Over the years, it has come to my attention that the best thing ever is coming.
I remain skeptical, since the best thing ever was coming since the dawn of time.
Remember that time when technology was going to save us all from struggle, misery and death? Remember all those promises of flying cars, 1000 story skyscrapers, and unlimited lifespan? That was the 50s.
Remember the promises of a new age of peace, of a total end of all war and conflict, when all people will live together as brothers (and sisters), loving and hugging (and shagging) each other? That was the 60s.
Remember all those promises of Earth becoming Heaven and eternal bliss via afterlife? Remember when the end of days was coming? That was the first century AD, aka the story of Son of God.
But forget all that; THE NEW BEST THING EVER IS COMING, AND EVERYTHING WILL BE AMAZING FOREVER AND EVER AND NOTHING BAD WILL EVER HAPPEN AGAIN!
Surely that will happen!... Any year now......
Wait... what was my point?...
Ah, yes! Humanity is prone to becoming overly exited and getting drunk on its own anticipation and hype.
I personally do not believe in Utopias. There is no pleasure without pain, no happiness without shitty times. There is no eternal bliss. Good times will end, or not come at all. We will still have to work to gain and maintain our happiness, and no one and no thing will maintain it for us.
More Satyrday is coming, hopefully tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Monday, August 18, 2014
Dear Disney fans...
I cannot hold it back anymore.
I need to let it go.
Disney fans are akin to a herd of blindfolded sheep. They will gobble up anything that corporation puts up. They will claim that Disney products have something "magical" (whatever that means) inside them. They will buy all the merchandise, despite it being made in China. They will defend poorly written Disney movies, while overlooking better ones not released by Disney. They will watch every single video on YouTube even tangentially related to Frozen. That movie is mediocre visually, and has generally poor writing. It's not terrible, but it does not deserve millions of views. FOR FUCK'S SAKE, THE ILLUSIONIST IS A MILES BETTER ANIMATED MOVIE, AND IT IS NOT GETTING EVEN A QUARTER OF THOSE VIEWS!
Dear Disney fans. When will you stop supporting a corporation what holds back the animation medium? When will you stop backing up a corporation that mass produces generic family CRAP?
Dear Disney fans.
When will you take off the blindfold?
When will you start being critical of the movies you watch?
I know that it is a big scary world out there. It's scary, big, and unpredictable. Watching sub-par Disney movies helps you forget the horrors of reality. It helps create that sweet illusion that life is simple and always nice.
Dear Disney fans.
It is time to grow up. It is time to wise up. It is time to stop letting soulless corporations tell you what the world is like. It is time to stop others from thinking for you.
It is time to look for better alternatives.
I need to let it go.
Disney fans are akin to a herd of blindfolded sheep. They will gobble up anything that corporation puts up. They will claim that Disney products have something "magical" (whatever that means) inside them. They will buy all the merchandise, despite it being made in China. They will defend poorly written Disney movies, while overlooking better ones not released by Disney. They will watch every single video on YouTube even tangentially related to Frozen. That movie is mediocre visually, and has generally poor writing. It's not terrible, but it does not deserve millions of views. FOR FUCK'S SAKE, THE ILLUSIONIST IS A MILES BETTER ANIMATED MOVIE, AND IT IS NOT GETTING EVEN A QUARTER OF THOSE VIEWS!
Dear Disney fans. When will you stop supporting a corporation what holds back the animation medium? When will you stop backing up a corporation that mass produces generic family CRAP?
Dear Disney fans.
When will you take off the blindfold?
When will you start being critical of the movies you watch?
I know that it is a big scary world out there. It's scary, big, and unpredictable. Watching sub-par Disney movies helps you forget the horrors of reality. It helps create that sweet illusion that life is simple and always nice.
Dear Disney fans.
It is time to grow up. It is time to wise up. It is time to stop letting soulless corporations tell you what the world is like. It is time to stop others from thinking for you.
It is time to look for better alternatives.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Satyrday, a Fable. Tuesday, parts 5 & 6.
Several times he fell, slipping on the ice and drenching himself in the freezing water, but he picked himself up and ran on, chasing the beautiful creature who melted into the distance. He didn't feel the cold; it was as though all the contingencies of landscape and weather had evaporated, and all that mattered was the image he pursued, the steady healthy flow of his heart. Behind him, Derin's cries faded as the boy stumbled through the swamp, falling further and further behind.
Derin was so tired and cold he thought of flinging himself into the icy water and resting there until he froze, but continued the mad chase after Matthew. The cedars ascended on all sides, tall and lordly, like druids. Derin's legs ached from the cold, but he dared not rest, frightened he would lose sight of the satyr, and then really be lost in the depths of the swamp.
What had gotten into Matthew? The boy had expected a slow and cautious trek across this wasteland, and instead, here they were, the two of them, rushing through it with as little thought as one would give who had thrown himself from a precipice. And this blind running was like that: the wind whipped Derin's face so that he imagined he was falling, and he almost closed his eyes and relaxed into the luxury of the dive, not having to do a thing but wait until he hit the bottom.
He ran through a maze, constantly ducking and swerving; his face was scratched by the cedar branches he sought to avoid. Whenever he thought he saw a clear avenue to follow his friend's advance, a thicket of wild pepperbush got in his way. In and out of the water he ran, up one hillock and down again into the water. The swamp was crisscrossed by fallen trunks, and red maple and tupelo flared at him as he ran, reaching to put out his eyes.
In his haste, he became more careless. He vaulted a fallen cedar, his right leg stretched in front, toe pointed, his left trailing over the tree-trunk. On the other side, a stretch of water lay, the ice inches below the surface. His leg, the right one, hit first, and, coming down upon that ice from the vault's height, slipped out from under him. Desperately he tried to regain his balance, but he went down on his back, sending a wave of water in front of him, into a cedar root. It caught his foot and ankle, but the rest of his body would not be braked so easily.
Like flames, the pain raced up his leg and into his groin. He groaned and lay flat in the water as the wave he had started splashed against a hummock and returned to wash over him. The cold was forgotten, Matthew was forgotten. His eyes clamped shut, his teeth bit down on his lower lip with such force he tasted blood. He was afraid to open his eyes and look, afraid to see his foot no longer connected to the rest of his leg.
When he felt the ice begin to form in his hair, Derin knew he had to get out of the water. He raised his head, opened his eyes, and looked. The ankle was huge, a gnarled knot, part of the cedar root.
"Matthew!" he yelled. But the satyr had long since vanished from view and the only thing he heard, receding into the distance, was Matthew's muffled plunge forward. And then he heard nothing at all.
Derin was stunned by the density of the silence. It had a presence of its own, a thick, almost palpable texture, like fog. The trees guarded the stillness which magnified itself when he raised his head and looked around, until the sound of water dripping from his hair was like a cascade, a waterfall.
The disparity between that silence and the racket he made when he moved immobilized the boy. He was afraid to shift his arm, to sit up. Each time he jostled, the sound of water rippling away from him resounded through the swamp, echoing from the cedars and the hummocks until he was deafened by his own faltering movement. He couldn't speak, much less yell: the thought of his own voice calling out in that stillness filled him with awe.
Gathering his strength, Derin sat up, stretched forward, and put his hands around his ankle. An arrow of pain shot through his body again, and he groaned. The ankle and lower calf were so tender he could barely touch them. He closed his eyes again and settled back; the pain was increasing. It was as though some animal, a bear or a panther, had him by the leg, tight in its strong jaws, and was holding fast. He imagined the teeth biting down, crunching through bone, severing his foot from his leg.
"Spirit of life," Derin said. Around him, the swamp whirled. In his delirium, trees toppled, sending walls of cold water over him. Beneath him, the earth opened, the ice cracked, draining all water away until he was in last night's bed of pine.
