The kind of music that I enjoy most isn't necessarily tied to any specific genre, though I do have my preferences. Rather, my favorite kind of music is the kind that tells a story - where each verse is progressively pushing a narrative forward to reach a conclusion at the end. It's not just about a topic, where each verse is more or less about the same thing, but rather a consecutive telling of events. Talking about the way things have happened, or what a person's goals for the future are. Expressing experiences rather than ideals. That's the kind of music that I get into.
You might notice that this is fairly consistent with the way that I think about movies, tv shows, games, and books. It's almost like I'm a writer or something. And because I have experience with music, both as a singer and a guitarist, and I recognize this similarity in thought, it has crossed my mind to try my hand at writing songs. And a few times, I have acted upon that idea, and seen first hand what it is like to attempt writing music.
Let me begin by saying, whatever your opinion of my ability at writing fiction, my skill at writing music is worse. I'm not good at making rhymes, choosing strange words to end lines with, and not overly wanting to go back and change them later on to make for easier rhyming. My pacing of lines is a bit off, wanting to fit more words in a single line than I reasonably should, or having entirely too few syllables. While I can recognize terrible cadence in music, I can't seem to adapt for it in my own music.
It's been several years since the last time I attempted to write any music, or even attempted to recall what I had previously written, so while I can't really recall how any of them went, I can say with full certainty that they weren't any good. I mean, maybe for who I was at the time they were alright, but looking back, it's clear that it was written by an early teenager. An early teenager who thinks he's way cooler and deeper than he actually is.
But I still want think about it all the time and consider doing it in the future. Unfortunately that doesn't require getting better at music again in some way, which I have been seriously lacking in for a long time. And even aside from that, I'm not entirely sure what kind of songs I would write. My first instinct is to follow with what I was writing when I was younger, which is extremely cheesy love songs, because that's just the kind of person I am. But hopefully this time they won't be terrible.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Saturday, February 27, 2016
The middle ages
I absolutely adore the middle ages - both the reality of what they were historically, and the way they are represented in fantasy novels and games. There's something so satisfying about winning a fight not because you pulled the trigger faster or had better aim, but because you were stronger, faster, and more skillful. That you were the one who fought better. And not only that, but to fight with honor, face to face, and to see the look in your opponent's eyes as they breath their last breaths on the end of your sword.
And of course, in fantasy, the wonder that is magic. To be able to rewrite the fabric of reality at any given moment, to control your enemies, and to revive the dead. And I can't really explain why, but that concept just seems to fit in the middle ages so much better than it would in other periods. Beliefs were different back then, and magic was something that was easier to believe in than it is today, when it is so easy to prove how false something may be.
There's just something magical about the glint of polished armor and hand forged swords, the skill required to ride horses and fight on their backs. The hulking muscles required to wield those weapons, and to draw their bows with the power to fire arrows dozens of yards and pierce their enemies throats with incredible precision.
And of course, there's the ideas and ideals of chivalry, which is more than many people give it credit for. It is not simply kindness to women, as so many believe it to be - in fact, this is only a very small bit of what chivalry is. Much of being a chivalrous knight was being a powerful warrior, and an expert politician. To gain allegiances, to hold on to them, and to fight for them. To know when to cut ties and make new ones.
Magnificent stone towers, erected over periods of years, as testaments to man's greatness. Beautiful creations, decorated with masterfully sewn tapestries that tell the history of the people who inhabit the land. Castles that stand the test of time, only to be destroyed when mankind has garnered more power than it could ever have any use for.
The middle ages are just something that I can't help but love, and I can never accurately describe why. Seeing anything even remotely related to the middle ages fills me with joy and passion, and I can't help but get excited when I see them. Knights and mages and kings and queens. I just love them. If only there were more things that used them well.
And of course, in fantasy, the wonder that is magic. To be able to rewrite the fabric of reality at any given moment, to control your enemies, and to revive the dead. And I can't really explain why, but that concept just seems to fit in the middle ages so much better than it would in other periods. Beliefs were different back then, and magic was something that was easier to believe in than it is today, when it is so easy to prove how false something may be.
There's just something magical about the glint of polished armor and hand forged swords, the skill required to ride horses and fight on their backs. The hulking muscles required to wield those weapons, and to draw their bows with the power to fire arrows dozens of yards and pierce their enemies throats with incredible precision.
