Jason Andrew Bond's Blog, page 2
January 10, 2012
King Air
I find myself troubled by many female characters in action novels. Many land too wholly in only yin or yang, deference or aggression. These women are either delicate, high-heeled fashion foils, serving as a mark of success for the leading man, or are stark bitches, taking on the worst aspects of the male ego and masquerading that as real strength. While these types of women do exist, I don’t think they are typical and are definitely not well-rounded. I want to overcome this limitation by presenting both the yin and yang in one character, broad and more true-to-life. My goal is to show strength in women, while still allowing them to be loving and sensitive. I’m not claiming to have succeeded in that goal, but I will continue to strive to get it right because I feel compelled to express through these characters the depth of ambition, love, and bravery the women in my life have shown me.
My understanding of women began, as with most boys, with my mother. However, her example wasn’t typical. In my early teens, as my friends and I stood waiting for the bus in the Oregon fog, cars would pull up to the stop-sign and accelerate away—exhaust pipes billowing in the cold, damp air—carrying men and women to typical jobs: admin-assistants, salespeople, nurses, teachers, mechanics. Some parents would drive by with a wave, but not my mother; she would have gone to work before dawn, leaving me to get myself ready for school. However, I didn’t mind as I felt so much pride in what she did.
As the bus pulled up, brakes squealing and wind-blown mist streaked across the side windows, my thoughts would be on her. I’d take one last look at the sky, hoping to see faint-blue burning through the December clouds, and climb the steps. As I sat down on the green vinyl seat, the heat on the bus wrapping around my face and neck, I’d imagine her walking underneath the high tail of a twin-engine, turbo-prop Beechcraft King Air, inspecting the plane for damage, streaks of oil, low tires. In the cabin, she’d greet the executives as they came aboard. Then she’d make her way to the cockpit. Fastening her seatbelt, she’d put on her headset, pick up her clipboard, and go through the last elements of her preflight. I’d imagine her popping open the side window and calling out, “CLEAR PROP!” Then she’d fire the engines, and the props would blast to life, blurring to smooth, circular sheets.
Back on the bus, the driver lurched out onto the highway, and the streaks of mist across the glass began to drain by again. But I wasn’t there, not part of the trip to middle school with its bullies, dismissive girls, and white-faced, clicking clocks. In my thoughts, I was in the right seat of the King Air, the mist on the widows blasting away as the acceleration of takeoff sank me into the seat. The wheels would track the tarmac, rumbling, jolting, and then the seat, the floor, the instruments, the whole cabin, would go vague, freed from the diminishing Earth. With the horizon below our heels, the sheet of clouds would descend on us. We’d fly into the grim stratus, grayness folding close. But the dimness held no power over the wicked turbines, and with each second, the mist surrounding the plane grew brighter. Then we’d cut free into brilliant sunlight, a flawless blue sky, and glowing cloud-tops. I’d look back down through a cloud-break to the shadowed highway and forest. From up there a freeway bound tractor-trailer was the size of my finger tip, and more importantly, so were my troubles. I’d look back at my mother, sunlight glinting off the dark-blue frames of her sunglasses, her hands guiding the plane. In those moments she showed me how to overcome and thrive, and that filled the fissures that invariably run through a young heart.
Back on the bus, that lesser world surrounded me, but held no sway. Looking out the square, split window of the bus at the thinning fog, I was seeing only the clear, blue sky.
My mother asked me once in a moment of self-doubt (which we all have as parents) “Was I a good mother?” The question seemed ridiculous to me. This from the woman who had shown me, not only her own strength, but the very possibilities of life. Whenever I see a picture of Amelia Earhart, without fail I think, “like mom.” How many sons do that? Was she a good mother? There is no question in my mind that no mother has ever set a better example for her son.
