Monday, December 23, 2013
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I often worry about the impact my stories will have on those that read them. I worry that the need to root myself into everything I write will alienate people who don't share any common experience or worldview. I worry by writing what I know, I will push away those that I don't.

This is especially tricky for me because in my private life I aim to be as inclusive as possible. I find myself harboring bigotry for the ignorant and for the hateful, but, besides that, I do everything I can to approach situations and people by seeking to understand before I condemn, if at all I should.

I've written before about the Bechdel test and how it's a good sort of cultural thermometer. In the same stroke, I've tried to paint a picture showing how such a test is ultimately ineffective, but that doesn't mean its ideas are useless. Stories with varied characters, whether of different sexes, beliefs, backgrounds, etc., are important for the sake of variety and because those are the stories that aid us in telling the truth. Of course, the truth, at least in a literary sense, is more about intention than it is about factuality, but I digress.

The Predicament
I've been making some great progress with a short story I've had in my head for some months now. The main character, a young girl, has surprised me more times than I can count, taking on a life of her own, as our creations so often do. The problem is that I find her world populated by many of the same types of characters; namely, they're big, scary men with  a bone to pick with my young antagonist. Even if they aren't of the big scary variety, they tend to be male.

So, I find myself wondering: am I doing myself and the story an injustice by not populating it with other female characters? Surely, in the instance of the world being the main villain, the sex of the minor antagonists is superfluous at best, but what does it say about my writer's mind, my thoughts about the roles of the sexes in general, that the villainous nomads are all male?

The Double-Edged Solution
I want variation of character in all of my stories, but this decidedly monotonous representation of minor characters has left me to wonder what the implications would be on a bigger scale. What if, in this instance and others, having female characters or male characters or straight characters simply doesn't suit the story? Maybe what my narrative needs is a uniform type of bad guy. Does it make the tale inherently weak if it has no place for diversity?

This is something I've taken to calling the double-edged solution; truly, I want to satisfy the need for good female characters in storytelling, but if it doesn't serve the story, should I push to fulfill these sorts of "equality requirements" just because? It seems that forcing anything creative to fit into any kind of mold is the best way to stifle that creativity.

It's something I've thought about for quite a long time, and I've yet to come up with the answer to the question. I think that more stories should be written to fulfill the Bechdel specs, but I'm torn by the idea that they should all have to.

What do you think, creative community?

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 Charles Hayward is a web writer, short story author and novelist, and a social/political activist interested in furthering the cause of humanity, the well-being of the environment, and improving the world in general. His work has been featured on Examiner.com,Unplug the Matrix, and on the Japanese culture-themed blog They Call Me An Egg.


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Sunday, December 22, 2013
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Almost everyone has sat down in a moment of mental lust and tried to touch pen to paper or mash out a few meaningful words on the computer in an effort to express themselves. What makes them do this? Interestingly enough, I feel that there are three main reasons that people usually blame for their need to puke some words onto a page. These reasons are like a verbal color wheel, and can be mixed with each other to create art; well, let’s just say art is subjective.

  1. Catharsis- People need to emotionally purge themselves. Whether it is political venting, romantic
    woes, or purely the need to scream in the world of font to empty the head a bit, writing down anything usually has a draining effect. I have on occasion felt like I had to enjoy a proverbial cigarette after writing because I felt pleasurably spent. Sometimes writing is like a verbal shower that washes away the soil of civilization.

  2. Expression-The need to be heard. From the time babies cry for everything to the time that kids babble on and never stop, we as a species have been creating a latticework of information exchange all in order to be understood. Poems, books, letters, even rage-flaming kids while playing online games, it is all done with the goal of being understood. This gets dangerous when the need for Catharsis bleeds into this; some pretty harsh things can come out of a letter meant to express oneself while venting. *cough*inebriated e-mails to your boss*cough*cough*

  3. Immortality-The fountain of youth may not exist, but it can surely be written about, and it has; this is why pretty much everybody has heard of it. If the fountain of youth were real, I bet it would spew forth ink, which is far more costly than water. When words are put to page, more than mere ideas are expressed, but the very mind, heart and daresay soul are silhouetted on paper. Reading and writing is interesting this way. When an author bleeds ink onto paper, he is really holding out his arms ready to receive a partner in a complicated dance of the mind. When a reader cracks open a book, they join the author in a waltz where the two minds join and create something new, an understanding born of two minds. Think of it as a mental love-child conceived from a mixture of thought and ink. In this way, the words of the author live on. Never in the same way, but proliferate like children, changing the world, making an impact one way or another. Sometimes, people like to pass something on.


Mixing these three can yield some amazing results, but can also create monsters, like Frankenstein, that venture out into the world and grow on their own. When Mary Shelly authored Frankenstein while trapped in a ski-lodge with her husband Percy, Lord Byron and John Polidori, she tapped into this color wheel in order to craft something that was definitely more than the sum of its parts. It grew but only because of a special blending of all three. I tend to incorporate all three in an effort to satisfy my own needs to bleed off a bit of my stream of consciousness along with the desire to pass on, well, something.

 Other than the three needs of inspiration I mentioned above, there are definitely more that can be added to the list, I am sure. I would love to hear about what some of you readers feel inspires you to write. 

Wayne Ceallaigh is a renaissance man. By day, he is a father, but when school lets out, he tutors children in Science, English, Writing, Philosophy, Religion, History, and sometimes Math. He specializes in special cases where grades need to go from failing to above average in a very short amount of time and getting students into the colleges of their choice. When the evening slows down and melts into the night, he writes game content for Glacier Studios. He is currently working on a project that puts the hero in a historically accurate Norwegian proto-Viking establishment where the Aesir and Vanir rumble the outer worlds and meddle in the affairs of Midgard. In his downtime, he likes to relax with his family or swing his swords in either the SCA or Dagorhir.

Currently, Wayne holds a B.A. in English with a minor in Philosophy and has earned complete doctoral credits in Contract Law, Criminal Law and Tort Law. He is constantly learning and loves to hear new stories. Don’t be afraid to comment on this post if you want to know more.
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Wednesday, December 18, 2013
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I haven't been doing this whole writing thing very long, at least not in the professional sense. I started very slowly in October of 2012 and since that time, there have been some things I've discovered that I never would have thought about when I was still completely green. These are the little things that can easily gnaw at you as both a creative professional and as a person; Many of these, perhaps, apply to other disciplines outside of freelance writing, but for me, these have been unique to my fledgling "wordsmithing" career.

Even if They Ask for It, Very Few People Want Your Opinion
This seems to be most prevalent when you take on ghost-writing projects, whether it's a novel, website copy, or what have you. Clients want exactly what they want, and they expect you to give it to them without a fuss. What you'll learn very quickly is that you can hand a client a piece of gold and have them sneer at it like it's actually horse droppings. You have to remember in these situations that there's a reason you're a writer and they're not. Swallow your pride, keep your nose to the grind stone, and other idioms implying that you need to simply soldier on.