And of course, there's the ideas and ideals of chivalry, which is more than many people give it credit for. It is not simply kindness to women, as so many believe it to be - in fact, this is only a very small bit of what chivalry is. Much of being a chivalrous knight was being a powerful warrior, and an expert politician. To gain allegiances, to hold on to them, and to fight for them. To know when to cut ties and make new ones.
Magnificent stone towers, erected over periods of years, as testaments to man's greatness. Beautiful creations, decorated with masterfully sewn tapestries that tell the history of the people who inhabit the land. Castles that stand the test of time, only to be destroyed when mankind has garnered more power than it could ever have any use for.
The middle ages are just something that I can't help but love, and I can never accurately describe why. Seeing anything even remotely related to the middle ages fills me with joy and passion, and I can't help but get excited when I see them. Knights and mages and kings and queens. I just love them. If only there were more things that used them well.
Friday, February 26, 2016
Fiction
I don't know if I've ever given the impression that writing fictional pieces isn't the easiest thing in the world - what with my frequent posts about the difficulties I have with it and all - but it's actually quite troublesome and tiresome to be writing fiction all of the time. It's incredibly mentally taxing to be carrying around a world inside of your brain that needs to be filled with people and places, and follow certain rules that keep it functional and practical. To be creating backstories and laying out plans for the futures of numerous characters, putting them on the pathways to meet and interact with one another, creating friends and enemies, developing skills, so on and so forth. In essence, you are creating life with your mind.
But to a non-writer, none of that really computes. You're just making stuff up and putting it down on paper. It can't be all that hard, they make stuff up all the time, after all. They tell lies, they stretch the truth, they try to make themselves look good to impress someone. We've all done it - we've all been there. But these are single instances, and they're not always easy to come up with. Telling a bad lie can lead to numerous lies one after another, and the longer you try to keep up the charade, the more stressful it becomes.
And that's when it becomes you telling a story. A story, in a way, is just a lie played out for the long term. But that longevity is far more than any lie a reasonable person would tell, and it is a much more elaborate one. It's one that you don't just tell when it comes up - it's one that you are thinking about at all hours of the day, constantly building on and reviewing and editing until it's perfect. And it's not just something that they tell - we write it down so that our "lie" won't be forgotten.
Honestly, I don't know what else to say to people when they claim that writing fiction isn't a difficult thing to do. And yes, I have heard people tell me that before. Perhaps it's simply because I have spent so much of my life writing, but I can't really fathom how someone would think that telling fiction would be an easy thing to accomplish. The fact that there are so many terrible stories out there should be more than enough proof to the contrary.
But to a non-writer, none of that really computes. You're just making stuff up and putting it down on paper. It can't be all that hard, they make stuff up all the time, after all. They tell lies, they stretch the truth, they try to make themselves look good to impress someone. We've all done it - we've all been there. But these are single instances, and they're not always easy to come up with. Telling a bad lie can lead to numerous lies one after another, and the longer you try to keep up the charade, the more stressful it becomes.
And that's when it becomes you telling a story. A story, in a way, is just a lie played out for the long term. But that longevity is far more than any lie a reasonable person would tell, and it is a much more elaborate one. It's one that you don't just tell when it comes up - it's one that you are thinking about at all hours of the day, constantly building on and reviewing and editing until it's perfect. And it's not just something that they tell - we write it down so that our "lie" won't be forgotten.
Honestly, I don't know what else to say to people when they claim that writing fiction isn't a difficult thing to do. And yes, I have heard people tell me that before. Perhaps it's simply because I have spent so much of my life writing, but I can't really fathom how someone would think that telling fiction would be an easy thing to accomplish. The fact that there are so many terrible stories out there should be more than enough proof to the contrary.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Difficulty
This shouldn't come as a shock to anyone, but I really enjoy video games. RPGs specifically, as I'm sure I've mentioned. And I'm sure that it should come as no surprise that I particularly enjoy video games with solid stories, just like I like my books and movies. But as far as video games go, I would never play a game with a good story if it didn't have good game play. Can you imagine watching a movie with terrible visuals, or reading a book with bizarre, hard to read text? I wouldn't. And I wouldn't play a game that wasn't fun.
