—wearing the very same tweed suit, the same almond wing-tipped shoes, and the same face Arnold had seen in the mirror that morning, right down to the clock-wise curl of his waxed mustache.

“Good morning,” he said. It took Arnold a moment to realize it wasn’t he, but he, who had spoken.

Heart Sick

It’s a disease. Insidious, eating you from the inside out,
That feeling that everything is falling, getting behind,
Like a stack of bills ever growing, the stack of wood
dwindling for the hungry fire, where no warmth is found,
only cold, pulling you in, eating you from the inside out.

It’s a disease that preys on your weaknesses. It knows you,
knows your fears, your pains, and views you clearly when
you can only see through a fog, it cuts you off from any
escape, closing in the thick miasma, until you cannot see
any way out, and you pray, in your weakness, to know peace.

Cold fire, predator, little death by a thousand needles in my skin.
I want to breathe free of the smoke, please, give me my medicine.

A.C. Moore Sonnet 4: Singularity

The first infinity. Compressed zeros,
A point of mass finely pressed in the dark.
Between stars and milk spilt in the cosmos,
God’s toolbox works gravities endless lark.

There it is, beyond that far horizon,
The enthroned singularity, hidden.
In the shredded matter, quarks and bosons,
A force, by which even light is ridden.

Hidden. Indeed. We see only partly
Via math, not eyes, spread on sheets and screens.
How can I believe in that which hardly
Is known by primate minds, which mostly scream:

Might is Right! Well, eternal truth endures;
Even when eternal darkness obscures.

Place of Our Own

A Villanelle

I want to buy my wife a home,
But they are few and far between;
Instead we lie beneath the loam.
We bought a car, reflecting chrome,
But Uncle Sam came with a lean.
I want to buy my wife a home
Away from our nation’s dry bone,
Where we can live and find the means—
Instead we lie beneath the loam.
The eagle perched upon the dome,
Perhaps, never held freedom’s scene?
I want to buy my wife a home
Of ashes. Built upon fields lone.
Escape the rot, or maybe clean—
I want to buy my wife a home,
Instead we lie beneath the loam.

Earth Voice

A Villanelle

Cicada calls astound the pines,
Memorial of autumn night,
Apotheosis by designs.
And air rings through man’s empty mines,
Earth ear from which bats oft take flight,
Cicada calls astound the pines
In twilight umber. View the shrines,
Memorials to sound and sight–
Apotheosis by designs.
And Kami borne among those lines,
Now stand on earth, in awful might!
Cicada calls, astound the pines!
Earth is a God of thoughtful signs,
And every sound a holy rite.
Cicada calls astound the pines,
Apotheosis by designs.

5 Ways to Block Writer’s Block

How do you keep that creative fire burning in the amphitheater we call our skull? When the spark is burning bright, it’s easy to build up whatever it is you’re writing, and do it well.

What do we do then, when creativity flees from the mind? That happens frequently in the realm of writing, and it can take some writers a while to ‘get it back’ as it were. But the truth is creativity never leaves you, it just gets tired. Like a muscle, you must pace its use, stretch it when it gets sore, and work to improve its longevity in the craft. Here are five tips to help anyone strengthen their creative muscles.

ONE: Read a lot.

Reading is one of the best means of bolstering your creativity, whether you are in a slump or feeling at your peak. I find fiction to be the most beneficial form of reading in this regard, but if you are more into the technical side, books about writing can also be immensely helpful. Stephen King’s On Writing is a fantastic place to start for you technical lovers. King’s philosophies held in that volume are great additions to any author’s repertoire, regardless of previous experience. Reading is like the protein shake in your mental work out; while it will help you bulk up on creativity, you should really couple it with the next steps to fully realize it’s potential.

TWO: Write a lot.

