In which I say something awesome, Doctorish, and witty.

Yesterday, I did something I'm rather proud of and that I feel very good about. It started out with me reading this article (which is about how scientists have discovered a distant planet that is essentially a diamond bigger than Earth). The first comment I see is by some dude who basically says that this is uninteresting and unimportant because a giant planet made of diamond cannot benefit our species. I reply with this stinger:

"I don't mean to insult you, but I think it's the mark of an awfully small mind to think that a planet is only valuable or interesting if it's habitable by humans, especially if said planet has some kind of distinguishing factor such as, I don't know, perhaps being made of diamond."

Another guy posts soon thereafter, telling me that I'm absolutely right and that he approves of what I said. He then says something about how this is valuable because we've learned something about our universe (or somesuch) and I tell him that's a great summation of what science is like.

The first guy then says something to the effect of, "Okay, it's a planet made of diamond, yaaay! There are billions out there like it, what's the point of it, other than that it's a big diamond in space?"

My response:

"See, here's the thing - there are some things that are amazing because they can benefit us in ways we had never expected. And then there are things that are amazing simply because we find them and we think, 'Wow, that's completely out-there, we never thought we'd find it, it's beautiful and strange and fantastic!' If I were telling someone just a few days ago about the concept of a huge diamond planet, they'd say, 'Oh, that's a nice fantasy. Go write a sci-fi story for it. That IS what you were talking about, right? Just a story.' But now we know that one exists, and it proves that the universe is amazing and incredible beyond what we think it is.

Things don't have to be useful to be valid. Sometimes, it's enough for them to be beautiful. Sometimes, it's enough for a planet made of diamond to exist to qualify it as amazing. Now, I understand that it's important to use science to find things that benefit humans. I perfectly understand that. But at the same time, some things that science discovers are beautiful just because they ARE. Have you ever seen or been exposed to something - a sunset, a painting, an animal, a really good song - and think, 'That's beautiful' or 'that's wonderful', even though it didn't benefit you or humanity in a utilitarian way? That's what this planet is like.

As for whether or not there are planets like this out in the universe - you're right, there probably are more huge chunks of diamond that we can't use for anything, just going in circles around stars our telescopes can't even reach. What makes this one any different? Well, just because there's a lot of them doesn't make it any less special. That's like suggesting that one person isn't special because there's, what, seven billion others on the planet just like them. Like saying, 'No, why do you think you're a special person? The world is full of people. There's loads of people. Many of them are even like you in a lot of ways.' But no. It doesn't work that way. Whether we're talking about people or planets, each one is special and important and magnificent in its own way, simply by virtue of existing and being what it is. And you don't get that. I'm sorry, but you really don't get that? And I don't say that to be patronizing or insulting or anything. It just makes me sad that things like this don't fill you with even the slightest bit of wonder and that you think that, just because we can't do anything with it to serve the human race or because there are most likely billions of other diamond planets out there, it's not worth our time or attention. That's really quite sad."

The guy who posted the original comment then says, "LOL......ok.....smh......lol.....wow....LOLOLOL.....You're a real doozy......"

I said, "Why, thank you."

So yeah. I feel like a winner.

Image? What image?

Before all this stuff with the major awards (i.e. acceptances) and back when the only things I had actually published were two little poems - this was perhaps three or so weeks back - I was talking to a friend of mine about how the only two things I had ever published were about suicide and how I wondered if my next publications would continue in that theme.

Her response - and I of course don't recall everything she said, but imagine that my paraphrasings will suffice in place of exact quotes - was, "It takes a certain image to pull that off."

And I had this moment of, "What, precisely, is she talking about?" So I said, "Image? Expound, please."

She said, "Themes like suicide are associated with whiny goths or Byronic heroes. It takes a certain degree of jerkishness and controlled darkness to pull things like that off effectively."

I said, "Ah, I see." But inside, I was thinking, "Image? What image?"

I know there are a number of would-be writers/musicians/artists/other such people who worry an awful lot about what their "image" will be - how the public will perceive them, how they will present themselves as a persona, etc. I worried about such things when I was, what, thirteen. At the age of thirteen, I was still under the impression that, when I wrote, it would be appreciated by the mass public and that I would appear for book signings and talks in front of people, and all that stuff.

