Bryce Moore's Blog, page 201

A Quick Look at My Media Consumption

This year, I decided it would be fun to track how many movies, books, and television shows I consume. (What? You don’t find that fun? I guess we’re just going to have to agree to disagree.) And because everything’s more fun if it involves a spreadsheet, I’ve been entering in everything I read and watch into one, rating each entry on a scale from 1-10, jotting down the date I finished it, and how long (pages, minutes) it was.

Yes. I am strange. I get that.

But look at all the lovely data it gives me. If I hadn’t been doing this, I wouldn’t know, for example, that I’ve finished 10 books this year, giving them an average rating of 7.6, and totaling 5,011 pages. (Of course, that’s not the complete story. I’ve started quite a few other books, but didn’t enter or rate them, since I didn’t finish them. I finish almost all movies and tv episodes I start, but books . . . I set them aside if I don’t like them. Life is too short to waste my time on a book I don’t enjoy.)

How am I doing with movies? 46 movies watched so far this year, totaling 5,529 minutes, and averaging a 7.46. That’s a lot of movies. Over 92 hours. But then look at my television habits: 165 episodes, 7,313 minutes, 7.39 average. Almost 122 hours of television shows. Between movies and tv, I’ve almost watched 9 solid days of media in the first 105 days of this year. How in the world does it get to be that many? That seems like way too much.

Looking at my average day, however, brings things into focus. I watch when I’m exercising every day, so that accounts for about 45 minutes each day there. Doing the math, I’ve exercised for just over 3 days straight this year. Doesn’t “I exercised for three days straight” sound better than “I watched movies for 3 days straight”? The joys of multitasking . . .

Many days, we watch a single show as a family. Probably about 4 times a week. Doing the math, and that turns out to be around 2 days this year. Just one 45 minute show per day, 4 days a week–it adds up very quickly. Between that little bit of family time and my exercising, that’s 5 days of my 9 days of media.

Then again, I did some quick research to see what the average media consumption of an American adult is, and the results are far from pretty: 6 hours per day on movies and television, give or take. If I were following that average, I’d be at . . . 26 days of media in the first 105 days of the year.

Surprising, how quickly I can go from feeling like I’ve been watching maybe too much television and movies to feeling shocked that the rest of the country watches so much more. Then again, I have to assume a lot of people just have the television running while they’re doing other things. Multitasking.

Anyway. Some other interesting tidbits I’ve seen from doing this so far:

Rating things out of 10 is really quite silly. I thought it would allow me to be more precise, but I’ve only given out one 4 so far, and nothing lower than that. (The 4? Hunger Games: Catching Fire. Awful movie.) It would work just as well to give films a 0-5 star rating. Then again, it’s nice to be able to go into the negative range now and then . . .
Other bad movies of note? The 5s I dished out: Ender’s Game, 47 Ronin, Cleopatra, Amazing Spiderman 2, Fast and Furious 6. Yes, I don’t review every movie I watch on my blog. Not even close.
TV shows that stood out as bad? Not as many: Amazing Race 1:2, 1:7, 1:11, Under the Dome 2:2, Columbo 1:3, Downton Abbey 5:4, Sopranos 3:9, Doctor Who 1:2.
I’ve said the bad, now here’s the good: top movies so far (meaning ones I gave 10s to)? Return of the King, Groundhog Day, Touching the Void, Starbuck. Television shows? Sopranos 2:12, 3:11, Agents of SHIELD 1:20, Downton Abbey 5:9, Justified 2:7, 2:13. I’m stingy with my 10s.
Looking back on some of my ratings, I think I was perhaps a bit harsher toward the beginning of the year. I also think I’m influenced by my general mood at the time I watch something. How can I not be? Which leads me to wonder how many books or movies bombed because an important critic had had a bad day the day he/she watched/read it . . .

So that’s what I’ve got for you today. Anyone else keeping track of what they’re watching/reading?

John and the Djinn: Pick Your Own YA Fantasy Part 2

[Welcome to part two of my continuing blog series. I write the book, you pick the plot. For part 1, please see here.]

John took another look at the three items on the table. The dagger was interesting and all, but it made him think of quests to kill evil wizards. He wasn’t sure he was up for any assassinations this evening. The heart, meanwhile, probably came from the innards of a fire demon. That’s what it looked like, anyway. And if there’s one thing John didn’t like, it was being hot. Sweating through a battle on a plane made of lava was less than appealing.

