How can you NOT click on something with a title like that, right?
July 25 will mark the one-year anniversary of the unfair and untimely passing of Dr. Sarah Pettrone, a wonderful human being and the most talented insulter of yours truly that ever lived. I miss her immensely, though my ego is considerably less bruised these days (I would not be shocked, however, if, in an attempt to remedy that state of being, divine powers, at Sarah’s prompting, hurl a thunderbolt my way any moment now).
A while back, I wrote about how, in an attempt to follow Sarah’s lead in doing something that I love to help people, I would be donating $1 for every copy sold of The Camelot Shadow: A Novel toSurgicorps International, an incredible organization that provides free surgical and medical care to disadvantaged individuals around the world (Do What You Do Well to Do Good). As an independent author unlikely to approach Stephen King-level sales, that’s unlikely to be a financially significant gesture (let’s face it—I also can’t match Mr. King’s raw sexual magnetism...ladies dig that guy). As noted in the aforementioned blog post, though, it’s not the size of the individual (thank goodness) or his effort that matters so much as our collective contribution to the greater good, and I wanted to at least try to do something to increase that level of effort to honor Sarah’s memory this month.
To that end, then, I would like to extend an offer to readers far and wide: make a donation of $10 (or more!) to Surgicorps between now and July 31, 2015, and get a free copy of The Camelot Shadow in the ebook format of your choice. To make it happen, just execute these two simple steps:
1) Go to Surgicorp's website and make a donation in memory of Dr. Sarah Pettrone.
2) Email me at seangibsonauthor@gmail.com (or, if you’re reading this on Goodreads, feel free to make a note in the comments section) to let me know that you made your donation and to let me know in what format (PDF, Mobi, or ePub) you’d like the book* and what email address to send it to.
(*Given that the prospect of having to read my purple prose may, in fact, actually deter people from wanting to donate to such a worthy cause, I’ll note that you don’t actually HAVE to read the book, or even let me know you donated if you don’t want me to overload your overworked inbox with pages and pages of overwrought and underwhelming tomfoolery.)
I realize that disposable income is in short supply these days, and that there are many worthy causes to which we all try to stretch those precious extra dollars. If you aren’t in a position to make a donation now, I understand completely. But, I’d be grateful if you could share this link with any reader friends who might be interested in order to help me get the word out.
Either way, thanks for continuing to read the nonsense I like to spew out in this space, and be on the lookout for an update on some work in progress, coming semi-soon…assuming I get some sleep again at some point in this life (having two wee tykes is amazing, but when they decide to tag team on not sleeping at different points during the night…aye carumba).
Camelot Shadow Cover
Monday, July 13, 2015
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
The Tail of Sir Hole: The Origin of Cheesecalibur
As rabid readers of The Camelot Shadow: A Novel (thanks to all 8 of you) have begun to clamor for more, I wanted to introduce a project that I hope to provide more details on in the coming months. Before I do that, however, I think it’s necessary to provide a little background/origin story (it’s not quite Batman Begins, but that’s only because it’s like 1,082 times better—not to mention far darker, as will soon become apparent).
Waaaayyy back when I was in second grade (long before my nose was the impressively prodigious specimen that it is today), I was a very big fan of, amongst other things, King Arthur stories (thanks to Gwen Gross’s Knights of the Round Table) and cartoons (from the slapstick of Looney Tunes to the mythology of Gummi Bears to the action and occasionally serialized adventures of G.I. Joe). Against that backdrop, we were asked to write and illustrate books (perhaps, given our tender ages, that should be “write and illustrate” “books”) as part of a young author’s competition. Combining two of my great loves at the time (I didn’t find a way to work in Ghostbusters, dinosaurs, or Kraft macaroni and cheese, sadly), I created Cheesecalibur, a spin on Arthurian lore featuring heroic mice, led by the noble King Cheese, and nefarious cats, led by the devious King Cat.
I could tell you about how amazingly great it was…or I can just show you. Let’s do that.
Clearly, neither penmanship nor spelling were strong suits of mine back then. I’ve rectified the latter, but the former remains a problem.
And before we go any further, I should note that my imagination was a wee bit stronger than my drawing skills at that stage of life (and they haven’t gotten any better).
Well then. It would appear that a keen
understanding of anatomy was also not a strong suit either. Turns out 8-year-old-me was kind of a moron (see, for example, the redundancy in naming two characters “Cheese”—though this is by no means my most egregious naming faux pas, as you’ll soon see).
A couple of highlights to point out on page 1: all of the mice have their initials on their chests (because why wouldn’t a knight want monogrammed armor?), and in case we weren’t sure that the mice were on the side of truth and justice, the very helpful flag in the background tells us they are “good.”
This is a pretty smiley bunch of evildoers (seeing as how the flag in the background here tells us the cats are “bad”). Please note that while I was something of an idiot as an 8-year-old, “Sir Clean Out the Refrigerator” is a pretty superb name. Good job, me.