Now I have to get back to work. I’ve got character development to do…
Jason
This post was originally published on my blog at: Blog.JasonAndrewBond.com
My understanding of women began, as with most boys, with my mother. However, her example wasn’t typical. In my early teens, as my friends and I stood waiting for the bus in the Oregon fog, cars would pull up to the stop-sign and accelerate away—exhaust pipes billowing in the cold, damp air—carrying men and women to typical jobs: admin-assistants, salespeople, nurses, teachers, mechanics. Some parents would drive by with a wave, but not my mother; she would have gone to work before dawn, leaving me to get myself ready for school. However, I didn’t mind as I felt so much pride in what she did.
As the bus pulled up, brakes squealing and wind-blown mist streaked across the side windows, my thoughts would be on her. I’d take one last look at the sky, hoping to see faint-blue burning through the December clouds, and climb the steps. As I sat down on the green vinyl seat, the heat on the bus wrapping around my face and neck, I’d imagine her walking underneath the high tail of a twin-engine, turbo-prop Beechcraft King Air, inspecting the plane for damage, streaks of oil, low tires. In the cabin, she’d greet the executives as they came aboard. Then she’d make her way to the cockpit. Fastening her seatbelt, she’d put on her headset, pick up her clipboard, and go through the last elements of her preflight. I’d imagine her popping open the side window and calling out, “CLEAR PROP!” Then she’d fire the engines, and the props would blast to life, blurring to smooth, circular sheets.
Back on the bus, the driver lurched out onto the highway, and the streaks of mist across the glass began to drain by again. But I wasn’t there, not part of the trip to middle school with its bullies, dismissive girls, and white-faced, clicking clocks. In my thoughts, I was in the right seat of the King Air, the mist on the widows blasting away as the acceleration of takeoff sank me into the seat. The wheels would track the tarmac, rumbling, jolting, and then the seat, the floor, the instruments, the whole cabin, would go vague, freed from the diminishing Earth. With the horizon below our heels, the sheet of clouds would descend on us. We’d fly into the grim stratus, grayness folding close. But the dimness held no power over the wicked turbines, and with each second, the mist surrounding the plane grew brighter. Then we’d cut free into brilliant sunlight, a flawless blue sky, and glowing cloud-tops. I’d look back down through a cloud-break to the shadowed highway and forest. From up there a freeway bound tractor-trailer was the size of my finger tip, and more importantly, so were my troubles. I’d look back at my mother, sunlight glinting off the dark-blue frames of her sunglasses, her hands guiding the plane. In those moments she showed me how to overcome and thrive, and that filled the fissures that invariably run through a young heart.
Back on the bus, that lesser world surrounded me, but held no sway. Looking out the square, split window of the bus at the thinning fog, I was seeing only the clear, blue sky.
My mother asked me once in a moment of self-doubt (which we all have as parents) “Was I a good mother?” The question seemed ridiculous to me. This from the woman who had shown me, not only her own strength, but the very possibilities of life. Whenever I see a picture of Amelia Earhart, without fail I think, “like mom.” How many sons do that? Was she a good mother? There is no question in my mind that no mother has ever set a better example for her son.
Now I have to get back to work. I’ve got character development to do…
Jason
This post was originally published on my blog at: Blog.JasonAndrewBond.com
December 27, 2011
What Getting Punched in the Face Taught Me about Writing.
I’ve been training in martial arts since I was eighteen years old. That’s twenty years of cracked shins, pulled tendons, and bruised forearms. I’ve trained under the former U.S. Taekwondo Olympic Head Coach, a Muay Thai heavyweight champion, and a U.S. Martial Arts Hall of Famer. Believe me when I tell you, it all hurt.
During those years of training I had a critical problem; I’m not very good. I’ve got poor timing, weak balance, and slow reaction time. Rather, I had those things. After twenty years, I can block or dodge most punches and kicks, my balance is much improved, and I can land a few good shots.
It’s important for me to qualify that I still feel like an idiot compared to some of my more talented training partners. However, if you watched me spar or grapple, you’d probably think I knew what I was doing. You might just see me win against some pretty talented fighters… might. There’s a lot you won’t see though. Buried in what I can do are years of losses and injuries. In younger days, I went home many times with my ego so bruised I could barely look in the mirror. Seeing only the skill a person has and not what he or she went through to get it is a dangerous misperception. To successfully walk a path one must be aware of the entire journey, not simply the destination.
