Webcomics, pretending, and projects.

I'll be writing a webcomic. Whoever thought it would have come to this? I'm writing a webcomic.

I thought about doing comics in the past. The reason they didn't work out so well is because I don't like the format. I'm not good at drawing as small as you'd have to draw in comics, and I'm not good at visually depicting a series of events or scenes. However, this will be formatted as a series of drawings with associated text, much like a picture. The comics name will probably be Alters, but I'm calling it "the picture book for grown-ups" at home. Although it's not really for "grown-ups" so much as "older kids". The main characters are teenagers.

I have devised a beginning for it, though. It goes as such:


Every child plays pretend. There is something remarkably appealing about forgetting the reality of who you are and becoming someone else for a while.

Most kids stop when they're older, but some don't.

Some keep pretending to be other people into their teenage years. Sometimes even beyond.

The best way to play pretend, however, is with other people.

In childhood, it's easy to find such playmates. It gets harder in one's teenage years.

Some use computer or video roleplaying games. Some, however, are lucky enough to have friends who share their love for pretending.

Imagine, if you will, three kids - barely kids anymore, as they are now in their high school years - who never stopped pretending. Their names were -

Luce Lynnerre -

Jonathan Cruz -

and Danny Markham.

They'd all tried writing stories at some time or another, but the most fun was in pretending to be the people they wrote about.


That's all I've got so far. There's going to be pictures. Obviously. That will come later, though.

Also, I've not given up on The Smallest Weird Number, no matter how I want to. It's gradually coming along. I wanted to write 500 words a day. That's not happening. But I am writing a couple sentences a day.

Idyllwild, writers' retreats, and Towel Day.

I'm doing something very interesting this weekend. I'm holding a writers' retreat at the cabin in Idyllwild. Four of my friends - Avalon, Tobi, Sofya, and Luce (aka Moriarty) - are coming with me, and we're going to write together. Well, no, that's probably not all we're going to do. In fact, it's not. We're probably going to waste quite a bit of time in the way that similarly-minded friends waste time when they're all together in a big house in the mountains. I don't actually know how similarly-minded friends waste time when they're all together in a big house in the mountains, but I suppose I'll find out.

I feel like I'm some kind of writing guru leading my younger, less-experienced adherents and admirers into a spiritual lesson in the mountains. There is a small amount of truth to this; I'm actually the oldest of that group (which isn't saying much; I'm turning eighteen over that week. And now everyone knows how stupid and pretentious I've been all throughout writing this blog.) And they all collectively admire my writing skills. But I'm not a writing guru by any means. Unless they proclaim me one, in which case I shall accept the title. Though I do have things to teach them, mainly about the submissions process. I am very familiar with the submissions process. I just submitted some poems to Black Warrior Review today, and I'll likely submit more. Certainly more over the weekend. I'm going to have everyone submit something.

Also, because I am a nerd and I'm certain a lot of people who would read this blog are nerds as well, I am observing Towel Day today. It's a celebration in honor of Douglas Adams, who wrote The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. One celebrates by wearing a bathrobe, drinking tea, and/or knowing where your towel is. I have done all three of these things in addition to bring my copy of Hitchhiker's Guide to school with me. (And I brought the bathrobe, tea, and towel to school as well. It's that kind of school.)

Actual new project, major awards, and Sherlock.

After a small semi-depressive slump (not really) after finishing my April novella, I've figured out what I'm going to write. It's hopefully a novel, but I won't complain if it's actually a novella. I'm so far calling it The Smallest Weird Number (which is a reference to a band called Boards of Canada; I'm probably one of the few people who have heard of them, and I promise I'm not trying to be a hipster). I'm not going to give a lot of details about it, but it involves a "functional paranoiac" psychiatrist who makes up "conspiracies" to make life interesting, his loony, math-obsessed friend who has a completely crackpot theory of "weird numbers", and a scenario they envision for fun that turns out to be true.

In other news, I had a wonderful night last night, and while I try not to talk about my personal life on this blog (because that's not as interesting as what I actually write, or so I think), this is actually a good thing to write about because it's writing related. As some people may know, I'm graduating this year from OCHSA (which is an art school with a very fantastic writing department - no, they are not paying me to say this). There was an awards ceremony for the writers last night. I read a graduation speech that I wrote (everyone read things, so it's not as though I was special for reading it) It was filmed, so I may end up uploading it to YouTube and posting a link. It was about how, in kindergarten, I brought in a song my great-grandfather wrote about a man who grinds up dogs and cats to make sausages, and how the joyful solidarity of the classroom as we sang it is similar to how I felt at OCHSA.

However, that wasn't the best thing that happened. The best thing that happened was the award I got. Yes, I got a major award. (And if you know A Christmas Story, you'll get the reference.) It was the Director's Award, which is the highest award one could receive. Mr. Blaylock (the fantastic director of the creative writing conservatory) gave it to three students, one of whom was obviously me. I went up making that shrugging "huh?" gesture, because I honestly didn't understand what I did to merit such an award. Everyone found this very amusing.