Whoa boy. Apparently, Gumby is playing the role of King Cat in this production of Cheesecalibur. I think his arm is at least 1.5 times longer than his body. (Camelot Shadow fans will appreciate King Cheese’s belt.)
Those are some talented little mouse knights. Also, keep an eye on Sir Clean Out the Refrigerator—that guy’s going to steal the show.
I have absolutely no idea what Sir Clean Out the Refrigerator is doing to King Cheese (maybe he’s Febreezing him?). Please note, however, that the cats were smart enough to put King Cheese’s and Sir Tail’s weapons sufficiently far enough from their cage that they won’t be able to reach them with their T-Rex-style arms.
Okay, here’s where we need to remember that I was 8 years old. Let’s walk through 8-year-old-me’s thought process on this page. “Hmmm…we need a great hero to rescue King Cheese and Sir Tail. And he needs to make a dramatic entrance. Gosh, I’ve used up all of the good mouse names I can think of…maybe I should name this one after a specific type of cheese. What’s a funny cheese? Ooh, Swiss cheese! It has all of those silly holes! That’s perfect! I’ll name him…SIR HOLE!” (Why not Sir Swiss, you ask? As noted previously, I was not an intelligent child.)
As for why he appears in a blinding flash of light and why Sir Tail appears to have intimate knowledge of Hole before he appears…well, I’ll leave that up to you, dear reader, to decide.
Apparently, the cats are about as smart as 8-year-old Sean.
What action! What drama! What a set-up for…
Funniest thing I’ll ever write. I hit my comedic peak at age 8. It’s been downhill ever since.
That King Cheese drawing is pretty good, if I do say so myself (and I do)—what a heroic and noble leader! That said…what the $%@# is going on with Sir Hole’s arms?! It’s like a mouse and a gerbil procreated.
Dialogue that was cut from this scene:
Sir Tail: “$%@# this artist--how the bloody $%@# am I supposed to reach my drink with these stumps?!”
King Cheese: “I can’t believe that jackanapes put my drink in the middle of a table that’s 10 times bigger than my arms. Why the $%@# am I so smiley?!”
Sir Hole: *Slurp* "My head is very tiny.”
WAY TO SPOIL THE SEQUEL, DOUCHE BAG!
Author photo. See? I told you the schnoz was not yet prodigious. Also, I’d like to note that, amongst the interests listed in my bio for this book, it says “Sean collects spores, molds, and fungus.” Yup—even then, I was quoting Egon Spengler.
In what can only be an indictment of the quality of the public school system in Southwest Michigan, I was actually awarded a trip to a young author’s conference on the strength of this “book.” All of the people responsible for that decision are no longer gainfully employed.
The, ah, unique art notwithstanding, this story stuck with me, and from time to time I would think to myself, “Self, you should revisit Cheesecalibur at some point.” I’ve thought about various ways to tell the tale of these brave mice over the years and come to two conclusions: 1) I want to expand on this idea and tell an epic, fast-paced, serialized story with these characters that’s full of action, adventure, and humor, and 2) someone else REALLY needs to draw this.
And that, my friends, brings us to some news about upcoming projects: I’ve teamed up with my long-time hetero life mate Bret Bowman (who, not coincidentally, I met in second grade), whose artistic skills are approximately 8,345,012 times better than my own, to put the wheels in motion on a Cheesecalibur comic book. We’re still in the conceptual stage from an art standpoint, but the script for the first issue is in the can, and I hope that we’ll be able to share some of Bret’s character designs here on Goodreads within the next month or so, as well as providing some more information about the characters and story (and while I know this will disappoint some people, the erstwhile Sir Hole has since been rechristened Sir Swiss). So, keep your eyes peeled (metaphorically speaking, because I think it would really hurt if you actually peeled them, not to mention kept them that way).
In the meantime, Bret and I would love to hear from you—is this something you’d be into? If so, let us know here, or drop me a line at seangibsonauthor@gmail.com – we’d love to find a group of interested readers to share updates with as we work on producing the first issue.
Excelsior!
Waaaayyy back when I was in second grade (long before my nose was the impressively prodigious specimen that it is today), I was a very big fan of, amongst other things, King Arthur stories (thanks to Gwen Gross’s Knights of the Round Table) and cartoons (from the slapstick of Looney Tunes to the mythology of Gummi Bears to the action and occasionally serialized adventures of G.I. Joe). Against that backdrop, we were asked to write and illustrate books (perhaps, given our tender ages, that should be “write and illustrate” “books”) as part of a young author’s competition. Combining two of my great loves at the time (I didn’t find a way to work in Ghostbusters, dinosaurs, or Kraft macaroni and cheese, sadly), I created Cheesecalibur, a spin on Arthurian lore featuring heroic mice, led by the noble King Cheese, and nefarious cats, led by the devious King Cat.
I could tell you about how amazingly great it was…or I can just show you. Let’s do that.
Clearly, neither penmanship nor spelling were strong suits of mine back then. I’ve rectified the latter, but the former remains a problem.
And before we go any further, I should note that my imagination was a wee bit stronger than my drawing skills at that stage of life (and they haven’t gotten any better).