But the illusion didn't last. There was no use. He was being swallowed. He felt a great darkness in his ankle, a rush of night beginning to sweep up his leg toward hi heart. "Spirit of death," derin whispered. "Let go, let go!"
The hole in his chest slowly closed. He felt the darkness waver at his knee and ebb down at his ankle. The grip on his wracked foot subsided and then gave up altogether. He opened his eyes. He could feel nothing but the pain, and as his eyes moved over his freezing body, down his leg, he saw them.
Near his ankle, their heads sloping from the water, frogs had gathered. But they were larger than frogs. Their skin was a dull black, their mouths gaped open, and the section of underbelly visible above the water was mottled with dense blue spots like bruises. Their red eyes stared at him without blinking, glittered like rubies in the gloom.
Derin caught his breath, involuntarily pulling his leg toward him. THe cedar root held fast and pain shot up his leg again. His moaned low in his throat, and for the first time, the frogs moved, slightly away. Where had they come from? The boy tried to calm himself long enough to remember if he'd heard anything as he'd run through the water, the croak of a frog, a bird's song. No, there had been nothing; if these creatures made a sound, they were hideously silent now.
When he lay still, they moved toward his ankle again, so smoothly they seemed to be floating. The water swayed away from them, a slight bulge in its dark surface, and as they approached, the boy thought he saw their mouths open further. There was no doubt: whatever these creatures were, they belonged to the owl. Their damp skin shone in the gloom, and their eyes burned, seven pairs of bright red embers coming toward him.
"Get away!" he screamed, thrashing, throwing water at them with his hands. They shrunk at the noise, and the churning swamp, so still before, kept them at bay. As soon as he stopped, the frogs inched toward him again. He began to babble, saying whatever came into his head, anything to keep noise alive in the air. He talked about the meadowlands, about his childhood, and his mind was flooded with memories he hadn't thought about in years. They hunched there, underbellies pulsing, patiently waiting for him to be quiet again.
He closed his eyes, but down on his lower lip, and tried to wrench his ankle loose. The pain was so intense, the boy thought he would pass out. Instead, he gave vent to his terror and anguish and screamed. His cries came back to him, echoing off the cedar trunks, breaking the swamp's stillness. Derin sat up, grabbed his knee with both hands, and pulled again. This time he felt something give, as though he'd torn his foot loose. Close to his ankle the trunk of the cedar grew. Around it, roots spread out like mangroves, slimy fingers. And there in the water, free of the cedar, his ankle lay inches from the trunk.
Derin pulled himself up on one of the moss-covered hillocks, out of the water. His ankle throbbed brutally. He lay there, encompassed by pain, and watched the frogs approach. They crested the root which had caught his ankle, they surged forward to where his body had been, and stopped, several feet from the hillock, still in the water, and sat there staring at him. Derin looked behind him for a stick, for a rock. "Stay away," he said, his voice low. "Don't come near me."
As his body began to thaw, he felt tiny fires being lit within him. He was like a dark plain on which battling armies had settled in for the night. Without taking his eyes from the frogs, Derin tried to massage some blood back into his legs. His body felt dead, the carcass of an animal he hadn't seen before. He looked in the direction he'd been running when he slipped. A vista of of hillocks and cedar receded as far as he could see. In the other direction, past the fallen log he'd vaulted, the same landscape repeated itself endlessly. No variation in light gave a clue to direction; nothing looked familiar to him.
He'd taken no notice if his surroundings as he'd thrown himself forward. His only compass had been Matthew's back as he ran through the swamp. Above him, the trees disappeared into the gray sky, dwindling into sparser and sparser foliage until their spindly tops stuck into the air like spears.
The pain in his ankle spread until he was sure he could hear it in the swamp, like the ice's heartbeat. It grew out of everywhere. It was inside his skull and outside. "Stay away," he screamed. "Get away from here!" But this time his voice didn't stop them.
* * *
Matthew was unaware that Derin's cries of "Stop!" and "Slow down!" had ceased. He no longer heard the splash of water behind him, but that didn't slacken his pace. He was possessed. He would find her if it took the rest of the day, the rest of his life.
The nymph constantly eluded him. She glanced over her shoulder to see if he had gained on her, but every toss of her head threw her hair toward him, transfixing him, deepening his purpose in catching her. She darted under cover of pepperbush thickets, glided over the swamp's surface as if she ran on the water itself. She disappeared and reappeared with disconcerting frequency, so that Matthew never knew where his legs would carry him. He was breathless with anticipation; he ached to hold her.
She slipped among a copse of cedars. As Matthew splashed forward, he strained to see beyond the thicket to catch a glimpse of her, and he saw nothing but the swamp. He was filled with elevation. He had worn her out, and any moment, as soon as he rounded this tree he would have her, her would. . . .
Languorously perched on a hummock, her paws drooped over the edge, a silver fox stared at him. She sat there like a snow drift, placid and serene. For one second, Matthew considered asking whether the fox had seen a young woman pass this way, but Vera spoke before he could say anything.
"What have you done with the boy?" she asked. "I'm afraid you've lost him."
Matthew stood there, his chest heaving, overcome with disappointment at this unexpected conclusion. He should be wrestling the nymph, her laughter filling the swamp like a company of bells. "What do you mean? I haven't done anything with the boy."
"Precisely," the fox said. "I'm sorry, but we'll have to go back." She got up, placed her front paws before her, and stretched. Her back rippled from one end to another. She padded past the satyr and into the water, which came almost to her chest. "Come on," she urged. "We haven't got all day."
Matthew was dumbfounded. Where was the nymph? And how did the fox know about the boy? As he calmed, as his breathing returned to normal, his delusion hit him. There had been no nymph. He had run madly through the swamp, never looking back, and the boy, who had been thrashing after him, was now lost. He had left the boy behind. He cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted "Derin!" but fragmented syllables came back at him, an accusation.
"I don't think he can hear you," the fox said. "If my guess is correct, he's quite a ways back. I thought he'd catch up." As though there were nothing abnormal in her presence, Vera surged through the water. Her head was held high, and water rippled backwards making an inverted V.
"Now wait just a minute," the satyr said. "You?" he asked incredulously. "Was it you?"
The fox looked back over her shoulder and paused for a moment. "My name is Vera," she said, "at your service."
* * *
This seems like a nice point to pause, doesn't it?
Derin was so tired and cold he thought of flinging himself into the icy water and resting there until he froze, but continued the mad chase after Matthew. The cedars ascended on all sides, tall and lordly, like druids. Derin's legs ached from the cold, but he dared not rest, frightened he would lose sight of the satyr, and then really be lost in the depths of the swamp.
What had gotten into Matthew? The boy had expected a slow and cautious trek across this wasteland, and instead, here they were, the two of them, rushing through it with as little thought as one would give who had thrown himself from a precipice. And this blind running was like that: the wind whipped Derin's face so that he imagined he was falling, and he almost closed his eyes and relaxed into the luxury of the dive, not having to do a thing but wait until he hit the bottom.
He ran through a maze, constantly ducking and swerving; his face was scratched by the cedar branches he sought to avoid. Whenever he thought he saw a clear avenue to follow his friend's advance, a thicket of wild pepperbush got in his way. In and out of the water he ran, up one hillock and down again into the water. The swamp was crisscrossed by fallen trunks, and red maple and tupelo flared at him as he ran, reaching to put out his eyes.
In his haste, he became more careless. He vaulted a fallen cedar, his right leg stretched in front, toe pointed, his left trailing over the tree-trunk. On the other side, a stretch of water lay, the ice inches below the surface. His leg, the right one, hit first, and, coming down upon that ice from the vault's height, slipped out from under him. Desperately he tried to regain his balance, but he went down on his back, sending a wave of water in front of him, into a cedar root. It caught his foot and ankle, but the rest of his body would not be braked so easily.