It may seem absurd to think that if you are having trouble being creative that you should simply increase your amount of creative activity; but would it feel absurd to think if you want to improve your lung capacity you should run or swim more? Hardly. The mind is not so different. When we were children, most of us, if not all, had great capacity for imagination and creativity. Why do we lose it as we age? Simple. We stop playing. We start thinking that since we’re adults we can’t do it anymore, for any number of fabricated reasons. The truth is you’re simply out of practice, and a good way to practice your creativity is to write a lot. It probably won’t be good at first. That’s fine. The more you do it, the better you will get at it.

THREE: Play a lot.

Not all creativity happens on the paper. In fact, most of it will happen in your surroundings as you do creative things. Playing doesn’t mean you have to go ask if Billy can come play on the see-saw with you before dinner. It simply means play. Play a game—on a computer or a board at the table. I happen to enjoy table top games like Dungeons and Dragons; that will really get your creative wheels turning. Playing games outside with others will help too. Go to a local improv comedy meeting. It may be hard at first to get back into playing. Again, that’s normal. You wouldn’t expect to run a mile with ease if the farthest trip you’ve taken is to the kitchen. Stretch those creative muscles and play.

FOUR: Share ideas.

Once you’ve started working that creativity, you should share you creative ideas with others. Whether that’s with a group of writers, a friend, spouse, or your kids, sharing your ideas will help you get them out of your head and in the real world. When you say your ideas out loud, it helps solidify them, and can also help you see holes in the plot, or ways to improve your idea. Sharing ideas will often get you talking about new ideas as well. Keep in mind sharing ideas is something you more than likely do in every conversation. Even if that idea is little more than “hey, have you ever wondered whether Disney’s Goofy is a dog?” it will get you talking. And often, those silly experiences you have with friends around a game of Parcheesi are the ones that will sound great in a story. Remember, not all creative elements rest in the action of the story you’re trying to tell; if you want it to feel real, make it real with actual experiences. Or at least experiences that feel real.

FIVE: Get out of your head.

This is a combination of tips three and four, but it still bears important mentioning. The biggest block to creativity is the fear that others will judge you, or dislike your ideas. So you don’t allow yourself to have any. Getting out of your head by playing games, having fun, and freely sharing your ideas will ensure that you have more ideas more frequently, and better ones too. Letting your mind stew on how you aren’t creative or how your creativity isn’t at its peak ‘right now’ isn’t going to help. That is the path to the dark side. Get into a mood where you feel comfortable doing anything (within reason of course). Go dancing. Start a real conversation with a stranger—not about the weather. And make conversations meaningful. Doing these things will really get those creative juices flowing. Make a goal to have someone new say to you that you’re quick witted. It isn’t as hard as it may seem, as long as you are flexing that brain, and getting a lot of creativity from what you do daily.

Go ahead, give it a try.

I dare you. All you’ve got to lose is your writer’s block — which in essence is the same thing as those extra pounds you gain over the holidays. Who wants to hang on to that? Get that brain flexing, and you’ll be on the path to a more toned imagination and a more refined sense of creativity.

3 Tips for Screen Writing

It can become an overwhelming task to create a new, invigorating idea. Pressure is on all the time to make the next big thing. What’s more, often director, producers, project managers, and editors tell you “new” isn’t what people want, but the same old story told another way. To be truly creative and still be competitive in the world writing can seem an insurmountable task. There is no one answer to this elusive question of originality and creativity. However, there are three major steps that I rely on to form the solution to this issue for myself.

1. Writing for you

At the end of the day, the work I make is my story. It draws from my experiences, my interests, my personal research. Yes, I may be writing for an employer, making scripts or text copy according to the parameters they provide, but I have come to accept and admit that my personal flavor of writing is why I am the only one qualified to tell it the way I do. Accepting the art as just that: my art. On my own writing journey, once I allowed myself to love my work, I found it easier to roll with the punches of writing.

