Jon Ureña's Blog, page 26

Life update (11/30/2023)

Yesterday I left work early so I could travel to the hospital at my hometown for a stress test, related to my heart issues. After I waited for an hour, I was ordered by a bickering couple of doctor and nurse to get naked from my waist up, attach some complicated shit to my chest, including a mesh that compressed my torso, and walk on an incline treadmill until my lungs couldn’t take it anymore. By the end I must have been a minute away from getting woozy. As an on-and-off weightlifter who also moves computers and computer-related devices around for work, I’m not a stranger to exercise, but I don’t do cardio. I hate it quite a bit, in fact.

Anyway, my heart didn’t explode. The doctor said that my case of (jab-induced) arrhythmia isn’t particularly bad, but if my episodes don’t pass spontaneously after an hour without medicating myself, and after four hours if I take flecainide, I should go to the ER. They will probably stop me from suffering an aneurysm or a stroke.

That’s one of my health issues more or less handled, apart from the fact that I’m taking beta blockers in perpetuity for now, although I’m experiencing plenty of the side effects of long-term use (disorientation, short-term memory loss, dizziness, depression, etc.). Out of nowhere, a few days ago I experienced a different, more awkward health issue that I’ll proceed to describe in detail.

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Ongoing manga: Nora to Zassou, by Keigo Shinzo

The title translates to something like Amidst the Weeds, or Lost in the Weeds. It’s been quite a while since I start an ongoing manga series and I feel compelled to write about it before it finishes. But this tale hits some of my personal spots well enough, particularly my savior complex, that I, engrossed, nearly missed my stop on the train.

The story follows a police inspector who sets up sting operations on prostitution rings. He’s a reserved guy whose hair has already gone white at forty, and who seems to be going through the motions. During a sting operation, turns out that some of the prostitutes were underage. Even worse, one of them resembles the inspector’s only child, who drowned some years ago.

[Check out the rest of this review on my personal page, where it looks better]

On writing: Developing the premise #2

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You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.

Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.

The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on building the premise out of prompts, as well as imagining the general structure from the premise.

-Put your premise in the form of a sentence: My story is about a (character and vocation) who is (death stakes situation).
-Try to compose your premise such as this: “the story is about a [most appropriate adjective] Main Character whose [fatal flaw] causes him to [what terrible troubles his adherence to the fatal flaw causes him], as he [how he uses his fatal flaw to navigate an increasingly difficult setting/plot] in order to survive by [whatever he feels his needs to feel he’s survived what life has thrown at him]”
-What if a (flawed protagonist) (encountered some problem) and had to (overcome the flaw) to (solve the problem)?
-State your premise in a sentence: Some event that starts the action + some sense of the main character + some sense of the outcome of the story. Ex. “A tough America expatriate rediscovers an old flame only to give her up so he can fight the nazis”.
-A [adjective indicating longstanding social problem] [profession or social role] must [goal, sometimes including the ticking clock and stakes].
-Write a one-sentence summary that touches on several key story elements: the conceptual basis of the story, the hero, what the hero needs and wants based on a problem or opportunity, what opposes the hero’s quest, and the stakes.
-Once upon a time there was [ ]. Every day, [ ]. One day [ ]. Because of that, [ ]. Because of that, [ ]. Until finally [ ].
-A hero faces a problem, a challenge, or a need that launches him down a path of reaction to a new quest. The hero, under pressure from the antagonist and a ticking clock, then proactively manages the new quest toward a desired end.
-Choices and events should propel the main character into a world far more exciting, different and challenging than the ordinary day-to-day experience.
-A character is flawed, an inciting incident throws them into a world that represents everything they are not, and in the darkness of that forest, old and new integrate to achieve a balance.
-Take a flawed character, and at the end of the first act plunge them into an alien world, let them assimilate the rules of that world, and finally, in the third act, test them to see what they have learned.
-Successful stories plunge their characters into a strange new world; involve a quest to find a way out of it; and in whatever form they choose to take, in every story ‘monsters’ are vanquished. All, at some level, have as their goal safety, security, completion and the importance of home.
-How is it about rich characters driven by extreme need and passion and going after a specific goal, while facing tough inner and outer conflict along the way?
-Premise is, in essence, the plot itself, driven by the character’s or hero’s decisions and action, summarized in one or two sentences. It describes a hero’s quest or mission that stems from a newly presented or evolved problem or opportunity and is motivated by stakes and consequences. Finally, there is a villain (or other antagonist, which doesn’t have to be human or even a living thing; it could be a weather or disease, for example) blocking the hero’s path, creating confrontation and conflict that requires the hero to take action to achieve resolution.
-Conflict is in play, forcing the hero into confrontation. Obstacles create and define that confrontation and conflict. The quest or journey challenges the hero and draws out her courage and claverness, which become instrumental in reaching the goal of the story, and thus the resolution. The pursuit of the goal takes the hero into uncharted territory, both internally and relative to what opposes her, by forcing her to confront inner demons in order to square off with the threatening exterior opposition.
-Dramatic tension arises from a compelling dramatic question, connecting to a hero who must do something in pursuit of a worthy goal, with something blocking the straight line toward the goal, and with something at stake.
-How is the plot focused on how it might affect a specific person?
-Think of your premise as back cover copy, offering up the plot problem your protagonist will face, how it will escalate, why it is a problem, and what it might cost her, emotionally, to solve it.
-Stories are often built in three acts, which can be regarded as representing 1) the hero’s decision to act, 2) the action itself, and 3) the consequences of the action.
-Something bad happens and the heroes don’t understand the nature of the problem right away, and it’s the purpose of the middle to figure it out.
-When we start to solve a large problem, we don’t perceive the size of the problem–and that’s good, because if we did, we would never begin. In most stories, heroes shouldn’t have any idea how long or how much work it will take to solve this problem. They should fully intend to wrap everything up in almost every scene and be overconfident about imminent success until the big crash wrecks those delusions.