Like flames, the pain raced up his leg and into his groin. He groaned and lay flat in the water as the wave he had started splashed against a hummock and returned to wash over him. The cold was forgotten, Matthew was forgotten. His eyes clamped shut, his teeth bit down on his lower lip with such force he tasted blood. He was afraid to open his eyes and look, afraid to see his foot no longer connected to the rest of his leg.
When he felt the ice begin to form in his hair, Derin knew he had to get out of the water. He raised his head, opened his eyes, and looked. The ankle was huge, a gnarled knot, part of the cedar root.
"Matthew!" he yelled. But the satyr had long since vanished from view and the only thing he heard, receding into the distance, was Matthew's muffled plunge forward. And then he heard nothing at all.
Derin was stunned by the density of the silence. It had a presence of its own, a thick, almost palpable texture, like fog. The trees guarded the stillness which magnified itself when he raised his head and looked around, until the sound of water dripping from his hair was like a cascade, a waterfall.
The disparity between that silence and the racket he made when he moved immobilized the boy. He was afraid to shift his arm, to sit up. Each time he jostled, the sound of water rippling away from him resounded through the swamp, echoing from the cedars and the hummocks until he was deafened by his own faltering movement. He couldn't speak, much less yell: the thought of his own voice calling out in that stillness filled him with awe.
Gathering his strength, Derin sat up, stretched forward, and put his hands around his ankle. An arrow of pain shot through his body again, and he groaned. The ankle and lower calf were so tender he could barely touch them. He closed his eyes again and settled back; the pain was increasing. It was as though some animal, a bear or a panther, had him by the leg, tight in its strong jaws, and was holding fast. He imagined the teeth biting down, crunching through bone, severing his foot from his leg.
"Spirit of life," Derin said. Around him, the swamp whirled. In his delirium, trees toppled, sending walls of cold water over him. Beneath him, the earth opened, the ice cracked, draining all water away until he was in last night's bed of pine.
But the illusion didn't last. There was no use. He was being swallowed. He felt a great darkness in his ankle, a rush of night beginning to sweep up his leg toward hi heart. "Spirit of death," derin whispered. "Let go, let go!"
The hole in his chest slowly closed. He felt the darkness waver at his knee and ebb down at his ankle. The grip on his wracked foot subsided and then gave up altogether. He opened his eyes. He could feel nothing but the pain, and as his eyes moved over his freezing body, down his leg, he saw them.
Near his ankle, their heads sloping from the water, frogs had gathered. But they were larger than frogs. Their skin was a dull black, their mouths gaped open, and the section of underbelly visible above the water was mottled with dense blue spots like bruises. Their red eyes stared at him without blinking, glittered like rubies in the gloom.
Derin caught his breath, involuntarily pulling his leg toward him. THe cedar root held fast and pain shot up his leg again. His moaned low in his throat, and for the first time, the frogs moved, slightly away. Where had they come from? The boy tried to calm himself long enough to remember if he'd heard anything as he'd run through the water, the croak of a frog, a bird's song. No, there had been nothing; if these creatures made a sound, they were hideously silent now.
When he lay still, they moved toward his ankle again, so smoothly they seemed to be floating. The water swayed away from them, a slight bulge in its dark surface, and as they approached, the boy thought he saw their mouths open further. There was no doubt: whatever these creatures were, they belonged to the owl. Their damp skin shone in the gloom, and their eyes burned, seven pairs of bright red embers coming toward him.
"Get away!" he screamed, thrashing, throwing water at them with his hands. They shrunk at the noise, and the churning swamp, so still before, kept them at bay. As soon as he stopped, the frogs inched toward him again. He began to babble, saying whatever came into his head, anything to keep noise alive in the air. He talked about the meadowlands, about his childhood, and his mind was flooded with memories he hadn't thought about in years. They hunched there, underbellies pulsing, patiently waiting for him to be quiet again.
He closed his eyes, but down on his lower lip, and tried to wrench his ankle loose. The pain was so intense, the boy thought he would pass out. Instead, he gave vent to his terror and anguish and screamed. His cries came back to him, echoing off the cedar trunks, breaking the swamp's stillness. Derin sat up, grabbed his knee with both hands, and pulled again. This time he felt something give, as though he'd torn his foot loose. Close to his ankle the trunk of the cedar grew. Around it, roots spread out like mangroves, slimy fingers. And there in the water, free of the cedar, his ankle lay inches from the trunk.
Derin pulled himself up on one of the moss-covered hillocks, out of the water. His ankle throbbed brutally. He lay there, encompassed by pain, and watched the frogs approach. They crested the root which had caught his ankle, they surged forward to where his body had been, and stopped, several feet from the hillock, still in the water, and sat there staring at him. Derin looked behind him for a stick, for a rock. "Stay away," he said, his voice low. "Don't come near me."
As his body began to thaw, he felt tiny fires being lit within him. He was like a dark plain on which battling armies had settled in for the night. Without taking his eyes from the frogs, Derin tried to massage some blood back into his legs. His body felt dead, the carcass of an animal he hadn't seen before. He looked in the direction he'd been running when he slipped. A vista of of hillocks and cedar receded as far as he could see. In the other direction, past the fallen log he'd vaulted, the same landscape repeated itself endlessly. No variation in light gave a clue to direction; nothing looked familiar to him.
He'd taken no notice if his surroundings as he'd thrown himself forward. His only compass had been Matthew's back as he ran through the swamp. Above him, the trees disappeared into the gray sky, dwindling into sparser and sparser foliage until their spindly tops stuck into the air like spears.
The pain in his ankle spread until he was sure he could hear it in the swamp, like the ice's heartbeat. It grew out of everywhere. It was inside his skull and outside. "Stay away," he screamed. "Get away from here!" But this time his voice didn't stop them.
* * *
Matthew was unaware that Derin's cries of "Stop!" and "Slow down!" had ceased. He no longer heard the splash of water behind him, but that didn't slacken his pace. He was possessed. He would find her if it took the rest of the day, the rest of his life.
The nymph constantly eluded him. She glanced over her shoulder to see if he had gained on her, but every toss of her head threw her hair toward him, transfixing him, deepening his purpose in catching her. She darted under cover of pepperbush thickets, glided over the swamp's surface as if she ran on the water itself. She disappeared and reappeared with disconcerting frequency, so that Matthew never knew where his legs would carry him. He was breathless with anticipation; he ached to hold her.
She slipped among a copse of cedars. As Matthew splashed forward, he strained to see beyond the thicket to catch a glimpse of her, and he saw nothing but the swamp. He was filled with elevation. He had worn her out, and any moment, as soon as he rounded this tree he would have her, her would. . . .
Languorously perched on a hummock, her paws drooped over the edge, a silver fox stared at him. She sat there like a snow drift, placid and serene. For one second, Matthew considered asking whether the fox had seen a young woman pass this way, but Vera spoke before he could say anything.
"What have you done with the boy?" she asked. "I'm afraid you've lost him."
Matthew stood there, his chest heaving, overcome with disappointment at this unexpected conclusion. He should be wrestling the nymph, her laughter filling the swamp like a company of bells. "What do you mean? I haven't done anything with the boy."
"Precisely," the fox said. "I'm sorry, but we'll have to go back." She got up, placed her front paws before her, and stretched. Her back rippled from one end to another. She padded past the satyr and into the water, which came almost to her chest. "Come on," she urged. "We haven't got all day."
Matthew was dumbfounded. Where was the nymph? And how did the fox know about the boy? As he calmed, as his breathing returned to normal, his delusion hit him. There had been no nymph. He had run madly through the swamp, never looking back, and the boy, who had been thrashing after him, was now lost. He had left the boy behind. He cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted "Derin!" but fragmented syllables came back at him, an accusation.
"I don't think he can hear you," the fox said. "If my guess is correct, he's quite a ways back. I thought he'd catch up." As though there were nothing abnormal in her presence, Vera surged through the water. Her head was held high, and water rippled backwards making an inverted V.
