Joe Peacock's Blog, page 6

I Quit My Job (Again) To Be A Full Time Writer (Again).

I have reached a Leap Moment in my life.

It’s a huge one.  I quit my day job. My last day is April 30. As of May 1, I will be, once again, a full time writer.

I can say unequivocally that this is the scariest fucking thing I’ve ever done. Even scarier than the first time, because in that case, I had a decent selling book out in the world and a little cash padding due to the Penguin deal for the follow-up. This time, that is not the case. There is no book deal. There is no major cash cushion. There’s no plan B. There’s no safety net (There’s a little savings, but not a ton — I’m not entirely stupid, just a little crazy).

There is, however, a book series that I’ve poured my heart and soul into the past year and a half, and it’s taking off. As of right now, there are already three books in the Marlowe Kana series (eBook and Paperbacks for 1, 2 and 3), a soundtrack for volume 1, an audiobook in the works, and a statue of the main character, as well as some amazing art created by Meghan Hetrick. On deck: 6 more books (three this year, three next year), 8 more albums, 8 more audiobooks, and a line of action figures. That’s a LOT to do, and somehow I’ve been able to make it work part-time.

Those things have helped me open the door to putting together some newer, pretty big projects. I can’t talk specifics right now, but trust me… You won’t be able to stop me from talking about them when/if they happen. (More on that very soon, I assure you). But in order to actually do any of these bigger, amazing things, I have to dedicate my full attention to them. I have to stop giving 40-50 hours a week of my life to anyone else and focus on the work I can do for myself, to take me where I want to be.

So, as I said, I have reached a Leap Moment.

Behind me on the high ground, I have a lot of co-workers I have grown to consider real friends, a solid reputation, a decent paycheck, some semblance of job security, and the knowledge that without this particular job, I never could have rebuilt my life after everything exploded in chaotic hellfire in 2013.

In front of me, hovering well out of reach from where I stand, is a brass ring. A literal lifelong dream of mine could be fulfilled if I can make it all work (I’m trying to be coy, but I’m sure you’ve already guessed that there’s a chance Marlowe Kana could be turned into some other form of media. What the fuck else could I be talking about? It’s not a sure thing, but it’s a chance worth taking). All it takes is building up as much momentum as I possibly can, springing headlong to the edge, and leaping with all my might.

Below me: no cash cushion. No safety net. No backup plan. Just the jagged, painful rocks at the bottom of a long fall.

That’s why I’ve decided not to make that brass ring my only plan. Yes, becoming a full time writer again is do-or-die. But I’m not going to have just one path. It’s just… I don’t know what those others are quite yet.

I’m 41, and have been through the wringer more than once. I’ve had several chances to fulfill dreams, and I can say with a gigantic smile on my face and a single tear in my eye that I’ve achieved them, and then lost them due to shit well beyond anyone’s reasonable ability to foresee failure. I won’t get too deep into that whole story. I think by now, I’ve wrung my tear-soaked “My life fell apart” story dry.

Very related, I’ve reached a point in my life where I feel it’s time to leave the safe little alcove I’ve built for myself in order to re-establish myself with writing for a living. It’s time to get back on the field and be my own boss, doing my own work, on my own time.

It’s going to be hard. I know this, because it was REALLY hard last time, and I had the benefit of some insulation.

I’m going to be thinking very deeply about my strategy once I leave the daytime gig, and I hope to have a solid income plan built. I think the things I’ve come up with so far are pretty decent, but I know there are gaps and I need to sort those out.

Being very transparent: I have sorted my life out to a point where I have lowered my cost of living to an extremely manageable place. I’ve paid off a lot of debt and built my life in a way that it costs me very little to be happy.

But I still need to eat, pay rent, provide for my dogs and cats, and generally earn an income. And that’s what I’m going to be thinking VERY hard on the next month.

I make about $200/month on sales of the Marlowe Kana books right now. Hardly enough to live on, but it’s a start. I self-promote everything, and don’t spend much on advertising. I just keep the site updated and try to keep readers happy with a steady pipeline of print and eBooks. But it’s not enough, not right now anyway. I’m thinking on how I can make my daily writing habit a daily income. And I’ve come up with some ideas.

First, blogging. It’s my bread and butter, and it gave me a career once before. But this time, it’ll be a bit different. I think I’m well past the days where I can be the daily center of my own work all the time, every day. It’s just not healthy. And frankly, it’s boring. There are so many goddamn YouTube and Instagram and Facebook “celebrities” who simply babble on and on about themselves and their thoughts and reactions to basic bullshit, most of it dialed up to 11 for effect because if they don’t, they get ignored.

We absolutely don’t need another talking head. Besides, these days, I’m just no good at it. One could argue based on some of my past pieces that I wasn’t really great at it then, either. I have lost whatever it was in me that made me have to chase down jerks on the internet and yell at them. Having gotten it very wrong a few times didn’t help.

Where I WAS good was in teaching people things. Teaching the internet how to win a fist fight, how to actually get a decent tattoo, how to get over a divorce, how to deal with depression… these pieces are the ones I think back on immediately when I’m asked about what I’ve been most proud of. My random bullshit espousal about topic du jour? Not so much.

So, that’ll be the focus on this blog, from this point forward: Teaching.

I’m going to open the doors to my writing process. I’m going to record a series teaching folks what I have learned in the process of writing Marlowe Kana, about how to write fiction, how to organize a novel, how to structure plot, how to build characters, how to write dialog… I may not be MasterClass talent, but I can certainly share what I’ve learned about something I’ve dedicated the last year and a half of my life to.

I also want to dive deeply into the work that had to be done post-divorce and life collapse. I used to run a newsletter for people who were going through difficult life times. I miss giving the help and advice I was able to share there, but with a day job and trying to write a novel series, there wasn’t much room for anything else. Now, I can get back to that series and open those doors again. It may be in a different format than the newsletter, but I will be getting back to it.

There are a number of other smaller writing projects I’ve just not had time to dive into, that I’d like to explore again. Short stories and some screenwriting things that were once on the horizon, that I can bring back out of the “Maybe Someday” file.

I’ll also be updating you on the progress on any Marlowe Kana related projects, because of course I will. I’ll be proud. I have to share.