But, much as I talked about a long time ago, for some reason people seem to think that a game being difficult is as much of an equivalent to being good as they do with darkness being an equivalent for being deep. Many people seem to think that if a game is hard to play, and needs to have been played repeatedly to learn intricate and specific mechanics just to be able to beat the game, that it is good. They think that if a game is easy to play, and can be picked up and enjoyed by anyone, that it must not be as good. That a certain level of dedication is required before something can be enjoyable.
I never understood this. Playing difficult games made me frustrated - they made me want to break controllers. I was never stupid enough to break one, but I certainly have thrown it many times into the back of my couch as I roared in frustration. I have quit numerous games because they were simply too hard, even if I enjoyed their story or basic mechanics. It's not fun to get mad at what you are playing, to feel like you can't get better, or that you are facing something unfair. It's not fun to be infuriated with your inability to continue. And it sure as hell isn't fun to mocked when you complain about that difficulty and told to simply "get good" by those who sing these games' praise.
More recently, I have started to finally understand how to play these games. To get around the mechanics, and to find the fun in their intricacies. To slowly move forward through them, and find the secrets that make them an enjoyable experience. But I would never recommend them to the uninitiated. I would never choose them as my favorite games. And when the topic of simply good games comes up, I wouldn't throw their names into the pile. And it's because they're hard. They make you want to hate the game before you can learn to enjoy it. And that's not a good thing.
Once you learn how to break through the wall of frustration, it can be easy and quick to forget how that frustration felt. How badly you hated the game before you understood it, and how much you wanted to quit. And that's the thing with these games. They're not good. They're painful and annoying and incredibly frustrating.
But they make you realize that you're good at them if you stick with them. That's what difficulty does. People just get the two confused.
But, much as I talked about a long time ago, for some reason people seem to think that a game being difficult is as much of an equivalent to being good as they do with darkness being an equivalent for being deep. Many people seem to think that if a game is hard to play, and needs to have been played repeatedly to learn intricate and specific mechanics just to be able to beat the game, that it is good. They think that if a game is easy to play, and can be picked up and enjoyed by anyone, that it must not be as good. That a certain level of dedication is required before something can be enjoyable.
I never understood this. Playing difficult games made me frustrated - they made me want to break controllers. I was never stupid enough to break one, but I certainly have thrown it many times into the back of my couch as I roared in frustration. I have quit numerous games because they were simply too hard, even if I enjoyed their story or basic mechanics. It's not fun to get mad at what you are playing, to feel like you can't get better, or that you are facing something unfair. It's not fun to be infuriated with your inability to continue. And it sure as hell isn't fun to mocked when you complain about that difficulty and told to simply "get good" by those who sing these games' praise.
More recently, I have started to finally understand how to play these games. To get around the mechanics, and to find the fun in their intricacies. To slowly move forward through them, and find the secrets that make them an enjoyable experience. But I would never recommend them to the uninitiated. I would never choose them as my favorite games. And when the topic of simply good games comes up, I wouldn't throw their names into the pile. And it's because they're hard. They make you want to hate the game before you can learn to enjoy it. And that's not a good thing.
Once you learn how to break through the wall of frustration, it can be easy and quick to forget how that frustration felt. How badly you hated the game before you understood it, and how much you wanted to quit. And that's the thing with these games. They're not good. They're painful and annoying and incredibly frustrating.
But they make you realize that you're good at them if you stick with them. That's what difficulty does. People just get the two confused.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Juggernaut
The storm had struck hard the night before, wind blowing the heavy rain horizontal, rattling houses, and uprooting trees. The damage done was intense, and not only would it require much rebuilding, but just getting needed materials for such purposes would be difficult, as the roads in and out of town were completely blocked off. No one had been prepared for such an event. Several houses had been severely damaged, and several people's cars had been utterly destroyed by the debris. It would take much time to recover.
But one man in particular was dead set on making sure that that recovery occurred sooner rather than later. Desmond was easily the largest man in town, being the sole worker of the fields. Come morning, as people were coming out of their hiding places and beginning to asses the amount of damage done, Desmond was already on the main road. Every muscle in his body hulking and stressing as he heaved trees, one at a time, off of and to the side of the road.