"Now wait just a minute," the satyr said. "You?" he asked incredulously. "Was it you?"
The fox looked back over her shoulder and paused for a moment. "My name is Vera," she said, "at your service."
* * *
This seems like a nice point to pause, doesn't it?
Saturday, August 2, 2014
The misunderstanding of "logical fallacy".
You heard about straw men and red herrings countless times. Those of you who know what those things mean, probably assume they are bad strategies, and people who use them are wrong.
No, YOU are wrong.
A logical fallacy is an assumption that a particular strategy will win you the argument every single time. If used well, however, a strategy commonly considered "fallacy" can be the key to winning the debate.
For example: just because something is "natural" does not mean it is good for you. Various infections, many toxins, most venoms are natural, and yet deadly. That's appeal to nature for you. However, organic food is very much natural, and it is way better for you than Doritos and Mountain Dew.
Just because something is old does not mean it's better. A newer form of medicine may very well be better than bloodletting (which is retarded no matter how you look). That's appeal to age for you. However, acupuncture and tradition chinese medicine can, in the right hands, outperform the latest pill you pay thousands of dollars for.
You can accuse your attacker of cheating on his wife. But that will not change the fact you urinated on his lawn. That's an... interesting take on red herring for you. However, the dumbass who kept criticizing your tastes in music for two hours might only be angry because he hasn't gotten laid in a while. If you bring that up, it might be a red herring, but it is also true.
... I guess I cannot defend straw man here. Lying about your opposition is never right.
Oh, and what do you know... there is an actual song called "Man of Straw": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wrx-NXStJC0
P.S. More Satyrday is coming!
No, YOU are wrong.
A logical fallacy is an assumption that a particular strategy will win you the argument every single time. If used well, however, a strategy commonly considered "fallacy" can be the key to winning the debate.
For example: just because something is "natural" does not mean it is good for you. Various infections, many toxins, most venoms are natural, and yet deadly. That's appeal to nature for you. However, organic food is very much natural, and it is way better for you than Doritos and Mountain Dew.
Just because something is old does not mean it's better. A newer form of medicine may very well be better than bloodletting (which is retarded no matter how you look). That's appeal to age for you. However, acupuncture and tradition chinese medicine can, in the right hands, outperform the latest pill you pay thousands of dollars for.
You can accuse your attacker of cheating on his wife. But that will not change the fact you urinated on his lawn. That's an... interesting take on red herring for you. However, the dumbass who kept criticizing your tastes in music for two hours might only be angry because he hasn't gotten laid in a while. If you bring that up, it might be a red herring, but it is also true.
... I guess I cannot defend straw man here. Lying about your opposition is never right.
Oh, and what do you know... there is an actual song called "Man of Straw": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wrx-NXStJC0
P.S. More Satyrday is coming!
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Satyrday, a Fable. Tuesday, parts 3 & 4.
As the fox watched from a copse of pine, the boy and the satyr packed their belongings. Deirdre continued to hover above them, still petulant. "Deirdre," Matthew said. "You're carrying on like a flustered child. That rock had nothing to do with you. You don't understand."
"What's to understand?" the raven asked. "I don't take kindly to slurs on my intelligence."
Matthew stood up and faced her, and she flew higher into the air as if he might try to do her more damage. "He's the one with the temper," Matthew said.
"Couldn't prove it by me," Deirdre replied.
"Listen," Matthew said. "Enough's enough." He stuck his arm out, turned his hand sideways. "Come here."
"Why?" the raven asked, suspicious. "Why should I trust you?"
"Because of all those kind thoughts you had about me. Because of all those times you rode on my shoulder."
Deirdre peered at the satyr, could discern no ulterior purpose in his expression. Cautiously she fluttered down and perched upon his finger, ready to fly off at a moment's notice.
"There," Matthew said. The raven was silent, her expression still peevish.
"Well," Deirdre said, turning her beak away. "If you can't trust your friends, who can you trust?"
The satyr laughed. He brought his arm around until he forced the raven to look at him. With his other hand, he reached up and stroked the sleek top of her head. "All right?" he asked.
"Just be careful," Deirdre said. Remember you're about to enter the Outer Lands. Who knows what outposts the owl has there?"
The three of them, two by ground and one by air, approached the first wall of cedars at the swamp's edge. "Good-bye." the raven called. "I've got to go. I'll get back when . . . whenever I can." She left them, flying west. She dabbled in the wind above the swamp, did a loop-the-loop, and took off toward the Deadwood Forest in a straight line.
The fox crept closer, staying near the ground, keeping herself hidden from them. She thought of the trouble they would have in the swamp, for even the satyr had no idea how things have changed since the owl's power had penetrated east. She darted behind the cedars and approached them from their dark curtain.
"Stay behind me, now," the satyr said. "Can't tell what we'll find in there." He shielded his eyes and tried to peer into the gloom, but all he saw was water, the fallen cedar trunks, and the ooze gathered at the water's edge before the earth heaved itself into moss-strewn hummocks.
Matthew looked up at the towering cedars before him. "Did you see anything in there yesterday?" he asked the boy. "Did you hear any noise?"
"No," Darin said. "Nothing but water."
The cedars stretched their tall grooved trunks so far above Matthew they made him dizzy. He contemplated their lacy reticulated tops. They were strange trees, without needles or leaves, with a network of thin green fingers which touched one another like feathers and filtered what little light there was until it fell around him in a dense web. The light was refracted as if through droplets of water, prisms suspended in the air.
The world was about to swallow them: they would pass through this curtain of cedar and the life they had known would close behind them. From this point, the future would be a series of doors leading from one strange room to a stranger one which lay beyond. It was like part of that dream–"A dream," the satyr said aloud–and the sound of his voice in that stillness heartened him.
"What?" Derin asked.
"I said, 'What are we waiting for?' We might as well be walking, as standing here."
He took a step and passed through the outer ring of cedars into the water. He left the solid ground behind, its outer bank a heap of dead leaves and matted dirt, held together by roots. Under the water, which was insufferably cold, lay the ice. His hooves slithered away from him, threatening to throw him, body and pack, flat on his back in the icy wetness.
Derin followed. He held his arms out to either side to give him better balance. There was no sound in the swamp but their sloshing. They didn't talk, using all their concentration on the task of staying upright. After a fifteen-foot passage which seemed to congeal his blood, Matthew reached a moss-covered hummock and climbed from the water.
"Look at my legs," he shouted, his voice too loud. Derin was astounded to see ice on the fleece above the satyr's hooves. "We're going to have to move fast," the satyr said, "or we'll freeze in here. One step and our feet will hold fast to the bottom and we'll end it all, waving our fool arms and yelling at the sky."
He was about to strip branches from a fallen cedar when he saw her. She appeared from behind a very large trunk, a hundred yards ahead of him. Her skin was white as milk and her soft silver hair thrown back from her shoulders revealed the most spectacular collarbone he had ever seen. He was galvanized, standing there in the icy water. His eyes widened and he involuntarily grabbed for her, but she was so far away he smiled at the ludicrous move.
"After all these years," he whispered, letting his breath drain from his body. "I'm more deranged than I knew."
But what an apparition! She was lovely, pure grace, with a flirtatious pursing of her lips which made Matthew shiver with pleasure instead of cold.
He forgot the ice in his fleece; he forgot the treachery of the water beneath him. He was transformed. He took off after her like a bee in search of pollen. His legs sprouted wings. He danced above the surface of the swamp like a madman. Derin was astonished.
"Matthew!" he screamed. "Wait for me!"
* * *
As good as his word, the owl had sent three falcons back to gag the moon before nightfall of the previous day, and they came again at dawn to ungag her. They were respectful, and they left her alone after completing their errand. She sat in her cage, surveying the forest, the grey sky, the stark black trunks of the trees. How much longer could this go on?