Now, as for the money part… That’s still up in the air. I am still shy about things like Patreon and Kickstarter. I’ve only ever used Kickstarter once, for the very first Art of Akira Exhibit, and it went okay. But I’ve never liked the idea of asking for money up front for something I haven’t done yet. It makes me lazy and builds too much expectation for me to ever make anyone happy. Prospects like Patreon or Drip are somewhat less cringe-inducing, but everyone I know has one… I dunno. Still thinking on that stuff.

One thing I do feel pretty strongly about including is the communal aspect of writing, like I used to do on Mentally Incontinent, the blog-turned-book series that Penguin bought. I wrote 5-6 stories about my life at a time, and then the community voted on the one that should be a chapter in the next book. Clearly that idea’s been done, and also I think it just doesn’t work for anything I’m doing right now.

So, I’m considering opening up the Google Docs access for every piece I write to subscribers and letting them see how I do what I do. It might be boring. It might be fascinating in a weird voyeuristic way. It might help someone else who is writing things get through a block or something. I have no idea. I just know I miss the community and collaboration aspects of what the internet used to be, and I’m going to be actively looking for ways to bring it back to my work.

So, there’s that.

(Also, I’m back. Hi.)

 

Writing Advice (Worth What You Paid For It)

This evening, a member of the Marlowe Kana Discord channel was discussing writing his novel. He needed help around some writer’s block. The discussion became my first-ever “Tweet Storm” or whatever that is.

In the spirit of sharing what I’ve learned the last few years about writing, I’m sharing it here as well:

 

Writer's block? Let me help:

Character is [situation]. She must [ACTION], BUT [thing]. THEREFORE she must [action]. As a result, [thing] happens BUT [other thing], THEREFORE [thing]. And THEREFORE, [thing] As well, but [obstacle].

There. Fill in the blanks & have a first draft

— joe peacock (@joethepeacock) February 16, 2018

 

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[Transcription:

Writer’s block? Let me help:

Character is [situation]. She must [ACTION], BUT [thing]. THEREFORE she must [action]. As a result, [thing] happens BUT [other thing], THEREFORE [thing]. And THEREFORE, [thing] As well, but [obstacle].

There. Fill in the blanks & have a first draft.

I learned a long time ago to stop being self conscious about my process. Do what fucking works.

whiteboard shit. Pseudocode your formula, and put your story in it. Break that formula whenever it doesn’t quite apply. Make a new formula.

It’s storytelling.

Storytelling follows structure for a reason: because our brains fucking like it, the EXACT same way 95% of all top 100 songs in all of history follow a ABACAB format.

it tickles our brain.

and never confuse story STRUCTURE with PLOT. it’s not the same thing. Structure is how you deliver the plot.

same as confusing a car with a trip… You use a car to take the trip.

But the trip is the good stuff. no one cares if you use the same car to take 10 different trips.

later, as a mechanic or technician, feel free to go fuck up structure and go crazy. Like instead of taking a car on vacation, ride your bike there. Same idea.

harder. less conveinent. WAY more of a challenge. VERY rewarding. No one will fucking applaud you, because you’re 6 days late and you look like shit. but it’s awesome that you did it and they’ll admire the effort.

so by all means, eshew that 3 act hero’s journey for a 5 act greek tragicomedy or fuck it, kill structure altogether. GO dadist. Whatever.

but know this: When the vacation is a 10 day all you can eat sushi fest in Tokyo, no one gives a fuck what airline you used to fly there.

and they ceratinly don’t care if you use that same airline to fly them on another dream vacation to go halibut ice fishing in alaska, and then again to go be the lotion guy at an all model topless beach or whatever.

trust me, they Just. Won’t. Care. ]

Announcing the Marlowe Kana Volume 1 Original Soundtrack by Sinewave Sionora (Yes, A Soundtrack For A Book)

Today is a very proud day for me. A project a year in the making is finally out in the wild. I VERY PROUDLY present to you: Marlowe Kana Volume 1, the Original Soundtrack by Sinewave Sionora:

I cannot tell you how proud I am of this record. First, it’s 100% original music, all inspired by Marlowe Kana Volume 1. Second, it’s expertly composed, performed, produced and engineered by Joey The Mad Scientist (Joseph Rhodes) and CVRT-1 (Jason Covert), who are geniuses. I’m not just saying that because I worked with them and they’re friends — they are literal geniuses. Jason’s organic, thick bass and guitar work complements Joey’s synths, drums, and vox in ways I couldn’t have possibly imagined before hearing it myself. I even contributed some crazy noises here and there!

About The music:

“Electronic” is the easiest term for it. If you like Massive Attack, Kruder & Dorfmeister, Aphex Twin, Tycho, or other artists who juxtapose deep thunk with intricate synth and live instrumentation, this is right up your alley. There’s elements of Vangelis (Blade Runner), Trent Reznor, and even grunge sludge like Sleep, Earthless, Clutch, The Melvins… There’s literally something for everyone on this record. But it’s not a gumbo of sounds — it’s very methodically orchestrated and each track is purpose-driven to communicate the feel and tone of each chapter of the book.

About Sinewave Sionora:

What started as a joke in a parody of “Music Review” podcasts that Joey and I did in 2016 became this crazy project called Sinewave Sionora. Shortly after I wrote Volume 1, I shared it with Joey. He immediately asked me if he could write some music inspired by what he was reading. My answer was “Wait, what? You really want to do that? HELL YES!” I’ve never heard of a book with a soundtrack before, but hell, why can’t there be one? Or, nine, as the case may be!

“I wanted to make something that was unique in it’s own right,” Joey said, “but had major hooks to the storyline. Everything from the music comes directly from the book in some form or fashion. It’s a pure cyberpunk album through and through and I am very happy to share it with the world.”

About This Album:

You can pay-what-you-want for the album at Bandcamp  (even 0.00 if you want it for free — you know how I work, I don’t believe in forcing a toll for access to stuff I’m doing). You can also stream it free at Soundcloud, and it will be in iTunes, Google Play, Spotify, and other music services this week.

What You Can Expect From Here:

Eight more albums! Because there’s 8 more books! Music for volumes 2 and 3 has already been recorded, and we are writing more to go with the new stuff I’m writing in volume 4. So, good news — if you like this album, there’s MUCH more where this came from!

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Tomorrow, I turn 41.

Today, I sit in the chasm between two possible lives, both of which I’ve lived before.