With the script for the feature film, NAVIGATOR, this is exactly what I did. The team gave me a large amount of creative license on this project. I worked with Drew, the DP on shots, design, and overall style for the film, but after that I ran with it and made something I was proud of. Yes, there were edits. But that didn’t bother me at all because by that point, I had grown to love the work as it was, and accepted the fact that it was a group effort in the end. No writing project will ever be just you; if you want your work to make it to the screen, you need to know that others will have input too. So far I have written two screenplays: NAVIGATOR and Mr. Right. Neither of these projects have been produced, however, due to issues with the 2020 COVID pandemic, as well as budgeting constraints from the project managers. These setbacks do not alter the enjoyment I took in creating those screenplays. The teams I worked with, the work I completed, were wonderful opportunities for me to write, and to learn more about how to do it well. And that’s another important tip: write all the time. And read all the time, too. The more you immerse yourself in your vocation, the better equipped you become to do it well.

2. Letting your imagination run wild

When I set my imagination free from the popular concept of “adulthood,” my writing became free as well. It seems too frequently we allow ourselves to think we’ve outgrown the need for imagination. We think that being imaginative is childish or foolish. People will tell you you’re not living in the real world if you imagine. This is not true. Imagination is the life blood of existence. It is key to success in every part of life, including a well-written story.

Ursula Le Guin said of this topic,

The Shorter Oxford Dictionary says;

“Imagination. 1. The action of imagining, or forming a mental concept of what is not actually present to the senses; 2. The mental consideration of actions or events not yet in existence.”

Very well; I certainly can let “absolutely essential human faculty” stand. But I must narrow the definition to fit our present subject. By “imagination,” then, I personally mean the free play of the mind, both intellectual and sensory. By “play” I mean recreation, recreation, the recombination of what is known into what is new. By “free” I mean that the action is done without an immediate object of profit – spontaneously. That does not mean, however, that there may not be a purpose behind the free play of the mind, a goal; and the goal may be a very serious object indeed. Children’s imaginative play is clearly a practicing at the acts and emotions of adulthood; a child who did not play would not become mature. As for the free play of an adult mind, its result may be War and Peace, or the theory of relativity.

To be free, after all, is not to be undisciplined. I should say that the discipline of the imagination may in fact be the essential method or technique of both art and science. It is our Puritanism, insisting that discipline means repression or punishment, which confuses the subject. To discipline something, in the proper sense of the word, does not mean to repress it, but to train it – to encourage it to grow, and act, and be fruitful, whether it is a peach tree or a human mind.

I think that a great many American men have been taught just the opposite. They have learned to repress their imagination, to reject it as something childish or effeminate, unprofitable, and probably sinful. They have learned to fear it. But they have never learned to discipline it at all.

Ursula K Le Guin, 1974. Why Are Americans Afraid of Dragons?

To discipline your imagination is active work. It requires unleashing yourself from the social moors which tell you that imagination is wrong, or unprofitable. Without imagination, those who say it is sin would have no platforms from which to spew their ideas; no social media, no television or radio, no written word, no poetic and metaphorical forms for them to recite and weave with their statements. Imagination is the gateway to real truth, and it must be practiced and strengthened as any other skill or muscle if it is to reach its potential for good.

Storytelling is a great aspect of imagination. Perhaps the greatest, because it carries with it the ability to describe truths in such distilled forms of metaphor that they can influence even the most obstinate of observers. Accessing this level of storytelling via imagination can often require the writer to let go of their ego. This means, as well, that, when the story starts moving forward, I have to allow it to go the direction the work wants me to go. Once I’ve conceptualized the story in its infant form, it begins to take on life of its own. If I allow my expectation of the stories outcome to control my writing, I have learned that it won’t feel authentic when the work is done.

This happens all the time in writing novels and scripts. If you plan out every aspect of the story beforehand, you’ll often paint myself into a corner. It’s better to have the general idea of where to begin, and where it’s going; then the story will take on its own life as it goes and become what it’s meant to be.

3. Allowing yourself to make mistakes

Mistakes are how we learn. Ever heard the old adage: “Edison didn’t find one way to make a light bulb, he found a thousand ways not to?” Well, Edison didn’t invent the lightbulb anyway (#TeslaRules) but you get the point. Our mistakes show us what worked and what didn’t and provide us with the steps we need to create our best output. I have learned to allow myself to take the idea I have, run with it, and if in the end it isn’t what I or my employer was looking for, I take their advice and guidance, adjust, and make it work.

