The Thrill of Words

I am about one-thousand words deep into an idea right now. An idea that developed for me because of a culmination of little occurrences that just happened to intersect. How would Feng shui change in the vacuum of space? If the physiognomy of mind, man and earth are separated from one another is Qi still possible?

I wanted to write a dialectic which explored these questions, but in order to accomplish this I’ve needed to also concoct a future history of sorts to contextualize the investigation of my fictional scholar. I am experiencing great word joy at the moment. And in this realization I believe that I may have also discovered a miserable deficit of the language. I cannot find or think of a term or phrase that describes the joy of creating a story.

With that I’ll leave you with an excerpt from the manuscript WINTER CITY ABOVE THE CLOUDS. The full chapter is called “The Death of Chung Do” and it details both the revolutionary rise of the Di Laio dynasty and the fall of the living super arcology Chung Do.

Yelü Abaoji rose to power from the wastes of the apron lands surrounding Chung Do and many historians today argue that his kingdom should have been no more than a momentary aberration in the long history of the people’s socialist triumphs. Initially little more than Baojun, western powers and key party officers alike ignored the hatchet wielding slum lord and labeled his supporters terrorist, kongbu zuzhi, and him Little Khitan Warlord. In that age of high powered munitions and laser guided missile strikes it is true that the hatchets seemed no more than annoyance; isolated riots that were easily and ruthlessly quelled outside the boundaries of the super city.

One party official, who watched as disciplined and armored fangbao jingcha put down an early boundary incursion near a western edge of Chung Do, remarked that the riot police should “leave the Khitan terrorists their hatchets. They can then hack off the limbs of their fallen for something to eat.” Many have speculated that hubris was indeed the one flaw that ended the otherwise indomitable authority of the Communist who inhabited the living super-city of spring. This claim may be reasonable for their pride was indeed quite great. The fact that they had consolidated so much power at the heart of the greatest city ever created, so much good for so many residence of the closed system arcology, was a common thread in the propaganda of the time.

The wasted lands beyond the boundary, an environmental catastrophe in places still today, were known as both a failure of the many Westernization attempts of the Twenty-First Century and a well deserved legacy for the inhabitants who had denied the benefits of Gong Chan. Despite the generations of Khitan that had passed since the seed of Chung Do first sprouted along the eastern shore of Bohai Bay, Gong Chan leadership bared entry into Chung Do. At that time Beijing was then no more than a stinking, desolate corps. A rusted and corrupted example of the gluttony of an impossible economic paradigm. The waste and decay, the unavoidable culmination of three-hundred and fifty years of the Western petrochemical excess, scarred the soil of continents and poisoned the atmosphere of the globe.

Chung Do was the only refuge and from within its ever expanding walls kuozhang was the prevailing doctrine governing the city’s growth. It drank water from the sea, excreting salt and poisons near its northern and southern extremities far below the surface. Chung Do pulled the majority of the nutrition it required simply from the air it breathed. The living city of spring fed, sheltered and cared for generations of inhabitants, a self-sustaining organism supporting a vast, but discrete population.

Now I must sleep, but I am so looking forward to working on this tomorrow.

Something to Consider (Part Two)

This is part two of the DetCon1 redux. You might be wondering, “What the what? He just said he was getting on the plane.” You’d be completely justified to ponder the worst. I’m here to assure you that nothing bad has happened. I took a bump on my flight for a ticket voucher.

If I wasn’t currently sitting back down in the comfy chair they’ve given me next to a plug writing this blog post I’d be up, jumping around, doing a happy dance. My plane ticket to Detroit in September for Geek Fan Expo is now a buried concern. Nearly $600 for three hours of waiting. I was in the Army, I’m good at waiting. Mad skillz, expert mode.

And now, by virtue of having little else to do, I have hours to complete some thoughts about my recent convention experience.

I got to meet Annalee, of Geek Feminism and twitter fame, while at the convention. She has some good things to say on the topic of diversity and harassment, and she is a thoughtful person you should be reading. But it was a real treat for me to meet her, her husband and friends this weekend.

Friday evening we were sitting around in the hotel bar, shooting the breeze, when the topic came around to disability. In particular, invisible disability. It turns out that we have this in common, and that we both have opinions regarding how chronic health issues are portrayed in media. She invited me to join her on the Disabilities in Genre Fiction panel the following afternoon.