The moon was beginning to feel slightly crazed. She had talked, for these past two days, only to the owl, and she had been cooped up here when before the wide expanses of sky had been her domain. She ached with disuse and (she had to admit it) with loneliness. She even would have welcomed another conversation with the owl, but she had not seen him since he had left her the day before.
The section of forest in which she hung was deserted, except for those unseen presences the owl had warned her about. But she wouldn't talk to an unseen presence; it would be like talking to herself, and she couldn't allow herself to slip like that. Not so much as a mouse had crossed the clearing below her. The air was silent, untouched by mosquitoes or flies, and except for the thin arrow of an occasional bird passing overhead, the moon was completely alone. So she was pleased when the three ravens descended from the sky and settled around her on the branches of her cage.
"Good morning," she said civilly, trying to keep her pleasure in the visit absent from her voice.
Two of the ravens looked at one another and back at the moon. The third, whose red eyes glittered with a wicked fire, flew to the ground and returned with a pointed stick. He circled the cage once and came up behind her. She whirled to face him, and the other two immediately began to chatter.
"Good morning," one of them said.
"A beautiful morning," the other said. "Wind from the southwest. Makes you glad to be alive."
The raven jabbed his stick through the oaken branches and feinted at the moon. She retreated to the furthest reaches of the cage until the harsh bark scraped her. The other two were breathing down her back, and for an instant, she thought one of them might try to peck at her, but instead their mindless chatter came pouring into her ears.
"The cage a little too close for comfort?" one asked, and the other answered, as if the question was addressed to him. The one with the stick jabbed repeatedly and flew around to join the others, and so the moon retreated again, more aware each instant of the closeness of her quarters.
There was no escape if they decided to take her on in earnest; she would have no chance if all three grabbed sticks and came at her. But they seemed to be enjoying the situation as it unfolded, and neither of the two who spat their inanities on the morning air were inclined to arm themselves, preferring to sit there and watch the third, who uttered not a word.
She tried to think of something clever to say, to alarm them or distract them, but her mind was such a jumble of fear and anger that nothing coherent formed.
She concentrated on the stick. It came at her from every interstice of branch until it was a blur and she was sick with dizziness. Just when she thought she wouldn't last another minute, the ravens began to tire of their game; the one who had taunted her dropped the stick. The three flew off, drifting in the air above her, throwing down a few more insults before they disappeared from view.
By the time the moon had regained her composure, and the knot in her stomach had reduced to a small displeasure, she was in an ugly mood. She raged at the empty forest, and is she had gotten her wish, destruction would have rained down around her. She called brimstone and fire, thunderstorms, tornadoes, every disaster weather could deliver. But the placid greyness of the sky did not change, the ground beneath her gave no evidence of a beginning rumble, and she finally fumed herself to silence.
She had reached the point of despair when the other raven arrived, wheeling in the air above her, dropping down like a silent black feather. As she saw the bird descend, she felt the words well in her throat again and she spewed forth venomous diatribes against all winged and feathered creatures, against all beasts which crept or galloped or slithered on the earth. The raven sat, patiently waiting for her to stop, but the very calmness of the bird further incensed the moon.
"You scurrilous, lice-ridden, winged contraption," the moon seethed. "You cowardly piece of fluff and bone. Wait until I am free of this cage. Pestilence will be visited upon this forest from that day until all ages have passed, and not one of you shall ever raise a brood again; worms will shrink from your beaks and you'll fall dead from hunger and thirst. Streams will dry up at your approach, and the other animals will kick your dead carcasses with disgust. You will be less than the rocks; you will rot to form leaf mold. . . ." The moon gasped for breath and reeled in her cage. She was so red of face the raven thought she might explode, and jumped to get a word in before the torrent of frustration continued.
"If you will hold your tongue for a moment. . . ." Deirdre said, but the moon ran ramshackle over her imploring voice. "Your bones will be used to pick the teeth of weasels and vermin, annd therever you die, ratsbane will rear its head. You will be known. . . ."
Deirdre fixed the moon with a deadly look, a gaze compounded of such long-suffering patience and slowly building violence that she stopped her ranting and waited for the bird to speak.
"And not a moment too soon," the raven said. "I'm not one to lose my temper, but you were sorely tempting me. I would have given you another minute before I flew away and left you to disintegrate in this forsaken place."
"Who are you?" the moon asked. "What do you want?"
"My name is Deirdre–not that it;s of any use to you–and I am attempting to extricate you from this abominable situation. Now, no more questions, there isn't time."
"No, no," she said. "This is too much. I can bear your taunts and jibes, but please, I beg you, don't torture me with this. Just go in peace and leave me be." The moon drew a long deep breath and let it out so quietly it was like a breeze which ripples the highest branches of the firs at sundown. And the turned her back on Deirdre and closed her eyes.
Deirdre lost her temper. She flew into the air and made such a racket clattering her wings that the moon opened her eyes and looked at the bird. The raven seemed to be having a fit. Her eyes rolled in her head, her neck jerked, her wings beat unevenly in the grey silent air. But she landed again, close to the moon, and her voice had no patience left in it.
"I can't take this whimpering prattle. Self-pity infuriates me. I don't yet know how your rescue will be accomplished, but I'm determined that you shall be liberated. Right now, two . . . uh . . . collaborators–a boy and a satyr–are on their way to this forest to engineer your escape.
"I tell you this to build your courage. You're not alone in wishing for your freedom. You must take heart. I'll come again if I can. At the moment, I'm playing the role of a transcontinental carrier pigeon, and I have an entrance very soon somewhere else. So I haven't time to stay and chat. Just remember who you are."
The moon was astonished by this speech. No one had ever spoken to her so familiarly, without the slightest trace of respect. Even the owl in his hyperbolic poetical speech gave her some measure of her stature. But here this stranger sat and bid her keep her chin up.
"Do you have anything to say?" the raven asked. The moon could do no better than to shake her head. "Well, maintain your strength. Stay as cheerful as possible. Keep an ear open for anything you think might be helpful," Deirdre said. "And please. Don't talk to me again as you did a while ago. It has a vanquishing effect upon my determination to help you."
She was gone before the moon could offer apologies or thanks. But in the afterglow of Deirdre's visit, she practically beamed with joy. It was not even the possibility of her freedom which affected her so; it was more complicated. Never before had she needed the help of anyone, and now when she did, she felt a new emotion at the knowledge that there were creatures out there working on her behalf.
She felt both bigger and smaller than herself, as though, for the first time, she understood the outlines of her silver form when viewed from the earth. There was great value in that, and great misunderstanding. She knew that when the falcons came again to gag her she would offer no resistance, but submit, as sweetly as possible, to their hooded smiles.
* * *
Apologies for a late submission again. If I were a better person, with a stronger will, and better at managing time, I would post at least 3 chapters a week. But I just aren't any of that. Which is a shame :(
"What's to understand?" the raven asked. "I don't take kindly to slurs on my intelligence."
Matthew stood up and faced her, and she flew higher into the air as if he might try to do her more damage. "He's the one with the temper," Matthew said.
"Couldn't prove it by me," Deirdre replied.
"Listen," Matthew said. "Enough's enough." He stuck his arm out, turned his hand sideways. "Come here."
"Why?" the raven asked, suspicious. "Why should I trust you?"
"Because of all those kind thoughts you had about me. Because of all those times you rode on my shoulder."
Deirdre peered at the satyr, could discern no ulterior purpose in his expression. Cautiously she fluttered down and perched upon his finger, ready to fly off at a moment's notice.
"There," Matthew said. The raven was silent, her expression still peevish.
"Well," Deirdre said, turning her beak away. "If you can't trust your friends, who can you trust?"
The satyr laughed. He brought his arm around until he forced the raven to look at him. With his other hand, he reached up and stroked the sleek top of her head. "All right?" he asked.
"Just be careful," Deirdre said. Remember you're about to enter the Outer Lands. Who knows what outposts the owl has there?"