One was defined by being painfully average – so sad about my middle class life that I had to blog about it daily just to justify it, resenting that my special brain isn’t being put to use in some high concept design or writing role, depression about the possibility of whatever work I want to create being ignored and hated — which I then drown out with my vices (games, food, booze and masturbation), all the while trickling out just enough work to keep just enough people giving me just enough praise to feed the bottomless validation monster inside me, both in my career and online.

The other life I’ve lived was one where I became enlightened to all of these things, unafraid to do the hard work to make things that matter, replacing praise-based validation with the wildly more powerful validation of a job well done. Focusing on the three corners of the trinity, work, writing, working out: mind, body, and soul in alignment to push forward out of whatever mire I am in, allowing external to be external and being solidly in touch with the internal.

Right now, I am taking a break from staring at a blank page in my word processor, watching the cursor blink on and off and on again, trying to make words appear by willing them into existence. Occasionally, I do, and they’re crap. I delete them and start again. This has been the situation for a week and some days now. I’ve taken it VERY seriously. I have not given up. I have not retreated to video games, booze, weed, or masturbation to delay or ignore the fact that there’s a hard job sitting before me, and if I want to have another volume of my book out in the world, I’ve got to start hammering keys and producing work.

But goddammit, it’s hard. I want to look away and then back and see before me a perfect, polished, completely perfect manuscript. I look away; I look back.

Blank screen. Blinking cursor.

I cannot run from who I am, and I cannot be who I’m not. I am predisposed to laziness, sloth, indulgence and gluttony. I LOVE those things. I really, really do.

But I love looking at something I’ve made and knowing I did something worth doing more. The problem is, the cost of the first batch of things is so low, it makes the cost of doing the work look insane by comparison.

Drink, smoke, eat, play games, fuck around, and have fun

versus

Give up hours, days, weeks, months, parties, get-togethers, hangouts, social life, and in some cases friendships in order to put the necessary time into making things I want to make, on a schedule that is somewhere short of “maybe someday.”

 

And that’s where I get confused and begin thinking about retreat. With the world spinning out of control and all kinds of external chaos taking place my old brain is showing up more and more. It wants to mask pain with jokes on my blog and video games and food and booze. It wants to retreat to what it knows will numb me in times of pain.

Problem is, my new brain knows it doesn’t work at all. In fact it makes it worse by delaying the inevitable. And what’s more, there’s the added frosting of guilt for not using the time I have to make the work I know I need to make on the lazy cake I’d be baking for myself.

My new brain knows that the first step to getting better is to stop making it worse. The second is to do the work, day by day, hour by hour, second by second if need be.

I have a good job. I have a great girlfriend. We have a nice house, excellent dogs and cats, and a cool game room. There’s food in the fridge and I take hot showers daily. I want to disappear into that, like I did when I first got restabilized after everything fell apart. But the time for taking comfort in the mere fact there was comfort to be taken is over. It’s time to work.

But dammit, I would be lying if I didn’t say I don’t want to.

Tomorrow, I turn 41. I very likely have more years behind me than I do ahead of me. I have lived a pretty nutso life, and I have done some really cool stuff with it. But I’ve wasted more days than I’ve put to good use, by my count.

But here I sit, staring at that blank page with a cursor going blink. blink. blink. blink.

Type a few words; delete those few words.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

But that’s the work. It’s been this way with every book I’ve ever written. It always starts this way. With every blink of the cursor, I find myself staring at my own will, wondering who will blink first.

You better believe that I will stare this cursor down until it submits to my will.

Random Thoughts, 1.18.18: Chiropractic Edition

(I’m bringing back the old “Random Thoughts” feature. I hope you enjoy.)

• I haven’t been to a chiropractor in a while. I should probably go sometime for myself, and not just when someone else needs to go.

• It’s interesting to see a business owner of any sort, much less a doctor, run the office by themselves. This doctor’s office staff has called in due to the snow and ice, and he’s the only one. He’s clearly not used to doing the paperwork, as he has no idea where any of it is. Nice guy, though.

• Yes, I’m aware that a chiropractor is not a doctor by default. This doctor has a doctorate. I think it’s in religious studies, though, judging by the decor, the radio station playing overhead, and the seating.

• I swear to god, chiropractors furnish their waiting rooms with the worst possible furniture for your back on purpose. I’m pretty sure this is a church pew:

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• Christian Pop Radio is playing in the waiting area. It’s intriguing to me how hard evangelical entertainment tries to emulate secular entertainment without outright acknowledging that’s what they’re doing. It’s almost like human beings are hard-wired to find certain stuff catchy and interesting, and we all want to enjoy them, but some force puts artificial limitations on them to the point where, you can retain the beat, tone, timbre, and even vocals of, say, a Taylor Swift or Mumford & Sons song, but change the words around to mention Jesus and “Him” a lot and it’s all ok to enjoy. Meanwhile, the song (or movie, or comic, or other thing) they ripped of? Of the devil, of course.

•I guess words matter than action in those cases… And many other, judging by every single “Christian” politician in office right now.

•How tall is this peacock? Or, how short is this child? Or is that even a child? Is it a little person?

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• And how the hell did those two elephants and those two bears both fit in that tiny boat? Or are they SUPER GIGANTIC elephants and bears and the ark is regular-ark size? And holy shit, those bears are bigger than the elephants, and the giraffes are brontosaurus size:

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• What exactly is “regular ark” size? When God supposedly commanded Noah to build the ark 300 cubits in length, 50 cubits in width and 30 cubits in height, was that a super-sized ark? Or a regular sized ark? Were there other arks around for comparison? How did Noah even architect this?

• And how exactly is an ark roughly 1/22nd the size of the average American Zoo hold two of every animal, which would include EVERY species ever, since evolution isn’t a thing and there’s no way a subset of animals on Noah’s Ark could have interbred or cross-bred or evolved into anything other that what it was to begin with?

• How is it that people who believe that boat could have even existed, much less did the job of preserving the species, rely on the fact that it was written down by some guy at some point and handed down over millennia, while there is actual photographic evidence (and lots of it) of the size of Donald Trump’s inauguration crowd being one of the smallest in modern history but that’s “Fake News?” As is the recording of him saying “Grab them by the pussy” that he even admitted to and apologized for, but suddenly it’s fake? Why is evidence such a problem in a culture built on belief of flimsy premises with less than convincing evidence (and in most cases, none at all)? Why wouldn’t evidence simply reinforce a belief, or help foster a new one?