Nowadays, I don't think about an image at all. Perhaps if I were a musician or actor or sort of person who makes public appearances as part of the job, I would worry about how I was perceived by people and thus try to shape an image for myself. But I'm a writer. The thing about being a writer is that people don't see you. You don't appear on movie and television screens. You don't go on stage in front of hundreds of people. You don't even go to art gallery displays and talk about the cryptic meaning of your sculpture that looks more like a cross between a bicycle and a bucket than anything else. Alright. That last sentence was less me being serious and more me having fun with the idea of "art people". I acknowledge that, in art, people probably don't "see you", either. But I honestly don't know how the art world works, nor am I talking about it. I am talking about the writing world. 

I don't know how that works, either, but I do know that people don't see you in the writing world. You're just the name on the book cover and maybe in the "about the author" bit, if such a bit exists. (Assuming you're publishing books and not short stories/poems. If the latter is the case, then you can forget about having an image even more so.) So my writing about suicide and the sort of "image" I would have to work for really don't cross my mind at all. Since I'm almost certainly not going to gain any level of fame - not the sort where I'll be making public appearances and people will even remember what I looked and acted like - I don't have to put any effort into an image whatsoever. I don't.

For those who are curious, though, if I did find myself in such a place where I had to develop an "image", I would act in a sort of understatedly quirky way, the sort of way one might act if one didn't entirely know what one was doing where one was but had been told there would be some exciting adventure and was currently acting like said adventure was already going on. But I'd also discuss dark or sad things with great cheerfulness and no hesitation about disclosing the details of my psychological dysfunctions. But after talking about that for thirty seconds, I'd likely want to turn the topic to something else, such as what a former teacher of mine told me about sea hares or how I microwave my tea when it gets cold. I'd wear a vest or coat or something, and I'd always have my question mark pin on somewhere. I'd sometimes wear a hat (which would probably become my "iconic item", so I'd of course have to wear it all the time) and I'd always wear jeans of some dark color and scuffed-up/adventurey-looking boots. Sometimes, I'd do something completely different and dress up like a psychedelic dandy from some 1960's band, still acting the same, of course. If it seems like I've put too much thought into it for something that's not going to happen, know that this is essentially an exaggeration/distillation of how I normally act and dress.

So there you have it. A basic run-down of how I feel about image and the like. In other news, I just discovered that I do not have my medications with me (having left them at a relative's house), and I won't realistically be able to acquire them at least until tomorrow afternoon or so. This means I will miss at least two doses. My bipolar disorder (which I have been trying to be more out about and accepting of) has been acting up ever-so-slightly lately (actually, possibly not very slightly - I seriously don't know anymore). I do hope I take everything pretty well.

Also, I just realized that I mentioned I had bipolar disorder. Which is, to some people, a form of crazy. I totally forgot that "crazy" can be part of one's image, too. I suppose I'll add "crazy" to the list of all the wonderful things I thought I'd be like in that paragraph. Hurrah.

My story found a home.

I got another short story accepted. The place is called Linguistic Erosion, and I'm not as proud of that acceptance as I am of The Fast-Forward Festival (because, according to Duotrope, they accept over 80% of what they're given), but I suppose it's worth mentioning.

The story will appear on 10/10/12. It's called "Seen But Not Noticed". It's kind of pathetic, and I had a tough time getting it accepted to anyplace else, but the fact that Linguistic Erosion accepted it is nice, because it now has a home. I like it when my stories find homes. Even if they're not the best of homes, it's a home.

So for this one, if I do celebrate a little bit on the inside, it's not because I got accepted so much as it is because my story found a home. Even though it wasn't a great story, I did like it because it had an unusual storytelling style and premise. So hooray for "Seen But Not Noticed" finding a home.

It's a major award.

Alright. Something really very rather extremely good happened today. It made me very, very happy when it happened, and I spent about thirty seconds screaming very, very loudly about it, which frightened my mum and sister an awful lot. They actually thought something was wrong, and it took quite a bit before I could rationally explain to them that, no, everything was quite fine and I was actually quite happy. Being now more restrained and calm, trying to replicate my reaction right now would be silly, but I posted a Facebook status in the moment, and I'm going to copy and paste it here, for comedy value.

"AGGCGCGBK;AJL;WPIRAPS'JAER'PGOAJRE;GO'PIAWREJGO'P/;IARSDOIPGSRSLDF

IT'S A MAJOR AWARD IT'S A MAJOR AWARD OH MY GOODNESS YOU GUYS IT'S A MAJOR BLEEDING AWARD!!!!!!