He shoved his fingers hard into the bark, forcing his grip into the tree before lifting it up off of the ground, only barely getting it a few inches off of the ground before twisting his torso hard to fling the tree off to the side. His body was drenched in sweat - it was hard for the townspeople to judge just how long he had been at work doing this - and his breath was heavy, but the moment one tree was safely off to the side, he was already moving on to the next.
There was no one in town brave enough to tell him he should rest, or that they could help. To see a single man with so much power was not only inspiring, but terrifying as well. And with the way he moved from one tree to the next, they weren't sure if they would even have enough time to open their mouths before he was swinging one around, and they might be in the way. While he was surely helping the town, it was difficult to say what his motivation in doing so was, or if he would take the time to ensure the safety of those around him as he did so. So they let him be on his way.
It took him the full day to clear out the main road, whose lining trees had previously been upright. Desmond was exhausted by the time he was done, but he said nothing to the townspeople as he went back into his home. He needed to eat and to rest, to regain his energy. There would be more trees to move in the morning. But at least now new supplies would be able to begin their path into town. Maybe soon he would be able to get back to work in his fields.
But one man in particular was dead set on making sure that that recovery occurred sooner rather than later. Desmond was easily the largest man in town, being the sole worker of the fields. Come morning, as people were coming out of their hiding places and beginning to asses the amount of damage done, Desmond was already on the main road. Every muscle in his body hulking and stressing as he heaved trees, one at a time, off of and to the side of the road.
He shoved his fingers hard into the bark, forcing his grip into the tree before lifting it up off of the ground, only barely getting it a few inches off of the ground before twisting his torso hard to fling the tree off to the side. His body was drenched in sweat - it was hard for the townspeople to judge just how long he had been at work doing this - and his breath was heavy, but the moment one tree was safely off to the side, he was already moving on to the next.
There was no one in town brave enough to tell him he should rest, or that they could help. To see a single man with so much power was not only inspiring, but terrifying as well. And with the way he moved from one tree to the next, they weren't sure if they would even have enough time to open their mouths before he was swinging one around, and they might be in the way. While he was surely helping the town, it was difficult to say what his motivation in doing so was, or if he would take the time to ensure the safety of those around him as he did so. So they let him be on his way.
It took him the full day to clear out the main road, whose lining trees had previously been upright. Desmond was exhausted by the time he was done, but he said nothing to the townspeople as he went back into his home. He needed to eat and to rest, to regain his energy. There would be more trees to move in the morning. But at least now new supplies would be able to begin their path into town. Maybe soon he would be able to get back to work in his fields.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Paladin
Brian was running as fast as he could towards home, trying very hard not to trip, knowing that his bullies were hot on his tail. It wasn't fair. Most of the times on tv or in the movies, the bullies were at least rude to most everyone - but they were his personal bullies. They never bothered anyone else - they were perfectly satisfied to mock and beat on him and him alone every day without end. They weren't necessarily nice to everyone else, but they certainly weren't mean to them. All of their bitterness and anger was directed toward Brian, even though he had never done anything to them in the first place. He was just smaller and weaker than them.
Unfortunately, despite the literal years of experience running away, he was still slower than they were. He felt Fredrick's fist slam into his spinal cord - he could feel the differences between them all, he had been punched so many times - which sent a shockwave through his body, momentarily paralyzing him, which caused his momentum to throw him face down into the concrete. Only a second passed between him hitting the ground, and a knee dropping onto his back, sending another shock of pain and pinning him to the ground.
There were no words of hatred or blaming before the fists began to rain down on Brian's back, pummeling him against the ground. He wished he knew how long it would take for them to be satisfied with his poundings, but there never seemed to be any kind of pattern that he could notice. It was merely until they felt like they had had enough of it, and that always took what felt like a very long time.
But the poundings stopped very abruptly only a few moments after they had started. Brian thought the shock in his brain from his face hitting the concrete must have caught up to him and his body had gone numb, but he could hear some kind of struggling behind him. Afraid of what he might see, he slowly turned his head back to look.
A stranger was there, his palms placed flat on Brian's bullies' chests and forcing them back until they hit a wall. He could see the rage on their faces at being stopped from their beatings, but their best struggles couldn't get them out from under the man's hands. He was huge - his workout clothes were loose fitting, but big enough to betray just how massive the muscles underneath must have been. When he looked over his shoulder back at Brian, his eyes were calm, as though holding the boys back was less than an after thought.