We're Fucked, Pt. 120 (Fiction)

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The three of us are queueing on the terracotta tiles of the station, behind a bunch of parents and their pre-teens, when the rollercoaster car glides in. The side frames of its seats resemble stylized waves, painted ocean blue except for golden-yellow flourishes.

One by one, the passengers rise from their seats and disembark. As they step off the station in a cacophony of footsteps, laughter, and animated chatter, Nairu's gaze follows the children that pass by: their hair windblown, their faces flushed, their eyes wide with the thrill of the ride.

"Each bench only fits two people," Jacqueline points out.

"Go ahead and sit with Nairu," I say. "I'll be right behind."

The queue shuffles forward, filling up the seats. Jacqueline guides our girl onto the second-to-last bench, and once seated, Nairu slides her butt to the far end. I take off my backpack and settle in the middle of the wooden bench behind them. This car lacks harnesses, seat belts, and even safety bars to grip; when humans built the rollercoaster a hundred years ago, they must have been that eager to die.

Nairu giggles as she sways her head with giddiness. Further down the car, a kid is slapping excitedly on the back of the bench in front of him.

While I stow the backpack between my calves, the car lurches into motion. I'm distracted by the yellow-and-green tent of the carousel below until our car tilts for its inaugural plunge. In a rush of wind and a clattering rumble that makes me vibrate, we barrel down a shadowed, narrow space squeezed between a rock wall and the back of the buildings that house carnival games. Jacqueline has wrapped an arm around Nairu, who lets out a thrilled squeal. The momentum is tossing their tresses in chaotic waves.

We crest the hill only to surge down again, rocketing toward the next incline. A spontaneous grin of euphoria has spread across my face. I feel buoyant, as if the burdens I have carried around all my life had been mercifully lessened.

Before I know it, the ride will end. Some day I will try to remember how it felt to be lifted off the seat of this car as it thundered down a slope, but these sensory impressions will have been distilled into a summary: that today I went on a rollercoaster with my loved ones, and that I wished for time to slow down so this joy would last forever.

---

Author's note: today's song is "Unless It's Kicks" by Okkervil River.

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety-seven videos. Check them out.

Are you too busy to read even such a short chapter? Listen to it instead.

This short chapter, shortest in the novel, concludes the sequence "A Stoic Face in the Darkness." I originally intended this trip to an amusement park to serve as an epilogue to the previous sequence, but visiting the location ended up providing plenty of notes.

The next chapter will kick off the second-to-last sequence, titled "The Great Pretender."

On writing: Testing concept potential of story seed #1

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Once you have ensured that the story seed you came up with connects with you enough, you should probably test its concept potential. The following are the notes on the subject I gathered years ago from many books on writing.