• I really should have had breakfast before I came here.

Sometimes, The World Is Just Against You (And Sometimes, You’re Against Yourself And You Use The World As An Excuse)

I am hip deep in the middle of a pity party. I am sharing this with you in an effort to get the hell over myself.

To set the stage: In 2107, I put out three books (well, four, but that last one was clearly a joke).  They were small, comparative to your average bookstore novel. The three were intended to be combined into a “Book 1” but I decided that was silly, and to keep them all individual. At over 150 pages each, they do qualify as books unto themselves. So, semantics aside, I published three real books in 2017.

Volume 1 of Marlowe Kana came out on on May 20, Volume 2 on June 19, and Volume 3 on September 17, 2017, and all three became print paperbacks on November 22nd (for those of you who, like myself, prefer the book-in-hand experience).

Proud? You bet I’m proud. It’s an awesome feeling to be back in the saddle and writing books again after a 10 year hiatus (2013’s Everyone Deserves To Know What I Think was a best-of-the-old-blog, and as such, was honestly just a cash grab because I was penniless and homeless, literally. Everyone who bought it, thank you). The momentum of the first pushed me through the second, which pushed me through the third, and in a year’s time, I tripled my bibliography. That’s kinda nuts.

When Volume 3 went live, I told myself I would take a few months to relax, rekindle, recover, and hit the ground running on January 1, 2018. I had momentum, and the overarching storyline for all nine volumes was established a while ago. But as far as particulars and how I like to approach each volume from a writing perspective, I needed time to build all of that stuff. Outlines, character descriptions, particulars, tidbits, governing principals… You know, all that writing stuff.

But I draw a line between “writing” (story, plot, characters, concepts, outlines, descriptions, story arcs, whiteboarding, and so on — what almost any writer would tell you is what makes up “writing”) and Writing — words on the page, intended for publication (after editing and all that of course… The First Draft, if you will). To wit: you can think and plan your story all you want, but the book isn’t written until you start page one, paragraph one, word one, and finish that last word of the last sentence of the last page. Period.

It’s January 14th, 2018. To date, I’ve written exactly one and a half pages in the new volume, Volume 4. That was on Wednesday, January 10th. I even announced in the Slack channel for the Marlowe Kana team that the first day of my new 90-day challenge had started, and that I was excited to finally get going on the actual labor of writing the new volume.

And then, things happened.

I got a nasty message from a guy I sent some cigars to in a sampler. He didn’t appreciate that his selection wasn’t as varied and out there as someone else’s in our cigar group. He’s the first guy to complain out of literal dozens I’ve sent cigars to. It put me in a sour mood and made me all grumpy. Also, I had to put in an additional few hours Friday night to fix a bug I just couldn’t figure out on the temporary HomestarRunner.com page we have in place to let folks know, a new site that isn’t dependent on Flash is on the way (oh, by the way, I’m working on the new Homestar Runner site. It’s made of HTMLS!). My day job got in the way a few times with last-minute asks that found me working in the evening when I got home. And last weekend, I hit my brick mailbox with my truck and cracked both a bit.

And just this morning, head full of gumption after last night’s staring at a blank screen and blaming every minor distraction for my inability to just write, I sat in my desk chair — READY TO WRITE — and it broke. Again. On the opposite side from where it broke a few years ago, sure, but still. It broke. And I had to fix it. DAY RUINED!

Day after day, these little things appeared that derailed my plan — nay, my DREAM — of coming home, pouring a fine drink, lighting a nice cigar, and writing all night. That Hemmingway shit. That Steinbeck thing. That Gaiman, King, Whomever-you-idolize fantasy of the Writer at work.

Only, it doesn’t work like that. I know this, because it has NEVER worked like that.

Not last volume, or the volume before, or Volume 1, or the book in 2013 (which was just a best-of-my-blog book and had no new writing in it), or the book before that in 2009 (which finished in 2007), or the book before that in 2006. It didn’t work like that for any of the over one thousand blog posts I wrote from 2002 – 2012. It didn’t work like that for the hundreds of articles I wrote for dozens of publications. It didn’t work like that when I was writing the first season of Screenland.

I’ve proven this to myself dozens of times over dozens of years, and yet, every single time I take time off and have to get started again, I fall for this stupid trap, thinking somehow that it’ll be different — you know, with the desk and the cigar and the fine drink and the genius just flying out of my fingertips. Or, more simply, the writer’s dream. The way it’s supposed to be.

That whole concept is delusional. Always has been, always will be. But it doesn’t stop my brain from fucking with me by bringing it up every single time I start something new.

Getting the first three volumes out last year was actually a multi-year process beginning in 2015, which required LOTS of found time, and lots more cancelled plans or passing on other fun things or disappointing friends and family because the only way I was going to get words on the page was to prioritize putting words on the page, day after day, night after night, regardless of how comfortable or fun or painful or forced.

This is Stephen Pressfield’s textbook definition of resistance. I am nose to nose with the scariest and most devilish enemy on the planet: my own ego.

By most points of feedback I’ve gotten on the three volumes so far, this book series is good. It’s intriguing to the readers who have read it. Each chapter makes you want to read the next; each volume makes you want to pick up the following volume and see what has happened. Those who have made it through Volume 3 email, text, message, and ask “Dude, where the hell is Volume 4! I gotta know what happens to Marlowe and Atlanta!”

That feels good. And it’s hard-won, because writing Volume 3 was only SLIGHTLY easier than writing Volume 2, which was only SLIGHTLY easier than writing Volume 1, which was hard in a way I can only describe in relation to training for a marathon after spending years on the couch. So in that regard, each volume after the first was its own marathon. It was only because I was trained up for the first, that I could do the second — which was STILL HARD. And the third? STILL HARD.

It doesn’t get easier. It’s work. It takes work to think about. It takes work to write. Night after night for months. The loneliest, hardest, most exhausting fun thing anyone could ever do. And here I sit, on January 14, 2018, actively fighting myself not to just quit and give up and focus on the day job and let those first three volumes be enough. Because the absolute last thing my ego wants to face is the possibility that they were flukes, and I really do suck, and all I’ve done is set myself up for a bigger fall.