The book, however . . .

Yes, it had an eyeball. And yes, that eyeball was glaring at him at the moment. But all John could think of was what might lie inside it. What sort of a book needed a living eyeball on the cover to be complete?

He cleared his throat and raised his arm to point at the book. His hand only trembled at a little.

“The book, huh?” Khalid said. “Interesting choice. Not sure if it’s the one I would have gone with, but there you have it. There’s no accounting for twelve-year-old taste.”

John frowned. “Why?” he asked. “What adventures would the other ones have led to?”

The djinn poured the cake batter into a prepared pan. “I suppose there’s no harm telling you now. The knife, of course, is the famous Dagger of Jal’Daq. It’s one of the three sentient blades of the third century, and its sense of humor has only gotten worse over the years. Frankly, it’s a relief you avoided it. Who wants to spend their whole adventure chitchatting with a kitchen utensil that makes bad puns? But if you had picked it, we’d be on our way to the foot of the Himalayas, on the hunt for the Prince of the Yetis.”

John’s shoulders fell an inch or two. A hunt for the Prince of the Yetis, wielding a magical, sentient dagger? That sounded like an awesome adventure. Maybe he’d chosen poorly, after all.

Khalid continued, putting the cake pan into the oven as he spoke. “The heart, on the other hand, comes from a vast underwater volcano in the South Pacific. It’s weakening, as you can tell by how small it is these days. Somebody needs to go down there and take care of whatever the problem is. My guess? A lavamite colony. Those critters wreck absolute havoc on a volcano, and they breed like rabbits. On the other hand, volcanoes are well-known to be extremely generous to beings that help them out of tight spots.”

“Extremely generous?” John asked.

Khalid nodded. “Let’s just say that whoever helps that volcano out isn’t going to need to worry about lunch money for the next few millennia. But you didn’t pick that one, either.”

John wished he’d never asked about the other adventures. There was no way this book adventure could be anywhere near as cool as the other two. Why did he always have to make the wrong choices?”

“Chin up, John.” Khalid clapped his hands and began rubbing his fingers together. The air above his hands shimmered, like you’ll see above pavement on a hot summer day. “Returning the Lost Tome of Ra to the buried Library of Alexandria will be more than a little fun, I should imagine. Dangerous, of course. Scorpions and asps, you know. And there is that small matter of the mummy horde to deal with. But still, excitement all around I should say, with a fair to middling chance for some plunder and loot. Like I told your Great Uncle Urville: you’re going to be getting the adventure of your life, no matter what.”

If that had been meant to cheer John up, it hadn’t quite worked. “Mummy horde?” he asked. But he didn’t have a chance to hear a response before the entire room filled with a white light and intense heat. John put his hands up to shield his eyes, and while his eyes were clenched shut, a wind picked up in his kitchen. Not a little breeze or even a gust: a whirlwind of epic proportions. It thundered in his ears and tore at his clothes, and just when he thought it might pick him up and fling him to the far reaches of the world–

It was gone, replaced by a calm, steady heat.

John peeked out to see what had happened. His kitchen has vanished. Night had been replaced by day, and his neighborhood had been swapped out by an entire desert. Dune after dune of endless sand stretching off into the distance. The sun beat down on him from above, not a cloud in the sky, which was so blue it hurt his eyes. “Where am I?” he asked.

Khalid appeared in front of John, laughing. “You know, I’d heard kids these days weren’t that well educated, but I didn’t think it had come to this. What do you mean, where are you?”

John gestured in front of him. “The desert. I get it. Very funny. But where in the world am I?”

“Turn around and find out, Johnny Boy.”

John did as he was told, and he felt foolish the moment he did. No wonder Khalid had made fun of him. The three great pyramids of Egypt towered over him, three mountains of rock jutting up into the sky. John had known they were big, but he hadn’t imagined they were this big. Even from a hundred yards away, they were enormous. Off to his right, he caught sight of the Sphinx. Tourists milled around the area, posing for Egyptian themed pictures while vendors wandered the site, selling their wares. There were even camel rides being offered.

John turned to Khalid, who was now dressed in flowing robes that hid his translucent bottom half. “I thought you said we had to get to the Library of Alexandria. Isn’t Alexandria far away from Cairo?”