It is critical to understand that anything done well must first be done badly. This truth is often where people struggle. I’ve seen it for twenty years in martial arts. New students arrive with images of themselves stronger, fitter, and able to defend themselves. That’s all great. However, the truth is that training hurts the body and ego. People feel awkward when they try to throw their first punches and weak because they can’t keep up with the class, even that 12 year old with the yellow belt. These physical and mental challenges cause most people to quit within the first few months because they did not expect nor appreciate those feelings. Yet, it is exactly these feelings of apparent failure we must pass through to find success.
The same reality of skill development applies to writing, but there is an even deeper failure rate due to a key problem. Most people will look at a martial artist throwing kicks and blocking punches and think, “Wow, that’s a different level of skill.” It’s not always that way for writing. Many people—and I’ve heard this sentiment several times—think that they can write a good story on the first or second go, and that simply isn’t possible. If you gave me two challenges, holding off a friend of mine named Jacob—who’s 265 lbs and recently fought and won in a local MMA cage fight—and writing a story I can guarantee people will like, I’ll take the fight. It’s so much easier to control. Let me reiterate that. A 265 lb. cage fighter is easier to control than reader’s perception of a fiction story. In a fight, I know when I’m winning. I know when I’m losing. Writing is in no way that clear. It’s a shadowy art in which you paint in the darkness of another person’s mind. You will never know the exact impact your words have.
Most aspiring authors don’t realize how difficult fiction writing is until they get their first reader reactions. The author is excited and sure the reader will love the work, and the reader winces and says, “Well, it was okay, but…” This realization that the new author has not been able to create a masterwork can shock the ego so badly that he or she may give up. Don’t let that be you! I’ve said it many times, and I’ll say it many more: The only time we truly fail, no matter how many rejections we receive or how many matches we lose, is the moment we stop trying. So what should you do? Write. Write badly. You will at first. Unless you’re that one lightning bolt—odds are you aren’t—you’ll need practice. How much? Malcolm Gladwell has written a book on what makes people successful called Outliers. I highly recommend it. I’ll leave the specific details to your reading, but the core comes down to hard work. How much? 10,000 hours. That may sound like less than it is. Trust me, it’s a LOT. I’ve been tracking my writing time over the last several years, and I’m still nowhere near that mark. However, if you want to compete with King, Rowling, and Sparks, you better be willing to put in that level of time.
Now I’m going to offer my most important advice: Don’t listen to me. You don’t want advice from a guy who doesn’t have his 10,000 hours in yet. Go to the experts. During my martial arts lifetime I’ve learned from first degree blackbelts and ninth degree blackbelts. I’ve attended seminars with a local stick fighter and seminars with world class fighters like Danny Inosanto. The first degree blackbelts can get you off the ground, but they can only raise you up so high. If you want to be competitive with the big names of writing, if you want to perfect your voice and art, then you need to be mentored by those with 10,000 hours.
The good news: That mentorship is there for you. I begin each writing day by reading from a how-to book by a bestselling author or professional editor. If you focus on the advice of these people, you will find valuable wisdom and—much more importantly—an intensely positive energy. As a starting point, I recommend the book Stein on Writing by Sol Stein. You want to be a skilled writer? Become a skilled editor.
So the secret to great writing presents itself as 10,000 hours of work, and many, many failures. But when you fail, if you see it correctly, you will move toward success. How can you develop a skill through failure? Believe me, when that boxing glove comes through your guard and connects with your face, your motivation to block the next punch is fairly intense.
Now stop reading this and get back to writing!
All the best,
Jason
This entry was originally posted on my blog at: blog.JasonAndrewBond.com
During those years of training I had a critical problem; I’m not very good. I’ve got poor timing, weak balance, and slow reaction time. Rather, I had those things. After twenty years, I can block or dodge most punches and kicks, my balance is much improved, and I can land a few good shots.