The three of them, two by ground and one by air, approached the first wall of cedars at the swamp's edge. "Good-bye." the raven called. "I've got to go. I'll get back when . . . whenever I can." She left them, flying west. She dabbled in the wind above the swamp, did a loop-the-loop, and took off toward the Deadwood Forest in a straight line.
The fox crept closer, staying near the ground, keeping herself hidden from them. She thought of the trouble they would have in the swamp, for even the satyr had no idea how things have changed since the owl's power had penetrated east. She darted behind the cedars and approached them from their dark curtain.
"Stay behind me, now," the satyr said. "Can't tell what we'll find in there." He shielded his eyes and tried to peer into the gloom, but all he saw was water, the fallen cedar trunks, and the ooze gathered at the water's edge before the earth heaved itself into moss-strewn hummocks.
Matthew looked up at the towering cedars before him. "Did you see anything in there yesterday?" he asked the boy. "Did you hear any noise?"
"No," Darin said. "Nothing but water."
The cedars stretched their tall grooved trunks so far above Matthew they made him dizzy. He contemplated their lacy reticulated tops. They were strange trees, without needles or leaves, with a network of thin green fingers which touched one another like feathers and filtered what little light there was until it fell around him in a dense web. The light was refracted as if through droplets of water, prisms suspended in the air.
The world was about to swallow them: they would pass through this curtain of cedar and the life they had known would close behind them. From this point, the future would be a series of doors leading from one strange room to a stranger one which lay beyond. It was like part of that dream–"A dream," the satyr said aloud–and the sound of his voice in that stillness heartened him.
"What?" Derin asked.
"I said, 'What are we waiting for?' We might as well be walking, as standing here."
He took a step and passed through the outer ring of cedars into the water. He left the solid ground behind, its outer bank a heap of dead leaves and matted dirt, held together by roots. Under the water, which was insufferably cold, lay the ice. His hooves slithered away from him, threatening to throw him, body and pack, flat on his back in the icy wetness.
Derin followed. He held his arms out to either side to give him better balance. There was no sound in the swamp but their sloshing. They didn't talk, using all their concentration on the task of staying upright. After a fifteen-foot passage which seemed to congeal his blood, Matthew reached a moss-covered hummock and climbed from the water.
"Look at my legs," he shouted, his voice too loud. Derin was astounded to see ice on the fleece above the satyr's hooves. "We're going to have to move fast," the satyr said, "or we'll freeze in here. One step and our feet will hold fast to the bottom and we'll end it all, waving our fool arms and yelling at the sky."
He was about to strip branches from a fallen cedar when he saw her. She appeared from behind a very large trunk, a hundred yards ahead of him. Her skin was white as milk and her soft silver hair thrown back from her shoulders revealed the most spectacular collarbone he had ever seen. He was galvanized, standing there in the icy water. His eyes widened and he involuntarily grabbed for her, but she was so far away he smiled at the ludicrous move.
"After all these years," he whispered, letting his breath drain from his body. "I'm more deranged than I knew."
But what an apparition! She was lovely, pure grace, with a flirtatious pursing of her lips which made Matthew shiver with pleasure instead of cold.
He forgot the ice in his fleece; he forgot the treachery of the water beneath him. He was transformed. He took off after her like a bee in search of pollen. His legs sprouted wings. He danced above the surface of the swamp like a madman. Derin was astonished.
"Matthew!" he screamed. "Wait for me!"
* * *
As good as his word, the owl had sent three falcons back to gag the moon before nightfall of the previous day, and they came again at dawn to ungag her. They were respectful, and they left her alone after completing their errand. She sat in her cage, surveying the forest, the grey sky, the stark black trunks of the trees. How much longer could this go on?
The moon was beginning to feel slightly crazed. She had talked, for these past two days, only to the owl, and she had been cooped up here when before the wide expanses of sky had been her domain. She ached with disuse and (she had to admit it) with loneliness. She even would have welcomed another conversation with the owl, but she had not seen him since he had left her the day before.
The section of forest in which she hung was deserted, except for those unseen presences the owl had warned her about. But she wouldn't talk to an unseen presence; it would be like talking to herself, and she couldn't allow herself to slip like that. Not so much as a mouse had crossed the clearing below her. The air was silent, untouched by mosquitoes or flies, and except for the thin arrow of an occasional bird passing overhead, the moon was completely alone. So she was pleased when the three ravens descended from the sky and settled around her on the branches of her cage.
"Good morning," she said civilly, trying to keep her pleasure in the visit absent from her voice.
Two of the ravens looked at one another and back at the moon. The third, whose red eyes glittered with a wicked fire, flew to the ground and returned with a pointed stick. He circled the cage once and came up behind her. She whirled to face him, and the other two immediately began to chatter.
"Good morning," one of them said.
"A beautiful morning," the other said. "Wind from the southwest. Makes you glad to be alive."
The raven jabbed his stick through the oaken branches and feinted at the moon. She retreated to the furthest reaches of the cage until the harsh bark scraped her. The other two were breathing down her back, and for an instant, she thought one of them might try to peck at her, but instead their mindless chatter came pouring into her ears.
"The cage a little too close for comfort?" one asked, and the other answered, as if the question was addressed to him. The one with the stick jabbed repeatedly and flew around to join the others, and so the moon retreated again, more aware each instant of the closeness of her quarters.
There was no escape if they decided to take her on in earnest; she would have no chance if all three grabbed sticks and came at her. But they seemed to be enjoying the situation as it unfolded, and neither of the two who spat their inanities on the morning air were inclined to arm themselves, preferring to sit there and watch the third, who uttered not a word.
She tried to think of something clever to say, to alarm them or distract them, but her mind was such a jumble of fear and anger that nothing coherent formed.
She concentrated on the stick. It came at her from every interstice of branch until it was a blur and she was sick with dizziness. Just when she thought she wouldn't last another minute, the ravens began to tire of their game; the one who had taunted her dropped the stick. The three flew off, drifting in the air above her, throwing down a few more insults before they disappeared from view.
By the time the moon had regained her composure, and the knot in her stomach had reduced to a small displeasure, she was in an ugly mood. She raged at the empty forest, and is she had gotten her wish, destruction would have rained down around her. She called brimstone and fire, thunderstorms, tornadoes, every disaster weather could deliver. But the placid greyness of the sky did not change, the ground beneath her gave no evidence of a beginning rumble, and she finally fumed herself to silence.
She had reached the point of despair when the other raven arrived, wheeling in the air above her, dropping down like a silent black feather. As she saw the bird descend, she felt the words well in her throat again and she spewed forth venomous diatribes against all winged and feathered creatures, against all beasts which crept or galloped or slithered on the earth. The raven sat, patiently waiting for her to stop, but the very calmness of the bird further incensed the moon.
"You scurrilous, lice-ridden, winged contraption," the moon seethed. "You cowardly piece of fluff and bone. Wait until I am free of this cage. Pestilence will be visited upon this forest from that day until all ages have passed, and not one of you shall ever raise a brood again; worms will shrink from your beaks and you'll fall dead from hunger and thirst. Streams will dry up at your approach, and the other animals will kick your dead carcasses with disgust. You will be less than the rocks; you will rot to form leaf mold. . . ." The moon gasped for breath and reeled in her cage. She was so red of face the raven thought she might explode, and jumped to get a word in before the torrent of frustration continued.
"If you will hold your tongue for a moment. . . ." Deirdre said, but the moon ran ramshackle over her imploring voice. "Your bones will be used to pick the teeth of weasels and vermin, annd therever you die, ratsbane will rear its head. You will be known. . . ."
Deirdre fixed the moon with a deadly look, a gaze compounded of such long-suffering patience and slowly building violence that she stopped her ranting and waited for the bird to speak.
"And not a moment too soon," the raven said. "I'm not one to lose my temper, but you were sorely tempting me. I would have given you another minute before I flew away and left you to disintegrate in this forsaken place."