-Is the idea big enough for a fully dimensional story, or is it merely an anecdote?
-Does your idea only provide a unique way of starting the story, and then all the uniqueness would disappear once the plot starts going?
-A story without a concept leads to a story without dramatic tension, which leads to a character who has nothing interesting to do or achieve.
-A great concept serves as a catalyst for the story elements of character, theme, and structure. Without this power, the story goes nowhere because it has nowhere to go. The concept creates the journey because it creates conflict in your story.
-What is the notion, proposition, situation, story world, setting, or fresh take that creates a framework or arena or landscape for your story, one that could hatch any number of stories, and one that doesn’t require us to meet your hero or know your plot to make us say, “Yes! Write a story based on that, please”?
-State your concept in the form of a “What if?” question. It usually doesn’t involve specific characters, just drama and tension. For example, “What if scientists figured out how to revive dinosaurs, and someone built a theme park to show them off?”
-Try to come up with a “What if?” strong enough that a plot could manifest spontaneously.
-Does this “What if?” situation ask dramatic questions that promise compelling, interesting, and rewarding answers?
-If you can add “hijinks ensue” to the end of your concept, you may be on to something good. If the hijinks themselves lend a conceptual essence to the idea, then include them in your statement of concept.
-Would your concept elicit that sought-after response: “wow, I’ve never seen that before, at least treated in that way. I really want to read the story that deals with these things”?
-What is the kicker that twists and ordinary idea into something unique, original, and compelling? Try to explain in one clear sentence.
-Judge your concept against these benchmarks: What does your concept imply, promise, or otherwise begin to define in terms of an unfolding story driven by dramatic tension? What might a hero want within this concept, and why, and what opposes that desire? The right concept will lead you to this.
-How does this concept identify a need? A quest? A problem to solve? And/or darkness to avoid? How does it have stakes hanging in the balance, in the presence of an antagonistic force?
-How does the concept lend itself to a dramatic premise and a thematic stage upon which your characters will show themselves?
-Could the “arena” of the story offer a conceptual appeal, as much or more as the characters themselves?
-Could you get, through this concept, to inhabit a glamorous (or fascinatingly gruesome) world you would otherwise never get to visit?
-Could the story have a conceptual hero? A story built around a protagonist leveraging her conceptual nature. Is there a proposition for a character that renders the character unique and appealingly different? Would that difference scream for a story to be told?

We're Fucked, Pt. 119 (Fiction)

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Still wobbly, my insides buzzing and fizzling from the time jump, I drag myself up the stairs of the tower. In front, Jacqueline ascends with graceful steps, propelled by her designed muscles. Her raven-black hair cascades to the middle of her back in a curtain of silky locks. Even Nairu, her chestnut hair bobbing with each bounce, is bounding ahead of me.

Whatever entity charges to access the tower also turned its insides into a heritage museum. We pass by a fireplace poker, a cooking pot, an old-fashioned lantern. Nestled in a recess of the stone wall stands a contraption crafted from metal and wood. A sturdy base flares out into an ergonomic seat worn smooth. The chair is attached to a mechanism involving a wheel, a crank handle, and unidentifiable fittings, tailored for some task that became obsolete a century ago. The grain of the wood, rich and dark, speaks of decades of service, and the luster of the metal components suggests the touch of many workers' hands, or the same one, repeated over time.

Hung on the rough walls of the stairwell, black-and-white pictures show street scenes, along with architecture from the late 19th or early 20th century. One photo captured a group of people seated in an open-top vintage automobile. I'm about to glance away from the pictures when I spot the word "Irún" in a caption. My hometown, before it degenerated into a post-apocalyptic Babel.

I stop in front of the photograph even though Jacqueline and Nairu continue ahead. A gash of sunlight, streaming in through an opposite window, is shining on the framed picture, so I shift my head around to study the details. It depicts in monochrome a streetscape featuring benches, a tree that provides shade, and tramlines laid on the road. The building façades, unfamiliar and distant, stand behind the frozen silhouettes of strangers from an unreachable past. How many ancestors of Irún's modern inhabitants walked these streets before the buildings were demolished and replaced?

My breath hitches in my throat. What's this upsurge of feeling? Do I miss the city of my childhood, although I yearned to flee from it and from everyone I knew? It shouldn't matter any longer; living with Jacqueline, I can almost believe that my past belongs to someone else.

While I force myself to stagger up the staircase, I pass by more pictures that pull my attention as if imbued with their own gravity. In a sepia-toned photograph, women with woolen bathing costumes stand in beach waters as they smile at the camera. One woman's face, beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, is swallowed by shadow. Another photo has gathered about twenty working-class people around a kid on a bicycle. In the next shot, the members of a motorcycle club pose in caps and duster coats, their vehicles polished and gleaming. In yet another frame, a row of men are standing on Ondarreta beach, wearing tank tops and shorts, maybe after a track-and-field competition.