It’s important for me to qualify that I still feel like an idiot compared to some of my more talented training partners. However, if you watched me spar or grapple, you’d probably think I knew what I was doing. You might just see me win against some pretty talented fighters… might. There’s a lot you won’t see though. Buried in what I can do are years of losses and injuries. In younger days, I went home many times with my ego so bruised I could barely look in the mirror. Seeing only the skill a person has and not what he or she went through to get it is a dangerous misperception. To successfully walk a path one must be aware of the entire journey, not simply the destination.
It is critical to understand that anything done well must first be done badly. This truth is often where people struggle. I’ve seen it for twenty years in martial arts. New students arrive with images of themselves stronger, fitter, and able to defend themselves. That’s all great. However, the truth is that training hurts the body and ego. People feel awkward when they try to throw their first punches and weak because they can’t keep up with the class, even that 12 year old with the yellow belt. These physical and mental challenges cause most people to quit within the first few months because they did not expect nor appreciate those feelings. Yet, it is exactly these feelings of apparent failure we must pass through to find success.
The same reality of skill development applies to writing, but there is an even deeper failure rate due to a key problem. Most people will look at a martial artist throwing kicks and blocking punches and think, “Wow, that’s a different level of skill.” It’s not always that way for writing. Many people—and I’ve heard this sentiment several times—think that they can write a good story on the first or second go, and that simply isn’t possible. If you gave me two challenges, holding off a friend of mine named Jacob—who’s 265 lbs and recently fought and won in a local MMA cage fight—and writing a story I can guarantee people will like, I’ll take the fight. It’s so much easier to control. Let me reiterate that. A 265 lb. cage fighter is easier to control than reader’s perception of a fiction story. In a fight, I know when I’m winning. I know when I’m losing. Writing is in no way that clear. It’s a shadowy art in which you paint in the darkness of another person’s mind. You will never know the exact impact your words have.
Most aspiring authors don’t realize how difficult fiction writing is until they get their first reader reactions. The author is excited and sure the reader will love the work, and the reader winces and says, “Well, it was okay, but…” This realization that the new author has not been able to create a masterwork can shock the ego so badly that he or she may give up. Don’t let that be you! I’ve said it many times, and I’ll say it many more: The only time we truly fail, no matter how many rejections we receive or how many matches we lose, is the moment we stop trying. So what should you do? Write. Write badly. You will at first. Unless you’re that one lightning bolt—odds are you aren’t—you’ll need practice. How much? Malcolm Gladwell has written a book on what makes people successful called Outliers. I highly recommend it. I’ll leave the specific details to your reading, but the core comes down to hard work. How much? 10,000 hours. That may sound like less than it is. Trust me, it’s a LOT. I’ve been tracking my writing time over the last several years, and I’m still nowhere near that mark. However, if you want to compete with King, Rowling, and Sparks, you better be willing to put in that level of time.
Now I’m going to offer my most important advice: Don’t listen to me. You don’t want advice from a guy who doesn’t have his 10,000 hours in yet. Go to the experts. During my martial arts lifetime I’ve learned from first degree blackbelts and ninth degree blackbelts. I’ve attended seminars with a local stick fighter and seminars with world class fighters like Danny Inosanto. The first degree blackbelts can get you off the ground, but they can only raise you up so high. If you want to be competitive with the big names of writing, if you want to perfect your voice and art, then you need to be mentored by those with 10,000 hours.
The good news: That mentorship is there for you. I begin each writing day by reading from a how-to book by a bestselling author or professional editor. If you focus on the advice of these people, you will find valuable wisdom and—much more importantly—an intensely positive energy. As a starting point, I recommend the book Stein on Writing by Sol Stein. You want to be a skilled writer? Become a skilled editor.
So the secret to great writing presents itself as 10,000 hours of work, and many, many failures. But when you fail, if you see it correctly, you will move toward success. How can you develop a skill through failure? Believe me, when that boxing glove comes through your guard and connects with your face, your motivation to block the next punch is fairly intense.
Now stop reading this and get back to writing!
All the best,
Jason
This entry was originally posted on my blog at: blog.JasonAndrewBond.com