"Who are you?" the moon asked. "What do you want?"
"My name is Deirdre–not that it;s of any use to you–and I am attempting to extricate you from this abominable situation. Now, no more questions, there isn't time."
"No, no," she said. "This is too much. I can bear your taunts and jibes, but please, I beg you, don't torture me with this. Just go in peace and leave me be." The moon drew a long deep breath and let it out so quietly it was like a breeze which ripples the highest branches of the firs at sundown. And the turned her back on Deirdre and closed her eyes.
Deirdre lost her temper. She flew into the air and made such a racket clattering her wings that the moon opened her eyes and looked at the bird. The raven seemed to be having a fit. Her eyes rolled in her head, her neck jerked, her wings beat unevenly in the grey silent air. But she landed again, close to the moon, and her voice had no patience left in it.
"I can't take this whimpering prattle. Self-pity infuriates me. I don't yet know how your rescue will be accomplished, but I'm determined that you shall be liberated. Right now, two . . . uh . . . collaborators–a boy and a satyr–are on their way to this forest to engineer your escape.
"I tell you this to build your courage. You're not alone in wishing for your freedom. You must take heart. I'll come again if I can. At the moment, I'm playing the role of a transcontinental carrier pigeon, and I have an entrance very soon somewhere else. So I haven't time to stay and chat. Just remember who you are."
The moon was astonished by this speech. No one had ever spoken to her so familiarly, without the slightest trace of respect. Even the owl in his hyperbolic poetical speech gave her some measure of her stature. But here this stranger sat and bid her keep her chin up.
"Do you have anything to say?" the raven asked. The moon could do no better than to shake her head. "Well, maintain your strength. Stay as cheerful as possible. Keep an ear open for anything you think might be helpful," Deirdre said. "And please. Don't talk to me again as you did a while ago. It has a vanquishing effect upon my determination to help you."
She was gone before the moon could offer apologies or thanks. But in the afterglow of Deirdre's visit, she practically beamed with joy. It was not even the possibility of her freedom which affected her so; it was more complicated. Never before had she needed the help of anyone, and now when she did, she felt a new emotion at the knowledge that there were creatures out there working on her behalf.
She felt both bigger and smaller than herself, as though, for the first time, she understood the outlines of her silver form when viewed from the earth. There was great value in that, and great misunderstanding. She knew that when the falcons came again to gag her she would offer no resistance, but submit, as sweetly as possible, to their hooded smiles.
* * *
Apologies for a late submission again. If I were a better person, with a stronger will, and better at managing time, I would post at least 3 chapters a week. But I just aren't any of that. Which is a shame :(
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Understanding good writing in 10 easy steps!
Okay, so you have stumbled upon this little blog, and you see this post.
Will you read it?
Who knows, but here it goes:
Good writing. Bad writing. Those two are constantly brought up by people to explain why they like, or don't like a specific work of fiction. But what does make someone's writing good or bad? Is it all really subjective? HELL NO! The subjective part is the choice of themes and tone (genre).
What is good writing then?
Well, to answer that I would have to explain what writing fiction is. How do I know what fiction is? I know that because I am a smart cookie and like to ask critical questions about my life experiences. That, and because I read and watched a lot of stuff. Writing fiction is the act of lying. Lying about non-existing characters and the non-existing world they inhabit. And I won't get into the bullshit of whether or not "it all exists in your <3". No, this is a topic for a different time.
So now, when we have established that telling fictional stories is basically lying, let's get to what makes good fiction. Good fictions are convincing lies. CONVINCING lies. You need to convince the listener/watcher/player that the lie you are telling is plausible. How do you do it? By making it follow the basic rules our real life follows. Let's write down a few important basics:
1) There must be a presence of evil in your fictional world. But it is the amount of evil that is the most important, because too much will be confusing (since when is life that terrible?), and too little/none at all, will come out as an Utopia (again, completely unlike real life). When everyone is evil in your story and wants to get the protagonist, your story is really you projecting like crazy. When everyone loves and adores the protagonist, it will be a self insert crapfiction. Not the mention, everyone cannot be evil either. To summarize, there needs to be some evil, and some conflict, but not too much or too little. And evil does not have to be anything super serious; it could be just a few bad traits someone has, or a bit of misfortune. Or someone getting sick.
2) There must be a significant amount of chance, or "fate" in your story. Those words should be interchangeable for every writer. The majority of the story's events, as well as your fictional world itself, should be beyond the protagonist's control. Such is the way of real life: most of what happens around us and to us, we do not decide. The world decides for us. So, if your protagonist "accidentally" finds an item on a deserted road that will be instrumental in defeating the big bad guy in the end, that is not bad writing. When someone's good intentions lead to the death of a loved one, that is not bad writing. Our future, as well as present is not completely under our control, and that should be the same in fiction. Because when in your story everything happens exactly as the protagonist plans, that is self insert crapfiction, not a good story. Throw in a little Karma, why don't you!
3) Logic. Minor mistakes aside (we are only human, after all), there should be no real logical problems in your story. Things that are very unlikely should be reduced to a minimum, and implausibilities should be reduced to nothing. Having a super powerful big bad guy be defeated by a really weak protagonist in a fair fight, just because you really want it, is stupid, and makes your story a piece of crapfiction.
4) Tone. Are you going for realism, or is your world a comic? Maybe it is a cartoon? In the last two cases, you very well can implement cartoon physics, and bend the laws of said physics, within, and around your characters. Remember those big impossible cartoony eyes? That's just a start.
5) Consistency (in tone). If you are writing a sequel to a work, make sure to keep the tone of the original. At least for the most part. Was the first story realistic, or was is a wacky cartoon? A drama or comedy? Keeping that question in mind is very important.
6) Consistency (in personality). While you can expand and evolve a previously established character (see part 7), you should not betray what he or she was all about in the past. When you are writing a sequel to anything, always remember who those characters were, what they did, and why they did it. Change or no change, they are still the same people.
7) Character growth, and character depth. Any character should have as much identifiable traits as needed for your story. They can be deeper, or shallower depending on what the story is, and their role in it. However, the idea that sudden never-before-seen behavior is "going against established personality", is full of crap. Just because it was never mentioned that Johnny loves ice cream, does not mean you cannot bring it up later. Having all your character traits written out on a long sheet of paper, and sticking to it like the Word of God is bad news, to your story. Characters should grow and evolve as you write the story. Having them programmed to have all their traits set in cement from the start, makes them into robots, and not living breathing beings. Unless you are writing a story about a robot and why the fuck would you do that geez.
8) Character NOT growth. If you look around in real life, you will surely notice some people change more than others. Some are just way too stubborn, while some have no loyalty or principles and change every day, only to change again the next day. Some people already underwent their "character development", and are now more static, because the change already happened, and now there is not need for it anymore. The idea that there should be character development for everyone in every story ever made, was popularized by Hollywood, after the big wigs realized that Hero's Journeys make the most money.
9) Relatability. You don't write a story about ground. Or a rock. You always write about characters, living beings with feelings and thoughts, and characters always come first. Even when the world is given a large focus, it is the characters' reactions and thought about the world that you really are writing about. Or should be writing. No matter who your characters are: humans, humanoids, aliens, talking animals, non-talking animals, toasters; there should be something human in them. They should have hopes and dreams, passions, fears, bad traits to overcome or succumb to, rivals, and whatever other problems to overcome or be defeated by. Every protagonist of a good story is human to some extent. Except for crapfiction, of course. No one wants to read a story about something that is 0% human. Even the desire to enslave the world is a human flaw, and is relateable.