Everybody Thinks They're Writers
The sting of non-writer folk telling you how to do your job and the rage that wells up inside you when accountants tell you they do exactly what you do will never really go away. Having said that, ridiculous responses from clients who hate Oxford commas, don't understand why semicolons are used, and are confused about the difference between its and it's (it happens) are going to be a regular part of your life. When these things happen, simply explain to your clients why you write the way you do; oh, and make sure you do it without any sarcasm.

People Expect Free Work
As a freelancer, there are few things you'll learn faster, perhaps, than the fact that people somehow view what you do as cheap work. There are times when this will manifest itself as low-ball asking prices for an assignment. Much more frequently, unfortunately, is a call or e-mail from a potential client offering only "exposure" in exchange for giving them hours of your life. It can be hard, even impossible, to pass up this kind of offer when you're starting out. It is unarguably hard to find writing work until you've built up some steam, but don't fall into this trap. If you do take a pro-bono assignment, make sure it's a short-term deal. (Note: This doesn't apply to work for volunteer groups)

You need only look around to find evidence that being a freelancer is only getting harder. There's an interesting Business Insider piece about the recent explosion in freelancing across the board. Pay may be rising and jobs may be more common but so, too, are the people you're competing against. Know what you're getting in for before you dive in, and make yourself a far better freelancer out of the gate.
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Charles Hayward is a web writer, short story author and novelist, and a social/political activist interested in furthering the cause of humanity, the well-being of the environment, and improving the world in general. His work has been featured on Examiner.com, Unplug the Matrix, and on the Japanese culture-themed blog They Call Me An Egg.

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Tuesday, December 10, 2013
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Today, many of the world's leaders made their way to South Africa to celebrate the life of Nelson Mandela. The coverage of the event, as you might expect, flooded the internet, television, and other traditional mediums. President Obama gave a moving, forceful speech that, admittedly, wasn't without tinges of hypocrisy or irony, but overall, gave the impression it needed to.

In the true fashion of 21st century media, however, it's not the life of Nelson Mandela, unarguably one of the world's great leaders, that's being talked about. It's not his achievements. It's not even President Obama's speech being picked apart; that might almost be understandable given his own policies and things said in his speech. Instead, it's a "selfie" the president took with British PM David Cameron and Danish PM Helle Thorning-Schmidt. I get that snapping a "selfie"--and please, note my distaste for using that pseudo-language--in this context is strange, but people of the world, kindly shut up about it.

Focus on Nelson Mandela
Does snapping a picture truly constitute something more important than the life of a human being who spent his short existence trying to make the world better? I hesitate to ask the question as, ostensibly, more people expressed their sadness over the death of actor Paul Walker via Facebook and Twitter than even bothered to make a mention of somebody who literally changed the fate of millions of people. How about some priorities? How about some perspective?

Realize the Nature of the Event
This wonderful peace from The Blaze is not unique in its coverage of the whole affair. "How dare he take a picture at a funeral?" they ask, disbelief drooling from their maws. The comments are a whole other story. The "selfie"--god, I hate that word-- is being linked to pathological lying, chronic narcissism, and everything else. Granted, those traits may or may not be there, but it's not too hard to see that correlations are being drawn where there are none.

I'd wager that a large percentage of the people flaming, fuming, guffawing, and other verbs at this whole situation are completely unfamiliar with the tone, the overall mood, of the Mandela celebrations. People were dancing, singing, clapping, and shouting. Why? Because they were celebrating the life of a great person. The mood was of revelry, not sadness. This wasn't a funeral; it was a party meant to see beyond the pain and rejoice in a person's accomplishments. So, please, save the indignation for when it's warranted.

Speaking of...
My biggest gripe with the situation is that we're ignoring all the bigger issues to talk about something which, at the end of the day, doesn't matter. Say, for the sake of argument, this photograph is in any way reprehensible. Even if that is the case, how does it affect any of us? Is that photo a government entity spying on everything you do? Is it helping or hurting the cause of gender and sexual equality in the country? How about the income gap; is it fixing that huge economic blight?

It doesn't matter.

In the end, it's a fool who looks for a fight, a problem, where there is none. Believe me; I've been that fool many times. Undoubtedly, the POTUS has some things to be criticized over, but overshadowing a day meant for celebrating a singular individual and sweeping the real dirt under the rug for the sake of political indignation is an insult and a waste of time.


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Monday, December 9, 2013
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I had the great fortune of stumbling across Amanda Hess' article, "It Was Like a Pile of Kleenex...", over on Slate this afternoon. I say great fortune because it was a super interesting article about female authors' inability to connect with literature that is widely considered to be part of the Western literary canon; Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, and others were all discussed by a panel of female writers. If you've read some of the so-called great works of these authors, maybe you have a guess as to why their writing makes women feel the way they do.

The second part of this "great fortune" is in the impact these same works are said to have had on young men. Hess recounts Elif Baufman's anecdote about reading Henry Miller for the first time, only to find that the guy she was dating at the time had lifted his stories up onto a pedestal, internalizing the narrative and becoming much of what she hated about Miller's works. That idea stopped me.

I began to wonder just how much influence a book can have on the formation of identity. Could it truly be the case that a narrative, a foreign perspective can be taken so far as to mold a person? If so, what sort of implications does this have on my beliefs about the impact of video games and other media on personality, actions, etc.?

As it turns out, realizing the truth required little thought. As soon as I began to dissect the idea, having originally thought it ludicrous, my mind was pulled to a rather dark summer over a decade ago. At the height of my hero worship, I was consuming classical epics, comic books, Harry Potter, and more at something of a breakneck pace. I began to envision myself swinging on a strand of silken web toward someone bleating for my help. Naturally, in my dreams, I saved her or him.

The problem, of course, isn't with the dream. At one point or another, we all fly or do something fantastic while we recover from the world. The trouble starts when the line is blurred. Say, for example, you start to map out a costume, a vehicle, and an ideology. Say, just for example, that you begin to build that costume. What if the only thing that stopped you from doing something stupid was a suspicious mother and her ability to convince you of your foolishness?

I still have those costume plans in a box somewhere.

Having grown up digesting fiction and historical literature, I built who I am today. I've long since abandoned my notions of costumed crime-fighting and Hogwarts, but I certainly still dream of it. That mentality, the hero complex as a former love called it, bleeds into everything. It informs my personal, professional, and emotional choices. All of it is founded in the words of someone struggling to spread their own perspective, their own story.

Imagine, then, what it means for young men to grow up reading the misogynist manifestos that are increasingly rare, yet present, these days but were a dime a dozen in the past. Imagine what it means when young men grow up dreaming about objectifying and ruling. I doubt you have to work to hard to see the results. I'm not sure those fantasies end with drawing a costume.



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Wednesday, December 4, 2013
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I'm pleased to report that my first true interaction with the Affordable Care Act (Re: Obamacare, A Love Story Worse Than Twilight, the Worst Thing Ever to Happen to the United States, Socialist Retooling, etc.) has ended with gleaming success. In that, I can't help but feel a humongous weight has been lifted from my shoulders; I'm not even considering the 1% income penalty I would've been responsible for had I not gotten insurance by Jan. 1st. I don't care that selecting the most basic of insurance would have cost me marginally more had I gone that route. I care that for the first time in nine months my basic health needs can be met. I care that for the first time since I graduated from college in 2010, I can go to the dentist. On this side of the equation, perhaps, I see the whole issue of Obamacare more clearly than I ever did.