I accepted her generous offer, figuring that if I didn’t feel like sharing anything about my seizures or compounding problems that I could just pass the microphone. It also seemed a good opportunity to sit in front of a crowd and gain maybe that little bit more recognition for my writing. And maybe, just maybe, my opinions on the subject might be useful in this discussion.

The panel was a super success. I think the exchange between the audience and the panel was more active and delved deeper into issues ranging from separating the disabled from the general diversity discussion going on in fandom right now to normative memes in media about health issues that just happen to be grossly wrong. Near the end of the panel a question was asked which was spurred by something I had said earlier. It was something like, “Why do you think so many authors get disability wrong.”

Annalee replied, “Because homework is hard,” and she is right. Then she handed the microphone to me. Now on the spot I grabbed an idea I’ve been simmering on a back burner for a while. It’s important to note that I agree with Annalee to a point, some authors are just that lazy. But honestly, I believe that this is ultimately a lack of empathy.

As an example I put forward several seasons of THE WALKING DEAD. My premise is that we’ve witnessed a change in writing for this show.

In early episodes, attempts were made to portray the emotion that the cast of characters must be feeling as their world crumbles around them. In the very first episode “Days Gone Bye“, amongst several emotionally intense moments, one stands out. Rick returns to the legless woman in the park intending to end her suffering. Before he puts down the zombie he whispers “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

At this point, we know two things. First, Rick still sees the dead risen around him as people. Dead or alive, they still deserve his respect and because he is a caring human being, he knows that these afflicted are in fact other people. He treats them with respect, or at least as much as he can afford. The second thing we can know is that the writers want you to feel the conflict, pain and struggle that the survivors must certainly endure. And we know they can write for that effect. With this screen play they’re pushing the viewer into the emotional position of the character. If you’re crying, feeling miserable, even wishing that there was a cure for the zombie flu then they did their job admirably.

Think about that for a moment, the legless woman in the park, is a person. Rick certainly lacks a cure for her condition, but he recognizes the tragedy of the woman’s fate. He does what he can to end her suffering, and he does this with caring and respect.

The invention of the Governor did plenty to muddy the plot arc of the show, but I would argue that it also objectified everyone on the show denying caring. By the end of season four the surviving characters have become little more than meat hacking sociopaths. Increasingly they are portrayed as narcissist who view the “walkers” as little more than obstacles. By transforming the cast this way, the writers are foregoing every opportunity for pathos. The characters in the show don’t feel, why should you?

Most of the episodes in season four seemed to be little more than an excuse for expressions of violence. Daryl loses Beth and do we see him grieve? Not much. Lizzie and Mike are twisted into monsters despite the fact that they are little girls. Rick’s children fare no better, even though they both make to the end of the season breathing, they become an excuse for senseless violence. When the Governor killed Hershel he terminated the shows last link to pathos. I’ve consistently lowered my expectations with each successive season and I expect season five will prove to be little more than a weekly blood bath.

Writing a story can be either a narcissistic expression of an author’s world view which simply sends content out into the wild or the reasoned assumption of responsibility by the creator of the story for both the content and the emotion and even behavior it will consequentially engender. I believe that creators of THE WALKING DEAD have traded the comparably difficult proposition of writing with the intent to provoke thought, emotional response and more specifically pathos for the much easier goal of simply shocking the viewer. And to achieve this, they will invariably dehumanize anyone at far end of a barrel starting with the zombies, followed by anyone who opposes the main cast. The supporting cast is next in line, and so forth. Do you see the danger yet?

One of my favorite aspects of science and consequentially science fiction is that it has the capacity imagine the resolution to many problems. In my opinion really good science fiction may even provide a rough road map which leads the reader through the milestones necessary to achieve, if not a happy, than an improved ending. Zombie stories are becoming, more and more, little more than a value judgement about The Other. Many of these stories provide an instruction set; how we treat those affected by persistent health issues. Zombies were people first; outside the context of the story would we condone the violent and unfeeling abuse of a corps?

DetCon1 Redux (Part One)

I’m sitting just outside the DTW jetty that will eventually have a plane parked at its other end. This plane will take me to PHX and thence further on, and hopefully home, to SEA. While I sit, sipping an iced chai from the coffee stand down the concourse, I’ve been reviewing the last four days. Trying to form the lessons I’ve learned into something I can use moving forward. Articulate the wisdom of those who have gone before me.