10) Last, but not least, a good story must be interesting. What is interesting, you might ask? Well, an interesting story is a story that is not 100% identical to what happens to you every day. An interesting premise is something that you don't see every day. Name one bestseller that deals with an average man who wakes up, eats his breakfast, and spends all day watching cat videos on YouTube. THERE ARE NONE, BECAUSE THAT IS NOT INTERESTING. Now, a story about a man who goes to his work, but not really, and instead pretends to go, secretly puts on a bat costume and fights crime? Now that is interesting. And let us not forget that any story that deals with magical powers, fantastic technology, grand battles, and supernatural entities are automatically not boring, at least in concept, because we don't normally deal with that stuff on a day-to-day basis. Also, Indiana Jones and The Ark of The Covenant is interesting.
And now, boys and girls, we know what elements make a good fictional story! If you do not follow these guidelines, you are a crap writer and should be ashamed of yourself for unleashing your crap writing on the world :)
Will you read it?
Who knows, but here it goes:
Good writing. Bad writing. Those two are constantly brought up by people to explain why they like, or don't like a specific work of fiction. But what does make someone's writing good or bad? Is it all really subjective? HELL NO! The subjective part is the choice of themes and tone (genre).
What is good writing then?
Well, to answer that I would have to explain what writing fiction is. How do I know what fiction is? I know that because I am a smart cookie and like to ask critical questions about my life experiences. That, and because I read and watched a lot of stuff. Writing fiction is the act of lying. Lying about non-existing characters and the non-existing world they inhabit. And I won't get into the bullshit of whether or not "it all exists in your <3". No, this is a topic for a different time.
So now, when we have established that telling fictional stories is basically lying, let's get to what makes good fiction. Good fictions are convincing lies. CONVINCING lies. You need to convince the listener/watcher/player that the lie you are telling is plausible. How do you do it? By making it follow the basic rules our real life follows. Let's write down a few important basics:
1) There must be a presence of evil in your fictional world. But it is the amount of evil that is the most important, because too much will be confusing (since when is life that terrible?), and too little/none at all, will come out as an Utopia (again, completely unlike real life). When everyone is evil in your story and wants to get the protagonist, your story is really you projecting like crazy. When everyone loves and adores the protagonist, it will be a self insert crapfiction. Not the mention, everyone cannot be evil either. To summarize, there needs to be some evil, and some conflict, but not too much or too little. And evil does not have to be anything super serious; it could be just a few bad traits someone has, or a bit of misfortune. Or someone getting sick.
2) There must be a significant amount of chance, or "fate" in your story. Those words should be interchangeable for every writer. The majority of the story's events, as well as your fictional world itself, should be beyond the protagonist's control. Such is the way of real life: most of what happens around us and to us, we do not decide. The world decides for us. So, if your protagonist "accidentally" finds an item on a deserted road that will be instrumental in defeating the big bad guy in the end, that is not bad writing. When someone's good intentions lead to the death of a loved one, that is not bad writing. Our future, as well as present is not completely under our control, and that should be the same in fiction. Because when in your story everything happens exactly as the protagonist plans, that is self insert crapfiction, not a good story. Throw in a little Karma, why don't you!
3) Logic. Minor mistakes aside (we are only human, after all), there should be no real logical problems in your story. Things that are very unlikely should be reduced to a minimum, and implausibilities should be reduced to nothing. Having a super powerful big bad guy be defeated by a really weak protagonist in a fair fight, just because you really want it, is stupid, and makes your story a piece of crapfiction.
4) Tone. Are you going for realism, or is your world a comic? Maybe it is a cartoon? In the last two cases, you very well can implement cartoon physics, and bend the laws of said physics, within, and around your characters. Remember those big impossible cartoony eyes? That's just a start.
5) Consistency (in tone). If you are writing a sequel to a work, make sure to keep the tone of the original. At least for the most part. Was the first story realistic, or was is a wacky cartoon? A drama or comedy? Keeping that question in mind is very important.
6) Consistency (in personality). While you can expand and evolve a previously established character (see part 7), you should not betray what he or she was all about in the past. When you are writing a sequel to anything, always remember who those characters were, what they did, and why they did it. Change or no change, they are still the same people.
7) Character growth, and character depth. Any character should have as much identifiable traits as needed for your story. They can be deeper, or shallower depending on what the story is, and their role in it. However, the idea that sudden never-before-seen behavior is "going against established personality", is full of crap. Just because it was never mentioned that Johnny loves ice cream, does not mean you cannot bring it up later. Having all your character traits written out on a long sheet of paper, and sticking to it like the Word of God is bad news, to your story. Characters should grow and evolve as you write the story. Having them programmed to have all their traits set in cement from the start, makes them into robots, and not living breathing beings. Unless you are writing a story about a robot and why the fuck would you do that geez.
8) Character NOT growth. If you look around in real life, you will surely notice some people change more than others. Some are just way too stubborn, while some have no loyalty or principles and change every day, only to change again the next day. Some people already underwent their "character development", and are now more static, because the change already happened, and now there is not need for it anymore. The idea that there should be character development for everyone in every story ever made, was popularized by Hollywood, after the big wigs realized that Hero's Journeys make the most money.
9) Relatability. You don't write a story about ground. Or a rock. You always write about characters, living beings with feelings and thoughts, and characters always come first. Even when the world is given a large focus, it is the characters' reactions and thought about the world that you really are writing about. Or should be writing. No matter who your characters are: humans, humanoids, aliens, talking animals, non-talking animals, toasters; there should be something human in them. They should have hopes and dreams, passions, fears, bad traits to overcome or succumb to, rivals, and whatever other problems to overcome or be defeated by. Every protagonist of a good story is human to some extent. Except for crapfiction, of course. No one wants to read a story about something that is 0% human. Even the desire to enslave the world is a human flaw, and is relateable.
10) Last, but not least, a good story must be interesting. What is interesting, you might ask? Well, an interesting story is a story that is not 100% identical to what happens to you every day. An interesting premise is something that you don't see every day. Name one bestseller that deals with an average man who wakes up, eats his breakfast, and spends all day watching cat videos on YouTube. THERE ARE NONE, BECAUSE THAT IS NOT INTERESTING. Now, a story about a man who goes to his work, but not really, and instead pretends to go, secretly puts on a bat costume and fights crime? Now that is interesting. And let us not forget that any story that deals with magical powers, fantastic technology, grand battles, and supernatural entities are automatically not boring, at least in concept, because we don't normally deal with that stuff on a day-to-day basis. Also, Indiana Jones and The Ark of The Covenant is interesting.
And now, boys and girls, we know what elements make a good fictional story! If you do not follow these guidelines, you are a crap writer and should be ashamed of yourself for unleashing your crap writing on the world :)
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Donuts, Cookies and Pies.
It has bothered me for a while. In most circles of He. . . INTERNET, people obsess over cookies, sandwiches, pies, and similar things. Similar in which way, you might ask?
Well, here's an experiment. Let's list most of the food items people online go gaga over:
-cookies
-sandwiches
-pizza
-tacos
-cakes
-donuts
-pies
-bagels
So, what is similar? Well, it's all bread, of course! All those 12 year olds who like to make "funny" YouTube comments, they all like their bread products. The lowest common denominator is obsessed with bread. Which makes sense, since most lazy people with no concern for their health are sick and obese. And probably smell bad.
Well, there you have it! Cookies and sandwiches of the INTERNET, you are worshipped by a cult of dumbasses. Time to commit breaduicide!
I just coined "breaduicide". I'm so proud of myself :|
Well, here's an experiment. Let's list most of the food items people online go gaga over:
-cookies
-sandwiches
-pizza
-tacos
-cakes
-donuts
-pies
-bagels
So, what is similar? Well, it's all bread, of course! All those 12 year olds who like to make "funny" YouTube comments, they all like their bread products. The lowest common denominator is obsessed with bread. Which makes sense, since most lazy people with no concern for their health are sick and obese. And probably smell bad.
Well, there you have it! Cookies and sandwiches of the INTERNET, you are worshipped by a cult of dumbasses. Time to commit breaduicide!
I just coined "breaduicide". I'm so proud of myself :|
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