Well then. It would appear that a keen
understanding of anatomy was also not a strong suit either. Turns out 8-year-old-me was kind of a moron (see, for example, the redundancy in naming two characters “Cheese”—though this is by no means my most egregious naming faux pas, as you’ll soon see).
A couple of highlights to point out on page 1: all of the mice have their initials on their chests (because why wouldn’t a knight want monogrammed armor?), and in case we weren’t sure that the mice were on the side of truth and justice, the very helpful flag in the background tells us they are “good.”
This is a pretty smiley bunch of evildoers (seeing as how the flag in the background here tells us the cats are “bad”). Please note that while I was something of an idiot as an 8-year-old, “Sir Clean Out the Refrigerator” is a pretty superb name. Good job, me.
Whoa boy. Apparently, Gumby is playing the role of King Cat in this production of Cheesecalibur. I think his arm is at least 1.5 times longer than his body. (Camelot Shadow fans will appreciate King Cheese’s belt.)
Those are some talented little mouse knights. Also, keep an eye on Sir Clean Out the Refrigerator—that guy’s going to steal the show.
I have absolutely no idea what Sir Clean Out the Refrigerator is doing to King Cheese (maybe he’s Febreezing him?). Please note, however, that the cats were smart enough to put King Cheese’s and Sir Tail’s weapons sufficiently far enough from their cage that they won’t be able to reach them with their T-Rex-style arms.
Okay, here’s where we need to remember that I was 8 years old. Let’s walk through 8-year-old-me’s thought process on this page. “Hmmm…we need a great hero to rescue King Cheese and Sir Tail. And he needs to make a dramatic entrance. Gosh, I’ve used up all of the good mouse names I can think of…maybe I should name this one after a specific type of cheese. What’s a funny cheese? Ooh, Swiss cheese! It has all of those silly holes! That’s perfect! I’ll name him…SIR HOLE!” (Why not Sir Swiss, you ask? As noted previously, I was not an intelligent child.)
As for why he appears in a blinding flash of light and why Sir Tail appears to have intimate knowledge of Hole before he appears…well, I’ll leave that up to you, dear reader, to decide.
Apparently, the cats are about as smart as 8-year-old Sean.
What action! What drama! What a set-up for…
Funniest thing I’ll ever write. I hit my comedic peak at age 8. It’s been downhill ever since.
That King Cheese drawing is pretty good, if I do say so myself (and I do)—what a heroic and noble leader! That said…what the $%@# is going on with Sir Hole’s arms?! It’s like a mouse and a gerbil procreated.
Dialogue that was cut from this scene:
Sir Tail: “$%@# this artist--how the bloody $%@# am I supposed to reach my drink with these stumps?!”
King Cheese: “I can’t believe that jackanapes put my drink in the middle of a table that’s 10 times bigger than my arms. Why the $%@# am I so smiley?!”
Sir Hole: *Slurp* "My head is very tiny.”
WAY TO SPOIL THE SEQUEL, DOUCHE BAG!
Author photo. See? I told you the schnoz was not yet prodigious. Also, I’d like to note that, amongst the interests listed in my bio for this book, it says “Sean collects spores, molds, and fungus.” Yup—even then, I was quoting Egon Spengler.
In what can only be an indictment of the quality of the public school system in Southwest Michigan, I was actually awarded a trip to a young author’s conference on the strength of this “book.” All of the people responsible for that decision are no longer gainfully employed.
The, ah, unique art notwithstanding, this story stuck with me, and from time to time I would think to myself, “Self, you should revisit Cheesecalibur at some point.” I’ve thought about various ways to tell the tale of these brave mice over the years and come to two conclusions: 1) I want to expand on this idea and tell an epic, fast-paced, serialized story with these characters that’s full of action, adventure, and humor, and 2) someone else REALLY needs to draw this.
And that, my friends, brings us to some news about upcoming projects: I’ve teamed up with my long-time hetero life mate Bret Bowman (who, not coincidentally, I met in second grade), whose artistic skills are approximately 8,345,012 times better than my own, to put the wheels in motion on a Cheesecalibur comic book. We’re still in the conceptual stage from an art standpoint, but the script for the first issue is in the can, and I hope that we’ll be able to share some of Bret’s character designs here on Goodreads within the next month or so, as well as providing some more information about the characters and story (and while I know this will disappoint some people, the erstwhile Sir Hole has since been rechristened Sir Swiss). So, keep your eyes peeled (metaphorically speaking, because I think it would really hurt if you actually peeled them, not to mention kept them that way).
In the meantime, Bret and I would love to hear from you—is this something you’d be into? If so, let us know here, or drop me a line at seangibsonauthor@gmail.com – we’d love to find a group of interested readers to share updates with as we work on producing the first issue.
Excelsior!
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Missing the Mystery: Loving Libraries, and Why I Have a Beef with the Internet
I recently walked into a library for the first time in quite a while (he confesses, shame-facedly). What I saw surprised me—I didn’t see people perusing the stacks or sitting in comfy bean bag chairs with a book balanced on their laps; I saw were people staring at computer screens and happily double-clicking their way through terabyte after terabyte of data.