Ridley Scott’s Alien went through several reworks in the script, costumes, and art direction before it was settled. Every great story takes lots of love, imagination, and change from everyone involved. As I mentioned before, NAVIGATOR had to go through many edits and changes of direction before the final product was decided on. It helps to be patient with yourself through the process.

 
I struggled with getting myself into a place where I feel comfortable with my work. The real secret to making a great story for me has been to start doing it for me, letting my imagination free, and being willing to make mistakes. Struggles often make us stronger. But what’s more important to me, is that the struggles have created the environment necessary for me to tell better stories. The world needs stories. They are how we learn in our infancy, how we discover new truths as we age, and how we truly see the world and all its metaphors in our adulthoods. Anything else is arbitrary.

Meeting Mr. King

The smell of burnt popcorn hung in the air. The office itself wasn’t the finest in New York already, and now the smell made Joseph feel self-conscious. He wasn’t a young man, not anymore.  That title had left him on his thirtieth birthday, ten years ago. At that time, those who once called him young did so no more, he becoming a man of imminence in the world.

Joseph never considered that the book would become a best seller, let alone the source of social scrutiny and near religious fanaticism. He was a man of simple taste and style, and so he left his office as it had always been: a simple wood-floored loft with brick walls, eclectic furniture and art, and a simple shaggy red rug in the center. That was how it looked when the book was first published, and that was how it’d stayed. The only real difference now was that people would schedule with his assistant just to meet with him in that little room, to hear him speak and scratch hasty notes on a clip board or notepad.

Joseph opened the window to his office, waving a stack of inked pages to waft out the odor. He always liked to have a bowl of popcorn on his desk when he was expecting a guest; it helped to cool the tension. If you feed someone, he thought, they usually feel more at home. Hopefully, the stink would be gone by the time his appointment arrived, and he’d have a fresh bowl of buttery snack ready on the corner of his desk.

His phone buzzed. Joseph turned, fell into his chair, and grabbed the receiver.

“Mr. Caine,” the voice said from the speaker, “your four o’clock is here.”

Joseph looked at his watch. It was 3:35 PM.

“Could you tell him to wait until four? I’m not quite ready.”

Silence on the other end. He waited a moment, cleared his throat, but the silence only grew more awkward.

Then it became concerning.

“Chris?” Joseph said into the static receiver, but no sound came from the other side. Instead, the door to his office creaked open slowly.

Joseph lowered the receiver from his ear and leaned to look at who was coming in. Through the doorway slithered a lithe, green snake. It must have been six feet long, and it continued across the floor, onto the rug, and coiled its way up the leg of one of the chairs until it came to a rest in the seat.

“Sorry I’m early,” the snake said in a clear, unbroken North American accent, “but I had another appointment come up, so I needed to come to you sooner.”

Joseph’s jaw hung open. Slowly he returned the phone receiver to its station.

“Y-you’re Mr. King?” Joseph said. The snake nodded, leaning back in the chair much like a man would.

“Care for a drink?” Joseph said, too shocked to think of another course of action than he normally followed.

“That would be splendid,” Mr. King replied. Joseph retrieved a bottle from his mini-fridge behind the desk and leaned out handing the drink to the snake.

“Could you open it for me?” Mr. King said, “Thanks.”

Joseph twisted off the cap and handed the beverage to the snake. With a quickness as if it had taken it by hand, the snake extended its tail, clasped the perspiring beverage, and started sipping.

Joseph watched in confused awe as the snake sat coiled in his guest chair, drinking. He could hear dust settling on the ceiling fan in between the sounds of swallowing and sighs of refreshment from the snake.

“Mr. King,” Joseph said staccato, unsure what was appropriate for a situation that more than anything called into question his sanity.

“Mr. Caine,” The snake replied, gesturing with the cola bottle.

“What are,” Joseph began, and, cutting himself short, started again, “Who are you, exactly?”

“Was that not clear?” The snake said. “I had my agent set up the meeting, you see.”