First, I want to say that I don't believe Obamacare is a panacea for the health crisis this country faces; it's not. I'm also not going to go into some highly-partisan diatribe, tinged with red or dipped in blue, that espouses all the supposed failings and successes of American healthcare reform. I understand that the system, as it stands now, is ineffably lackluster, a winged bird that can't yet take to the sky. And yes, I understand the failings of the current administration. 

With all that being said, with the many catalysts for blood-boiling and irrational party politicking, I tell you that the system is a good thing. It's a good thing for two important reasons:

  • I Can Afford to Care for Myself-There's a very real problem when you live in a society that doesn't value your right to live, especially when it's one that proclaims itself the Land of the Free. Forcing people to accept being sick over being well is the very definition of slavery because you take away any sense of choice. Interestingly, talking with my insurance rep today, I found that the most basic care plans marginally increased in price over similar plans last year. On average, they increased by a little over a dollar. The so-called "platinum plan", the creme de la creme, became more affordable, year over year. To put it simply, if I were making the same amount in December of 2012 as I am now, then I wouldn't have been able to afford the same level of care at that time.

  • Life Doesn't Have to Be a Constant Risk Assessment-One of the strangest, most disheartening things I found about living uninsured was that I viewed everything as though I were a pencil-pusher at a risk assessment firm. "Well, I can't really go hiking because if I break my leg, how can I take care of that?" I'd asked myself. Of course, I don't plan on heading out to challenge a karate master or free-climb Kilimanjaro, but that's not the point. Life, from this side of the apocalyptic measures called Obamacare, is decidedly better, and I've known about this change for less than 25 minutes.

So, What's the Point?
The debate before this meant anything to me, at least in an experiential way, was based around abstracts; it was based around what could be and increasingly inane politics. Having been granted something that a huge portion of the industrial world has enjoyed for a long time now, even if my costs will remain markedly higher than other first-world nations' for some time, feels more like freedom than any other occurrence in my adult life.

It's not an issue of political tilt. Were I Republican instead of more Democratic in my views, that wouldn't change the impact. You can debate all you want about the ethics, the costs, the fundamentally anti-American nature that the ACA exhibits, but let me tell you first-hand, until you've been on the other side, until you've tasted something fundamental that was previously denied, your experience, and thereby your authority, is truly limited.


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Tuesday, December 3, 2013
A Writer Without Tragedy is Useless


People don't really get writers. Well, I should say they don't really get them unless they are writers themselves. From a completely objective position, it's not hard to understand why. If you're a journalist and you're writing about the really interesting, important stuff, then you're probably putting yourself in the way of some kind of harm. Fiction writers, arguably the most difficult to understand, spend their lives telling stories, inspiring the idea that we aren't really doing anything, but the "why" of us doing so is a lot more complicated than many people think.

Carrie Mathison Cry Face
You know Carrie has some tales to tell.
Source:http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mczxud39sS1risuxpo1_1280.jpg
To a certain extent, writing is about storytelling, pure and simple. Telling a tale about a great character, a great story; that's what it's all about. However, if you're willing to dig a little deeper, you will find that most of us are maladjusted in some way. Some of us have had addictions and use our writing to figure out that ever present plague. Others have experienced some sort of violence and use their words to try and make sense of it. If you're seeing a trend here, then you're on the right track; a writer without tragedy, big or small, is useless.

What Makes Tragedy Our Lifeblood?
I argue that tragedy is so important to a good story, a good writer, because it gives you an answer to search for. You may know why you had to get a divorce or why sexism exists, but in the same way that knowledge is differentiated from wisdom, so, too, is knowledge separate from understanding. That understanding, more than anything,  is what gives the writer so much power to craft an honest, authentic story.

Anecdotally, I recently had the misfortune of being defrauded by a debt collector. In trying to do the right thing and improve my financial status, I attempted to pay off a legitimate debt to an illegitimate collector. This, in its own way, is a tragedy. It placed severe limits on weeks of my life, a sacrifice that would have been well worth it had it been legitimate. This is an insignificant type of tragedy when compared to heartache, death, and the like, but it nevertheless serves as a catalyst for a story I'm really interested in telling. (Being proved naive is a great driver it turns out)

Surely, You Can't Mean Every Writer Has Experienced a Tragedy!?!
No, I don't mean to say that every person has experienced tragedy, at least not in the first-hand sense. Even writers who cover the stock market, however, understand a type of loss; they understand what it means for the markets to crash and for people to lose their livelihood, if only in an abstract sense. In the end, this sort of understanding, whether from a first person or third person observer perspective, is essential in crafting a story that people want to read, whether you're droning on about the change in federal interest rates or bringing truth to people in the form of thoughtful fiction.


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Monday, December 2, 2013
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An Apology for Equality

It sickens me that the thing you do so much better than I
winds up being less because of the chance of birth.
If I were to speak about science or math,
you'd be drowned out; my gender determines my worth.

The conversation, for the time being, will shift to your hair,
it will shift to your chest, your supposed promiscuity.
I could speak of things I do not know
and I'd be trusted over you intrinsically.

It's important you know that we aren't all alike.
Some see intelligence, instead of a potential "wife."
I can do no more than stand with you, cursing them down.
Is that enough to bring equality to your life?


This one was inspired by Emily Graslie of the Brain Scoop's video talking about gender issues in the field of science and in general. Thanks to Upworthy for bringing this to my attention.




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Sunday, December 1, 2013
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Perfect Permanence

It's far too easy to think of life as wasted; that's especially true when you feel like nothing is permanent. Even the Buddhist, his life built on the concept of ephemeral reality, can rely on his belief as something of a compass rose. If your life has become a series of supposed failures punctuated by long-lost lovers, hated jobs, and crushed dreams, what else could you possibly think?

We have too many thoughts, too many dreams, that we think will drive us forward. When it comes down to it, their true conflicting nature is more damaging than a weapon aimed directly for the heart, but we hold on tight, hoping they'll save us. Too many learn far too late that dreams can pull you down faster than anything else. 

The problem lies in our concept of dreams. Why are they called that? Frankly, because they don't exist, because they're near impossible to achieve. "Dreams" need to be reduced to dream; the plural exchanged for the singular. Finding our perfect permanence is about reduction. If you've ever made a sauce, you know that reduction is hugely important for flavor and substance. Just as reduction allows the cook to obtain that perfect flavor, reduction allows the dreamer to find their direction.

It's been said that choice is the enemy of happiness. This is especially true of the dreamer. We think of how we can change the world with words, by giving our time, or just doing something off the beaten path, yet while we decide, all of the options pass us by. In finding our perfect permanence, progress is made, the ephemeral slain, and the dream realized.








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Saturday, November 30, 2013
Friday, November 29, 2013
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The Black Plague

As you gave thanks, did you leave something out?
Clearly, it's worth leaving a footprint on a face.
Does your new debt leave new doubt,
or does it leave you feeling stout?
I doubt it furthers the human race.
Today, you give your life, your time,
putting material in love's place.
Remember, as you stand in line,
the precious few things money can't replace.