The djinn nodded. “Of course. But I also said we had to get to the buried Library of Alexandria. It didn’t actually burn down in 48BC like you read in the history books. It was transported by magic, deep beneath the earth. And what better place to pick for the front door but the Great Pyramid?” He looked up at the tallest pyramid and smiled.

“Transported by magic?” John asked. “How do you know?”

“Because I’m the one who transported it, of course.” Khalid sounded offended.

“Then how in the world is this supposed to be an adventure? You know how to get in, you know where the book goes. It sounds more like an elaborate errand.”

The djinn sighed. “When I transported the library, I was told to make it almost impossible to enter. There was only one way in, and it’s heavily guarded and warded. The key was lost a thousand years ago, cast into a dimension where even I can’t find it. And even if we manage to get in, do you remember the bit about the mummy horde? Believe me, this is no cake walk.”

“But that’s even worse,” John said. “It’s impossible.”

“The Tome of Ra wants to get back to the library,” Khalid said. “With it on your side, you have a leg up on anything that might get in your path. But one way or another, you need to get out of this sun before you bake to death. Heat stroke, my boy. Heat stroke.”

John looked back at the tourists and the pyramids. “Where do I go? How do I get in?”

“That’s the spirit! The entrance is deep within the Pyramid of Cheops. They only let 300 people in each day, and I’m afraid all the tickets are sold out.”

“You can’t just magic our way in?”

“Look at you,” Khalid said. “Weren’t you the one just complaining that you didn’t want this to be too easy? No. I’m not going to magic our way in. Using magic too close to the portal could have dangerous side effects. Why else do you think I transported us such a safe distance away from the entrance?”

“Then what do I do?”

The djinn didn’t seem to care. “You’re resourceful. Resource your way in somehow.”

John sighed. Khalid could be so . . . obstinate sometimes. But he took a breath and stopped to go over his options. He had to get into the pyramid, but he couldn’t use magic.

“Well?” Khalid was tapping his noncorporeal foot. “Time flies, John. What’s it going to be?”

“What’s the rush?” he asked.

“The rush? Every minute we delay, more mummies get added to the mix. There’s a rush, believe me.”

“Fine,” John said. “Then the way I see it, we have three options. We can try sneaking into the pyramid when no one’s looking. We can try to go in with a different tourist group and hope no one notices us. Or we can risk using a bit of magic to go in without the guards seeing us.”

Khalid nodded approvingly. “Masterfully deduced. And which option have you chosen to go with, O Wise Leader?”

Make a Choice

Well, dear readers? What’s it going to be? Sneak, Blend, or Magic?

Learning to Lose

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you know that TRC and I have gone to play Magic at our local store a fair bit. He drafts along with everyone else, and we have a good time doing it. A few months ago, I noticed he wasn’t really engaging in the games anymore. He’d play, lose, and shrug off the loss and go play 3DS or something as he waited for the next round. I wanted to get him more invested, so I thought about ways to do that. In the end, I settled on letting him keep any prizes he wins for himself. (When you draft, you buy 3 packs of new cards to open. Depending on how well you do, you can win extra packs.)

That worked wonders. TRC was suddenly very motivated to win.

Maybe a little too motivated.

The thing is, he’s started to have some success. He’s doing better, playing better, and having fun. For the most part. But I’ve also seen him start to care too much about winning. This last Friday, he was doing really well. He’d won two matches and tied a third, and with one more win, he could take first place, potentially, and win up to 8 packs in the process. He lost some close games, and he ended up taking 5th, only winning 1 pack.

He was pretty crushed. To the point that I wondered if this was a good thing for him or not. But we had a nice long discussion about playing and winning and losing, and the importance of being grateful for what you’ve got. (There were 17 players there, after all. For a 10 year old to take fifth place against a group of people all college-aged and up? I think that’s quite remarkable.) I also told him that I’d be happy to help him improve his game for the future. He makes some consistent mistakes that if he cleaned up, he’d be doing even better.