AAAAADGKLCLJKLGHR.HGALPAQVNljer.nhsam!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It does not, perhaps, capture me at my most articulate or intelligent, but it does give a good impression of what I'm like at my most emotional. For those who do not know (which I suspect is an awful lot of people), "it's a major award" is my codephrase for "a piece I have submitted to a literary publication of some kind has been accepted, which, to me, is such a happy occasion that I feel I must scream and use a reference to A Christmas Story to explain my ecstasy". (Well then. That was certainly an articulate alternate phrasing.)

Details for the interested: the piece, after a lot of retitling, is currently called "After Twelve" and will appear under that name upon being published. It's about time travel (of a very, very wibbly-wobbly sort) and time travel is apparently a rather hard sell, so I feel very fortunate that I was able to get it accepted. (Good thing, too, because I was literally running out of places that might accept it.) The name of the publication is The Fast-Foward Festival (link takes you to their site, on which my story will appear due November 1). This place specializes in time travel fiction, and, in my opinion, they look really pretty cool.

There are a few things that make this acceptance especially significant to me. It is my third-ever acceptance, and I had this sort of self-imposed rule that, if I got published thrice, I could begin to think of myself as something of a published author because of the "rule of three" - something every writer should believe in, I think - and the fact that someone (I don't remember who) said something to the effect of, "If you get one book published, it's an accident. If you get two books published, it's a coincidence. If you get three books published, you can begin to call yourself a writer". Furthermore, it's my first-ever piece of fiction to get accepted. (The other two publications were poems, which do not count as fiction. They count as poems.)

Happily, this story breaks out of the theme of suicide that my two poems set up. (One of them was called "A Suicide Sonnet", the other was about restraining oneself from jumping off a bridge; funnily enough, a friend and I were having a discussion about how these poems were possibly going to set up a certain "image" I would have to work hard to maintain.) Furthermore, this is nice because there was a part in which I could have mentioned suicide in a list of ways to die but, for some reason or another, did not. It does, however, involve death (the main character calls himself up from beyond the grave, which is how the story starts).

But do you know what makes this especially nice? Well, since you're not me, you obviously don't. But I'll tell you. I had been having...well, something of a crappy day earlier today (and "crappy" is not a word I use). Or rather, I was feeling crappy, which is, from some perspectives, the same as having a crappy day. In fact, I was feeling really rather sad/angry. It would sound silly to say the reasons ("sad" because I don't have any friends who I regularly see in real life, "angry" because I don't like human nature and I was just thinking about that and how it's easier for me to find a reason to hate humanity than find a human to love). Well, I've said them. I honestly wanted to scream in sadness/anger/frustration/upset/horror.

I did scream today. I screamed so loud, I scared people. But I screamed out of delight, not horror.

I made a female character that I like.

Something remarkable has happened. Or rather, I have done something remarkable.

I have made up a female character who is not remotely evil and who I unambiguously like.

Her name is Jane (haven't figured out a last name yet). She's a journalist, and she likes to "investigate" in her spare time (e.g. if anything is "off", in her opinion - like if people start acting funny or something that normall

y happens does not happen - she considers it her job to figure out why.) She's kind of a ditz, in a "smart person acting stupid because they actually like acting all happy and random all the time" sort of way. She's very smart, though. She loves animals (especially pets) and actually knows a fair bit about them beyond "oh my goodness cute kittens adorable little hamsters pretty fish look at this stuff". She always wears something she calls "the vest of prepared" (which resembles a fisherman's vest and has a whole bunch of pockets, in which she puts a load of things that she thinks could possibly be useful).

She's fun. And she's female. This doesn't come into the story much (other than the fact that one of her first appearances involves one of the male protagonists trying to date her - they don't form a romantic connection, but they remain friends for the rest of the story.) There's a bit of a mystery element to the story, and her plot function is mostly that of finding evidence (and going to great lengths to do so - she's a determinator, so to speak, especially if the situation interests her). The character could be male and fill the plot role just as easily. I just decided to make her female.

Most of the female characters I write are either slightly bland (because, in honesty, I don't know very many female characters in fiction who I actually like who aren't really love interests for the male characters - and I've decided that, if there's romance in my stories at all, it will be either plot-relevant or strongly downplayed) or villains (because I don't see an awful lot of female villains, either, but the ones I do see are often very cool and I love cool villains).