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Thursday, November 28, 2013
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The Lumberjack

There's a man who walks with an ax,
though he needs it not for work. 
He knows he'll pass my brambles,
by ivy, by stands of thick birch.
While some require
little more than a climb,
others need for the swift cut,
separating the pieces entwined.
He hopes that his blade
will remain stayed by his side,
but he fears not
the cut given in stride.




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Wednesday, November 27, 2013
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Perspective

To the high-schooler who has no idea of what he reaps,
be warned of the damage you do when you betray the secrets you keep.
Time, it may pass, and friends, they may treat you ill,
but you always remember the times when you betrayed of your own free will.




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Tuesday, November 26, 2013
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Floaters

There's a blue light in the sky.
I wonder if you see.
Is it only in my eye,
or do you see what's in the sky?
I hope it's not just me
who sees what's floating here.
For if it's just me,
if my vision's unclear,
then I worry what it might be.






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Writing, like any form of art, takes on different meaning as it's used in different ways. Journalism, marketing, fiction writing; all of these different styles tend to mean something different to those within the community of the written word. Journalism is useful but corruptible. Marketing is a sell-out, a place for people to go when they're getting started or don't know how to move forward. Fiction writing, it seems, is the purest form of the craft for many; I know that's what I used to think.

Writing professionally has changed the way I think about writing, the way I write, and so much more about my life. For all the rest of you who live with the near drug-addiction-like pull of words in your life, here are the five things I've learned about writing since I started doing it professionally.

No Form of Writing is Better Than Another
This is something you learn really quickly when you've got hands in multiple cookie jars. My day job sees me writing a huge volume of marketing material for a wide variety of businesses. My freelance work has me ghost-writing creative pieces and translating work from language A to language B. In this type of setup, you quickly realize that no form of writing is "better", any more noble, than another. In the end, writing well is all that matters.

You Really Do Get Better
When I first started doing this whole thing, I wondered if I'd ever get better. Will I ever understand how to use a semi-colon? Will I become better at tying beginning and end together? The answer, it turns out, was a resounding yes. It might take your editor giving you a little tough love, but in the end, you will be much better than you were. As far as I can tell, this part never ends.

You Can't Trust Writers
Writers of all types make their living off telling a stories, real or constructed. Even non-fictional work is presented in a light that best suits the author's story. When you spend enough time weaving threads together into your own narrative, you quickly find that you can do that just as well on the page as you can off. The more evil writers, the Bill O'Reillys of the world, will take full advantage of this superpower. Though I hate to say it, you can't trust writers.

A Good Writer Can Do Something with Nothing
For a long time, I held the belief that it was the subject that gave a finished piece its pizzazz. In the end, though, it's what's written around the subject. Having written now on everything from ramen to bow-ties are cool (redacted so I don't violate any NDAs), I can say that anything can be made interesting when a good writer takes it on.

Payment Pales in Comparison to the Craft
In the earliest days of getting paid for words, I thought that I should just pump out whatever I could, as fast I could. Eventually, unless it is just a job to you, this sort of mentality fades. Instead of focusing on how much you're getting paid for something, you focus on how well you're doing something. (Note: Translation is an absolute exception to this rule) This mentality might be why so many of us are broke for a while.

What have you learned through your own writing experience?



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Monday, November 25, 2013
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A Sap Covered Invitiation


Though my days are spent writing, a vacation getaway here, a recipe there, every so often I feel the gentle breeze of pine sap brush ever so lightly across the tip of my over-pronounced nose. It's strange, to say the least; after all, I sit in a room lacking windows, and there are no conifers for a few blocks around my office. Perhaps, then, some form of winter magic beckons me to play?

What do you want with me, Lords of Winter? What would you have me do when my livelihood depends on these letters, linked together, as they are, by purpose and meaning? Should I drop everything to frolic in your falling children, unique to the finest detail? 

Well, I'm certainly beginning to think so. At last, your Douglas Fir-infused aura has weakened my resolve. No longer can I distract myself with a mug of black energy. No longer can I ignore your summons in favor of a lightsaber-wielding avatar. 

I'll close the screen now, shut off the phone that is a constant reminder of things I don't truly need to do, and I'll meet you on the hill. Please, however, keep in mind that I've been away for a while. My belly has swollen, and my legs resemble hams, but I'll try my best to keep up with you; your snowfalls, your woodland denizens, and your constant winds of winter's change.



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Sunday, November 24, 2013
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You're Looking the Wrong Way


When we are defeated,
it's often a surprise
to find that the way forward
is simply to raise our eyes. 

It's too easy to look backward,
focusing on everything you regret.
It may be trite, but the best,
well, you haven't experienced it yet.

Looking back on the past can be smart,
but ultimately, it's a rouse.
An excuse to hold yourself back,
instead of a chance at a life you choose.






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Saturday, November 23, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
30 Days of Prose: Day 20: The Ninth Was Right About Cardiff


The Ninth Was Right About Cardiff

Doctor Who Tardis flying through space
Markwiggy's 'The Flight of the Tardis'
Source:http://www.wallpapergate.com/wallpaper21197.html
Cardiff, Cardiff, you're ever the fool.
I write you by day, by night I dream of you.
Cardiff, Cardiff, at least four hours a day,
I dream of never writing of you,
not for free and not for pay.

I'm sure you're a lovely city, despite all accounts.
The ninth thought you terrible, but the Doctor lies, I'm forced to recount.
If you would quit haunting me where I work, where I live,
I'd be so much more likely, more ready to forgive.

But Cardiff, Cardiff, cause of my pain,
when Monday comes you'll just wound me again.
I'll write of your charms, though I'm told they're few,
and I'll suffer sickness when you come into view.






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Thursday, November 21, 2013
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
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Vale Amicum

I remember thinking, once, that you were like a father to me. Of course, I had my own, as so many others do. The thing is, well, at the time I knew you, I hardly knew myself. More often than not I wore the mask of the fool; seems I thought stupidity and arrogance were better traits than understanding and knowledge. I know that now, but it didn't seem to matter to you then. 

I remember the days spent slinging winter revelers down a mountain; you got me a job that I hated but that's besides the point. You knew I needed something more than sunless days spent in front of a computer screen, World of Warcraft intravenously pumping into my system in the same amounts it was poisoning your own flesh and blood. I lost touch with him, with you, and I went away to college.

I remember five years or so later, seeing you at a stop sign. Well, truth be told it was a blinking light and you pulled out in front of me. I cursed you with all the expletives I could muster, guilt seeping in as you nodded toward me in apology. I don't think you realized who I was that day, but once I remembered you, a friend, a man who had done so much for me in rougher years, I wished I'd had a second to say hello instead of a fleeting half-reunion filled with sailor spittle.

Here we are; more years have passed. I hadn't seen you until your name flashed across my screen. Gone. After a separation of time amounting to years, we're too often given to think that feelings fade, that memories and gratitude somehow grow stale. Yet, as my arms began to tremor and images of the pain of someone I once called brother erupted effortlessly, I realized that your impression was lasting, though I hadn't given it any real thought. Not until now. Not until the things I say fall on eternally deaf ears.