Of course, as soon as we started playing and I was pointing out the consistent mistakes he was making, he was less than enthused about this help. He wants to do well, but he wants to do well on his own. The thing is, you can’t have it both ways. In my spare time, I read up on strategy and different approaches to the game. (I’ve settled on Magic as my game of choice because it’s very deep and is always changing and evolving. Learn the rules once, and you can play. But they keep changing the rules, so you’re forced to always relearn. I like that process.) To get better at something all on your own just doesn’t make sense to me. Why not learn from the experience of others?

In any case, as I’ve watched TRC go through this process, I can’t help thinking it’s helping him in the long run. The fact is, there are winners and losers in many situations in life. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Sometimes through no fault (or credit) of your own. Learning how to lose is an important life skill. Knowing that it will happen from time to time and picking yourself up when it does . . . that’s hard to do. I still have trouble with it myself, and I’ve got a 25 year head start on TRC . . .

A Peaceful, Happy Post

There have already been three different posts I almost put up today. Posts that would have been thought provoking and inspired no small amount of discussion on Facebook (and maybe even here on my blog.)

I didn’t post any of them.

Why not? Simple. I didn’t feel like handling the slog of posts and responses and back and forth nitpicking that would be unleashed by posting them. It’s Monday, for crying out loud. I’m not up to comment wrangling. Certainly not up to the sort of wrangling that would ensure if I’d pulled the trigger on any of those posts. (Topics that were drafted, and rejected? Convinced atheists, sustainings in church, and sci-fi/fantasy voting scandals. Hmm . . . maybe if I made them into one single post, they’d somehow cancel the controversy out . . .)

I check my stats on my blog. It makes me happy when people read what I write. Go figure. But every now and then I have to check myself. Make sure I’m not writing things for the sole purpose of getting people to read them. Pursuing stats is a really bad motivation for blogging and writing in general, I’ve found. It results in some pretty crummy content.

So instead, I’m going to post this happy little puppy video. Because while the world might not need more controversy on a Monday, it could always do with a bit more puppies.

Disgustingly Sensible

Last night, I went to bed at 9. Nine. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9. Why? Because I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately, and I knew that if I just could catch some extra z’s, I’d be a much happier Bryce. It was the sensible thing to do.

But as I lay there, reading a bit before I fell asleep, it occurred to me that I’ve been doing the sensible thing far too often. Look at me! I’m exercising every day, I eat almost no processed sugar, I’m watching my weight, and now I’m even going to bed early?

The inner-Bryce (the Bryce who still likes to think of himself as pretty much the same as that college-aged Bryce) was disgusted. What have I become? Where is the Bryce who used to stay up until 3 in the morning  playing video games? Where is the Bryce who would have eating contests with his friends? The Bryce who would consume an entire large pizza by himself, just because he could? The Bryce who used to keep a gallon of chocolate milk in the fridge underneath his bed, so he could drink it whenever he felt the need?

That Bryce seems to be gone, or at least getting pushed further and further away from the current Bryce.

It’s enough to make me want to do something stupendously foolish, just to show that the old Bryce is still there.

But the sad truth (for the old Bryce), is that I’m reminded of a different Bryce. An old-old Bryce (meaning an even younger Bryce). That Bryce had a conversation with his uncle once about why in the world adults didn’t watch cartoons. It didn’t make any sense. Getting up early on a Saturday morning to watch cartoons was obviously the best thing anyone could ever do. What was wrong with adults that they didn’t do it?

Of course, the old-old Bryce is long gone. I’ll watch cartoons now and then, but there are so many other ways to spend my time. Mentally, I know that we all get older, and our tastes change as we do. It’s good that I’m getting in better shape and watching what my body needs more.

Anyway. I’ve written about this in the past, as I recall. Just interesting to see the evolution keep on happening, regardless of what I try to do to stop it. I think most changes in life happen this way: bit by bit over time, doing the things that seem right and sensible as they come along. I suppose I should be happy that my trajectory is a good one.

But there’s still that part of me that wishes I was plopped in front of a television right now, binge watching Transformers and eating Fruity Pebbles by the metric ton . . .

How Much Do You Spend on Food?

I came across an article online today that outlines how much the government thinks we spend on food each month. It breaks it down by age group and gender, even. (Here’s a direct link to the pdf that breaks everything out.) Thus, I know that thrifty one year olds eat $94.70 of food per month, and liberal one year olds eat $176.50. (Sheesh. Those liberals. They’re always spending too much money, even when they’re one year old.) Meanwhile, the government thinks my family spends $756.70 per month on food if we’re being tightwads. (This doesn’t count eating out at restaurants. That’s additional money.) If we’re really living it up, we’re spending $1,494.30.