Those people, their lives and stories, have slipped away. As if they had kept observing the world that moved on to decay and ruin, I feel them accusing me: "Why did you allow this to happen?"

What could I have done to stop it? I was surrounded by humans whose motivations and intentions seemed incomprehensible. Each time I thought others shared my perspective, their words reminded me that I was alone, a mass of flesh and bone that couldn't budge this planet one centimeter.

I clutch the iron handrail. My eyes have moistened, my throat clenched, my facial muscles twisted into a grimace.

"Oh, the photos caught your attention, did they?" Jacqueline says, her voice echoing in the stairwell.

Instinctively, I turn toward the pictures beside me to hide the onset of tears.

"It's just that... the further I climb, the more my thighs burn. But I'd catch up eventually."

"Seems like these stairs are telling us to spice up our days with a bit more physical fervor."

A heavy sigh escapes me.

"The moment I uttered those words, I feared I'd hear such a thing. You, with your chameleon body, can become as athletic as needed, and our Paleolithic daughter remains mostly unpoisoned by the additives and toxins of modern civilization, but me? I'm an arthritic, hunchbacked relic weighed down by a lifetime of regret."

Jacqueline giggles.

"Fresh air awaits you a couple of landings away, my dear. And I promise that the view is worth every step. You can see all the way to France."

Once we reach the final landing and climb a confined, spiral staircase, an archaic doorway transitions us onto the tower's crenellated battlements. Sunlight splashes across me, bathing my skin with its warmth. I close my eyes, tilt my face skyward, and inhale a lungful of the fresh, crisp air. I expected it to carry a hint of brine, but it smells clean; I guess we're too high up.

When I open my eyes, my vision is filled from end to end by a watercolor of pale blue brushed with wisps of cirrus clouds. Somewhere out there beyond the blue, across light-years of cosmic space, a conquering alien species must be planting eggs in the carcasses of their mutilated enemies. Here on Mount Igueldo, though, the autumnal breeze has revived me, clearing the fuzz from my brain.

Foosteps tap-tap-tap in a hurried rhythm; Nairu scampers up to the robust parapet punctuated with sandstone teeth. As she grips the stone for balance, she cranes her neck to peer through an embrasure. She emits a sound that starts as an "oooh" infused with the wonder of a child, but when she contemplates the steep drop that leads to a splattering death far below, the tail end of her vocalization quivers. Once Jacqueline and I join her at the parapet, Nairu reaches for my hand to clutch it tight.

The Cantabrian Sea, rippled in a sluggish motion by the winds, resembles a slab of turquoise marred by dense, underwater patches of green like submerged clouds. A yacht stands still amid the rolling swells, anchored deep below. Near the whale-shaped island at the bay's mouth, garlands of foam stretch into the sea. The distance reduces a flock of seagulls to a swarm of white flies. To the east, beyond the verdant hump of Mount Urgull, a hilly landmass shrouded in haze melds with the horizon.

The cool breeze licks at my face, lifting strands of my hair. High-pitched squeals of joy rise from the amusement park, accompanied by the mechanical noise of the rollercoaster.

Jacqueline proffers the remaining three churros. After time-traveling to the dawn of civilization and back, I deserve a sugar hit. I pull one of the churros out of the paper cone and slide its lukewarm length into my mouth, coating my lips and tongue with a dusting of cinnamon sugar.

Yapping in a North American accent announces the arrival of a family of tourists, that whoa their way to our side. They seem the kind who would ask a stranger to take photos of them. The three of us shift away to a corner turret that overlooks the crescent-shaped bay, an amphitheater of water. Where the sun hits the foaming breakers, white sparkles ride the crests of the waves, coalescing into a silver shimmer. For a moment I wish to do nothing but munch on my churro and stare at those flashing lights.

Past the lace edge of waves against golden sand, the beachfront promenade teems with people milling about like mobile sundials: solid upper halves, angled shadows as lower halves. From the beachfront, the sprawl of Donostia, a clustering of buildings, spreads in a gridlike pattern, nestled within the green backdrop of hills.

Beside me, Nairu's chestnut hair glimmers in the morning sun like a halo. She's gazing upon the city with the silent, contemplative demeanor of an artist, or of a Paleolithic child who can hardly believe that any of it exists.