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Tuesday, November 19, 2013
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Hi readers,

So, almost unexpectedly this blog has turned into a haven for creative content. Arguably, any piece of content that comes completely from within you is creative, that's true, but specifically, this has become a place where I can really get some things I'm thinking about out there quickly. Poetry, short story, prose; whatever it is, it doesn't matter.

It's been really fun for me to see just exactly what I can come up with in the half-hour or so a night I have to write a new piece. Some of it, as you may have seen, is decidedly lackluster. A lot of it needs shining and reworking to even be passable, but as you surely know, that comes with a hefty price-tag in time. On the other hand, I've been really proud of some of the stuff I've drummed up over the last few weeks. The Man Outside My Window and The 47 Year Old Snowman are my favorites.

At any rate, enough about me. I'd like to open GFWP up to some other voices. Whether your thing is limerick, haiku, short story, or prose, I'd like to extend the opportunity for you to feature your voice without having to start your own webpage. The only rules to follow are:

  1. Do Not Write Anything Hateful Towards Any Social Group-Exceptions to this, of course, include hatemongers, warmongers, and the like. Any content that is hateful will be summarily destroyed.
  2. Retain Your Ownership-If you write a piece that is published on this site, your content remains your own. I will retain the right to feature your content on this blog, but that is a non-exclusive deal. You're free to publish your work wherever you want it.
  3. Enjoy yourself.

If that sounds like a good deal to you, then by all means, start sending submissions to me at chashayward@gmail.com. I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with. (Note: You will not be paid for your submissions.)



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The Pitch

What should I say?
What do you want to hear?
I've got an idea, but
to you it may sound queer.

Here are my qualifications,
though admittedly they're few, but
I've got this really great idea
to share with you.

This man who lives down the way,
he spends his life singing.
He hasn't any money and he lacks smarts,
but he sings true, to that life he's clinging.

No?
Well, that's fine; you see,
I've got one more.
By this point you might be impatient,
but let me try for the score.

There's this woman
she's opened a shop.
It sells soup and sandwiches and...
"stop?"

What should I say?
What do you want to hear?
I thought these were great ideas,
but they don't belong here.



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Monday, November 18, 2013
30 Days of Prose: Day 16: The 47 Year Old Snowman


The 47 Year Old Snowman

Source: http://bit.ly/1cEdcix
Every winter, the time-bent man makes his way outside with a bag full of hats, scarves, and buttons. For 20 years, two snow-folk have been built in his front yard. One was tall and especially portly; I say especially portly because no snow-person will ever have the physique of photo-shopped, emaciated Victoria's Secret models. 

Yes, the one was tall and especially portly, he held a pipe in his mouth, and a bushy mustache made of an old comb adorned his top lip. Well, if he had lips, that's where his mustache would be. On his head sat a flat cap of gray wool, around his neck a Gryffindor scarf hung just tightly enough to grant warmth without being uncomfortable. His bottom half, as was so often the case, was bare, except for the handful of buttons that made to form a frosty jacket around his chunky, chilly frame, and the gnarly maple branches he used for arms. 

Next, the man turned to building the companion. She, like him, was curvy as could be, though her diminished height made her easier to build. For the last 20 years, this was the snow-person the man focused on. He knew exactly how the buttons were supposed to sit, exactly how her own Gryffindor scarf was supposed to be tied; delicately but tighter than her friend's. For her eyes, he used mother of pearl buttons that, with the blue-white sheen of the snow, took on a distinctly sapphire sheen. Gingerly, he sat the red beret atop her head, one of those cheap suckers they give at the doctor's in her mouth,  and placed her own slimmer, yet stronger, arms into place. She was perfect. 

He took a step back to look as he had for decades; he did so alone as he had for three years. She looked as she always had; strong and happy. Then, he looked to his own crystalline analog; pudgier around the mid-section, haphazardly wearing a scarf too loosely; he'd apparently lost his eyes. 

Sighing, he took a few black buttons from his pocket, roughly shoved them in the spots they should be, and stared into the opalescent circles for too long. At length, he turned away from the snow-folk, their arms linked hand-in-hand, as the man must have placed them absent-mindedly. Walking inside, he turned on the Christmas lights, warmed up a mug of cocoa, and turning on a showing of "It's a Wonderful Life" in the background, he sat and looked out the window, as he had for 20 years.








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Sunday, November 17, 2013
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House of Matchsticks

She built a house of matchsticks
and hoped that it could stand.
It was built for independence,
she needed no woman or man.

One by one she stacked them, until
her home stood three stories tall.
Tenuously, they held together,
though eventually they'd fall.

When you build a house of matchsticks,
foundations of wood, not stone,
then it takes only one wind or spark
to take everything you own.



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Saturday, November 16, 2013
Friday, November 15, 2013
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Disquieting Reflections

I can't help but wonder
about the root of my malice.
Is it truth or is it blunder
pushing me to avoid a kiss?

It's these disquieting reflections
that cause blackness and antipathy,
because we hate all of the ones
who hold traits we also embody.

I can't help but decline
any relations that could ensue,
regardless of the heart or mind,
I fear in me what I loathe in you.

It's these disquieting reflections
I see when finally you've gone.
There can be no true absolution,
so long I deny myself one.



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Thursday, November 14, 2013
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II

I keep running for what seems too long. Eventually, a fear creeps over me that maybe I'm chasing a hunger pang. The mistake, I think, has lost me my camp. Just as I turn back, the insistent trill echoes some ways ahead in the direction I'd been heading. Despite thinking better of it, I charge again toward my feline friend. 

Finally, I come to a clearing. The cat, for his part, sits atop a rock breaking like the Rockies out of the snow-covered landscape, his foot held high at a diagonal angle above his head as his tongue works furiously.

"Well...this was worth it!" I say dryly after a few minutes of staring blankly at the strange little beast. The cat being a cat goes right on licking, changing legs when he's satisfied the other is clean. Tired of standing in my growing disenchantment, I walk over to the cat's mountainous perch, letting myself sink down to the ground, my back feeling every chilled contour of the rock. As I quickly fall asleep, warm steps make their way down my shoulder, then down my chest, until they finally reach my lap where a toasty, purring ball of fluff takes his place.

--

The next thing I know, a furred gauntlet is toying with my earlobe.

"Wha...what?" I demand groggily, craning my neck around to where the little devil is perched.

Naturally, the creep responds with a rough vulgarity, swiping me again with unnaturally powerful little paws.

"What do you.." I start, when I finally see what the little fellow wanted all along.

Breaking from the treeline across the arctic clearing, a second cat, this one clad in patches of orange and white, a black, velvetine belt wrapped around its midsection, is sprinting toward us with, of all things, a miniature Santa cap atop its little head. 

As the new cat arrives, my gray keeper leaps down to meet her. Stepping forward until their noses almost touch, the two exchange pleasantries, seemingly holding an entire conversation silently between themselves. The conversation apparently comes to the topic of me as the two turn their heads to stare, the new one issuing her own challenge; the gray fellow follows suit with his typical rumble.

I think to ask again what they want, but the best I can muster is, "Fine! Whatever!" and defeated I go quiet.