I should note that in addition to all the learning and networking I had an awesome time. The North American Science Fiction Convention happened to to intersect with the NetRoots Nation convention. This proved a particularly good sort of kismet for all involved. Every time I had a little down time I was approached by someone from the adjacent affair who would invariably say something like “What’s this all about?” or “I don’t read science fiction, but I want to more ….” In some small way all that curiosity and social boundary crossing I think enriched the experience for all involved. Plus, I believe the verdict was that DetCon1 had the better room parties.

Matt Thyer and Jim Hines

From the get-go my convention schedule seemed subject to change. The Vice President’s visit to the same building meant that I got stuck in some amazing traffic. As a connoisseur of the finest road bound cluster events in Norther America and beyond I can say that this was a classic Interstate stoppage. Ultimately, this meant that I missed my scheduled reading. But don’t feel bummed for me because the agile and capable staff running the convention from the table in the green room busted a move and helped me find a spot on Saturday. Opposite Jim Hines. Which was awesome. Did I happen to mention I read opposite Jim Hines? I should probably say that again, opposite Jim Hines.

Had I nothing to read other than a crap pile of words I would still fail to see how this could have gone badly for me. Jim Hines…. Rather my first reading at a convention turned out to be a fairy tale princess event with butter and bacon. We (and mostly he) packed the room. It was standing room only and as we got ready I couldn’t help grinning madly because I knew that I had selected a black arrow from my quiver.

Chapter four of the second book in the “sports in space” series is about the naval space program’s super secret Atlatl gunboat system told from the point of view of Gunnery Sergeant Capston. I had rehearsed the reading a bunch the night before, I wanted it to go really well. I knew there were three good laughs in the manuscript and the potential for a cringe. They happened, all where I had anticipated they might. Even better I know how I can do a better job next time.

The reading was an amazing learning experience and it also served as a great opportunity to get to know Jim Hines a little better. What a great guy to be friends with. I am really looking forward to Geek Fan Expo in September where we’ll both be special guests.

Speaking of readings, I caught John Scalzi and Jacqueline Carey combined reading. A memorable hour of my life, and one which I can now refer to in an effort to make future readings of my work all the better. Both of these excellent authors are also the very best public readers.

So, yes, watching these two masters read was very helpful and informative. I also got to spend some time face-to-face with them both as well as others. A memorable tid-bit that Scalzi left me with was something like, “The operating mode of writing is failure, so get used to it. Submit, and while you’re waiting write some more. Eventually, you’ll get sales.”

Finally, John’s wife Kristine was at the convention. Much like my wonderful Tess, Kristine is a capable, smart, and loving woman who teams up with her main man in the creative process. Perhaps the most important take away from our conversations was that I was reminded I really need to listen and pay attention to what Tess has to say about my work. Perhaps more importantly what she tells me about the way I conduct my business. She is my first, best fan in addition to my partner. Also, “never compromise when it comes to your work.” Kristine gave me this fundamental as a guideline and then we enjoyed a beer in between panels. If you’re reading this, I’ve heard you both. Loud and clear.

And with that, I must leave you. The plane is at the far end of the jetty and the scent of anticipation is running through the crowd. Yes, there will be more. Stay tuned, big announcements are blog bound.

The Day I Knew I Would Make It

I have come to discover through earnest personal experience and dedicated learning that ultimately the greatest help is self-help; that there is no other help but self-help— doing one’s best, dedicating one’s self wholeheartedly to a given task, which happens to have no end but is an ongoing process. I have done a lot during these years of my process. A swell in my process, I have changed from self-image actualization to self-actualization, from blindly following propaganda, organized truths, etc. to searching internally for the cause of my ignorance.

The Warrior Within : The Philosophies of Bruce Lee (1996)

This is my third attempt at this post. But this time I know exactly where I’m headed, what I want to say.

This morning the company, where my wife has worked a mere six weeks, shut its doors. An unfortunate turn of events for all involved, something juxtaposed next to catastrophe for us. We’ve been struggling since I got sick. Every time it appears we’ve found our stride something or someone trips us up. I think worse, we’re both exhausted. That’s just the way it is, the only thing left to do now is take the next step along the path. Acceptance does not matter.

I just took the dog for a walk around the neighborhood. Always an adequate salve when the need arises. It’s hot and muggy once again so I walked as fast as I could, trying to whip up a cooling breeze without breaking a sweat.