I later asked Mr. Blaylock what the award was for. I'll paraphrase it by saying he loved my improvement, he thought I was amazingly talented, and I embody the heart and soul of what the creative writing conservatory is all about. That was definitely one of the crowning moments of heartwarming of my life so far. I will receive the actual award in the near future (because they hadn't made them; it will feature a drawing of an animal in the corner done by Mr. Powers, which is hooray-worthy). I will frame it and be proud of my major award. Which is neither a bowling alley nor a leg lamp.

Also, I experienced actual happiness at the ceremony, which was interesting. I don't feel very strongly anymore, but it was actual strong happiness. Mostly it was because of my friend Luce, who went to the ceremony with me. She read something excellent, and during the intermission, I "led her around by the shock" (she had a blanket over her shoulders, and we had previously turned it into a Sherlock reference - "Of course I'm in shock! I have a blanket, don't I?") and dragged her around to show her to everyone I know. My family was there, you see, and when my family is around and I have a friend to introduce them to, I always feel quite proud of that friend and decide to "introduce" them to everyone, despite the fact that everyone probably already knows them. We then decided that I am Sherlock, my little sister is Watson, Luce is Moriarty (self-proclaimed), and one of my aunts is Mrs. Hudson.

I feel vaguely bad for that last paragraph. I really didn't want to turn this blog into a tangent about my personal life, and I'm really hesitant to bring up fandom on this blog. I almost feel as though it will alienate people. On the other hand, it may endear people. I'm not certain.

However, I'm quite pleased that I have a real writing project, and since I am hosting a writing retreat in Idyllwild this weekend (I will post about that later), be sure I will actually get things done.

May 10 - The lack of writing, horror fiction, and chocolate milk.

It's so strange to have a writing blog when I have nothing to write. I'm working on some short stories right now. Most of them are for school. Such as a tale about a serial killer that I'm writing right now; it's for my Horror Fiction class, and I really don't want to write it. I used to be able to come up with and write stories with this with little difficulty, probably because I hadn't internalized the ideas so much or didn't need to internalize them so much. I mean that now, I tend to agree with most of the things I write. Until the end of the story (which I won't spoil if any of my imaginary readers reads it), nothing happens that I would agree with and no one expresses any idea that I would ever hold. It's rather brutal, too, because most of the murders take place in a kitchen with kitchen tools as the murdering implements. Which doesn't sound too terrible until you think about it. At least it's not actually graphic; the killer talks about what he did but doesn't go into details such as blood or intestines or broken bones or anything. I can't tell if this is more or less scary than it would be if he really described it.

I think I may have this obsession with families right now. The only reason I say this is because the friendship story I'm making up is largely about a family dispute, and whenever I try to write something along with the students in a class I'm teaching, I end up making up things about families. Yesterday, I started a story about two siblings, one of whom is drinking chocolate milk the way their grandma used to make it. Their grandma recently died, and the narrator is jealous of his sister drinking the chocolate milk because they used to drink it when they were children but he developed intolerance to lactose and he actually appreciated everything their grandma did for them, unlike the sister. This is actually a good idea for a story, and I will show it to Mr. Blaylock sometime. Mr. Blaylock is a teacher of mine; he likes things like that.

May 6 - Finishing, a friendship story, and the search for angst.

I suppose it's worth mentioning that I completed The Week of Dreams a couple nights ago. Actually, more than a couple. Maybe...four, I think. Or less. I honestly don't know. Chronology is not one of my strong points.

Anyway, I'm at this point that I call the "post-project crash". I'm finished with writing something, and I don't know what to do afterwards. I mean, yesterday. I was wasting time in myriad ways, and every so often, I thought, "Shouldn't I be writing?" And then I realized, "Oh, yeah, I don't have anything to write." (And then I stalked off to put a giant stuffed squirrel in front of a sleeping relative, who later accused me of throwing it at her. It makes sense in context.)

I have the "Good Doctor" idea that I mentioned in my last post. I also have one that's slowly forming in my mind. I'm called it a "friendship story" (analogous to a love story - inherently better, in my mind, although this is coming from someone who doesn't understand the concept of love as everyone else does and who thinks friendship is one of the coolest things ever). It involves two people who meet each other because they both decide to do something they hate on the same day (love meetings like that), and one of them becomes fascinated with the other, and they're drawn into each other's family conflicts (mostly with one of them being constantly at odds with his sociopath brother and then losing his relationship with his "something else" brother). Oh, and it involves architecture. As in, they both go and enjoy buildings together, because buildings are awesome. It probably makes more sense than that makes it sound.