It would honestly be easier if they sucked ass, because then there’s no stakes. But to know that there are people who are reading it and liking it and that the story isn’t pure garbage makes starting again so, so, so much harder.

As Seth Godin described in his amazing book The Dip, I’m in a hole in the first plateau on the gigantic climb that is this project. I’ve climbed this far and put in this much work and accomplished something, but there’s SO MUCH MORE to go. And to even get started on the next bit, I have to get out of this hole I’ve put myself into (which, despite being not that big, and atop the first big hill I’ve already climbed, feels like it might as well be at the bottom of the lowest point on Earth).

It’s a pity party. Plain and simple.

Staring up at the mountain ahead from this point I’ve reached, i’m filled with equal parts dread and awe. I know the old advice that sherpas give mountaineers, not to look up at the tip of the mountain, but to focus on the climb and only look down to see how much ground you’ve covered. I know that if I can just put my head down and start climbing, I’ll get another inch or foot or hell, even up to the next plateau.

I just really, really don’t want to. Cause it’s scary. So, these little minor things that show up and hinder my start are secretly very welcome to the enemy within me, my ego. It doesn’t want me to start, because it’s afraid of all the hard work ahead. Not just the work, but the possibility that all of that work will be for nothing when the book goes to my editor, Rowena, and she says “uh… this is shit, start over” (which has never happened despite being afraid of it every single time). And even if she does somehow manage to hack it apart and get it to an acceptable place, it might go to press and everyone reads it and goes “uh, dude, this is shit, why did you bother?”

Or worse, no one will read it at all.

The common thread of all of the above — the world somehow conspiring against me to keep me from that pure, perfect writers’ bliss of romantic settings in which I get to be a genius, my editor, readers, external opinions on the story… Not only is it all pure fabrication and manipulation of perspective, it’s also not the point. None of it.

I don’t write this stuff because the environment I write it in is perfect. It hasn’t been. Most if not all of Marlowe Kana Volumes 1-3 was written in found moments, or on my back deck at the rental house I shared with Meghan with a small Wal-Mart fan pointing at me in sweltering heat, and a worksite propane heater in the shivering cold, and whatever other stuff the weather threw at me. It was written in the back seat of cars on road trips, or on airplanes, or in hotel rooms. It was written during lunch breaks and after late meetings at work.

It got written in spite of any discomfort, amidst fears that it would be hated (or no one would care, which is honestly worse). Because all of that stuff above is just an opinion. It’s how I feel. And the work doesn’t care one bit how I feel about it, it just needs to get done.

I write this as a sort of confession; to get it out of me and admit publicly that I’m procrastinating. Not so I’m held accountable by anyone else — I don’t really need that as much as I need to look my own self in the face and say “Dude, cut the shit. Fuck your chair, your truck, software bugs, day job blues, fear, validation, or anything else that isn’t writing words on the page of the next book.”

Nothing disinfects like sunlight, and these germs of fear, doubt, resistance… They need to be sanitized. So I’m pulling off the covers and letting the light shine on it. I have no idea how interesting any of this would be for you reading this, but thank you for doing so anyway.

So with that out of the way, it’s time to write. See you when I need to vent more crap.

My New Book, “Nothing But Blockchain”

I wrote a book this morning. Like, literally, this morning. It’s called “Nothing But Blockchain: Everything You Need To Know About Money Grabs, Bubble Markets, and How Hype Sells Things”:

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I was inspired by an article this morning about and immediately saw a 500% increase in their stock price. The newly cristened “Long Blockchain Corp.” makes iced tea (they were The Long Island Iced Tea Corp. previously). This is the latest entry in the surreal-but-very-expected hype cash-in maneuvers by people who want to capitalize on the ignorance and excitement of people who just learned what BitCoin (and blockchain) was a week ago, and can’t stop posting dumbass memes about how rich they’re getting literally 7 days after buying a millionth of a BitCoin.

Before that, companies that make bras, e-cigarettes, fruit juice, and literally dozens of other things hopped on the blockchain bandwagon and saw their stocks soar.

So I figured, why not write a book all about blockchain? Like, literally nothing but the word “blockchain” repeated for 300 pages.

It’s the perfect gift for that scuzzy uncle or frat brother or other person in your life who won’t shut the fuck up about cryptocurrency and blockchain, despite knowing nothing besides its current valuation according to yet another out-of-date exchange ticker’s approximate guess.

I did it for you. You’re welcome.

Star Wars Episode 8: The Last Jedi (Spoiler-Free Review)

To set the stage: I am an ardent Episode 7 apologist. When discussing The Force Awakens, any of my writing friends who begin critiquing the movie are answered with an explanation that Kathleen Kennedy and JJ Abrams had one HELL of a monumental task: undoing the damage that Lucas did with Episodes 1-3. And I feel like they did that. The story was flat, yes. Every single beat was stitched together with simple “And then she… And then he…” connective tissue. There was fan service out the wazoo. And I loved it. Black X-Wing? Millennium Falcon? I don’t even care if it’s just the warmed-up leftovers of A New Hope served one day before they expire, I was 100% in.

Hell, I even shrug and still find love for Episode 1. It’s not as easy, but I do it. Because before I was a writer; before I made shows or content of any sort, I was a fan.

Episode 8?

I FUCKING HATED IT.

FUCKING.  HATED.  IT.

I want to make damn sure you understand this one thing, if nothing else in this write-up lands: I made a pact with myself a few years ago to outright remove from my writing (and hopefully, my mind) any critique of another creator’s work that is based purely on taste and opinion. I swore I would remove “I hate this” from my lexicon when “This isn’t for me” would do.

This is not a piece about my tastes or my opinion. This is fact: Star Wars Episode 8: The Last Jedi is a bad movie. It’s a bad story. It’s a bad piece of content. From a movie-still or screen capture perspective, it is pretty in moments, but from a story perspective, it’s so. so. so. so. so. so. so. so. SO. bad.

I can’t explain why without spoilers, so I’ll do that in another piece. But I will say this: when the movie ended and the lights came up, my girlfriend (who hated Episode 7) turned to me with a look on her face that I knew was “Oh God, how do I tell him I hated this one too?” and that look was quickly replaced with shock as she saw the look on my face.

“The title crawl was interesting,” I said. “And I liked exactly one moment with Luke Skywalker. Other than that, I hated every. Single. Second. Of that movie.”