Jane's a good guy through and through (which doesn't mean she's perfect, of course, but you don't have to be evil to be flawed), and she's not a love interest (beyond the one date that I mentioned, which, again, is plot-relevant because it's her introduction). Okay. As my planning of the story goes on, the male character who dated her once may develop a crush on her (unrequited; she's not very interested in romance), but if so, it'll just be there to add drama and maybe emotional impetus for him to get involved in the case that she and the other main character (also male, explicitly non-romantic) is involved in. (And as the story goes on, there will be a very good reason that she shouldn't get romantically involved with either of the guys.) And she's not the boring "love interest girl" that I'm so guilty of writing (because I'm so guilty of reading), nor is she a villainess. She's - she's just a female character who happens to be female and is pretty fun. Hooray for triumphing over my literary misogyny!

One of my characters.

Remember when I said I wasn't going to post about writing anymore and instead focus on other aspects of my life? This was an inaccurate statement. I seem to be incapable of not talking about writing. This most likely proves I have definite dedication to "the job", so to speak. (I'm practically married to the job, anyway. Which I say mostly because, due to my personal nature, I'm not going to marry anyone/anything else. Hey, look, topics that aren't writing.)

But I digress.

The reason I am making this blog post is because I want to talk about a certain character of mine. His name is Clive Benedict. He's a rather pathetic painkiller addict who's afraid of pretty much every aspect of life or could potentially be so, and he's pretty self-hating and apathetic (about many things, mostly his own life), but of all the characters in this story, he's the one I admire the most. You know why? Because, when you look at everyone's motivation in this story and you get right down to it, he's the only one who's motivated by kindness. 

Everyone else is trying to defend their ideals/factions/interests, and while they're nice people who do care about what happens to others, this guy is the only one who is doing what he's doing specifically because he wants to help someone. It starts with him wanting to save his sister's life, and as he comes to care for more people, he wants to make sure they don't come to harm, but the reason he doesn't run screaming from the adventure is because he loves his sister and thinks he can help her and he has no underlying ideas or ulterior motives like literally everyone else. He just wants to help someone.  

You wouldn't expect it from him, either. He seems pretty self-absorbed (in the sense of "I don't want to come to harm") but his personality traits are not mutually exclusive to working out of love for another person. This makes him interesting (in my opinion) and it makes his virtue seem even more virtuous, in a way. If he can overcome his selfishness and fear, then it proves that his love and concern is very strong, possibly stronger than everyone else's - most of the things that the other characters do are relatively easy for them, or are at least related to things that come naturally to them.

He's working out of kindness, which is more than you can say for everyone else in this story. And that's why he's so far the only character in this whole story who I admire. He's not the only one I like. Far from it. There are amusing characters, nice characters, good characters. He's just the only one who does what he does out of purely selfless ideals. He's the only one who's not preoccupied with something that doesn't inherently relate to morality. I like him.

What became of my writing and what will become of this blog.

I was actually writing up a huge giant post about why I haven't been doing this blog so much, why I didn't end up writing anything over the summer (much less the stories I was talking about here), and why I haven't had any fiction published yet. I was going to give you all a detailed explanation so you knew what was going on inside my head and so that I seemed like not a temperamental, narcissistic writer but just a narcissistic one (if we go off of the assumption that railing on about yourself is narcissistic; I'm assuming that because I'm honestly not very good at telling if I'm taking up too much of someone's time when they didn't want me to do so).

But. I'm not going to do that. I'm going to summarize it and say it was because I was taking my writing far too seriously (instead of not seriously enough, although I have done that at times). I don't want to talk about it. See, there's me being temperamental again. I don't want to talk about it.

(That said, I am writing something, and I personally think it's a very good something. I'm only about 5,000 words in, but it's a story I've had in my head for a very long time that I haven't properly gotten out because of changes regarding people and things that shaped its existence. I'll tell you all about it later. I think it's the sort of thing quite a few people would get excited about.)

As for this blog. I've decided I'm not going to talk about writing anymore. No. Talking about writing just made me upset (because I don't like talking about it, usually, and it just makes me upset to think about what's going to happen to it). It just fostered a sense of glum monomania and I didn't like it. So instead, I'm going to use this blog to show what kind of person I am when I'm not writing. I'm going talk about a lot of things here. They just won't involve writing. This means I'll rail on about non-writing related subjects, my own life, and things in-between. Also, as sort of a self-challenge, I will make an attempt not to bring writing or the creation of fiction into my blog posts. Let's see if I can possibly do that.

Well, now you know what became of my writing and what will become of this blog. It'll be fun, probably.