They continue to stare until, finally, as if on queue, the calico takes off, followed by my friend. For some reason, my legs begin churning in hot pursuit. Running through the chill, back the way the tricolor had come, the night seems to grow darker around us.

Crossing into the thicket, the wood remains dark, deadened until, when we're some twenty feet in, the forest bursts into life. Garland, lights strung like captured blue and white fireflies break the midnight silence as they illuminate the world endlessly around them.

My feline friends must have expected the change for they take the explosion of color in stride. For my part, the surprise knocks me from my feet, eyes going wide with a mix of confusion and fear. Just when I think I've recovered, the wind is again taken forcefully from my chest. 

The little graymane and my tricolored acquaintance approach on either side of a beautiful arctic fox. The air audibly leaves my mouth as the creature's opaline eyes meet my own.

"Relax, human. You are among friends here," she assures me.

Taken over by disbelief, the world swims and leaves me.




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Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
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Prologue

         I don't really remember how I got here; not to this exact spot. A poorly made plan led to a walk in the woods that was meant to end almost as quickly as it started. Yet, as often happens with plans, this one ran directly off course, and now I lay alone, struggling to keep warm while the blanket of crystalline chill falls thickly over me.

I

         I wake with a warm nudge. Confused and groggy, I sit up to find a brightly moonlit night. Cool blues and glassy whites work in unison to accent the sap scented boughs, subdued yet verdant pines stretching into the night-fogged distance. Thinking the warm nudge nothing more than a phantom, a symptom of an active dream not remembered, I lay back down in the sharp down of pine needles.

Some time later, I am awoken by another warm nudge; this one insistent, somehow demanding. As before, I sit straight up to find the color of the oil-painted winter shaping the landscape. Of course, this time is different. This time a cobalt-colored cat dressed in crushed velvet stares back with blue eyes that would make the Gilmore Girls' pale in comparison.

As we exchange stares, the small beast becomes verbally abusive, assaulting me with long, guttural trills from his thickly furred throat.

"What?" I ask.

My quadripedal vistior answers with another violent trill before bounding off into the distant thicket. As you might expect, I return back to my evergreen slumber. As you might further expect, the sleep wasn't meant to last long.

In what seems only seconds later, a sharp jolt shoots warmly through my cheek, immediately sending me behind a nearby pine for shelter. Looking around for the 'coon or fox who'd finally decided I'd make a fine meal, I find only my cobalt friend, licking himself viciously, no doubt trying to get my taste from his mouth. At length, my assailant quits his shower and again engages me in a staring contest.

"What?" I ask for the second time tonight.

He doesn't bother to dignify the question with even his violent grumble this time. Instead, he shoots again like a bolt of smokey lightning back through the tree-line.

"Fine," I sigh, and barrel through the trees after the little creep.





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Monday, November 11, 2013
Sunday, November 10, 2013
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The Scent of Beer


I write to you now, as ever I did.
My words sentimental as a little kid.
I look for you. 

The words are true
as I think of you,
but the rhymes too simple.

Like all fools I believe
in the words I conceive,
but the power lies without.

Words sentimental as a kid,
I write, as I ever did
while eyes scan the crowd.

Don't take this to mean that I'm still caught,
I'll go blue in the face arguing I'm not.
Somethings will remain.

Just occasionally I'll hear
in the scent of my beer
a voice, a laugh, a want.




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The Bechdel Test: Useful but Ultimately Ineffective

This week, Sweden began implementing a "Bechdel" rating system for all movies released in the country. By implementing a Bechdel-based rating system into all films released for the silver screen, Sweden hopes to bring gender equality to its film industry. While the attempt at pushing gender equality into film is laudable, at least in my opinion, it won't amount to much.

Source:http://bit.ly/1aMR6O1
What is the Bechdel Test?
The Bechdel test, according to Feminist Frequency, was invented by Allison Bechdel in 1985, when she featured the concept in her comic strip Dykes to Look Out For. The concept is simple; in order to meet standards of gender equality, each piece, be it film, novels, etc., must meet three criteria. First, the work must have at least two named women. Simple enough, right? Next, those women must, at some point in the narrative, talk with each other. Lastly, when they talk, it has to be about something other than a man.

Now, as I've said, the Bechdel standards are something that everyone should keep in mind. The fact is that an overwhelming majority of popular films, American and international, utterly fail this test. Strangely enough, Gone with the Wind, a film that features so many anti-equality themes, passes the test with flying colors.

Useful but Ultimately Ineffective
Saying that the Bechdel test is important would be an understatement, in so far as it can be used to open our eyes to the lack of good female-driven stories out there. The problem, especially with the recent decision by Sweden, is that it addresses a symptom instead of the cause. The fact is nobody is going to start writing gender-equal or female-centric pieces until they understand that those are interesting, important stories to tell.

It can't be, or shouldn't be, any surprise to see the staggering statistics around women's issues that are rooted in a fundamentally patriarchal upbringing. The Huffington Post reports that women still make 77 cents for every dollar their male counterparts make. Statistics from the Center for American Women and Politics at Rutgers show that a shocking 18.3% of the United States Congress, an average between the House's 17.9% and the Senate's 20%, are women. 18.3%! Pages of statistics and anecdotes could be drummed up here in support of the point, but the main idea is this: so long as fundamentally backward ideas and situations affecting the lives of women remain unchanged, no test for equality, Bechdel or otherwise, will mean a thing.

So, Where Do We Start?
The Bechdel test can be used as a social thermometer, a marker of how far things have come and where they are going, but if we want to actually make a change in the representations of women on the big screen, then we need to start educating people from childhood on what equality actually means. Teach little girls that it is perfectly fine to love their Disney Princesses but that life can't be lived waiting for prince charming to come and sweep you away. Teach our little boys that there is more to masculinity than being the guy kicking the door down, lightsaber in hand as they rush to save the princess. In general, show our children that, regardless of their role, e.g. gender, parent, wife, husband, that everyone deserves to have their voice heard; more specifically, we need to teach them that everybody has a story to tell. In doing so, we can improve real-world representations and opinions as well as those represented on screen.

What impact do you think the Bechdel test and the ratings systems it inspires can have?



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Saturday, November 9, 2013
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Stack 'Em Up

Oh, such distraction now
as across from each other we sit.
Screens reflect on eyes, searching for something
so we can "Like" it.

A brunette sits across from her admirer
for what must be the thousandth time;
he can't take his eyes from her,
she can't seem to get offline.

Mother, father, daughter, son,
hoping to go out for some fun.
Yet as they sit for dinner
not a word is spoken, not one.
As they struggle for something
interesting to say,
each hopes for a new invite,
the new posts of the day.

Violence becomes a status.
Amendments become a share.
Sadness becomes a hash-tag
for strangers who can't truly care.

What's the point in connection,
the point in a voice,
when disconnected "friendship"
is ever the popular choice?


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Friday, November 8, 2013
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Untitled Limerick

There once was a thing called government,
whose every decision we lament.
It does some things wrong
and then sings a song
woven of lies and of figment.

(Note: it works best if you read figment as "fig-uh-ment :P)


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Thursday, November 7, 2013
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BAMF!

Strike to the left. Behind. Across the room. Every move fills the room with the scent of burnt ozone. Every strike brings protection to these people, my friends; brothers, sisters. Of course, not one of them truly needs it, least of all the clawed one with the attitude. 