A cold, hissing gust buffets my face, flaps my corduroy jacket, whips the tail of my scarf about my shoulder. Nairu, her hair fluttering wildly, clutches the sketchbook to her chest as if guarding a precious heirloom. I huddle in my jacket and tuck my chin under the scarf. Its warm fleece tickles my nose.

Jacqueline wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me closer to her statuesque form.

"I brought you to a reasonably magical place, didn't I?"

As the wind whistles around us, her tresses undulate like the waves of a glossy, black sea, exposing her earlobe and ivory-white neck. I could sink into the crystalline blue of those irises. Her full lips, always tempting, curve upward as if my mere presence pleases her.

"We should buy a castle," I say.

"We should, though that quiet apartment of ours was quite the investment."

"If you ever buy a castle, I'll lounge on a throne atop the tower, too high up for any trouble to reach me."

"I know what you mean, my darling. From such a lofty vantage, overseeing everything, it's like we're protecting the city, right?"

"We'd need a moat to keep away intruders, and a portcullis. Maybe a few portcullises. Oh, and don't forget the drawbridge. Wouldn't want to be unprepared in case of a siege."

Jacqueline gazes at the mountainous horizon. When she speaks again, her voice has softened.

"I don't want to give any of this up."

My stomach knots with a sudden surge of fear.

"Wh-why would you need to?"

"Because the world expects me to resume my role as a secretary. But I refuse."

"Oh?"

"I stayed put at the office, despite better options, out of a sense of obligation to our boss. After this break to nurture our home and Nairu, I've realized that my heart never lingered on the hours I spent working, and if I returned to my desk, I would wish to be elsewhere. So that's it: I quit. I'll ring him up when I muster the patience for that conversation."

"Bold move, one I suspect you've been considering for a while. I always thought that working as a secretary was beneath you, even back when I was sure you wouldn't... want me. From now on we'll have to manage without your income, but I'll do my best to provide for us three with the meager wages of a website programmer."

Jacqueline laughs as if my statement tickled her. I feel like a child hearing the ringing of an ice-cream truck on a summer day. When the outburst dies down, her grin lingers warmly, showing off her pearly teeth and making the corners of her cobalt-blues crease.

"Ah, you're sweet, but I didn't expect you to shoulder the responsibilities alone. I'm returning to camming, where I truly shine. Now you understand what it means, right? As many sources of revenue as gorgeous ladies I can transform into, thanks to horny internet people."

"That's... an overwhelming number of sources, then."

"Indeed, mon petit oiseau. That will more than cover the bills while still spoiling our little one with churros and amusement park trips. And don't you worry, I gave the goverment my pound of flesh, not that I appreciate how they spend it. We won't get in trouble."

Jacqueline's fingers press into my side through the corduroy jacket. With her eyelids drooping halfway, her gaze fixed on mine, she breaks into a smirk that sends my blood rushing downward.

"You know," she continues, dropping her voice to a lower, huskier tone, "a partner could spice up my repertoire. Such a woman might prefer to preserve her anonymity, but a masquerade mask would do the job, wouldn't it?"

Although her suggestion caresses my spine with electric fingers, I'm already flashing a dismissive wave.

"Oh, there's no way that anybody wants to see my pussy."

Jacqueline leans in close, her warm breath teasing the shell of my ear as her moist lips brush against it.

"They would kill for a taste, they just don't know it yet. Besides, camming would be my side gig after the most important role of all: raising our child, as well as whoever follows. What a lucky woman I am to care for a girl who loves to create, who recognizes the beauty of the world. She won't endure the fate of children whose curiosity and wonder are crushed in their youth, leaving them broken, forever distrustful of human beings. We'll make sure that as Nairu ages, her childhood memories will become a beloved song, one she'll long to return to and sing again."

---

Author's note: today's songs are "The Last Living Rose" by PJ Harvey, "Ask Me No Questions" by Bridget St. John, and "Such Great Heights" by Iron & Wine.

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety-six videos. Check them out.

Do you want to listen to this chapter instead of having to spend your eyesight? Check out the audiochapter.

On writing: Testing your personal link to a story seed

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Once you identify a story seed, you better ensure that it excites you enough; you don’t want to end up writing dozens of thousands of words only to realize that you’d rather work on something else. The following are the notes on the subject I gathered years ago from many books on writing.

