Art Rant

I was talking with my BSC (bat-**** crazy) sister a few days about the subject of artistic creation. She insisted that people of her ilk (the suffering and tormented) could produce better 'art' than the run-of-the-mill average Jo. I insisted she was wrong (she conceded, but if I insisted strongly enough that the earth were made of marshmallows, she'd concede).

Being 'artistic,' IMO, is the vainglorious clutch to which tormented souls cling to justify their depravities. That's not to say that everyone else doesn't have issues or crutches, but many a tortured artist possesses an almost rabid -- foaming-at-the-mouth -- proprietarial claim on the ability to create great art. Perhaps it's just Suffering's snobbery, but it annoys the Hell out of me.

I get tired of hearing the refrain that great art/great writing/etc. comes from deprivation, darkness, etc... Just because Hemingway was an alcoholic or b/c Vincent Van Gogh drank turpentine and went BSC on his ear doesn't mean they were great artists (and don't get me started on Joyce). The literary elite will defend the likes of Hemingway to their graves, but were his writings to disappear, I don't think most outside the literary world would notice or care. I appreciate Van Gogh's paintings enough (leaps and bounds above modern art, for sure), and maybe his ideas would have been different if he'd been a straight arrow, and maybe they would have been better. We'll never know, but to attribute his greatness to his psychological state is specious.

To me, great art is something that speaks to the masses. It is something that weaves a common Human thread together. The ability to weave this pattern is most certainly difficult, and it can come from darkness (ala Stephen King's terrifying insights into the human psyche while high on coke), but it can also come from light (ala Harry Potter). Whatever the case may be, you don't have to have a secret membership or think in facocked 4-D for the art to resonate with you. Great art is simple and universal. Great art is not great because the elitists tell you it is. Great art is great because the everyman enjoys it, even if he might not know why.

Know Thyself

Writing this while my wife's making me watch Step Up 2: The Streets, so if you hear any screams across the ether, they're probably mine :). Enough of my whinging.

IMO, one of the most important things in life is knowing yourself - knowing your strengths, knowing your weaknesses. Sure, I may think I'm brilliant, but I know I can play basketball. I may think I'm a cynic, but I know I'm an introvert (which I do consider a weakness, though it gives me more time for writing :). By knowing your strengths, you can accentuate them; likewise, you can either conceal or improve upon your weaknesses.

Similarly, in writing, it's critical to know your strengths and weaknesses. Sure, there are certain gray areas that need outside eyes, but if you can identify your strong and weak points, you'll be able to better tailor your writing to accentuate the positives and minimize the negatives (and hopefully work on them in the meantime).

For example, I know my strengths are plotting (logic-wise) and dialog (to an extent). My weaknesses are description (particularly extended ones) and character separation (idiosyncrazation -- my word, feel free to use it :). Knowing what you don't know (gray areas) is also important (but only if you gather feedback about your blind spots). My gray areas in writing include action and pacing (usually I feel I do them pretty damn well; other times I feel like I'm definitely missing a few puzzle pieces).

Then there's that whole not knowing what you know and don't know realm -- which is a bit too metaphysical for me.

So, what do and/or don't you know?

Story Time

I'm gonna be out of town for the rest of the week (going down to San Antonio for my wife's job interview), so this'll be the last post of the week for me. A few weeks ago, I posted a story that I said was my second favorite kids' story I'd written (well, maybe tied for 2nd). I thought I'd post my favorite one today... definitely a departure from the norm for me (perhaps why I like it so much).

Nina

It was three days after Tuesday that my sister was born. She weighed four thousand pounds, by the way – I expected her to be bigger, but momma was very happy.

Momma was too worried about her pregnancy to think much about those brown surface whales we spotted on Tuesday, but they were all I could think about. I followed them for a day and a half, trying to talk to them. Now, I’ve met all types of whales in my life – gray ones, right ones, fin ones, humpback ones, even killer ones (though momma says they’re not really whales, but dolphins) – and I’ve never seen any as strange as those brown ones.