It made me feel strange, like I’d walked into an ice cream shop and saw people eating kale.
Millennials, I’m about to blow your minds. Once upon a time, the interwebs did not exist. To learn stuff, you needed to go to a library. When you were in a library, you were surrounded by more information than you could possibly access anywhere else…except for a bigger library. Sure, there were computers, but the computers didn’t house the data—they were just fancy indexes that told you how to find the book that held the information you were looking for. It was highly inefficient, but spectacular.
I should note that this is not intended to be an anti-technology screed, or a crotchety “Back in my day…” piece. The Internet is fantastic (are we still proper-nouning “Internet”?). I mean, Goodreads, right? I love the giant tubes that provide whatever information we need, no matter how pointless or obscure, whenever we want it without us having to get up or even get dressed. The unwashed masses having access to so much information is, by and large, an exceedingly good thing. Nice work, Al Gore.
But, I do miss going to a library in the pre-Internet days. Now, I realize that not all kids were as laudably hip and awesome as I was, but hop in the Wayback Machine with me, if you will, and let’s pop back to 1989. Bush the Senior is president, Van Halen is riding high with Sammy Hagar (OU812, anyone?), and a little movie called Ghostbusters II hit the big screen. Even at the tender age of 5, I’d loved the original Ghostbusters (though I can neither confirm nor deny that I buried my face against my mother in terror when the library ghost made her true face known), and as a 10-year-old, I was fully ready for the Boys in Gray to come back and slug it out with more pesky poltergeists. What, I hear you asking, has this got to do with libraries? Hush. I’m getting there.
After seeing Ghostbusters II, I became obsessed with becoming a Ghostbuster myself. I knew that Messrs. Spengler, Stantz, Venkman, and Zeddemore held PhDs, so I knew that I needed to hit the books. That, of course, meant spending hours in the library, because where else could you possibly find more books?
Every weekend, I pestered my mom to take me to the local public library, where I spent hours poring over every book I could find on supernatural phenomenon, psychic powers, ghosts, and anything else I could think of that might one day prepare me to be a Ghostbuster (I also began plotting how to get my PhD in parapsychology, just like my heroes…yes, there was a time when such a discipline existed at respected universities). Now, my local library was by no means massive, and it wasn’t particularly grand or gothic, but it did have some dark corners. For obvious reasons (namely, that only weirdos wanted to look at them), the types of books I sought out were, of course, buried in those corners, and it wasn’t hard to convince myself that some spectral presence hovered over my shoulder, afraid that I might learn the secrets to busting it (and, thus, feeling good, if Ray Parker, Jr., is to be believed). Wandering up and down those aisles, running my fingertips across the spines of those books, drinking in the scent of their pages…it was intoxicating (that sounded waaaayyy more sensual than intended…I promise that I only used books in a gentlemanly manner). It felt like I, and I alone, had gained access to some arcane archives, a repository of knowledge where, with persistent scholarship and dogged determination, I might unlock the mysteries of the universe.
Libraries did retain their aura of mystery in the nascent days of the Internet, back when it was just used to generate a bunch of listservs and to look at porn (Wait, what? There’s still porn on the internet? And it’s even better than it was in 1999? WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME?!). During my junior year of college, I spent a semester in Scotland at the University of Aberdeen. A school founded in 1495? You’re gosh darn right it had a fantastic old library. I’m a huge fan of Dracula, and I recall stumbling across a copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula’s Guest and Other Weird Stories. I could have checked it out and brought it back to my room, of course, but I chose to read it in the emptiest corner of the library I could find on a dark (albeit not stormy, sadly) night, and damned if it wasn’t one of the creepiest experiences I’ve ever had (and I mean that in the most delightful way possible).
Look, I realize that the Internet has irrevocably changed the world, and largely for the better. But, the experience of being in a library isn’t one of those ways, and I felt like I needed to memorialize what it was like to hang out around books when they were the only way to get info, if only for the sake of future generations.
And, of course, I’m doing so by using the Internet.
Sigh.
Oh well…we’ve still got porn, right?
It made me feel strange, like I’d walked into an ice cream shop and saw people eating kale.
Millennials, I’m about to blow your minds. Once upon a time, the interwebs did not exist. To learn stuff, you needed to go to a library. When you were in a library, you were surrounded by more information than you could possibly access anywhere else…except for a bigger library. Sure, there were computers, but the computers didn’t house the data—they were just fancy indexes that told you how to find the book that held the information you were looking for. It was highly inefficient, but spectacular.
I should note that this is not intended to be an anti-technology screed, or a crotchety “Back in my day…” piece. The Internet is fantastic (are we still proper-nouning “Internet”?). I mean, Goodreads, right? I love the giant tubes that provide whatever information we need, no matter how pointless or obscure, whenever we want it without us having to get up or even get dressed. The unwashed masses having access to so much information is, by and large, an exceedingly good thing. Nice work, Al Gore.