What?!?

I read those numbers, and my brain just sort of sputtered. Why? Because (full disclosure here), Denisa and I budget $600/month for food. But that’s misleading, because that takes into account all the supplies she’s buying for her bread baking (30-40 loaves per week these days, I think), and basically anything we buy at Walmart or Target or other big box stores. (I’m too lazy of a budgeter to want to break those out into a separate category, so I just looked at year averages spent there, and clumped it all under “food.”) That means house supplies, incidentals, toilet paper–you name it. All of that comes under the $600/month budget.

And we more or less meet that budget each month.

So does that mean we’re eating like church mice every day? Are our children malnourished? It certainly doesn’t feel like it. Is it just insanely cheap to buy food here? Nope–not according to the data. In fact, food is supposedly 5.8% more than average in my town here. There are much more expensive places to buy food, no doubt, but my cost should be fairly close to the average cost this government study is presenting.

So what gives?

I know Denisa and I differ from many people in that our family doesn’t eat much meat. I’d guess we eat around 2 pounds as week, combined as a family. Maybe less. Denisa also buys plenty of produce, often organic. We eat a lot of pasta, rice, beans, and potatoes. But doesn’t everyone?

I don’t know. That estimate just seems so obscenely high. If we were to spend the “liberal” amount budgeted in the study, there’s no way we’d be able to make ends meet.

So I’m asking you lovely people. You don’t have to share your food budget if you don’t want to, but could you tell me how far off (or spot on) the government study is for your family? Maybe I’m just living in an alternate reality . . .

Pick Your Own YA Fantasy

Here’s the deal, folks. I’ve been writing long enough and off the cuff enough that I feel fairly confident in being able to spin a yarn with just about anything that might come my way. One of my favorite kind of books growing up were the Choose Your Own Adventure series. I loved being able to play an active role in the story telling. The other day, I had an idea. Why not do a sort of CYOA-like series on my blog? After thinking it over some more, I decided to go for it. Here’s how it’s going to work:

Each Wednesday (starting today, in this post), I’m going to write a part of a story. At the end of each submission, I’m going to give 3 or 4 choices for you to select. You pick the one you like the most, and let me know which one it is. You can vote by posting a comment here or on Facebook, Tweeting me a vote, sending me an email. Calling me. I don’t care how you let me know, but I will limit it to one vote per person. (Got a family? Everyone in the family can vote. Honor system here.) Votes need to be in by Sunday at midnight, because I’ll be tallying them up on Monday so that I can write the next bit and get it posted for Wednesday.

Make sense? In the event of a tie, I’ll choose between the tied choices at random. In the event that no one votes at all, I’ll choose at random as well. Realistically, I don’t think many people are going to participate at first, but if it proves to be fun, maybe it’s something that will grow in time. Unlike traditional Choose Your Own Adventures, there’s not going to be any re-dos on this. I’m not writing a whole slew of branching story trees. Nope. You and I are going to tell a story together. It should be an interesting way to plot something. I have no idea how it will turn out, but the main goal here is to have some fun.

So without further ado, here’s the first part of the story:

John and the Djinn

Something made a noise downstairs. A big noise, like a heavy thump. The noise a body might make when it dropped to the floor, or the sound a kidnapper might make when he stumbled over the couch in the dark.

John was awake at once, eyes wide and ears perked. Because it was possible he’d imagined that noise. He’d been asleep, after all, and his parents were always complaining to him that he listened to him imagination far more often than he listed to his common sense. In this case, common sense would say the odds of a body dropping dead in his downstairs living room were just about as remote as the odds of a kidnapper stumbling over the couch.

But the trouble with common sense is that it gets much quieter late at night, especially when you’re in your room alone, and have just woken up by a something making a big noise downstairs.

John felt the seconds tick away, and with each tick, his common sense got a little louder. Dead bodies needed people around to make the dead, after all. And kidnappers who have stumbled over couches generally fumble around a bit more as they try to stand. He’d imagined the noise. He must have.

And then the refrigerator door closed.

Common sense started booking it for the hills, and John was left alone with his imagination. It could be his dad, of course. Up for a midnight snack at 3 in the morning, even though his dad could clearly be heard snoring two doors down from John.