First off, other than being brown and surface whales, they were shaped kind of funny. They looked like a whale under the water (except for being brown), but above water they had flat backs and sharp edges; I thought maybe they were sharks or inverted cousins of the humpbacks, but momma says they aren’t.  

The momma brown whale was longer than momma (and it’s hard to be longer than momma), but her children were shorter than me. The momma brown whale also had more fins than her children, which I thought was weird, but momma told me not to stare. Well, I don’t know about momma, but when I see something that strange, I can’t help looking.

Not only did the brown momma have five fins and no flippers, she had white wings like a seagull’s surrounding each fin. Her children had three fins and smaller wings. Wouldn’t you stare if you saw a whale with wings? I thought so.

I kept expecting those brown whales to fly and that’s why I followed them for as long as I did. No other point in following them since they never said a word back to me.

What good are wings if you can’t fly? I asked them this several times and you know what they said?

Nothing. They never said a word. They didn’t even splash me away or look over their shoulder and snort. Momma says she’s seen brown whales before and they’re all like that – stiff-backed and silent.

Maybe they’re upset about the featherless birds climbing around their backs. All day long, these large, straight-backed birds climbed all over their bodies, sometimes even up their fins! I asked momma if I could have one of the featherless birds on my back and she said I was being silly. Well, I thought maybe if I had a featherless bird, too, then maybe the brown whales would talk to me.

I hope I see another brown whale soon. Then I’ll ask them if I can borrow one of their birds. And I’ll ask to borrow one for my baby sister, too. I think she’d like the brown whales even if they don’t talk.

Even though they never said a word, I’ll never forget those brown surface whales. As I watched them go, I told them my name. They didn’t respond, but they didn’t need to. Somehow they’d written their names on the sides of their bodies.

The mother brown whale was called Santa Maria. The larger of her two children was called Pinta. And the smallest brown whale, whom I got to name my baby sister after because I liked the name so much, was Nina.

A Foolish Consistency

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds - Ralph Waldo Emerson

I'm way into quotes, and this one is easily my favorite (even though I'm not a huge RWE fan). Here are a few random foolish consistencies, IMO:

1. Stopping at stop signs (I'm kidding, sort of, but if stop signs were replaced with yield signs, the world would be a better place).

2. Tipping for percentage of the bill (this is one I consistently do myself, though I'll normally tip a greater percentage at places like IHOP, etc. where the waiter/waitress works just as hard as some hoity-toity restaurant minus the bread crumb removal. And, though this is something I don't have to worry about b/c of my distaste for it, I never understood tipping for a fancy-pants bottle of wine - perhaps it's not even SOP (standard operating procedure) - unless there's some sort of sommelier involved)

3. Writing to a trend (you've got to stay within word counts; isn't that enough? If you want to make a name for yourself, you've got to start a trend - or be there near the beginning; it may be a long shot, but as Henry David Thoreau said: I have learned, that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.)

Full disclosure: my current WIP has vampires in it (my first story to include such); however, my vampires are not the MCs, nor are they the MCs love interests; they are 13-year-old soul sucking antagonists.

So, are there any foolish consistencies you encounter, observe, and/or ignore?

Stranger (and more harrowing) Than Fiction

Sometimes I forget how good I've got it, how lucky I am. I bemoan the current state of politics, culture, etc. Then I read something that reminds me that I'm living in a relative paradise. This happened to me recently when I read an account from a WWII bomber pilot (from Raiders of the Reich - Ch. 4 - Chivalry in the Clouds). Normally, WWII isn't my topic of choice (I prefer ancient history), but this one had some personal relevance to me b/c my grandfather was the navigator on this particular mission, and after reading the account, I realized just how close I was to not existing. Part of my grandfather's journal was included in the book... I've reprinted it below. 