But, I do miss going to a library in the pre-Internet days. Now, I realize that not all kids were as laudably hip and awesome as I was, but hop in the Wayback Machine with me, if you will, and let’s pop back to 1989. Bush the Senior is president, Van Halen is riding high with Sammy Hagar (OU812, anyone?), and a little movie called Ghostbusters II hit the big screen. Even at the tender age of 5, I’d loved the original Ghostbusters (though I can neither confirm nor deny that I buried my face against my mother in terror when the library ghost made her true face known), and as a 10-year-old, I was fully ready for the Boys in Gray to come back and slug it out with more pesky poltergeists. What, I hear you asking, has this got to do with libraries? Hush. I’m getting there.
After seeing Ghostbusters II, I became obsessed with becoming a Ghostbuster myself. I knew that Messrs. Spengler, Stantz, Venkman, and Zeddemore held PhDs, so I knew that I needed to hit the books. That, of course, meant spending hours in the library, because where else could you possibly find more books?
Every weekend, I pestered my mom to take me to the local public library, where I spent hours poring over every book I could find on supernatural phenomenon, psychic powers, ghosts, and anything else I could think of that might one day prepare me to be a Ghostbuster (I also began plotting how to get my PhD in parapsychology, just like my heroes…yes, there was a time when such a discipline existed at respected universities). Now, my local library was by no means massive, and it wasn’t particularly grand or gothic, but it did have some dark corners. For obvious reasons (namely, that only weirdos wanted to look at them), the types of books I sought out were, of course, buried in those corners, and it wasn’t hard to convince myself that some spectral presence hovered over my shoulder, afraid that I might learn the secrets to busting it (and, thus, feeling good, if Ray Parker, Jr., is to be believed). Wandering up and down those aisles, running my fingertips across the spines of those books, drinking in the scent of their pages…it was intoxicating (that sounded waaaayyy more sensual than intended…I promise that I only used books in a gentlemanly manner). It felt like I, and I alone, had gained access to some arcane archives, a repository of knowledge where, with persistent scholarship and dogged determination, I might unlock the mysteries of the universe.
Libraries did retain their aura of mystery in the nascent days of the Internet, back when it was just used to generate a bunch of listservs and to look at porn (Wait, what? There’s still porn on the internet? And it’s even better than it was in 1999? WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME?!). During my junior year of college, I spent a semester in Scotland at the University of Aberdeen. A school founded in 1495? You’re gosh darn right it had a fantastic old library. I’m a huge fan of Dracula, and I recall stumbling across a copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula’s Guest and Other Weird Stories. I could have checked it out and brought it back to my room, of course, but I chose to read it in the emptiest corner of the library I could find on a dark (albeit not stormy, sadly) night, and damned if it wasn’t one of the creepiest experiences I’ve ever had (and I mean that in the most delightful way possible).
Look, I realize that the Internet has irrevocably changed the world, and largely for the better. But, the experience of being in a library isn’t one of those ways, and I felt like I needed to memorialize what it was like to hang out around books when they were the only way to get info, if only for the sake of future generations.
And, of course, I’m doing so by using the Internet.
Sigh.
Oh well…we’ve still got porn, right?
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Dragging Denouement? Pshaw! (What RoTK and Parks & Rec Taught Me About Character)
As I recently watched the Parks & Rec finale (sobbing and wailing, I confess, like Screech Powers when Maxwell Nerdstrom out-Zacked Zack Morris to win Screech's beloved pooch, Hound Dog, in a game of poker), and as I saw each and every character get his or her time in the spotlight, their sunny, funny, and emotional futures mapped out over the course of years that we won't have the good fortune to watch as they happen, I was reminded of sitting in a movie theater back in December 2003.
A much younger and, if possible, even more rakishly handsome and unbearably macho Sean sat transfixed as Peter Jackson's epic adaptation of The Lord of the Rings drew to a close...and there I continued to sit, for almost an hour, as each and every character got his or her due, their sunny, funny, and emotional futures mapped out over the course of years that we would not get to witness in cinematic splendor. For a movie that was almost universally lauded, won 11 Oscars (including Best Picture), and somehow managed to make Orlando Bloom seem like the second-biggest badass that ever was (behind Viggo Mortensen, naturally), this was the one point of critical attack. The sharp, kinetic storytelling style that had been so prevalent during the first two and two-thirds movies in the trilogy was replaced with a meandering, lackadaisical stroll through the what-came-next, making sure to honor the eight little legs that carried the story (not Shelob, people--I'm talking about the four hobbits), and the actors attached to them, for all of their blood, sweat, and tears in getting things to that point.