Violence is a natural, oftentimes necessary expression, but that doesn't mean it gives any satisfaction. The perfect day is one I can spend in the monastery, alone with my peace. With hate running so hot now, those times are nearly forgotten.

They call me the "blue elf", but frankly, being anything elven, blue, pink, or otherwise, would make a far better truth than my own. I'm neither man, elf, or demon, though on my best days, I almost believe I could be the former.

Too many are ready to give in to their nature, perhaps because theirs is not my own. If I was to do what came naturally, well, our Father knows what it would mean. What else could ever come from a circus freak with a sociopath for a mother and a devil of a father? Perhaps you've once thought the same about your family, but I'd bet my tail you don't, can't really mean it.

Yes, these people, with their purple dragons, mohawks, and angry, red claws have shown me that I can be more than a sinner, more than the sum of my combined, broken bloodlines. So, once again I bring brimstone to defend them, as if their blood were the same as my own.

BAMF!


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Wednesday, November 6, 2013
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Woodland Memory

The breeze touched my cheek today, offering for the first time the promise of the coming winter. Breathing deep, chilled barbs in my lungs, I began to dream of my time in the woods.

If color and scent are memory, then surely, there can be no stronger recollection than that a stiff Autumn wind brings. Yellows, reds, greens, and browns; shades of cyclical death painted on a life that is far too willing.

Yet among the decay, there is a boundless life that waits for us all to be still. I think to step without breaking every branch or leaf in my fated footfalls, but somehow, this makes me louder; intention not yielding deception.

So, I give in to the woodland wishes, retrieving a fallen bough as I draw my blade. The scrape of metal on bark, somehow, fits the thicket's ebbing landscape.

As the scrapes drone on they hide me, blending me into the wood. To my left, I see the haphazard pile of stones where you'd never lay, if I'd done what I should.


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Monday, November 4, 2013
The Good and the Bad of What Our Children Will Call "Normal"

In light of recent events, I've begun thinking, worrying in some instances, about what my children will grow up thinking is normal. I think, really, this applies to anybody ages 16 and under who are being exposed to these radical changes, both good and bad, that will redefine the way people of the world think about essential, crucially important things.
Source: http://kuwaitiful.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Confused_baby.jpg

Gun Violence is Just How It Is
This one is likely the most troublesome. As the Huffington Post points out, in the 10 months following the December 2012 school shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, 78 mass shootings took place across the United States. As these shootings continue to happen on (at least) a monthly basis, with ever decreasing outcry from the American public, I'm left to wonder if we've come to accept these shootings as commonplace.

Most worrying, however, is what that means to the development of current teenagers and future children. If it becomes the case that our children see mass violence as a natural consequence of disgruntled human beings, does that result in a population which thinks that's the way to solve things?

The Political System is a Waste of Time
It's no stretch to say that people my age and older are disenchanted with the political system; this applies to people on both sides of the aisle, and really why shouldn't people feel that way? American politics is stuck in this cycle of foolishness, authoring its own destruction. If we think that our government is a useless exercise in corruption, how can those coming after us think it any better?

Genetically Modified Food is Delicious and Healthy
With the United States continuing to battle over whether or not Americans have a right to know their food was created in a lab like Frankenstein, mega-corporations, like Monsanto, continue to consolidate their grasp over the agricultural industry. Apparently, allowing the company responsible for Agent Orange to taint the very things we rely on for our survival seems like a great idea.

If the trend continues down its current path, then you will have two camps. The minority will be pocket groups of people who grow their own food; well, at least until Monsanto finds a way to make that a theft of intellectual property. The majority will be eating flavorless tomatoes, modified with fish genes for some reason or another. Unfortunately, most people will grow up without the real taste of nature on their lips.

The Only Good: Social Equality is a Moral Imperative
If there can be anything positive said about our future societal norms, then it has to be said about equality. Don't get me wrong; I don't see women suddenly filling up the White House, rape culture disappearing, or anyone without an ivory complexion  suddenly being free of the prejudice tossed on their backs by the narrow views of history.

What I do see is progress, however. I see children who understand that love is love, regardless of the couple makeup. I see children who can put a woman into the highest office of the land; that's assuming my earlier precognition of governmental disinterest doesn't coming true. Whatever form it takes, I think equality will be the single thing that changes for the better for the new class.

~

What do you think the future will be like for the young folk?  Am I being too cynical?


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One more night finds two AM alone. Eyes close tight as the theater of the mind spins to life. Another night, another place, another bed--none feel of home.

I remember, now, asking--maybe--sardonically they'd reply, "time heals all wounds", they said, though they never meant to lie. 

They don't mention when healing means no more than scars, etching burning muscle deep, changing the way you move, the way you breathe, the way you are.

They never meant to lie, I've said, though  they rarely have the choice. When the question is lacking as much meaning as it is lacking voice. 

When you ask when it'll heal, you're asking when you'll again be made whole, but the truth they cannot tell you is some never heal; some not at all.
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Sunday, November 3, 2013
30 Days of Prose: Day 1: Untitled

Today marks the first day in a 30 day project around writing. Every day from now until December 3rd, I'm going to write something creatively. I don't know if it'll be prose, poetry, a short story, or what have you; frankly, 30 Days of Prose just sounded great. Some of the entries, most of the entries, are likely to be shoddy at best. However, I hope both you and I can find a diamond in the rough.

Also, as an asides, please bear with me through the website's design woes. I'm making progress, but it is slow to be sure.

Untitled

Oh, were it so that every wish came true
the moment it left my heart,
and instead of forlorn it gave rise to new morn,
a picture as in art.

Yet now I sit wishing, maybe hopelessly,
maybe hopeful but still,
I know it is better to be denied every letter
than carelessly granted my will.

The question is ever asked of me
"how does failure drive you on?",
and for my part I reply "it's your failure, not mine, 
that beckons my dreams be gone."



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Friday, November 1, 2013
If You Could Only Pick One: Superior Spider-Man #20

This week was a slow comic week for sure. Yes, Marvel's Battle of the Atom wrapped up, though it did so with much more of a whimper than a bang. DC's pickings were as light as ever, and my Dark Horse, IDW, and Image reads are all monthly books, unfortunately. So, for better or worse, this week's pick is Marvel's Superior Spider-man #20.

Spoilers: The cover is completely misleading.
Cover: http://bit.ly/160araB
Now,  GFWP has not been in action long enough for me to voice my endless rage against Dan Slott's run with Spidey. I've felt since the beginning that the whole story-line leading to Doctor Octopus taking over Peter Parker's body was a betrayal of the character of momentous proportions. And, yes, I know that this is effectively not Spider-man. Instead, it's somebody running around in his skin suit.

Even so, I want Peter Parker back as he should be, as Spider-man should be. This week's Superior Spidey shows that we may be on our way to getting there. In a series of mishaps that range from betraying the real Spider-man's friends to Doc-Ock-Parker-Whomever being revealed as an intellectual thief, the web --pun intended-- is unraveling.

If you're like me and you've been hoping for the wrap up of the enraging experiment that is Superior Spider-man, then #20 might just be the book you're looking for.