A brief background: the bomber,a B-17F named Ye Olde Pub, was sent on a bombing run into Germany (Dec. 1943, launched from England) with other bombers and an escort of fighter planes. Unfortunately, Ye Olde Pub had an engine knocked out during the initial run and after deployment of their ordinance, due to lack of engine power, wasn't able to circle around as quickly as the other bombers and planes. At this point, the German planes had scrambled and Ye Olde Pub was the weakened gazelle separated from the pack. My grandfather's account:


We were then on our bomb run rushing towards a black carpet of flak in front of us, and suddenly without warning, out went our Plexiglas nose and our No. 2 engine. A minute later bombs were away. Before we knew what happened our formation left us on a wide steep turn which swung us out too far and we couldn't catch up with one engine gone. It then struck me that we were a cripple, a straggler and certain prey for the enemy, without much hope of returning. However, there wasn't too much time to delve into this very deeply as the Me 109s and Fw 190s began boring in and the pilot was yelling for a heading home.


I felt like a one-armed paperhanger trying to figure out the safest heading home which would not take us over many flak areas, and at the same time I was scraping the frozen Plexiglas so that I could keep an anxious vigil on the enemy attackers. Somehow, I gave the pilot a heading and got enough ice off the window to see a Fw 190 bearing in at about one o'clock, close enough to spit on; black belches of smoke coughing out of his wing and his wing lighting on and off like a neon sign gave me the general idea that he was shooting at us and not for fun. I trained my fifty calibre and let go with a long burst and, due to his proximity, I couldn't miss. As he snap-rolled to give us his bulletproof belly as a target his engine burst into flames, but I don't know whether he went down or not as I wasn't interested due to my shaking knees.


At that moment our tail gunner's voice rasped over the interphone, 'Figher coming in, six o'clock. Get him somebody, my guns are jammed.' Our pilot went into a violent manoeuvre in an effort to spoil the aim of the attacker. Just about this time our top turret gunner, T/Sgt Frenchy Coulombe, shot a Fw 190 out of the sky which had come in about eleven o'clock and high.

It was bitter cold up there (somewhere about sixty degrees C below) and with a wide gap in the Plexiglas nose, an icy blast kept pouring in, making my hands and feet bitter cold. But in spite of that cold, I felt myself sweating uncomfortably.


Listening over the interphone I understood that about five enemy fighters were queueing up to ready to make a pass at us at about six o'clock, and what with only the top turret guns operating in that direction, all the other were frozen and inoperative. I then prepared to meet my destiny and soon our airplane was rocking all over the air with 20mms exploding and sounding like hail on a tin roof. Every time our plane made a wildly gyration I thought surely everybody in the rear of the airplane was dead, including the pilot. The silence on the intercom was more terrifying than the sounds of exploding shells.


With only one engine and their rudder blown apart, they somehow were able to land safely on the runway from which they'd taken off. Even more miraculous was the pilot's (author's) account of a German fighter who came up alongside Ye Olde Pub (literally wing to wing) well after most of the fighting. The fighter could have easily destroyed the heavily damaged bomber (hundreds of bullet holes riddled the lumbering plane from AA guns and attacks from between 13-15 German fighters - one observer described the plane as a "flying wind tunnel that looked like it had been designed by a Swiss cheese manufacturer."), but it didn't. The American pilot figured the 'audacious' German was out of ammunition and that he was merely curious. After flying beside the bomber for several minutes, the German pilot saluted, turned away, and wasn't seen again. Unfortunately, 'Ecky,' the tail gunner, was killed, and the 'Russian,' the waist gunner, was critically wounded (and upon arrival had to have his leg amputated). Amazingly, nobody else was critically injured (at least not physically).