Would the movie have been better, from a storytelling perspective, had that final section been condensed, or perhaps even omitted entirely? Almost certainly. Would it have made for a better or more fitting conclusion to an epic series of films that, for my money, did justice to one of the greatest tales of all time? Unquestionably not. Because, for all of the clever plotting, for all of the monumental set pieces, for all of the good-versus-evil thematic struggle, the heart and soul of those movies (and of Tolkien's writing) were its characters, the unlikely heroes who, by dint of sheer dogged determination and a willingness to believe that no matter how small they were, they could make a difference, carried the story on their slender shoulders. They deserved to have their tales told in full, even if the audience was ready to move on (or, at least, ready to stand up and stretch, and maybe go pee, and possibly address a severe case of deep-vein thrombosis). As a viewer, I appreciated the Peter Jackson took that time--time well in excess of what any studio exec would think is a rational amount of time to make moviegoers sit in their seats--to honor the story's heroes.
In a similar vein, would the Parks & Rec finale have been a sharper and funnier episode more in keeping with the totality of its run had it focused on a single storyline? Absolutely. Would it have been nearly as satisfying for those of us who grew to love the residents of Pawnee over the years, no matter how narcissistic, curmudgeonly, dim-witted, health-obsessed, or smoking hot (I'm looking at you, Ethel Beavers)? Absolutely NOT. I relished every awkwardly stretched out minute, every absurd future projection, every second of screen time that Jerry/Garry/Larry soaked up. What made Parks & Rec great wasn't the super sharp writing, the whimsical plots, or the parade of guest stars, though all of those things were magnificent. What made it great were its characters, the quirky, lovable, all-too-human women and men who were just as much fun to watch sitting around talking about nothing as they were to watch driving the plot forward.
I love character-driven stories. Sure, I can appreciate the incredible craftsmanship of a sharply written and tightly plotted short story, or the mind-copulating twists of a well-conceived thriller. But, when I look back at all of my favorite stories--be they books, movies, or TV shows--they are all driven by compelling characters who, when I read the last word of their tale, or watched them ride off into the sunset, made me long for the chance to spend just a little bit more time with them (or, at least, play one more game of Cones of Dunshire with them).
My takeaway as a storyteller? It's okay, on occasion, and when you've written something of merit with memorable characters, to be a little indulgent when it comes to saying goodbye to those characters. They've earned it. And their readers/viewers have earned it.
And, if they're anything like me, they'll appreciate it.
A much younger and, if possible, even more rakishly handsome and unbearably macho Sean sat transfixed as Peter Jackson's epic adaptation of The Lord of the Rings drew to a close...and there I continued to sit, for almost an hour, as each and every character got his or her due, their sunny, funny, and emotional futures mapped out over the course of years that we would not get to witness in cinematic splendor. For a movie that was almost universally lauded, won 11 Oscars (including Best Picture), and somehow managed to make Orlando Bloom seem like the second-biggest badass that ever was (behind Viggo Mortensen, naturally), this was the one point of critical attack. The sharp, kinetic storytelling style that had been so prevalent during the first two and two-thirds movies in the trilogy was replaced with a meandering, lackadaisical stroll through the what-came-next, making sure to honor the eight little legs that carried the story (not Shelob, people--I'm talking about the four hobbits), and the actors attached to them, for all of their blood, sweat, and tears in getting things to that point.
Would the movie have been better, from a storytelling perspective, had that final section been condensed, or perhaps even omitted entirely? Almost certainly. Would it have made for a better or more fitting conclusion to an epic series of films that, for my money, did justice to one of the greatest tales of all time? Unquestionably not. Because, for all of the clever plotting, for all of the monumental set pieces, for all of the good-versus-evil thematic struggle, the heart and soul of those movies (and of Tolkien's writing) were its characters, the unlikely heroes who, by dint of sheer dogged determination and a willingness to believe that no matter how small they were, they could make a difference, carried the story on their slender shoulders. They deserved to have their tales told in full, even if the audience was ready to move on (or, at least, ready to stand up and stretch, and maybe go pee, and possibly address a severe case of deep-vein thrombosis). As a viewer, I appreciated the Peter Jackson took that time--time well in excess of what any studio exec would think is a rational amount of time to make moviegoers sit in their seats--to honor the story's heroes.
In a similar vein, would the Parks & Rec finale have been a sharper and funnier episode more in keeping with the totality of its run had it focused on a single storyline? Absolutely. Would it have been nearly as satisfying for those of us who grew to love the residents of Pawnee over the years, no matter how narcissistic, curmudgeonly, dim-witted, health-obsessed, or smoking hot (I'm looking at you, Ethel Beavers)? Absolutely NOT. I relished every awkwardly stretched out minute, every absurd future projection, every second of screen time that Jerry/Garry/Larry soaked up. What made Parks & Rec great wasn't the super sharp writing, the whimsical plots, or the parade of guest stars, though all of those things were magnificent. What made it great were its characters, the quirky, lovable, all-too-human women and men who were just as much fun to watch sitting around talking about nothing as they were to watch driving the plot forward.
I love character-driven stories. Sure, I can appreciate the incredible craftsmanship of a sharply written and tightly plotted short story, or the mind-copulating twists of a well-conceived thriller. But, when I look back at all of my favorite stories--be they books, movies, or TV shows--they are all driven by compelling characters who, when I read the last word of their tale, or watched them ride off into the sunset, made me long for the chance to spend just a little bit more time with them (or, at least, play one more game of Cones of Dunshire with them).