-Freewrite about what seems important about the idea.
-What is the point of the story?
-Is the story really worth it?
-What could be the staying power of this story idea?
-Why would any of it matter?
-Does your imagination fill with possibilities? Do the preliminary scribbles get you excited about writing more?
-How is this story personal and unique to you?
-If you hope to write a book of either fiction or nonfiction, you will have to live with the characters or topic for a long time. Do you think you can do that?
-What quality, characteristic or concern surrounding your idea grabbed you?
-Why do you want to write this? What is it about your life at this moment in time that attracts you to this idea?
-Do you bring a long-standing, or at least overwhelming, desire to have lived the story?
-Why must you tell THIS story? Why is it important to you to spend the energy? Why are you willing to take time away from another area of your life to develop this story? What is it you want to say and why? And how? Where is it coming from inside of you?
-What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of?
-Is this something that by writing it might change your life? Is the story idea that important to you?
-Will it fill you, does it check something off your bucket list, will it give you focus and joy and challenge? Is the idea worth a year of your life? Do you want to be remembered for this story?
-Imagine you are dying. If you had a terminal disease, would you finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys that self is what’s wrong with the book. So change it.

On writing: Story seed generation #3

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Here are my few remaining notes about generating story seeds, taken years ago from books on writing.

-What would arouse a sense of wonder?
-Freewrite about settings you find deeply intriguing, loaded with curiosities and mysteries.
-What situations, problems, conflicts and emotions you want to be more adept at understanding, coping and resolving?
-Think of two incompatible, compelling moral decisions. Dilemmas work best when the stakes are both high and personal. When one choice is morally right, it will win out unless it is offset by a different choice that is equally compelling in personal terms.
-What’s the worst thing that could happen?
-Make a list of ten times in your life when you felt the most scared or worried.
-What subject close to your heart would embarass you, were you to open up about it? In such limits is often where great stories are found.
-Start imagining great scenes. See them in your mind and justify them later. Who are these people? Why are they doing what they are doing? What’s happening beneath the surface?

On writing: Story seed generation #2

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Here are some more notes about generating story seeds, taken years ago from books on writing.

-When an image really grabs you, stop and write about it for five minutes.
-What people do you find interesting?
-Think of a character with a flaw, a knot that is hurting him and will do him more harm in the future, and what new way he could pursue. Think of a story that would show off or amplify this.
-Create a character with an obsession, then follow.
-Who are your personal heroes? What makes these people a hero to you? What is his or her greatest heroic quality?
-What sort of protagonist could serve as a vessel for you to work through your own problems?
-Think of something you wouldn’t tell anyone: not your spouse, maybe not even your therapist. See if there is a way to make that a story.
-Brainstorm over the following points: things you hate. Things you love. Worst things you’ve ever done. Best things you’ve ever done. People you’ve loved. People you’ve hated. Bucket list. Hobbies. Things you know. What you’d like to know. Areas of expertise.
-Write about the emotions you fear the most.
-How would you live your life differently if you could start over? What would you do, who would you be, where would you go?
-Consider hatching an idea from your passion, and then develop a concept that allows you to stage it and explore it.
-Write about the burning core of your being, the things which are most painful to you.
-Has your own life ever reached a turning point? Have you ever had to face up to your mistakes, admit failure, and find a way to go on? Have you ever been wrecked by the knowledge that you are inadequate, that you cannot fix things, or that your limitations are plain for all to see? Was there a moment when you knew you might die in the next few seconds? Has there been a point of do or die, now or never, it’s up to me?
-What is the truth that you most wish the rest of us would see?
-How do you see our human condition? What have you experienced that your neighbors must understand? What makes you angry? What wisdom have you gleaned? Are there questions we’re not asking?
-Is there a particular theme about which you feel strongly?
-What is the most important question? What puzzle has no answer? What is dangerous in this world? What causes pain?
-Look in your own life: Is there a loss or fear you’d like to finally grapple with, or an ideal or extreme you’d like to imagine?
-Think of some value that you believe in. Through what kind of story would you be able to debate that truth, try to prove it wrong, test it to its limits?
-The whole point of a story is to translate the general into an specific, so we can see what it really means, just in case we ever come face to face with it in a dark alley.

On writing: Story seed generation #1

Back in the day, when I believed that writing stories could be systematized like a computer program (I’m a programmer by trade, after all), I was obsessed with books on writing. I own two double-row shelves of them, and that’s just the physical ones. You would think such an obsession would translate into sales, but it does not.

A couple of days ago I figured that in my spare time at work, when I’m not editing my current chapter, I could sieve through the hundreds, if not thousands, of notes I took, and post them on my site. I didn’t go as far as writing down to what book each of the notes belongs, or if I rewrote them in any way, so I hope I won’t get in trouble for this.

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