A few decades later, researchers tracked down the German pilot, one Lt. Franz Stigler who during his career had flown 487 combat sorties and had shot down two B-17s earlier in the day. As it turned out, Stigler remembered the situation clearly and he most certainly was not out of ammo and could have readily destroyed Ye Olde Pub. Stigler, however, could not open fire (knowing that if his clemency were  discovered, he would be court-martialed), because, in his words:


"The B-17 was like a sieve and there was blood everywhere. I could see the crew were having a terrible time dealing with their wounded and struggling to stay in the air. I was amazed that the aircraft could fly. I saw two wounded men on board, rather than just the airplane, which was our normal target. It was one thing to shoot an airplane, but in this case I saw the men. I just couldn't do it. I thought to myself, how can I shoot something like that? I cannot kill these half dead people. It would be like shooting at a parachute.'


Stigler later described the plane as 'the most badly damaged aircraft I ever saw which was still flying.'


This account evinces the Hell and humanity of war at its starkest, but more importantly, it helps remind me how lucky I am in so many ways.

Bollocks, I got a job

Well, I think I did. I interviewed for it in March, then had a follow up in April. After some funding issues, they asked me if I'd be alright doing contract work (this was in May). That was actually preferable for me. Last talked to them in June (this is a Fortune 500 company, BTW), so figured things were dead in the water. Then last week, my contract recruiter contacts me and says it's back on...

Now, I'm halfway relieved. It's a good job... or at least it seems like one. I'll be doing some pretty cool stuff (R&D on laptops), but I'm also a bit sad b/c these past several months have given me plenty of writing time. (I've been doing some contract work here and there for my previous employer, but it's been part-time essentially).

Of course, I was hoping to hit it big w/ my first novel (an international phenomenon)... best laid plans and such :)... Anyways, in a couple of weeks I'll probably no longer be a SAHDWOK (Stay At Home Dude WithOut Kids :)... The type A, responsible side of me is elated, but the B side of me is gonna miss the freedom.

Wondering about Word Count

Proverb (Sudanese): A termite can do nothing to a stone but lick it. 

Lots of you writer folk have some sort of indicator detailing where you are in your WIPs (e.g., THE NON-TRUNKED, HOPE2B PUBBED SOON NOVEL - 24,758 / 55k). My question for those of you who do this:

How the heck do you know how long your book's gonna be?

Sure, I get that it's a ballpark estimate, and if you outline (Adam Heine's got a nice model), you'll probably be close. If you're an established author writing cookie cutter type novels, you're probably pretty good at estimates, too, but I'm on my 6th novel (the 3rd or 4th that I think has publishability) and I'm still horrible at guesstimating where I'm gonna end up even when I know exactly how the story's gonna plot out (just don't know the intermediate details - e.g., conversation lengths, extent of action, etc.).

For those of you who don't know where your story's gonna end (word count wise), do you find yourself running longer or shorter than you wanted (I tend to be on the short side nowadays), and why? 

Funny video for kids (kind of) - until the end ;)

Many  have probably seen this, but, if not, enjoy :)



Also, I'm not real big on awards (being a hermit in my castle and such), but I want to thank Steph and Renee for their recent kindnesses. I would pass on the awards, but I think everyone I know has one and we'd end up in a circular loop and everyone would be broke. I will list some info about myself that some may or may not know (in no particular order):

1.) In HS, I was one of 36 rowers selected to attend the US Rowing Junior National Camp
2.) I've played basketball w/ professional athletes from the NFL, NBA, & MLB
3.) I was born in Rio, Brasil
4.) I have an M.S. in Mechanical Engineering w/ emphasis in Controls & Dynamics (i.e., robotics) from Rice University (Houston, TX).
5.) I haven't voted in any election since 1996.
6.) Anubis is my dog, a willful creature who must constantly be reminded that I'm Alpha

Flashback Friday

British slang word of the day: Prat (noun): idiot, fool.
As many have you have probably noticed, this has been alliteration week...         I thought about Fugly Football  Fashion Friday  but ran out of ammo after going through my current home state and settled on something more fun. So, with no particular rhyme or reason, I've posted various nostalgic pics and vids that remind me of simpler times when the two towers still stood and I was responsible for nothing but getting dressed (which was usually a disaster):

Silverhawks (not quite Thundercats)

A commercial for the lasses:

Now one for the lads:

My first crush:

Or maybe her:


And the last random video, from a bit later, of a song I just randomly recently remembered (say that 5 times fast):



Have a great weekend.