This go at writing feels about the same. Walk only fast enough to get the breeze without overheating. Pacing is important, it makes the long road possible and the dream achievable. And despite all the ups and downs of employment, health and finance, I still have a dream. I am dedicated to the practice of writing.

Thursday I will rise long before the sunshine and head to airport. I will board an airplane and head to DetCon1. There is momentum in this run, maybe not much, but who can afford in the marathon that is life to sit and lose the race?

“Ting” Is the Sound it Makes

Treasure Planet, a really well done story with admirable role models

When an idea is properly seated in my mind, I don’t so much hear a sound, but rather experience the sensation of those cogs snapping into alignment. This morning, while warming up for some writing, I was dabbling in casual Twitter word dalliance when just such a moment occurred. Pow! Bang, snap … TING! New, formerly unknown mechanisms, found deep within my lump of gray, started rolling and turning.

The problem? For some time I have been concerned, perhaps overly, that my female characters aren’t enough. The smarter and wholly more capable half of my marriage maintains that if I write people, instead of men and women, I will have successfully broached the gender problems most commonly found in contemporary fiction. And I believe she is correct, without reservation. I do, or I try to write people, but then there are those moments when I write something and even she says “that’s some sexist, crap-pile of words there.” Essayer n’est pas fait, non?

Case in point, as a writing exercise, I began writing character sketches of people that I have seen in and around Seattle. I’m making this place my home, and for the first time in my life I seriously do not want to move. Rather I want to reinvent the way I perceive my situation and surroundings. The character sketches are meant to say something about this place and the people who can be found here, while at the same time creating avatars for the spirits that reside only in this place. It is an attempt to write a modern mythos of the city and its surrounds.

I found my raven and wrote her. The narrative voice is that of a early 30-something male who is both critically observant and judgmental.

And so Raven, heart broken with the loss of her closest intimate, took on a cloak of sadness. Dyed with the pigments of pregnant rainclouds as they pass across shadowed tree tops in a winter night sky, for the first time since the eyes of the world opened, she wore her sentiments around her slender shoulders for all to see. Therein, anyone with eyes keen enough, should be able to view loathing and lamentation.

But if you had know Raven before Coyote left her bereft and miserably lonely you might then understand better how all this grief came to be. Had you the privilege of time, she might have spoken to you in the dawn of the world and you would have known, for even then her voice was the rasp of madness as it slid across the grains of a red wooded truth. Raven has always been too clever, and in her voice is the dementia that even the Mad Dog could not endure.


Black silk over lustrous, tan skin, she stands beneath the maple melding her savvy brain to the polished complexion of her smart phone by way of that perfect, petite ear. Her honeyed voice murmurs into the microphone hypnotically; audible, but not discernible over the sputtering chatter of bubbling water flowing from a distant fountain. The black stilettos scream something about appearances, but the red paint poking out the end of each shoe, brushed sometime before with meticulous care, is noise confusing that message.

“What gym do you go to?” A question she’s heard a hundred times in a thousand martini bars. “Slim” is a poor choice of words. To describe those compact curves any wordsmith worthy of his dram would need to invade the esteemed halls of automotive PR. “Aerodynamite,” “fasterpiece,” “JOOOY,” she is a four point two liter V-8 turbo, fuel stratified injected, brushed in glossy, metallic black with rich-tanned leather behind the wheel. An automotive masterpiece on two legs, you wouldn’t want to hear her redlined, but a deep, sonorous growl of satisfaction might just fill up your tank. Yeah, you will raid that treasure room of purpose built, designer adjectives needed for this Benz of a woman.

And then to confuse and befuddle just a little more, from out of a tiny, black handbag, until recently tucked under a well muscled arm, she withdraws a vaporizer. Gloss nightmare and chrome, fully charged, she lifts it to her sculpted lips and draws deeply from the reed. The seams of that tailor fit dress strain as she inhales deeply from the slender, ebon phallus, a pair laser carved breasts pushing directly and immediately against the interior of the garment. Then, after a too-long moment, anxious with anticipation, she exhales a gossamer cloud of acrimonious smoke into the courtyard. The dress seems to sigh with relief at the passage of that steely grey cloud. You check your tablet, the P/E on this stock looks great, but oh the maintenance. Upkeep would be a bitch.