She cackled, half out of shock, and half out of relief. Because she did too.

Thinking we were alone in our disdain, given the applause that rang out after the credits began rolling, we exited the theater and tended to the ceremonial “End of the Movie Bio Break”. I finished first and returned to the exit hallway to hear two guys discussing the movie.

Oh no, I thought, I’m going to have to walk away before I lash out at these poor dudes decked out head-to-toe in Star Wars clothing simply for liking a movie that I couldn’t even begin to explain why I…

“I hated it,” one guy said.

“It didn’t answer a goddamn thing,” the other said.

“THANK YOU!” I yelled as my girlfriend exited her restroom. “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!”

I’m sure they thought I was insane for a moment. “You just validated the fact that I’m not crazy, and that that movie was a piece of shit.”

“It was!” they both said.

I never got their names, but we talked for a dozen minutes about all of the various weaknesses, plot failures, character misdirections, and other issues with a two and a half our commercial for more things based on the stuff introduced in this commercial, which themselves will invariably be thinly-vieled commercials for more things in the expanded-expanded universe, all of which makes NO GODDAMN SENSE or holds any cohesion with the source material, its characters, its settings, its mechanics (FUEL IS A FUCKING ISSUE? REALLY? SINCE WHEN IN STAR WARS IS FUEL A FUCKING ISSUE?)

From a writing-mechanics perspective, it’s shit.

From a storytelling perspective, it’s shit forced down your throat.

From an acting perspective, it’s like someone ate shit, puked that shit up, then ate it again and shit it out.

And from a pure “should this even exist?” perspective, it’s nothing more than a platform for toy sales, series spinoffs, and “extended universe” plays (LOOK FOR THE COOL CROSSOVER COMIC BOOK WITH THE GUY FROM THE CASINO (no, not the one that was shoved into the plot to basically give Benecio Del Toro some more screen time [HE WAS IN GUARDIANS 2, PLAYING BASICALLY THE SAME GODDAMN CHARACTER GAHHHHHHH]. I’m talking about the other guy with the macguffin on his lapel that they set up to be the entire fucking reason to even go to that planet, mostly to build characters that honestly were more fleshed out and whole BEFORE this building arc was shoved in here). I’m sure it’ll feature a REALLY BEAUTIFUL, MOSTLY RED cover by Mark Brooks, with seven or more action figure variant covers by John Tyler Christopher.)

I am 100% convinced the reason you see so many early reviews from publications claiming it’s great, original, unique, special, and otherwise positive is because Disney gathered every single reviewer from every single blog, publication, and outlet into a room and said “If you say even one single negative thing before this movie is released, we will bar you for life from screening ANY Disney or Fox production for the rest of your existence.” These are publications I trust: Ars Technica. Polygon. Io9. All of whom I can’t possibly trust ever again at this point, and no, this isn’t hyperbole.

There will be reversals of opinions, hedging, and otherwise paving over the past sometime between Christmas and New Years, and by the time this thing hits home video / streaming services, you’ll begin seeing the major outlets coming out with new reviews that trim back that 10/10 or 100% review to the mid 70’s. Then, sometime in the future after the cessation of net neutrality has all but obliterated the everyone-with-a-megaphone internet we have become and people begin going back to lives of consumption with moderate opinion sharing, you’ll see a return to common sense and an appeal to your trust as consumers as reviewers finally come out and say “yeah, Episode 8 was a full-on piece of shit crammed down your throat because Disney literally owns everything and can’t do a single brave thing worth a shit, for risk of creating weaknesses in their all-powerful consumer appeal.”

There. There’s my spoiler-free review.

Look for the very specific, full-o-spoilers catharsis later today, not because I think you need to read it, but because I need the therapy.

Did You Know That I Am A Literal Cat Burglar? (Or, “A Farewell To Buzz”)

This morning, we had to say goodbye to my good friend of 11 years, Buzz Buzz (also sometimes known as “Buzz Buzz Buzz” or “Buzzy Buzz”, or simply “Buzz” if you prefer brevity). Buzz has been a fixture in my life since the day I stole him in 2006.

Yes, I’m not proud to admit it, but I stole a cat. But it was for a good reason.

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Back in those days, my ex worked for the Humane Society. They didn’t yet have a real foster program, and when really great but unadoptable pets came in, there wasn’t really anywhere for them to go. Employees would take them home and rehab them to get them to a place where the shelter could adopt them out without liability. That’s how we got Buzz. He had a chronic sinus infection that simply would not go away. Due to that, the Humane Society was going to have to put him down. My ex stepped in and took him home, hoping to rehab him and get him to a state where he could find a good home.

Well, he did. It was my home. I fell in love with him and couldn’t let him go.

It’s called a “Failed Foster” — when a foster cat doesn’t make it back to the shelter, because the employee (or foster parent) decides to keep them. But before the official foster program was started, there was no way to legally hand these animals over to the foster parents. Everything was done with a wink and a whisper. It wasn’t shady or anything, it was just the way great animals who, through no fault of their own couldn’t be adopted, had a second chance.

During the day, he’d play the role of welcoming committee for any new animal that came in after him. He was everyone’s big brother. He showed the new fosters around the house and made sure they felt welcomed. He helped the more skittish of the bunch understand that the gigantic hairless ape with the tattoos and buckets of food (me) was only there to take care of them. At night, he’d take up residence on my chest and sleep and purr. I never had the heart to move him. He was just too damn adorable. When I’d roll over at night, he’d just take a few steps northward and find a spot on my head, sleeping there for the rest of the night, night after night, for 11 years.

Back when I was married to an employee of the Humane Society, and there was no OFFICIAL channel for great animals to find homes after going from “unadoptable but lovable” to simply “lovable,” he made dozens of foster animals feel welcome and helped them acclimate for the days, weeks, or sometimes months they were at our house. Eventually an official foster program took root there, and these days, there are hundreds of foster parents on the roll at the Humane Society. It’s awesome.  But back then, Buzz was absconded with and taken into custody quite illegally. And I’m not sorry at all.

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One day, I was at the shelter and saw Buzz’s record. Because he was never officially adopted or processed (again, because there was no LEGAL way to do it back then), I marked him ‘DECEASED’ so that there wouldn’t ever be a question as to where he was. I never wanted to give him up. I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t regret it though. I burgled Buzz and made him mine and now, this morning 11 years later, he’s passed on.