Thursday Tirade - Holding out for a Hero

British slang word of the day: Bimble (verb): to wander aimlessly

Random news of the day: Google and Monopoly have joined up to create a massive online monopoly experience (warning: servers have been slow b/c the game was launched only yesterday)... On to the rant :)

There are certain words that are far overplayed in today's vernacular, particularly by media types, particularly media-types covering sporting events. Now, I can stomach the occasional superlative thrown here and there, but one that gets me going every time is the use of the word HERO. Recently, one of the commentators for the US Open ascribed this label to 17-year-old Melanie Oudin, a sparkplug of a player with a mostly happy-go-lucky attitude.

Now, while I appreciate Ms. Oudin's efforts to beat higher seeded players (which, unfortunately, ended last night) and enjoy her continued optimism in the sporting arena (something that is rare to see anymore, IMO), she is in no way a hero. Perhaps I'm a bit stricter in my definition than most, but I can think of very few athletes who are heroes (e.g., Pat Tillman). Yes, many are humanitarians (regulated or not by their governing sports), but I don't equate the two. Another time we frequently hear the 'hero' word used is when a family member saves other family members from some sort of tragedy (burning house, car accident, etc.)... I don't think this is heroism, exactly, either.

IMO, to be a hero, you've got to be willing to sacrifice yourself for a stranger at no benefit to yourself (other than perhaps affirmation of moral certitude). This doesn't necessarily mean putting yourself on death's doorstep (e.g., protecting the outcast from a group of bullies), though it frequently does (and what I love about most true heroes is the humility they show as evinced in the last paragraph of the article). Or, you've got to sacrifice yourself for the good of a group (known or unknown) and this usually does bring you face to face with Mr. Reaper (e.g., a SEAL throwing himself on a grenade to protect his fellow soldiers). As Matt pointed out, whenever there's a choice between saving someone else and saving themselves, heroes choose the former option (usually without hesitation).

That's one reason I enjoy books... you get to read about amazing heroes, not media darlings trumped up to appear so; however, there is nothing that tugs at my heart more than the real-life stories of true heroes (which no fictional account can ever capture, IMO), so unless we can come up with another word for real heroes, let's stop ascribing the term to everyone else who struggles to overcome adversity, injury, odds, etc. for self-serving purposes.

Writerly Wednesday - Editing

9/9/9 - The number of the devil's redheaded stepchild?

British slang phrase of the day: Face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle: very unattractive. (e.g., He's got a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle after that cackhander hit him upside the head with his tallywhacker)....

Back to the regularly scheduled programming...

I used to be someone who'd write the story and then edit at the end, and based on what I've seen at various writing forums, this seems to be the way loads of people do it.

I, however, no longer edit this way. After I write a section, I tend to start a few pages before said section and edit to the last word. Periodically, I'll start from the beginning of the story and do a read-through and edit everything along the way (which doesn't usually involve too much b/c I've already been editing). Now, the benefit I see in this is that the story stays quite fresh and I can readily add parallels/tangents/foreshadowing/etc. to previous sections or the current section. The drawback, as I see it, is that I might become a little too narrow-sighted in the process (that, and I won't know how to cut Stephen King's 10% :).

Ultimately, I think it takes more time to edit as you go, but I've liked the results better. I'm curious to know what others do and think. Cheers.

When do you Edit?

Tell Me Tuesday - Who Would You Kill?

British slang word of the day: Tallywhacker (noun): the male organ.


Okay, so this is an entry I submitted for Nathan Bransford's last guest blog week contest - before I even had a blog. I was doing a "You Tell Me" entry and I really liked my idea (no bias whatsoever :), so I'm re-posting it here.