Hidden somewhere beneath those matchless mammaries and well beyond that raven hair exists a dark mote. A stain that must be dealt with cruelly. Constantly. Consistently. The saccharine scent of sativa slithers edgewise across the square violating the aroma of your gourmet brew. It is merely breakfast time, the prime commute, and this avatar of Muninn just drew enough high potency, grade A+, medical, BC kush to make Andy Griffith forget Aunt Bee. Something lurks there, dark like a shadow on the far side of a building with rain clouds looming over the Sound. Something even she hasn’t the courage to deal with directly.

The day that I wrote this I could not wait for Tess to come home. I was pretty darn proud of the prose, and it was merely an exercise. A sort of word-workout. Her reaction was less than the “Wow! You’re such an awesome writer Matt,” I was anticipating. When we discussed it later I had to agree that, “Yes, this narrative is from the perspective of a misogynistic, dude-bro occupying a position of undeserved privilege.” The unnamed observer of Raven is a jerk. Not me, but I wrote a jerk.

The question then became, “What does this say about me, the writer?” So I wrote a pair of broken people, I will willingly acknowledge that. Broken people exist, they also happen to be a major component of many stories. And in some way, these characters provide — in their nose dives toward despair and destruction, or in their hard fought assents towards redemption –  much of the texture we seek in our storytelling. Or that’s the way it works for me. But what does that say about me, the writer? It’s not the lasting impression I want to leave on the world with my storytelling. That’s for certain. I’m not a cynical guy and I try, often against great resistance, to find the silver linings in my life.

This morning, Kameron Hurley dropped this tweet into a conversation I was following.

Moments later, after scanning through her impressive panel schedule at Readercon I encountered this gem.

12:00 PM    F    New Models of Masculinity.Erik Amundsen, John Benson, Kameron Hurley (leader), Catt Kingsgrave, Bart Leib. In a comment on Chuck Wendig’s blog, Nobilis Reed wrote, “I think one of the ways that speculative fiction can really change the world in a way that it needs right now, is to provide models of masculinity that don’t involve oppressing people.” There’s no denying that today’s speculative heroes are frequently brooding, violent, incapable of healthy relationships, and otherwise not exactly role model material. This panel will brainstorm ways to create fictional men and masculine people who we’d actually want to spend time with.

And right there was the “ting.” I know that I will likely continue to write broken and flawed people. I can assure you that there will be many more bent Ravens and misogynistic jerk narrators skulking around the ever growing metropolis of my DropBox because they’re necessary. The gallant knight cannot save the fair maiden from the clutches of the evil necromancer if the evil necromancer is someone the maiden might just settle for in the event all the good knights are taken or gay. That practitioner of the dark arts has to suck, and this reality of storytelling cannot be helped.

But it occurs to me that I don’t have to write stories (not that I do) which conform to that plot trajectory. In fact, I don’t have to write about love, sex, gender equality or disparity, misogyny, reverse-misogyny or any of that. Rather, I can focus my will on writing what I know, or want to know better. I can write role models. People who, despite all the wrong decisions in their midst, never fail to feel empathy and good will. Are always there lending a hand when it is needed. Boys and girls and hermaphroditic, changeling, cyborgs we should look up to.

Things may be cracked and little rough around the edges, sure, but there’s no reason we have to focus our attention on those flaws. I feel that too much time is lavished on these negative aspects of our shared reality already. There is no reasonable justification for letting them become the standard flying above our shared imagination.

Mars Trac, the Open Source Construction Rover

This morning I made a visit to the post office, sending off twenty printed, signed copies of THE BIG RED BUCKLE to some really excellent engineers doing mankind’s work. “What?” I hear you mumble way over there. It’s pretty simple.

A diverse collection of students at Arizona State University is trying to create an open-source, highly adaptable construction utility that could be used for a variety of purposes here and abroad. And by “abroad” I mean Mars. Imagine a rig, similar to the prototype they want to build, that can be outfitted and modified, on-the-spot, to accomplish anything. Moving great, heaping mounds of freshly manufactured green-house compost on its way to surface garden beds under a domed crater; outfitted with a rudimentary robotic semi-autonomous sensory/navigation rig and an ice mining auger; or oversized “resilient wheels” of spun aluminum, mined and smelted on the red planet, and mounted to the chassis along with a left over fuel tank section of some delivery vehicle and astronauts in the future will have whipped up a Mobile Habitation Module.

When I think of humanity’s future on Mars I don’t see in my mind’s eye a panorama replete with single-purpose designs like this.