Joseph felt a cold sweat running down the back of his neck. Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall how this appointment had been set, or how he knew to expect anyone today. He attempted to be nonchalant and said,

“What was it you wanted to discuss? Your agent wasn’t very clear over the phone.”

“Ah, yes,” The snake said, “He is a bit of a lout. Well, to put it bluntly, I am here because I need you to make a decision. One that could change the world forever.”

“What?” Joseph said.

“It may be hard to grasp, but it falls to you. Only you can handle this burden.”

“This is ridiculous!” Joseph said, “That book was a fluke. I never meant to have any effect. I won’t be told I’m responsible—”

“This has nothing to do with the book, Mr. Caine,” the snake said, setting down the soda and wiping its mouth.

“Then why me?”

“Well, it was random, like a lottery drawing. I don’t make the rules, Mr. Caine. I just pull the strings.”

Joseph grabbed his phone receiver and pressed it to his head. He dialed, but found no tone. It was dead.

“That won’t work until I’ve gone, Mr. Caine,” Mr. King said. Joseph ran to the door and tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Then he noticed; there wasn’t any sound outside. He was in downtown New York, there was always noise from the street. He ran to the window and saw cars and people on the road, still as statues. Nothing outside the room moved. He fell into his chair.

“What are you?”

The snake said nothing.

“What do you want from me?” Joseph said loudly.

“You must choose. Today, either your life will be changed forever, or someone else’s will be.  You have to choose which.”

“Changed how?”

“I can’t say.”

“…Will someone die?”

“I can’t say.”

Joseph rang his hands. Then he stood up quickly, knocking over his chair.

“How could one life change the world forever?” Joseph said. “If I died or someone else, what difference would that make!”

“Please,” The snake said, “Calm down, and try to understand. One life would make all the difference. It has always been so. Either yours, or someone else’s. A single change, a tiny turn, and the entire world is made or undone. You are not the first person I’ve approached. And you won’t be the last.”

“How could you possibly know any of this? You just some snake!”

“I’m not just some snake,” it said, “I’m Mr. King. I don’t have to prove myself to you!” The snake pointed its tail threateningly at Joseph. “You have to prove yourself to me. Now choose, or things will become unstable.”

As Mr. King spoke the light in the room dimmed slightly. The desk started to rattle.

“What is happening?” Joseph said, his palms slick with icy persperation.

“I can’t hold this moment forever” Mr. King said. “At some point, a decision will be made. You have the chance to make the choice. Do it.”

“But you haven’t even told me what I’m choosing!” Joseph realized he was on his knees, as if pleading before the snake. He tried to stand, but his limbs felt like jelly.

“I have told you everything you need to know,” Mr. King replied. “A great change is coming. Choose it for yourself, or for someone else.”

Joseph felt a cold draft, and looked behind him. The back of the room was gone. So was the outside world. It was all swallowed up in a profound darkness, which was still growing, filling the space around him. Everything shook, as if the room was suddenly a deep sea vessel, tossed on the waves.

“Choose!” Mr. King shouted with the authority of a father.

“Take the other man!” Joseph yelled. “He’s the one you want! Don’t take me, take the other man!”

Joseph was huddled on the floor, arms wrapped over his face, cowering. But the shaking had stopped. The light had returned. And faintly, through the window pane, Joseph could once again hear the sounds of the street.

Slowly, Joseph rose from the red shag carpet. Mr. King was still there, coiled in the chair across from him. He wasn’t sure, but Joseph could have sworn the snake was smiling.

“Thank you,” Mr. King said. “I’ll be on my way now. But I’ll be back later.”

“What are you?” Joseph said.

“Like you said,” Mr. King replied with a hint of irony as he uncoiled, headed toward the door, “I’m just some snake.”

As the snake turned the doorknob, Joseph stood.

“Wait!” he called. The snake stopped.

“Yes, Mr. Caine?”

“Did I make the right choice?” His voice cracked.

The snake paused, swaying slightly in the doorway.

“Perhaps it’s better not to know,” Mr. King said. And with that, he was gone.