So really, all I did was prematurely update his record, knowing one day this would happen. Right? I mean, that’s a great justification. Don’t try to erase it with logic or “reality”. And if you do, don’t think less of me. Or, if you do THAT, try to make it a short experience.

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After the divorce, Buzz moved into my friend Mike’s tiny one-bedroom apartment with me, Julius (my other orange cat), and Haggis (the 17 year old veteran dog we lost earlier this year). We all slept in the living room. Mike objected at first — there really wasn’t room for all of us. I did something bad; I showed up one day with the cats and said it was just a temporary thing, knowing fully it wouldn’t be. I knew once Mike saw Buzz and Julius, he wouldn’t be able to send them away. I am a bad person, I know. But it was for the right reasons. I have been thankful every single day since we moved out that I did that to Mike, and thankful even more that Mike took them in. He knew what I was doing, and let me do it anyway. That’s how it goes with people who have been friends for 20+ years. We don’t talk these days, and that’s also how things go after a divorce and massive life upheaval. I hear he has a kid and a wife now. I hope he’s doing well.

Buzz survived a period of my life that a marriage, many friendships, my house, my career, and most of my possessions did not. He is a survivor. But far more than that, he was a constantly positive force in my life. No matter what happened, or where we were living (even in my truck for a while), or what was going on, there he was, ready to sleep on my chest and get pets for hours at a streak. He ended up becoming very close with my girlfriend Meghan, and the two shared a bond that made me tear up more than once. He adopted her, much the way I had adopted him… Without any fanfare or paperwork. It just happened. And life for all of us was better for it.

A few months ago, Buzz developed a mass in his sinus cavity. It grew very rapidly. He had some surgery to remove it and it didn’t really work. A biopsy revealed a rapidly malignant carcinoma. We exhausted all of the options that weren’t cutting out the portion of his upper jaw bone where the mass had spread, subjecting him to a day of surgery, months of recovery and chemotherapy, and the rest of his life without an upper right jaw.

He didn’t really mind the mass. Every day, he’d find a way to chase sunbeams (even on the cloudiest of days) and attack dangly strings and tassles from sofa covers. He spent the last month of his life much like the first 131: sleeping on my chest and head, sneezing on me periodically.

I didn’t mind.

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The last few weeks, his bad days began to outnumber the good. Even on the worst days, he still responded happily to pets, purring loudly and, due to the chronic sinus condition he’s had since birth, Buzzing (which is where he got the name). This weekend, he didn’t perk up the way he usually does when a reflection of a sunbeam danced across the floor, or when the tuna pouches were opened, or when his brothers approached and wanted to play. It hurt to admit, but his quality of life was no longer such that keeping him around became a purely selfish thing. That is cruel.

I will steal a cat. I will force that cat on a friend when I move in after an ugly divorce. But I refuse to be cruel.

I imagine Buzz in kitty heaven right now, eating bags of tuna and getting pets from Prince and David Bowie. And seeing it typed out, “Bags of tuna” just looks… Weird? I said that because tuna comes in envelopes now, I guess? And Buzz likes tuna, and my brain is like “what’s bigger than an envelope? Oh a bag!” and now I have a mental image of a grocery bag filled with tuna meat sitting next to David Bowie as Prince reaches down and grabs a hunk and feeds it to Buzz. Oh, and in kitty Heaven, David Bowie is free to embrace his “Fursona” and wear a cat suit and go by David Meowie. So now you have that in your head: David Bowie in a cat suit (furry, not ninja-type) holding Buzz while Prince feeds him tuna meat from a sack.

Also, all of that forces another weird thought through my head: we don’t really say “chicken meat” or “tuna meat” or “lamb meat”  when we want to eat those things. We just order lamb, chicken or tuna. But we never order “cow” — maybe because dairy comes from cows too? And that could get confusing:

Me: “I’ll have the cow.”

Server: “Liquid or solid?”

Me: “Solid, please.”

Server: “Cow Cheese or Cow Meat?”

Me: “…Well, neither now. That sounds terrible. I’ve lost my appetite.”

Server: “Salad, then?”

Me: “Fine.”

Server: “Which kind?”

Me: “Cow, with sprinkled cow.”

Also, ordering a cheesesteak would be super weird. You’d have to order a Philly CowCow.

Anyway, rest in peace, Buzz. You were one of my best friends ever. Say hi to David Meowie for me.

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Changing The World, Starting With Myself (or, Dudes Behaving Badly Isn’t Just Dudes Being Dudes, It’s Assholes Being Assholes And I Know Because I Am One)

It seems like lately there’s a torrent of revelations about men — specifically white and straight men – behaving badly.

If you think the volume of revelations is staggering, imagine what it must feel like to live day after day, week after week, as the target of this behavior. And take a look at who is being called out — the highest of the high society; the most powerful of the powerful. They’re in the news because their names are newsworthy, but for every one of them, there’s ten thousand other BroDudes who have behaved badly.

I had a conversation this morning with my manager (a woman) and another coworker (a black millennial male) about sexual harassment, racial discrimination, and other bad behaviors. In that conversation, I shared that in 1996, when I was 19, I worked in the dotcom industry and was a witness in both a sexual discrimination suit and a racial discrimination suit, in the same year. The experience left me with one huge, important, written in ALL CAPS point: DON’T FUCKING DO THAT. Not at work. Not in private. Not ever. It’s just gross.

But it wasn’t the ramifications that impacted me so deeply. It was the emotional state of the victims. In both cases, the people involved were not maliciously litigating or trying to “milk the system” or any of the bullshit that my white, straight, almost entirely male co-workers would say they were. In fact, in both cases, the victims were pushed by their families and encouraged by those of us who saw it happen to tell their stories.

They were scared. If not for the lawyers and police officers in the room during both depositions, I would have been too — and I didn’t do anything wrong. I was a white straight male with youthful brilliance in an industry that rewarded (with gobs of money at the time) youthful brilliance, and I was terrified to simply tell the people in the room what I saw happen, for fear of losing my job, ruining my own career, and forever being stamped as some sort of “rat” or tattletale.