My takeaway as a storyteller? It's okay, on occasion, and when you've written something of merit with memorable characters, to be a little indulgent when it comes to saying goodbye to those characters. They've earned it. And their readers/viewers have earned it.
And, if they're anything like me, they'll appreciate it.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Readers are Good People (and One of 'Em is a Contest Winner)
People who read give me hope for humanity.
That's not to say that I don't like people who don't read, mind you--if that were the case, I'd have approximately 89% fewer friends (sadly). But, one of the true joys of this self-publishing odyssey has been seeing how incredibly supportive and generous of spirit avid readers can be.
Nowhere has that been more evident than within the Goodreads community. As I've begun to shamelessly and undoubtedly annoyingly canvas the world for people willing to read The Camelot Shadow and share their thoughts about it, I've had the good fortune to become acquainted with complete and total strangers who are not only willing to spend several hours hanging out in a story I created--which, in and of itself, is amazingly cool, and incredibly humbling--but they are so filled with encouragement and positive energy, so supportive of a guy chasing a dream, that I literally traipse about with a bounce in my step whenever I hear from one of them (a podiatrist stopped me on the street and suggested I pay him a visit until I explained the reason for the unusual hitch in my giddy-up). And, this bounce is happening even though work is insane, we're in the midst of selling our condo and trying to buy a new place, our amazing but never-not-busy 20-month-old is racing about, sleep is in woefully short supply, and we're prepping for baby number two. That's how powerful even a few words of encouragement can be, and that's something that I think the tight-knit community of omnivorous and voracious readers understands.
Like all of those folks, I love stories. I need stories. They entertain me, they make me think, they make me laugh, they make me cry, and they help me find meaning and give me hope even on days when the world seems completely insane and impossibly screwed up. Being able to write a story that helps someone else feel that way, even if only a little, is the best way I can think of to try to repay the impossible debt I owe to every single writer of tales whose work I have ever read and felt joy in discovering--and to those whose work I have yet to read.
Thank you, readers--not just readers of The Camelot Shadow, but all readers: the people who, every day, encourage yet another new voice to shine the bright light of their prose into the void.
(Oh, and as for that Amazon gift card contest thing...so selfless are my good friends and readers that while many wrote reviews, none "officially" entered the contest...so, I took the liberty of entering anyone who wrote a review during the contest period, which concluded yesterday. A random drawing yielded a lucky winner in Mr. Bret J. Bowman. I suspect he'll be using his winnings to procure some new reading material...)
That's not to say that I don't like people who don't read, mind you--if that were the case, I'd have approximately 89% fewer friends (sadly). But, one of the true joys of this self-publishing odyssey has been seeing how incredibly supportive and generous of spirit avid readers can be.
Nowhere has that been more evident than within the Goodreads community. As I've begun to shamelessly and undoubtedly annoyingly canvas the world for people willing to read The Camelot Shadow and share their thoughts about it, I've had the good fortune to become acquainted with complete and total strangers who are not only willing to spend several hours hanging out in a story I created--which, in and of itself, is amazingly cool, and incredibly humbling--but they are so filled with encouragement and positive energy, so supportive of a guy chasing a dream, that I literally traipse about with a bounce in my step whenever I hear from one of them (a podiatrist stopped me on the street and suggested I pay him a visit until I explained the reason for the unusual hitch in my giddy-up). And, this bounce is happening even though work is insane, we're in the midst of selling our condo and trying to buy a new place, our amazing but never-not-busy 20-month-old is racing about, sleep is in woefully short supply, and we're prepping for baby number two. That's how powerful even a few words of encouragement can be, and that's something that I think the tight-knit community of omnivorous and voracious readers understands.
Like all of those folks, I love stories. I need stories. They entertain me, they make me think, they make me laugh, they make me cry, and they help me find meaning and give me hope even on days when the world seems completely insane and impossibly screwed up. Being able to write a story that helps someone else feel that way, even if only a little, is the best way I can think of to try to repay the impossible debt I owe to every single writer of tales whose work I have ever read and felt joy in discovering--and to those whose work I have yet to read.
Thank you, readers--not just readers of The Camelot Shadow, but all readers: the people who, every day, encourage yet another new voice to shine the bright light of their prose into the void.
(Oh, and as for that Amazon gift card contest thing...so selfless are my good friends and readers that while many wrote reviews, none "officially" entered the contest...so, I took the liberty of entering anyone who wrote a review during the contest period, which concluded yesterday. A random drawing yielded a lucky winner in Mr. Bret J. Bowman. I suspect he'll be using his winnings to procure some new reading material...)
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Do What You Do Well To Do Good
I generally write for personal pleasure. Occasionally, I write for financial gain. Beyond hoping that something that dribbles out of my digital quill might strike someone as entertaining, however, I have rarely thought of writing as something I do, or could do, to help people directly. Not so much because I’m a selfish jackass, but because I never really considered that my writing might be used to achieve that goal. And then we lost Sarah.
