Costumes

"Why are you wearing that?"

I was wearing a renaissance outfit at the time, which I had pieced together slowly over a number of years as I travelled to faires. It was a bit of a money sink, but I made good use of that outfit, and it was something that brought me a lot of pride and joy. Granted, most people looked at it and assumed I was dressing as a pirate, but that was their fault for taking the media's influence as though it were fact. So the fact that someone was asking me why I were it wasn't necessarily unusual or unwarranted. 

"Because I feel like it."

"No you're not." The man's words were bizarre to me. He spat them at me immediately after I gave him my answer, as though he were prepared to shoot me down. I'm sure he could see the confusion in my eyes. What right did he have to tell me that he knew me better than I did? That he knew why I did things?

"You do it because you're not happy with yourself," he told me. "You want to be something that you're not, because you think that what you are isn't good enough. You try to hide behind a facade that enables you to feel stronger. But that's not strength. That's just you giving up on yourself. That's just you hiding."

Perhaps in another place or situation, his words may have had some credence to them. Maybe, from the way he delivered his statement, it was not the first time he had given such a speech, and with those before me, it had meant something to them. But with me...

"First of all," I retorted, "I'm not hiding behind this. If I was, this wouldn't be the first time in the three months you've known me that you've seen me like this. In fact, this is me literally wearing myself on my sleeves. I'm a medieval history major. I'm wearing this because it's part of who I am, and a part that I'm proud of. And not only this, but I have a half dozen of these kinds of outfits, all of which represent a different part of who I am, what I do, and what I like. So don't tell me that I'm hiding behind something I'm not when I have literally never before been more who I am."

The man's face was stunned. I don't think he'd ever gotten a response like that before. Never seen someone fight back against him in such a way. But the way he had talked down on me had irritated me, and I wasn't ready to let him get away with it.

"And secondly, the reason I felt like wearing it today in particular is because I have a final in my Medieval History class today, and I found it appropriate to wear."

He mumbled something about what he had said becore, weakly trying to insist on it, but I checked out when I realized he wasn't going to budge on that. It wasn't worth arguing. I'd be who I was, and he'd be him, and life would go on. 

Say it to my face

I've been spending a lot more time lately thinking about my writing, rather than trying to think of what to write, if that makes any sense. Trying to think about what my patterns are when I write, which are good, which are bad. How to go about improving my writing. I know I'm not the easiest person to give criticism to, nor am I the best at recieving it, but I try not to take things personally. It's not easy, to be sure, and that's not to say that I never do. But I try not to. 

Recently I've gotten a couple of comments from some friends of mine that I've been trying to take to heart. The first being that the things that I write are very same-y. Which, to an extent, I'm aware of. And it can be hard not to come across that way, because I'm just one guy, and I'm writing with my one style, and I have the same goal everyday. And none of that is necessarily a bad thing. After all, you'd be hard pressed to find an author with a library of widely diverse writings that don't all have some kind of characteristics that all tie them together under one roof. And you wouldn't necessarily want that to be the case either. But at the same time, as a writer, you don't want your reader to look at two things you've written and not pick one of them because it feels like reading the other all over again. And I'm afraid that that's the kind of thing that's happening with my blog. 

The other thing stuck out to me was that it's really obvious when I write about something I've never experienced before. Which is both completely fair and true. I've never been drunk, or ever had a drink, and I don't plan to. But that makes any drunk character I write very exaggerate and stereotypical. Which is frustraing, because there are certain kinds of drunk characters that I would like to write, but I can't really do them justice, because I just don't have that kind of experience. Nor do I know anyone who gets really drunk, and if I did, I probably wouldn't spend that much time around them. That's just not the kind of thing that I really want in my life. Which is probably a wise decision, but it makes a few characters more challenging. 

When my friends told me these things, they were really nervous about doing so. I imagine the look of concern on my face doen't exactly help. But I don't want that to be something that people feel uncomfortable talking to me about. It may take repeating the same advice to my face multiple times before it really sinks in that it's something I need to do. And it may hurt in the moment, but growth is what I'm striving for here, and looking for the flaws in myself is not the easiest thing in the world. I need help, regardless of how big or small that help is. And it's a lot easier to know where to start if someone else shoves it in my face. 

Hiking

It was a quiet day out on the mountain. Among the trees, there was little more than the sound of the wind blowing, a few birds chirping, and Jeremy's feet crunching the dirt beneath him as his pack shifted from side to side as he walked. He was on his last full day on the trail, moving between campsites, and his pack was the lightest it had been since he started, seeing as he only had a few meals left to eat. He carried out his trash, too, of course, but that was a whole lot lighter than the food that was in his system had been.

Jeremy's muscles were sore and tired, but it was a good kind of sore - one that he could work with and keep pushing through, and that he knew would only amplify how could the bath and soft bed would feel when he returned home the next evening. This was a kind of sore that he looked forward to. The kind that made him remember that he was alive, and that he was capable of incredible things. Most people didn't understand that feeling. They didn't enjoy being tired and sweaty and gross. And, to be fair, he wasn't a big fan of that part of the adventure either.