Mind you, I was not a victim. I was not on the receiving end of any harassment. I was not a woman who clawed and fought her way as far as she had to a position of some stature only to be leered at daily, catcalled in the office, and outright sexually harassed by her manager. I was not a young black man who was held back from a team lead position not once, not twice, but three separate times, despite being the most brilliant advice giver in the group and one of the best teachers I personally ever had in the industry.

And even I was scared to open my mouth and simply say “yeah, that happened. I saw it.”

I didn’t let the fear stop me. “Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes” is a thing my dad told me years before, and instilled in me from the day he adopted me. But I also have a white armor on my skin that didn’t make me a perpetual target my whole life. I had genitalia and spoke with a gruffness handed down from dude to dude across millennia which kept me in the company of a default safe space for bad behavior to even exist.

So I told the panel what I saw, in both cases. And in both cases, the one overriding thought that sat in my brain: “How the fuck did this even happen?” I was thankful that the harassers wouldn’t be getting away with it, and I was glad that the victims had the opportunity and support to speak their truth.

But what about all the people who don’t have that support? What about the people physically threatened by a larger, or more wild and threatening, harasser? What about the middle manager who is a mother of two supporting her kids, paying rent, getting food, and attempting to merely survive under the management of a man who thinks it’s ok to pinch her ass — or, even talk about pinching her ass — because opening her mouth and saying something would put her kids’ lives in jeopardy?

But it’s not just single mothers with kids that make my eyebrows furrow and fists clench when I hear about it. ANY MAN who thinks its okay to inflict himself on ANYONE ELSE pisses me off at my core. But that doesn’t mean I’m innocent. I’ve raised my voice at people in an attempt to get my point made — albeit, I never MEANT to intimidate them with my size and language, the fact that I am a giant of a human couldn’t help but play a part in that. I have pushed and been unrelenting in my arguments to try to get my way at work and in meetings and on projects. Never once was it with the idea that I could just “scare” someone into doing what I want, but by not being mindful of what I was truly communicating, I have no doubt that I’ve been on the bad side of that equation in my career.

And this is someone who is TRYING. Who is aware of the hurt harassment and threats can cause. I wrote an article in 2012 that completely objectified and diminutized women in the geek culture mainly just to make a point that my culture — a culture I felt that I took beatings for for being a young geek in a culture that didn’t, at the time, celebrate geeks and instead picked on them — was being invaded by “Normies” and the group I chose to point that fact out was “Fake Geek Girls.”

I was a fucking asshole. And I was the most shocked person in the room when people called me out on it. I couldn’t understand at all what I’d done wrong. “These people are charlatans and trying to cash in on a culture built on passion and love, that we SUFFERED at the hands of the Cool Kids to build! What did I do wrong?”

First, I picked on women. Of all the things I could have picked on, women became the target. Second, I didn’t get the memo that times had changed, and geek culture was cool, so anyone who wanted to do something cool got to be a geek if they wanted to. Third, I attacked instead of discussed. And fourth, I didn’t admit my mistake immediately, because I was ignorant to it.

All of this from a guy who, at 19, had to watch a woman and a black man both fight through hell just to tell people they had been wrong, and swore he would never, ever be a part of that problem.

Well, I was. Not in a sexual assault way, not in a racial discrimination way, but in many many ways typical of toxic masculinity and obliviousness to privilege, I contributed to a culture that can — and very obviously does — produce people whose blunders aren’t just dumb, poorly thought out articles entrenched in a mindset a decade old, that offended people because he’s a bit closed-minded about people who are curious about and want to check out (and hell, even profit from) the cool thing of the time. That attitude is the soil that the crops of harassment, assault, discrimination, and bad behavior grows.

Even when I thought I was the best of the bunch… I was still part of the bunch.

It took half the internet raking me over the coals for me to realize, no matter how great I thought I was for being one of the “good guys,” the mere fact I was unaware of my subconscious behavior from a societal privilege and toxic male bullshit made any attempt to be “a good guy” useless.

To say I couldn’t help it is only fair in the context of pointing out that a realization had to be made. But that was in a time (5 years ago) before “Woke” was a catchphrase and “Toxic Masculinity” was actually part of daily discourse. Thankfully, I had friends and people who, although offended and upset with me, listened when I asked them to teach me and help me understand. Even though it was challenging for them (sometimes, they had to have felt like they were talking to a wall), they did it. And it got me to a point where my eyes opened and I realized just how much a piece of the overall puzzle I am.

The real work took place when I issued a challenge to myself: “Can you change the way you think? And if not, can you at least acknowledge that there’s another way to see things?”

I am going on record that this challenge is harder than any physical, career, sports, monetary or social challenge anyone could ever go through. To climb Mt. Everest, it takes lots of money, lots of training, lots of guidance and practice. But all of those things can be acquired simply by pointing in the direction and getting them. They’re tenacity based.

Changing your own mind? That’s the hardest thing in the world, because it requires one to admit two things: 1) that the mind needs changing (which often times, we just don’t need or want to admit, because why bother? Clearly our mind has worked this wya this long, and it’s only for OTHER PEOPLE that I would need to change… This is a lie, but it’s what your brain would say) and 2) the change is worth making.

In this regard; in a society where we ALL benefit and ALL suffer by the overall direction we all take it, I argue that there must be a change in the minds of every single person in this country — and very esepcially the white and straight males among us. The idea that men are “just men” when they inflict themselves on another person in any way — verbally or physically — is folly. The idea that an alpha male mindset creates victory is folly. The idea that toughness has ANYTHING to do with how much you can beat another person at anything is folly.

Being a man is not about being strong at the expense of anyone else. It’s about being strong enough to be yourself in the face of pressure. Your TRUE self. The self that has feelings. The self that gets hurt. The self that recognizes the beauty in another person and their existence.

It’s the self that secretly feels gross and dark anytime you make a joke at someone’s expense just to get a laugh from your peers, because that makes you the alpha male. Its the self that knows it’s wrong to push a woman into saying yes for anything, merely because you’re bigger and stronger. It’s the self that laughs at jokes about those things. It’s the self that is crying out deep inside you to please, God, just stop fighting this dumb war of perception where you somehow seem stronger than you really are.

I share this now, with you here, not because I think I’m the guy to change anything or fix society or otherwise put his foot down against all these bad actors who have done terrible things.

I share this with you now because I’m doing that for myself. And I hope that you’ll do the same.