Have you been following Dan Slott's run on Superior Spidey? What are your thoughts?

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Friday, October 25, 2013
If You Could Only Pick One: Pretty Deadly #1

Wonderful Wednesday has come and gone once again, marking one more new comic day in the books. This week saw some interesting releases. IDW revived Cartoon Network's long forgotten Samurai Jack in comic book form. The art is on, but the feeling is somewhat different. Marvel marches ever onward toward the conclusion of its Battle of the Atom X-event with one of my favorite issues to this point. However, it is Image's Pretty Deadly, making its debut this week, that is something fans of comics, westerns, and interesting storytelling should take notice of.

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Thursday, October 24, 2013
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Just in case you didn't catch it, Monday saw yet another school shooting in the United States. A 12 year old boy --yes, 12 years old-- walked into his school, wounded two students, and killed a teacher with a gun. All of this before turning his weapon on himself, ending his life. It was yet another proud moment in America's gun-sick history.

I would certainly like to express my outrage, my shock, my unrivaled dismay; yet I find myself somehow unable to. I remember Aurora and Sandy Hook. I remember Tulsa, Wilmington,Minneapolis, and the 11 other mass shootings that took place in the United States in 2012.  Each of them disgusts, enrages, and does its part to render the country even more hopeless and disenchanted.

Yet, to me, the shooting outside of Reno seems different. If social media commentary, non-sarcastically a great thermometer for what people actually care about, can be believed, then very few people took notice, or cared, about yet another shooting in the United States. I'm left wondering what that says for the land of my birth.

Most worrying, I feel that this could be an indication of our increasingly desensitized society.  Don't get me wrong; I'm not one of those who point the finger at video games, movies, and other aggressive media as the bastions of American societal evil. Instead, I point my finger at the war-mongering, hate speech, and continued violence in the real world that has become so common place that it barely seems to register on our radar.

The fact is people continue to die. 28 people died at Sandy Hook, 12 at Aurora, and only 1 at this most recent event in Nevada. Is it the size that makes it less important to talk about? Is the death of one innocent man less tragic than the death of innocent children? I'd like to argue that, no, pointless death is exactly that no matter who the victim or in what amount blood is spilled.

So, why, then, is this not being talked about more often? Where is the outrage from all Americans across Facebook, Twitter, and other forums that are so readily filled with this type of thing? Where are the left-wingers or, at least, the anti-violence activists calling for sensible gun reform? Where are the Second Amendment die-hards rebutting the left-wing conspiracy to destroy American sensibilities?

I think I'd prefer the sometimes violent, disgusting language of social media debates than the silence that so typically illustrates apathy. After all, if this isn't enough to get our blood going and conversation started, what is?


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Friday, October 18, 2013
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You know, I make a pretty good effort to talk about various issues of equality. I haven't had the opportunity yet on GFP, but if you were one of my groupies over on They Call Me An Egg, there is a good possibility you saw some posts arguing for the rights for classically oppressed people; namely for women and homosexuals.

So, perhaps, you'd image that I would argue just as vehemently for "men's rights". After all, I'm a man. Why shouldn't I argue for the rights of my people? Why shouldn't I react with thinly veiled bitterness and hatred as the world changes beneath my feet?

Well, perhaps I've jumped too far ahead of myself. Men's rights activists are exactly what they sound like. They're men arguing for the rights of men. Here's the problem though: generally speaking, rights for men come at the expense of the rights of others. Here's one of my favorite examples from one of the lovely dirtbags activists on the Reddits :

"Sure, living with injustice is so much better than fixing it."- a Redditor discussing the need to make sure both men and women are made to pay alimony when the situation necessitates it.

What's that you say? That doesn't seem like such a crazy concept? Why, no, it doesn't. Essentially what's being argued here is that both men and women need to be held to the same standards under the same situations. That is equality, right?

The problem with the men's rights movement is that it isn't about equality. Just as radical feminism, radical secularism, and radical religion aim only to suppress and oppress others for their own benefits, so, too, does the men's rights movement, seemingly made up only of radicals, aim to retake their place as the rulers of the world. Here is a quote that is far more representative of the thinking of the MRM:

"'Women are marginalized.' Does anyone seriously believe this when it's so obviously untrue?"

And that's the issue. Men's rights activists are not arguing for equality. They're arguing against common sense in a desperate grasp to remain the majority, the iron fist that continues to oppress everyone else. I absolutely hate when members of any marginalized group point their finger at me, saying how "you do this" and "men do that". Admittedly, a lot of the times they are not wrong. Many times, however, they are overgeneralizing and arguing for reforms that, if carried to their conclusions, would just wind up with reverse discrimination.

Like so many other groups fighting for "equality", men's rights activists simply want a shift in their favor that ensures they can be the ones pulling the strings. However, unlike so many others, I'm not sure these guys really have a leg to stand on...unless you count the one built out of hatred and fear of an equal society.


So, what are your thoughts on the Men's Rights Movement?
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Wednesday, October 16, 2013
If You Could Only Pick One: Rocket Girl #1

I made a real effort this week to pick up some comics other than the usual Superior Spider-man, X-men, etc. This was, in part, because I'm so sick of watching Marvel betray the foundations of their characters week after week. Also, I've been having to take a hard look at how I'm spending my money on media these days; I want to read great content, but I specifically want content that features other types of characters. More importantly, I want content that is created by people like me who can't do much to stand up against juggernauts like Marvel and DC.

Having said that, I picked up The Shaolin Cowboy from Dark Horse, Rocket Girl from Image, and Coffin Hill from Vertigo, DC's adult imprint. I enjoyed all three far more than I thought I would, but Rocket Girl specifically stood out as a great book that promises to be fun going forward.

How do you suppose she got her name?
Source :http://bit.ly/1ebv3yW
The premise of the book is simple, but that's not a dig. Our young heroine Dayoung Johansson suspects that a company in her Earth's timeline of 2013 has been going back in time to rig things in their favor. Johansson, a time-cop from future New York City, makes her way back to 1986 where she begins her investigation to thwart the villainous Quintum Mechanics.

What I loved most about Rocket Girl #1, and why I recommend it for those looking for just one book to read this week, is the humor, the art, and the lack of dude's in spandex. Our protagonist is a 15 year old who is drawn appropriately and exhibits the certain, well, quirks of a teenage girl. She's sarcastic, witty, intelligent, and driven. How many other female characters are there like this in comics?

Appropriately, the humor is adult with middle-fingers flying around. The writing has a certain sardonically sarcastic tone to it that is equal parts refreshing and riveting. Clearly, Rocket Girl also takes inspiration from Japanese comics. Most notably, there are people falling over when they are flabbergasted.

There are other things to consider when buying your comics, of course. Namely, how much money you've lost if a book or two aren't for you. Well, Rocket Girl is less expensive than most AAA titles out there right now, with a price tag of $3.50. For my money, the risk was worth every penny.

Rocket Girl, the first issue of which was released on Oct. 9, has been added to my pull list. I'm looking forward to reading issue #2 when it drops on November 13. Give it a try, either digitally or traditionally, and let me know what you think!

What are you reading right now?

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