Dr. Sarah Pettrone passed away on July 25, 2014, at the unjustly young age of 38. She was a surgeon, and she was passionate about what she did—so much so that rather than vacation at the beach with a Mai Tai (well, okay, she might occasionally have done that), Sarah undertook several trips with Surgicorps International, an organization that provides free surgical and medical care to disadvantaged individuals in developing countries (see surgicorps.org for more). She joined a cadre of other doctors who volunteered their time and talent to travel, at their own expense, to places like Bhutan, Ethiopia, and Honduras to perform procedures that immeasurably improved the quality of people’s lives. Sarah had a gift, and she used that gift to do good in the world.
As I’m sure Sarah herself would have attested (no doubt gleefully, given her penchant for needling me), I’m by no means as skilled with the keyboard as she was with the scalpel, and I can’t use words to fix a cleft palate or restore function to a shattered hand. But, I can tell a pretty good story. And I can use that skill to help people in need.
I’ve pledged to donate $1 to Surgicorps for every copy sold of The Camelot Shadow—not just in memory of Sarah, but also to recognize and give thanks for her inspiration. I have every intention of telling many more stories in my life, and I am committed to donating some portion of the proceeds of everything I ever publish to organizations that enable people to leverage their talents to do something good for the world, whether that’s feed the starving, aid the sick, or fight for justice on behalf of those who cannot do it themselves.
I fear that Surgicorps is unlikely to reap a substantial windfall from my meager pledge (I mean, how many people out there really want to read a Victorian-set pseudo-historical mystery involving Arthurian lore?), but what if we all commit to doing something we love, something we’re good at, to make the world a better place? Everyone does something well—maybe it’s not something as immediately impactful as being able to heal the sick and injured, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find a way to use our gifts to benefit others.
Individually, our efforts may register as little more than barely discernible pinpricks of light in what feels like an increasingly dark world. Multiply those small but significant efforts by a few thousand, or a few million, or a few billion people, though…now we’re a vast constellation stretching across the night sky, one whose brilliance can inspire and guide those struggling through even the darkest nights.
That’s a pretty cheesily melodramatic metaphor (my stock in trade), one that I have no doubt would have made Sarah roll her eyes. But that doesn’t change the fact that she was one of the bright lights in that constellation, and there’s no better star to steer by than the one that never fades, the one that is an ever-present reminder to keep dreaming of something beyond ourselves.
The sky is vast and there’s plenty of room for us all. Here’s hoping we all make it up there together.
Dr. Sarah Pettrone passed away on July 25, 2014, at the unjustly young age of 38. She was a surgeon, and she was passionate about what she did—so much so that rather than vacation at the beach with a Mai Tai (well, okay, she might occasionally have done that), Sarah undertook several trips with Surgicorps International, an organization that provides free surgical and medical care to disadvantaged individuals in developing countries (see surgicorps.org for more). She joined a cadre of other doctors who volunteered their time and talent to travel, at their own expense, to places like Bhutan, Ethiopia, and Honduras to perform procedures that immeasurably improved the quality of people’s lives. Sarah had a gift, and she used that gift to do good in the world.
As I’m sure Sarah herself would have attested (no doubt gleefully, given her penchant for needling me), I’m by no means as skilled with the keyboard as she was with the scalpel, and I can’t use words to fix a cleft palate or restore function to a shattered hand. But, I can tell a pretty good story. And I can use that skill to help people in need.
I’ve pledged to donate $1 to Surgicorps for every copy sold of The Camelot Shadow—not just in memory of Sarah, but also to recognize and give thanks for her inspiration. I have every intention of telling many more stories in my life, and I am committed to donating some portion of the proceeds of everything I ever publish to organizations that enable people to leverage their talents to do something good for the world, whether that’s feed the starving, aid the sick, or fight for justice on behalf of those who cannot do it themselves.
I fear that Surgicorps is unlikely to reap a substantial windfall from my meager pledge (I mean, how many people out there really want to read a Victorian-set pseudo-historical mystery involving Arthurian lore?), but what if we all commit to doing something we love, something we’re good at, to make the world a better place? Everyone does something well—maybe it’s not something as immediately impactful as being able to heal the sick and injured, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find a way to use our gifts to benefit others.
Individually, our efforts may register as little more than barely discernible pinpricks of light in what feels like an increasingly dark world. Multiply those small but significant efforts by a few thousand, or a few million, or a few billion people, though…now we’re a vast constellation stretching across the night sky, one whose brilliance can inspire and guide those struggling through even the darkest nights.
That’s a pretty cheesily melodramatic metaphor (my stock in trade), one that I have no doubt would have made Sarah roll her eyes. But that doesn’t change the fact that she was one of the bright lights in that constellation, and there’s no better star to steer by than the one that never fades, the one that is an ever-present reminder to keep dreaming of something beyond ourselves.
The sky is vast and there’s plenty of room for us all. Here’s hoping we all make it up there together.
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