His mom, then. Mom’s got hungry too, right? Of course they did. His mom might have gotten up from bed, gone downstairs for a little nibble, and then fallen over the couch in the living room. And if that was the case, shouldn’t John go downstairs and find out if she needed medical attention? Because by the sound of Dad’s snores, there was no way he was coming to her aid anytime soon. If his mom died, and John knew he could have done something to save her, and he hadn’t because he was too afraid of a kidnapper or a dead body, how would he be able to look at himself in the mirror every day?

So he did the only sensible thing he could: got out of bed, shuffled into his bearclaw slippers, grabbed his slingshot and a particularly hard looking marble, and ventured out into the hallway.

The nightlight outside his door had gone out, leaving the house draped in black, except for a dim light coming from downstairs in the direction of the kitchen. His dad’s snores were even louder now, long and grating, with plenty of snorts. Strong, but not strong enough for the door to be open. Had John’s mom shut it on her way out? This was silly. He was making too big of a deal of this. Mom probably couldn’t sleep with all Dad’s snores, so she’d headed downstairs. That made the most sense.

But John was still extra cautious as he padded down, step by step, to the first floor.

A rattle of a jar lid being put back in place came loud and clear from the kitchen, along with the sounds of someone humming and singing tunelessly to himself.

Himself.

Because unless John’s mom had become a baritone overnight, that was definitely a man’s voice. John didn’t have any older brothers. He didn’t even have any uncles that lived in the same state, leading him to one unavoidable conclusion: a strange man was making a sandwich in his kitchen.

John paused, thinking over his options. The sensible thing to do would be to sneak back upstairs and wake up his parents. Midnight intruders need to be dealt with, regardless of their sandwich-making proclivities. But the man was being so nonchalant about things, John couldn’t help but second guess himself. If he went upstairs and got his parents, and it turned out this was just some big misunderstanding, he’d be embarrassed. Susie wouldn’t let him hear the end of this for months. Wouldn’t it make more sense to tiptoe until he could see who was in the kitchen, and then be sure of his story when he went to his parents?

More sense or not, that’s what John decided to do. He pulled the slingshot back into the locked and loaded position, then inched his way forward, being careful to avoid any rogue couches or dead bodies that might have been placed in his way.

The man was inspecting the cupboards. Not making a sandwich, after all. Judging by the mixing bowls on the counter, he was shooting for a chocolate cake, instead. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t be a burglar, unless he was completely, utterly incompetent.

The man sighed, but didn’t turn around. “I’m not incompetent, John. I’m also not a burglar, and I’m not here to kidnap anybody. But I am looking for the cinnamon. Does your mom have any?”

He turned around, and the second he did, John yelped in surprise and fired his slingshot, his fingers releasing of their own accord. Because the man? The man who was making a chocolate cake at 3am in John’s kitchen? That man wasn’t a man at all. He had the whole upper body thing going, but from the waist down, he was nothing but mist.

The man-thing snapped his fingers the moment John fired, and the marble came to a rest in midair, hovering there. “A slingshot?” the man said. “Really?”

The marble dropped to the tile floor with a tiny plink. John tried to backpedal out of the kitchen, but an invisible force kept him from leaving.

“This is going to be simpler if I just explain it all at once, John. So I’m going to keep making this cake, and you’re going to stand there and listen. Okay?”

John couldn’t move a muscle. He said nothing. Did nothing.

“Good,” the thing said. “And I’m not a thing. I’m a Djinn. A being with almost infinite power, and I’ve been hired to give you a birthday present.” The Djinn snapped his fingers, and a small bottle of ground cinnamon appeared in the air next to him. He plucked it up and began shaking some into the mixing bowl. “A gift from your great uncle. I know, it’s kind of strange, but you’ve got to admit, old Urville’s a pretty strange guy, right?”

And still John couldn’t move, although he could think, and the biggest thing he could think was What kind of a Djinn hires himself out for birthday parties?

“Hey,” the Djinn said, “did I come here and start insulting your choice of footwear? Let’s be a bit lighter on the judgement thing, okay? I may have infinite power, but that doesn’t mean I can’t lose at cards, right? And a bet’s a bet. But you don’t need to know about all that.” He picked up a wooden spoon and started mixing the batter. The oven was already getting warmed up.