I also remembered that there was something I semi-promised to say in the last post, so I'll say it now. I'm not entirely sure what motivates writers anymore - I know that in the 20th century and amongst a lot of young writers, you've got this intangible something called "angst". Today's young writers are much more likely to use that word than the 20th century writers (unless they're Nietzsche or something of that ilk), but the idea still remains. There's some kind of sad situation that happened and stays with them or maybe persists into their life currently (or, you know, whatever the tense may be - again, chronology's not my strong point). It's an anxious, uncertain, sad, fearful kind of thing, and whatever the reason, they feel it and are often compelled to turn their misery into something beautiful. Or not beautiful. At any rate, they do something with it, and in the particular cases I'm talking about, they turn it into writing.

Now, I have experienced this angst thing in the past. Most of the time, I connected it to something directly observable or nameable (such as social isolation), but usually I just blamed it on what was then believed to be depression. Which makes sense, but not necessarily to the extremes that I carried it. By the way, that sentence proves that I'm in a dangerous position, because now, I apparently believe that depressives can take their feelings too far. Usually, I'm sympathetic towards the depressive people I encounter, but I'm directing a negative judgment onto at least one such person - granted, only myself - but still. I almost think this is making me dangerous in some way.

What I mean to say is that I used to have severe "angst issues" in the past, but hopefully they won't happen again (this is why we see therapists, take medication, and find fiction that correlates all too directly to our own situations so we can obsess over and make references to it so people can understand us). Angst, while not fun to experience in real life, is a good source of material for writers, so long as you know how to use it correctly. F. Scott Fitzgerald knew how to use it correctly. Vincent van Gogh knew how to use it correctly (well, as far as his actual art was concerned). Perhaps even Jeff Kinney knows how to use it correctly. (For those who don't know, Jeff Kinney is the guy who writes Diary of a Wimpy Kid. I'm referring to childhood/adolescent angst that the guy obviously carries with him. I don't know why I put his name here, other than to be absurd.)

I really don't see myself as having much angst anymore. I really don't. I have aversions to separations with people (separations of the permanent kind) and this sort of budding fear of developing friendships, sort of in the way that you're afraid of interacting with people you hate - for some people, it's extremely terrible, but for all of us, it's incredibly inevitable. But apart from that metaphor, I really don't see too many upsetting things for me to base my writings on.

And that's when I have to really think about it. When I can't think of things that truly bother me about my life, I have to think about things I just don't like. Such as my memory. I really don't think my memory is my friend. Imagine someone you, for whatever reason, you frequently hand your wallet to. Maybe you need someone to look after it while you shower or something. You used to be able to trust this person, and they're still mostly trustworthy, but every so often, you find a few dollars missing from your wallet. You're sure it's them, but when you actually ask them about it, they say nothing. You wish you could give your wallet to a more reliable person, but there's literally no one else you can give your wallet to, and you literally always have to let this person hold it. It's not that bad - I mean, it's only a couple dollars here and there, and sometimes you don't even notice it until you go out to buy something - but it's still upsetting.

Now, that relationship with my memory is perfect fodder for writing. In fact, I do have some pieces involving memory. And remember what I said earlier, about how my losing sympathy for people with depression could be dangerous? There's so much story fodder there. Except I just don't know to what to do with it. Maybe I'm not a skilled enough writer (which makes total sense, by the way - I really don't think I'm amazingly skilled, I just like to brag and say I am). Maybe I just think it's weird. But I don't know.

This is the part where I stare at the screen, hoping I could think of some witty, intelligent ending to this but being unable to do so. Funny thing, about me. When it comes to things like this, it's impossible to find endings.

May 3 - Finishing, uncertainty as to what to write, and total lack of focus.

I am very nearly done with writing The Week of Dreams. As in, I have maybe three or four more pages to write. And maybe not even that. It's been a strange month writing it. It took me a year to write a novella in 2011. I'm making up for it by writing another in a month.

I don't really know what I'm going to write after this. I know I said I'd write All the Madmen, and I also know I have to write part of a novella that I'm giving the working title of The Good Doctors. (The "Good Doctors" are a type of magical person in the story. Basically magical healers who are written as a good counterpart to vampires. Though it doesn't read like vampires at all.) I'm doing that as part of a creative project for an assignment. (Basically do something creative based on Gothic literature. A good counterpart to vampires, most of the scenes take place in a creepy house at night with moonlight and Gothic-y sorts of things, a semi-reference to The Fall of the House of Usher...you get the picture.)

I'll try to write All the Madmen. I may have trouble because it's "too close to home", in a sense (everything that happens in it is based on something that has happened to me or that I predict could happen to me). Some of the bad things are happening (or re-happening) to me over the summer. Furthermore, I've grown in a very short period of time to associate it with someone I know (even though I've associated it with other people and I've had the story around much longer than I've known this person). I'm going to lose that person before the summer begins (probably won't see her again), and I don't know how it'll feel for me when I write it. (And, knowing me, I'll probably dedicate it to her. Why am I always dedicating things to people who I'll probably never see again?)

I don't know what I'm trying to say with this. I have other things that I intend to say (largely playing off of why I don't know what to write), but I'm going to save them for later. For now, I'm just going to say that I'll write something. I'm unfocused today. I won't say any more.