That is pretty, and it worked in OBLIVION sure, but only just. Rather, when I imagine that future I see designs that empower the hands that will move them about the fines. These things must be infinitely versatile and interchangeable. And, most importantly, these tools need to be developed now.

Some time ago I had a conversation with a proponent of privatized space ventures. This person came to the table with a gallon glass jug of his favorite kool-aid and proceeded to try and fill everyone’s glass with his favorite flavor. When he got around to pouring it into my cup I stopped him and he asked, “why?” My answer was that I try very hard to remain agnostic about space exploration. “Want to build an orbital space station near Earth? I’m cool with that. Have a pile of private funding to dump into rocket design and manufacture? You go do your thing. Interested in reaching for a piece of mankind’s future on Mars? Hey, I’m on your side. I am an explorer at heart. Not any particular kind of explorer, just a person who really wants to see us all on our way.”

So, with that, I encourage you to go check out Mars Trac‘s Indiegogo campaign. It’s “Flex Funded”, which means the campaign will receive all funds raised even if it does not reach its goal, and that gives the team the freedom to take what you can spare and apply it toward their ultimate goal without fear of coming up short. This my friends is merit incarnate. This is what it looks like when a few dedicated people break the mold and make their dream happen. If you’d like to see more people making things like this, you should go support this campaign. And, as a super cool bonus, you could end up with some really excellent art to read or hang on your wall.



Why I Love the Internet

I came across this video from Cory Doctorow today. It was posted on Boing Boing. For a YouTube video about books and book issues it’s on the long side (just shy of 13 mins), but I urge you to watch it completely, even if you don’t agree with with Mr. Doctorow. It may be the last time you see something of its kind.

Yes, this post is about Net Neutrality, here is why. Herein lies an instructive tale about what will happen should industry and money gain the liberties that they seek. Before us we have a book, written by a person with other-than ‘Merican citizenship, living in other-than ‘Merica location. From all indications it’s a pretty good book too. It says something about ‘Mericans that has been said by quite a few outside our borders (note to self, add LITTLE BROTHER to reading list), but it is a position which is not commonly given much of a media platform. From the article on Boing Boing, in Doctorow’s own words.

My publisher, Tor Books, is sending 200 free copies of the paperback of my novel Little Brother to Booker T Washington High School, because it’s the first school where any of my novels has been challenged by the school administration. Little Brother had been selected and approved as the school’s summer One School/One Book reading pick, and the school librarian Betsy Woolley had worked with Mary Kate Griffith from the English department to develop an excellent educational supplement for the students to use to launch their critical discussions in the fall. The whole project had been signed off on by the school administration and it was ready to go out to the students when the principal intervened and ordered them to change the title.

In an email conversation with Ms Griffith, the principal cited reviews that emphasized the book’s positive view of questioning authority, lauding “hacker culture”, and discussing sex and sexuality in passing. He mentioned that a parent had complained about profanity (there’s no profanity in the book, though there’s a reference to a swear word). In short, he made it clear that the book was being challenged because of its politics and its content.

Ultimately, the entire schoolwide One Book/One School program was cancelled. Little Brother is now an optional title for grade 11 AP English students.

The control of the flow of information is a mighty weapon indeed. One man’s tea is another’s turd soup, to be sure, but if the internet is to remain a level playing field, upon which we can all frolic than both princelings and privilege need to exposed, judged and marched along la Monte-à-regret.

When faced with an opportunity to objectively examine his own political ideologies, Michael J. Roberts, principle of Booker T. Washington High in Pensacola, chose to turn off the tap of debate, on ground that appear to be little more than hearsay. The impact of this action is limited. In fact, given that Doctorow and Tor are now shipping in bulk to anyone who want’s one a free copy of LITTLE BROTHER, it is possible that this action may backfire.

“But,” a thoughtful person might ask his or her self, “what might happen if a person with similar tastes to Roberts, in a position of control within the router infrastructures of America, should decide, for our own good, to restrict access to information?” Right now, this is illegal. No one is allowed to cut you off from information you feel is worthy of your time. But this is the reality of the proposed changes in consideration by the FCC today. Lanes of speed are created, these are levers of control.