Tell Me: Who Would You Kill?

Fictionally speaking, of course. Maybe it's just a baddie who never got his/her comeuppance. Or perhaps it's one of those cloying protags who annoys you beyond comprehension and needs to be put down. Or maybe it's one of those too stupid to live characters (e.g., horror movie chum) who manages to slip through the cracks.

For me, there's one character in particular I want to wipe from the pages - Nynaeve al'Meara from Robert Jordan's WOT series. First off, I can't pronounce her name. Second, like many of Jordan's women, she has excessively annoying habits like tugging on her braid (keep hoping she'll scalp herself), shifting her shawl, glaring, and/or stomping her feet when she doesn't get her way... a stereotypical spoiled nag. 

So, who would you kill?

I've already pissed someone off - surprise, surprise :p

Well, not really, but sort of unknowingly stepped on Jan O'Hara's clever toes and took a bit of her proverbial thunder - enough so to warrant a post for bloggers of my ilk :)

Movie Take Monday - The Wrestler

Happy Labor Day!


British slang word of the day: Cackhander (noun): a left handed person.


Movie Review: The Wrestler (available on DVD)
Starring: Mickey Rourke, Marisa Tomei
Director: Darren Aronofsky
Rated: R


Trailer:





I won't give a synopsis -- you can get that from Rotten Tomatoes or IMDB - but I wanted to write about my impression of this movie because my reaction is a bit different from most critics (for another artistic take, you can also view lit agent Nathan Bransford's take on the movie).


Here are some technical (i.e., why it's rated R, not things like lighting :) & artistic ratings (e.g., acting, directing, etc.). A higher technical value means there's more of it (e.g., 8/10 for Violence means there's a pretty good amount); a higher artistic value is a reflection of the quality of that metric:


Technical:                                            Artistic:
Violence:            7/10 (wrestling)          Acting:         7/10
Sex:                   8/10 (mostly nudity)    Directing:     8/10
Language:          5/10 (a few f-bombs)  Believability: 9/10
Mature Themes: 8/10 (drugs, life)         Likability:     2/10


Many people thought this movie was fantastic because, as Nathan Bransford said: One of the reasons this movie really resonated with me was because I thought it was a moving illustration of the lengths artists and athletes to go to live a life that's more than ordinary.... 


This in some way relates to the believability factor. The arc for Mickey Rourke's sad sack character (Randy the Ram) was quite predictable (a very good thing for realism). Five minutes in, you knew there wasn't going to be a happy ending. That's fine.


However, I didn't feel like the MC was going to extraordinary lengths to live an extraordinary life. He was going to extraordinary lengths (like wrestling after suffering a heart attack) because, like wrestling, that's all he knew how to do. Again, that's very realistic, but let's not put lipstick on this pig and call it a cat (i.e., he wasn't suffering for his art, he was suffering b/c he didn't know what else to do).


In part because of the MC's single-mindedness/singular ability, my main problem with the movie stems from its likability. To quote NB again:


Ultimately I think the power of the movie comes from the sympathy his quest generates.


Um, I never felt much sympathy for this guy. He tried to 'become a better person' - though mostly for selfish reasons - which garners some sympathy, but ultimately he failed (which, again, harkens back to good realism) and constantly needed both literal and figurative highs to get by. The MC was definitely a tortured artist, but he was by no means heroic in his quest for self-fulfillment. In the end, I had no sympathy for him b/c he forsook friends (a soon-to-be recovering stripper, of course) and family (his lesbian daughter). 


Thankfully, this wasn't an Oprahesque movie (like Crash, which, along with Paul Haggis, might be a rant topic one day) -- Aranofsky did a great job capturing reality -- but b/c I couldn't sympathize with the MC (though, at times, I could empathize), The Wrestler just didn't floor me.


Overall impression: 5/10


On a side note, I just saw a film last night that I'd highly recommend for those who like atmospheric sci-fi stories like 2001 and Solaris: the small budget (< 5 million $), barely heard of film Moon, starring Sam Rockwell.