“It’s like this. I’ve brought three different items with me. Magical items with long, complicated histories. And each one of them is going to lead you on an adventure beyond your wildest dreams. I can’t guarantee it won’t be dangerous, but I’ve agreed to tag along with you. You get to pick one–only one!–of the items, and unlock the adventure inside. I’m not going to tell you anything about any of them. You have to choose based on your gut instincts alone. Is that clear?”

Suddenly, John could move again. He managed a nod, and he said, “Do I even have a Great Uncle Urville?”

The Djinn shrugged. “He’s pretty eccentric. But he certainly thinks he’s got a Great Nephew John, so it’s kind of a moot point, right?” He put down the bowl and snapped his fingers again. A puff of smoke appeared on the table, slowly dissipating. “Here they are. Remember, one choice, and one choice only. No backsies, and you don’t get to ask questions. So make up your mind while I get this cake into the oven.”

John glanced over his shoulder at the dark living room behind him. Was this a dream? Shouldn’t he be worried about getting his parents? But the Djinn hadn’t tried to hurt him at all, and the thought of an amazing adventure was more than a little appealing. He turned back to look at the table. The smoke was gone now, leaving the three items open and ready for examination.

The first was an old, leather-bound book. Yellow and dusty, with gilded pages and a prominent triangle with an eye in the middle of it on the cover. The eye blinked as John inspected it. He shuddered, and moved to examine the second: a steel dagger with a midnight blue hilt. It was tarnished, but the steel rippled slowly in the light as John moved for a closer look. It might have been his imagination, but it looked like the blade was burning on the inside: the ripples caused by a slow moving flame.

The third item was a lifelike heart made out of what looked like lava. Glowing brightly, but trapped in some sort of field that kept it contained. The heart pulsed in time, as if it were still inside of whatever beast or creature it had been cut from. It looked more than a little sinister.

“Well?” the Djinn asked. He’d closed the oven and set the timer for a half hour. “Made your choice?”

“Is the adventure only going to take a half hour?” John asked, secretly a tad disappointed.

“What part of ‘near infinite power’ didn’t you understand?” the Djinn said, waving his hand in front of his face in dismissal. “What kind of a Djinn would I be if I couldn’t manipulate a little time and space. Why else do you think your family hasn’t heard us down here? The cake will bake, we’ll go on our adventure, and I’ll make sure to have you home before the cake burns. Make sense?”

“What’s your name”

The Djinn smiled, a smile that showed a few too many teeth. “Manners? How thoughtful. My name’s Khalid. Pleased to meet you. Now make a decision so we can get a move on, eh?”

Make a Choice

So, dear readers, the choice is up to you. Does John choose the book, the dagger, or the heart? Vote by Sunday, and tune in next week to find out what happens next!

Announcing the Winners of My Blog Tournament Challenge

And here we are, another March Madness in the record books. We had some great participation this year in my tournament challenge. It was a lot of fun to watch the leaderboards keep switching around. In the end, I have to brag a bit, because me and my kids definitely cleaned up, sweeping the competition to take the top three spots. It all came down to the Kentucky/Wisconsin game. Whoever won that, would win the challenge.

I’ll admit that I was pretty sure Kentucky would win. How sure? Sure enough that I already wrote a scene with DC’s fight to the death. (Her weapon of choice? A magical paint brush.) And then wouldn’t you know it, Wisconsin pulled out a W, which means . . .

TRC is the ultimate victor of the tournament. Which also means that he gets to die a violent death in my book too. That’s the kind of dad I am, folks. I’ll be interested to see what weapon he chooses.

But wait! I promised there would be another prize awarded to a random participant. I’m officially ruling out anyone immediately related to me (meaning Denisa and MC are out of the running), but everyone else who played had an equal shot at this. I assigned numbers to each person and then used a random number generator to find out who the winner is.

Without further ado, many congratulations to . . . JamesMJS! I’ll be in touch via email. Always a pleasure to kill a key player in the Maine library scene. Very curious which weapon you’ll choose . . .

Thanks for playing, all. Tune in next year to see what crazy prize I come up with next.

A Slovak Easter: Wine, Whips, and Water

(Well, technically it’s not really “wine,” just general alcohol, but I’m an obsessive alliterator, what can I say?)