But there was so much more to it than that. And as he broke over the peak of the hill he was traversing, the sight that greeted him only reminded him of that. He looked out over rolling hills, covered in green trees that swayed gently in the wind, housing all kinds of wildlife. He saw the blue sky, reaching out over the earth like a protective blanket. And later that night, he would be witness to the colors changing as the sun set, and cast reds and oranges over the land and sky in vast ways that would easily be missed while at home, staring at brightly lit television and computer screens. It was a serene kind of beauty that could hardly be replicated.

For a long moment, Jeremy stood and took it in. It was the kind of thing that he and his father had looked upon in his younger days, and believed in. It reminded them that there were things in this world beyond the hands and minds of humans. That somewhere out there, there was a greater power, and it had made these wonders that they were free to go out and enjoy.

But his muscles cried out to him, urging him to move on before they no longer could, and so he stepped back onto the trail, and back down the hill which he had finished climbing. From that point forward, there would not be many uphill climbs left to make. Most of the journey would be downhill, and gravity would be on his side, rather than against him. That night, he would set up camp alongside a river, where he could refill his water bottles for the day ahead. It would be a shorter one than those prior, but that didn't mean he could or would take it any lighter. What was the point, after all, if he did not give himself the tools to appreciate all that he had come out to be amongst?

Summer painting

Sarah glanced up from her sketch pad, which she had fashioned into a more suitable collection of her water paintings, to look at the boy she was with. He was standing in an open field, shirt discarded on a tree stump a short distance off, his head and torso covered in sweat that shone in the mid-summer sun. It was a beautiful day outside, and John had been committing himself more to his training as of late, in order to combat some weight gain he had recently gone through. Sarah had wanted to go outside to paint anyway, and to have an opportunity to witness him, well... She could hardly pass it up.

She wasn't sure how long she had been staring at him when he jogged over, his breathing heavy as he grabbed a bottle of water and began to drink. The smell wasn't great, she had to admit, but the view...

John set the bottle down and glanced at Sarah, his breathing still hard. "Am I making it hard for you to paint?" he asked between breaths. Sarah glanced down at her painting, having forgotten for a brief moment that she had it. She was a slow painter as it was, and she could easily blame the small amount of progress on that. She had sketched everything out on the paper before beginning painting, but she had filled hardly any of the lines with color, and they had been out for an hour. She had had a hard time focusing. "We can head back inside."

Sarah smiled gently and shook her head. "It's alright," she said. "I really want to be out in the sun today. And I really want to paint. You're just... a little distracting."

John couldn't help but smile at that. "I can head back then, if it'll help you," he offered. "I've done a lot today. I could use a shower."

"You know I don't want you to shower without me." Sarah pouted playfully, but after having watched his body for so long, it would be even harder to paint knowing that he was in the shower. Right now it was hard to take her eyes off of him. That would just make it impossible for her to take her mind off of him.

John chuckled and nodded. "Should I just keep going then? Test your focus?"

"Yes, please."

Her response was so light and happy, John burst out in laughter. He reached out and ruffled her hair, which was met with a squawk that only made him laugh harder. He took another swig of water and jogged back out to his open field in order to continue working out.

Sarah watched his back, the way his shoulders moved as he ran, accentuated by the sweat running over his skin. It was so hard not to stare. The fact that she was painting him wasn't exactly helping.

Feud

It was late at night when Angelo flipped his book open to the two hundred and seventy third page, which contained the instructions for constructing a summoning catalyst for one the five gods. A simple procedure, one which would only call upon the god for a short period, but if he could obtain some kind of answers to his questions, he would be ecstatic. There were many things that he had begun to learn in his readings - things that he did not understand, that contradicted everything he had ever known and learned throughout his life. As he read the deeper scriptures, reserved for the higher positions within the church so that they might be able to lead the masses, he only seemed to become more lost.

Three candles he set out before him, the first lit just as the match was, the second as the match was halfway burnt, and the third only moments before it burnt his fingers. A surprisingly delicate procedure, and one which he had had to practice a great number of times, as clearly evidenced by the burn marks on the fingers of both hands. They had been painful - especially when he had to hide them and read the pages during services the next days - but he could now reliably light his candles. From there, he cast a mixture of herbs amongst the candles, watching them spark and burst into flames in the air before their ashes fell to the ground. And all the while, under his breath he muttered a prayer to the gods, asking for their help and guidance.

There were dark clouds in the sky overhead, and as Angelo prayed, those clouds began to swirl and build together, circling a point just over the spot where he stood. The gentle smoke from his candles and herbs rose into the sky to meet them, and though he could not see it, when the smoke touched the center of the swirling clouds, a single lightning bolt broke free and struck the ground just before Angelo's feet. The abruptness of it, the sound, and the heat, sent Angelo staggering back, falling to the floor.

And in front of him stood a man, his body built as though carved from stone, dressed not in clothes but covered in dark blue tattoos with sharp edges, as though threatening to leap off of him and strike down those who opposed him. The god looked down at Angelo, a calm smirk on his face, as though he had come prepared to deal with the man who had summoned him.