I have been a member of this vibrant, online, global community since I learned the basics of telnet (late 80′s, yes I’m that old). The freedom to exchange ideas was what first drew me into grand kerfuffle. Back then it happened so slowly, an ASCII character at a time, drawn across a poison impregnated piece of glass by a moving pin prick of light. As I sit here, banging away on a keyboard, I am amazed at how much better it’s gotten. How much easier it has become. But my passion for this network remains essentially the same. I love the internet because it is a place where everything weighs the same.

Should Big Monied interests prevail, should leavers of control be granted to a very few, I predict that we’ll see the emergence of grey nets – perhaps built on the backs of cheap, dumb, slow and unregulated communities of relays. Packet radio, PirateBox, and DIY laser network bridges passing our thoughts over distance. Why more people with concerns about their privacy are not currently developing these sorts of independent, stand-alone capabilities today is somewhat beyond me, but I suggest that when access to ideas is interrupted there will be a ground swell of interest and creative involvement. And of course, something more to write about.



From ON THE LEFT FOOT. Thanks Zane, I can’t get enough of this goat.

Instead, what I saw might only be described as the stare of the unconcerned. The creature nosing through last night’s leavings looked something like a goat. It had yellow eyes flecked with blue. It had horns, but they were longer than anything I had ever seen growing from a goat’s head before. And instead of curling around the animal’s ears they shot up straight toward the sky like a pair of sky scrapers. And it was short. It was like a Dachshund version of a goat. With stubby little legs and a tan and blue zebra pattern of fur along its back.



This afternoon I put Aral down for a nap. It was a long morning, filled with lots of errands and plenty of adventures. Admittedly, I snoozed a little while calming him down sufficiently that his tiredness could catch up and pin him in slumber. When he wakes in a while he’ll be happy and ready for some new adventures this afternoon.

But I got up from his bed and tiptoed down the stairs, thinking about the next stack of boxes I might unpack, when it occurred to me that I hadn’t written much to this point in the day. So I sat down at my “desk” (a corner of the kitchen actually, carved out to support a laptop) and started scrolling articles mostly to get the juices flowing.

I am constantly amazed at how often we overlook the astounding. Especially in our friends and acquaintances. Being open to the amazing skills and abilities of complete strangers seems to require an unsustainable level of energy. Even the simple act of acknowledgment, focused on friends and family, can be a stretch. “Wow, you’ve got a very special talent,” are words we just don’t say enough. They’re not heard enough. I’m not open enough.

While scrolling I came across this video of three strangers who pick out a tune on a sidewalk. Yeah it’s not going to win a Grammy, but it is good from the get-go and it only gets better as each of these guys lends their talent to the mix.

The first guy, the fella with the guitar, had to be open to the second and third talents that just join. But in maintaining that openness he allowed something new and greater than the original song to emerge from all parts.

Recently I’ve started working on a couple of shelved projects. A friend from our days in eastern Washington approached me and asked if I might have a story idea that would lend itself to graphic novel form. “Yeah, here’s a list,” I said. Since then I’ve been feverishly hammering away at a script for an idea I had plotted out as a novel. Just recently (like yesterday) I was talking to an online publisher about the potential of picking up the Jack Isen series I started late last winter. Zane picked up the manuscript of ON THE LEFT FOOT and started sketching and now my dropbox is filling up with pencils and ink work. Considering that I’ve known Zane since a chance encounter at a coffee shop in 2008 what follows is some sort of amazing stroke of luck.


All you get to see for the moment

Zane Kinney has this uncanny ability to read what I’ve written and translate those words into the image I had in my head. That’s one of the goats! It feels to me, as if he was watching over my shoulder while I was dreaming up the story. Looking into my head. Let me tell you, as a writer, this is an amazing feedback loop. Complimentary, self-replicating moments of flow.  Each and every time I see something new pop up on my screen I eagerly open up the file to get a better look. “Hey! There’s Umoya.”

For the time being we’re keeping the graphic novel under wraps. Call it NEFARIOUS PROJECT X if you need a name. But know, each and every time I settle the little boy down for the night, I find myself rushing to my laptop to add a page or two of panels to the script. His preliminary sketches are AMAZING. And, ON THE LEFT FOOT is getting revisited, not because I have the time, but because I love to see what Zane is going to draw from that tale too.

Synchronicity is an amazing experience. You know you’ve got it when all participants are saying things like “It has been a great thing for me to play with this. It’s been liberating to be able to chase these ideas around with few strings attached,” and the work becomes a sort of playful experiment around melody and a solid beat.