Yesterday, as most of you know, was Easter. And while Denisa and I have done a pretty good job teaching our kids about the ways various holidays are celebrated in Slovakia, there was one we hadn’t really informed them about. Until dinner last night. We were all sitting around the table, chowing down on some ham and potatoes, and I asked the kids if they knew how Slovaks celebrated Easter. Both confirmed that they had no clue whatsoever.

Denisa, meanwhile, was less than amused that I’d brought this subject up. Not angry. More of an exasperated look.

TRC and DC wanted to know what was up.

Basically, it goes like this. The morning of Easter Monday (that’s today, in case you were wondering), the men (and boys) will go around to houses of the women (and girls) they know and knock on their door. When the girls answer, the boys use a switch (like the one I put for the picture for this post) to whip or spank the girls.

TRC thought we were making this up. He didn’t believe it could be possible. DC was skeptical as well.

But it keeps going.

After the girls have been whipped/spanked, they need to be cleaned. That means they’re either splashed with water (from a cup . . . or a bucket), thrown in the shower or bathtub, or tossed in a convenient stream.

TRC was wondering why we hadn’t been doing this all along. DC still thought we were pulling their legs. Too close to April Fool’s, I suppose.

But it keeps going.

After the girls have been whipped and doused in water (to keep them healthy and beautiful for the coming year, according to tradition), they give the boys eggs, candy, money, or alcohol (depending on how old they are).

“Wait,” TRC said. “They give the boys money?”

Denisa nodded. DC was aghast.

“The boys get paid to do this?” TRC asked. He’s always been a true blue capitalist. Anything for an easy buck.

Denisa nodded again.

“I don’t want to go to Slovakia at Easter,” DC said right away.

“Can we do it tomorrow?” TRC asked.

The answer? Nope. Nope nope nope. Actually, until yesterday, I was always under the impression that this was a tradition that happened in tiny villages, but not in cities. Denisa informed me that I was wrong, and she’d done this every year growing up. (And was in no hurry to keep that particular tradition alive, thank you very much.) Although it sounds like these days, the emphasis is growing more and more on the “drinking alcohol” part of the tradition. Most women wouldn’t dream of going outdoors after noon today. The men just get too plastered. Or so I’ve been told.

But now my kids know. And it’s important to keep the ties to their heritage strong, right? Right! Something tells me that if I started this tradition back up again, it might not prove to be the smartest tactical decision I’ve ever made . . .

And in case any of you (still) think I’m making this up, please consult this article.

What’s the Best Advice I Could Give an Aspiring Teen Writer?

This past Monday, I had a chance to go to our local high school and talk to a creative writing class. First off, how cool is it that my high school has a creative writing class? I don’t remember anything being offered like that when I was in high school, and I think it would be a blast to have been in one back then. (Then again, I’m not sure if I would have actually enrolled in one if I could have. I was way too focused on taking all the hardest classes to maintain my chances of being valedictorian. Maybe there were a bunch of cool classes, and I just missed out on all of them . . .)

It was basically just a sit down chat, with them asking me any questions they wanted to, and me giving honest responses. So we talked about everything from my favorite TV show (hard to pick, but you can already guess the leading candidates) to how I go about actually revising a book. It lasted for an hour or so, and they were a really great group of students. Thoroughly enjoyed myself.

But after thinking things over some since I presented, I really think the best (and only) piece of advice a person (of any age) needs if they’re just starting out as a writer is pretty basic:

Write. A lot. Don’t worry about it being good or great or the best. Just write.

Do you need to read a lot too? It could certainly help, but for me, the emphasis needs to be on the writing. You can be a great writer without having read a bazillion books. On the other hand, I don’t think you’ll be a great writer without having written a lot of books. (Luckily, most people who love writing also love reading, and I imagine most people have the “reading” part down before they want to write. Most. Not all.)

Of course, one of the students had to bring up Harper Lee, and I had to say she’s the exception that proves the rule. But really, focusing on anything other than writing at first doesn’t make sense to me.

I’m currently working on my 14th book. Just the simple act of having finished 13 other entire books makes writing the 14th that much easier. You learn so much by doing. If I could have gotten a few books under my belt before college . . . I think I’d be in an even better position today.

So that’s my vote for best advice for a teen writer. Anyone have a counter?