"Oh, God on highest," Angelo proclaimed, scrambling to his knees and bowing deeply, "one of the Five on high, please, grant your wisdom upon this small and confused man."

Angelo felt a hand on his back. He expected it to be warm, perhaps even soothing, but it was as cold as ice. "Well," the god spoke, his voice laced in poison, "there's your problem. There aren't five gods. There are six. And you chose poorly."

Death in writing

I've mentioned a number of times how much I dislike Game of Thrones, and that the main reason for that is the excessive amounts of death. I hate how frequently the characters die. That the one thing you can count on in the story is that a character is going to die, or might as well be dead. With the new season recently out, I'm being recommended the show all over again, even from people who I've already been over how much I hate it with. "How can you not like it?" they always ask. "It's medieval. You're the medieval guy. There's swords and magic and dragons and fighting and sex. What more do you want?"

I want death that actually means something, and I don't understand why that's so hard to get. It's not that I don't like death in stories. I dislike the death of the main character, sure, but it's not death overall that I dislike. Death is an important part of some stories, and when implemented well, its implications and consequences create depth and meaning to a story and its actions. Pain that touches characters, and touches readers, creates an innate connection between reader and story. And the world that those characters exist within can only proceed onto the next evolution if the things that are holding it back die. And what is a story without evolution?

One story in particular which I have read comes to mind as a good implementation of death, that being the Night Angel Trilogy. A very bizarre series, I concede, but one of the few in which the nature of death therein is what draws me to the story. And if you wish to read it for yourself, I advise you stop reading this here, because I can't explain why that is without giving spoilers.

Part way through, the main character becomes immortal, but only in a sense. He can still die, but he will inevitably be revived after a period of time, without injury or lasting consequences for himself. But that is the key word - himself. As he learns, with each death he suffers, someone else must pay the consequence for his actions. Every time he is revived, someone else must die in his place. And there is a good chance that that someone is near and dear to him. But this is a sacrifice he learns of too late.

This is an amazing implementation of death. Important characters die, there is immense pain, yes. But it is death that leads somewhere. Death that gives the main character motivation to change and to grow. Death that, despite the sadness and the pain, eventually leads to happiness. That is exactly the kind of death that I love.

I guess it's just uncommon to have that kind of death in a story, I suppose. I wish it wasn't. Perhaps that's simply something that I will have to change.

Worlds

When I was a kid, I considered for along time becoming a video game developer, or writer, or something of the sort. I didn't really know a lot about how making video games worked - I just had this idea that I could create one, and that it would be a thing, and that I could make it be exactly what I had in mind, and that I would find a way to make it a good. I was young. It was also during a point in my life where I really wanted to know more about my religion, and I was frequently trying to read the bible - try being the keyword. I never made it very far. But there were some stories I read that caught my attention, and that I thought could make for good stories or games.

As I grew older, I started to learn more about games and how they were made and how many people were involved, and I started to realize that, perhaps, that wasn't the path for me. But that didn't take my enjoyment of them away, and I learned to appreciate video games and their creators on a new level that I hadn't experienced before. My friends and I talked (and still do talk) about them all the time. What we liked about them. What we didn't like. What we wished they did and didn't do. And how we would change things if given the opportunity. We discussed video games the way other people discuss religion or philosophy - it may not have been a conscious thing, but we wanted to know more.

One of the things that we struggled with frequently, and that I think most gamers struggle with, is what makes a game in a series a part of that series. I think that's a weird question for people who aren't into video games. It's not really something that other forms of media have to deal with. In tv, movies, and books, parts of a series are connected by characters or settings. But that's not necessarily the case in video games.

Probably the best example of this is in Final Fantasy. Let's ignore for the moment how dumb of a name that is given what comes next, but Final Fantasy is a series that has spanned three decades, with a fifteenth main title coming out soon, and numerous spin off titles under its wings. Which tends to confuse people, because none of those main titles are connected to each other. Final Fantasy 1 has absolutely nothing to do with Final Fantasy 2, regardless of whether or not it's the Japanese or American version of the game - which is a different problem entirely.

But if that's the case, why do we recognize them as being a part of the same series? They take place in different worlds, with different characters, accomplishing different feats with different motivations. Surely the gameplay then? But comparing the latest game to the first, even the gameplay is hardly recognizable between the two, and there are hundreds of other games with the same gameplay that are completely unrelated.

It's small things that connect them. Reoccurring names or animals. The twist that occurs part way through the game. The surprisingly complicated stories and characters. And the ability to flip the switch from quirky and funny to serious and depressing. Things that, on their own, hardly make the series special, but when you put them all together... Well, you get Final Fantasy.

It makes me wonder if something like that could be accomplished in other forms of media. If a series of books can be linked without links, and that rather than saying "Oh, those are x author's books," a reader would say, "Oh, that's part of that series." To take completely unrelated stories, but write them in such a way that they are undoubtedly connected in some way.

I think that would be an interesting challenge. But it starts with making one story that connects to itself. So I still have a ways to go.