Animals

Though they're not as in vogue these days, animal stories are some of my favorites to read -- whether they're adult stories (e.g., Animal Farm, Duncton Wood, Callanish) or kid stories (e.g., The Wind in the Willows, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Charlotte's Web, The Trumpet of the Swan, Babe - not a book, as far as I know, but loved the movie) doesn't matter.

There's some fairytale quality to these stories that resonates with me (even when the animals are nothing more than allegories to wicked Commis, like in Animal Farm). Now, I understand animals aren't as great as we often make them out to be (honestly, lots of dogs aren't excessively loyal - they're hungry and they need a place to sleep), but they tend to be more reliable/predictable/honest than humans.

Sure, we personify animals more than we probably should - usually with the simple, good traits - but because of their assumed simplicity, if you write an animal story, you can more likely get away with writing your protag as a Pollyanna or as the perfect hero. In today's literary world, only early readers books are geared toward that 'Glad Game' attitude. MG/YA books must incorporate reality... reality's a good thing, but sometime's it's nice to have an idyllic protagonistic apotheosis. Yes, you might not be able to directly relate to Mr. Squirrel, or Mrs. Cat, or Ms. Horse, but given the fact that 63% of US households have pets and more have had encounters with furry woodland creatures, that protag will make you think of some animal you know... and hopefully brighten your day. Have a good weekend (and now that I've read it a few times and my mental calendar's clicked in finally, I realize it's Labor Day weekend, so hopefully everyone can enjoy some extended down time).

My condolences

L.T. Host just lost a good four-legged friend of hers and, as you can imagine, is fairly distraught. Many of you can  relate to the sorrow that comes with losing an animal friend. So, if you have the time, stop on by and give your sympathies or just say hi. Thanks. Added the video below b/c I think it's the saddest/happiest song I know of...

Leaders and Followers and Wolves, Oh My

Okay, so until yesterday, I never "Followed" anybody. Some might view this as a 'too cool for school' sort of mentality; though my reasoning does indeed stem from school, I was the antithesis of cool. Thankfully, I don't have any pictures on my hard drive, but up until sophomore year (maybe junior if I'm being honest), I was that kid with turtle-shell glasses that took up half his face, long hair (straight hair, not cool curly or wavy hair), and high-water Dockers (and, no, I wasn't expecting a flood, TYVM)... Luckily, I went to a 'smart school,' where it was okay to be weird, but even there, I was a bit of an outcast...

And this led to me to always euphemize myself as a 'Lone Wolf.' I despised the clicks and almost as bad as the clicks were the followers of the clicks. The wannabes, posers, and hangers-on, who I always thought (and continue to think) were lamer than me even if they had a network of 'friends.'  I never wanted to be a leader or a follower (usually, I just wanted to be left alone).

Yeah, junior high & high school wrecked my future socialization potential and jaded me faster than's probably healthy, but I'd like to believe some of this stems from my own internal drumbeat that pushes me toward whatever destiny awaits me.

But sometimes I have epiphanies (not religion changing ones, but minor ones that remind me I'm not an android) - like: just b/c I think leadership is overrated (at least in the sense that the word is thrown around -- true leadership is phenomenal and you've either got it or you don't) and fad-followers are detrimental to evolution (I know, harsh), doesn't mean I should throw the baby out with the bath water (seriously, who the heck ever did that to incur this phrase?)

So, b/c I'm curious to know what others think (particularly if they're crazy and think differently than I do ;) and want to support their lone wolf struggles (b/c we all have them... and writing is an alpha-male in that pack), I'm gonna stop being a lurker (not in terms of commenting, but in terms of followership support). Because, as I realized yesterday, it's nice to be 'followed.' It may be a token gesture to follow or to be followed, but when someone's watching you, even from afar, there's some sort of comfort in that -- wolves howling to each other across the forest.