"You alright?" he called out. Brian pushed himself up on his knees and rubbed his face. It hurt, but such a short beating made it far more tolerable. But he didn't want to answer. He was afraid of what the bullies would do if he did.
It was clear that the man could tell that. Just then, one of the bullies', clearly tired of being held back, reeled an arm back and slammed it into the man's chest. Brian flinched just from seeing it, but the man didn't even react. Without a word, he grabbed the boys' heads and smashed them together, instantly knocking them unconscious and letting them drop to the ground.
Brian blinked, shocked at what he had just seen. "Looks to me like you could use a good friend to watch your back," the man called out again. He walked over and held out a hand, which Brian took almost without thinking, easily hoisting Brian back onto his feet. "When you got some free time, come stop by the gym. I'll show you around."
Unfortunately, despite the literal years of experience running away, he was still slower than they were. He felt Fredrick's fist slam into his spinal cord - he could feel the differences between them all, he had been punched so many times - which sent a shockwave through his body, momentarily paralyzing him, which caused his momentum to throw him face down into the concrete. Only a second passed between him hitting the ground, and a knee dropping onto his back, sending another shock of pain and pinning him to the ground.
There were no words of hatred or blaming before the fists began to rain down on Brian's back, pummeling him against the ground. He wished he knew how long it would take for them to be satisfied with his poundings, but there never seemed to be any kind of pattern that he could notice. It was merely until they felt like they had had enough of it, and that always took what felt like a very long time.
But the poundings stopped very abruptly only a few moments after they had started. Brian thought the shock in his brain from his face hitting the concrete must have caught up to him and his body had gone numb, but he could hear some kind of struggling behind him. Afraid of what he might see, he slowly turned his head back to look.
A stranger was there, his palms placed flat on Brian's bullies' chests and forcing them back until they hit a wall. He could see the rage on their faces at being stopped from their beatings, but their best struggles couldn't get them out from under the man's hands. He was huge - his workout clothes were loose fitting, but big enough to betray just how massive the muscles underneath must have been. When he looked over his shoulder back at Brian, his eyes were calm, as though holding the boys back was less than an after thought.
"You alright?" he called out. Brian pushed himself up on his knees and rubbed his face. It hurt, but such a short beating made it far more tolerable. But he didn't want to answer. He was afraid of what the bullies would do if he did.
It was clear that the man could tell that. Just then, one of the bullies', clearly tired of being held back, reeled an arm back and slammed it into the man's chest. Brian flinched just from seeing it, but the man didn't even react. Without a word, he grabbed the boys' heads and smashed them together, instantly knocking them unconscious and letting them drop to the ground.
Brian blinked, shocked at what he had just seen. "Looks to me like you could use a good friend to watch your back," the man called out again. He walked over and held out a hand, which Brian took almost without thinking, easily hoisting Brian back onto his feet. "When you got some free time, come stop by the gym. I'll show you around."
Monday, February 22, 2016
Warrior
Miran pulled his gloves on as he stepped out into the ring, knowing that his victory in the coming fight would be dependent on his talent and skill than on his power. He was a strong man, with thick muscles, but, compared to the man standing across from him, he was nothing. His opponent was more muscle than man - almost to the point that looking at him made Miran feel sick. It was hard to describe. But taking a single clean punch from that mass would be the end of the fight. Miran had to make sure to avoid that more than anything else.
The bell rang, and Miran stepped forward, his hands quickly taking a defensive pose in front of his face. His opponent lurched forward from his corner, fists immediately ready to go on the offensive, and the veins in muscles bulging in his arms and legs going into overdrive the moment he began to move. Normally, muscles like those would slow a man down considerably, making it difficult to move, but Miran wasn't about to let his guard down for a belief like that. He had seen that beast fight before. He may not have been the fastest fighter in the world, but it wasn't hard for him to knock you out with one blow.
The punches came fast and heavy, raining down towards Miran's head with precision, as Miran ducked and weaved under and around them, moving quickly and attempting to stay untouched. It only took a few seconds before Miran realized with certainty that he couldn't keep this up for even a full round without getting hit. He had to do something about it soon if he wanted to have any chance of even surviving the fight, much less winning it.
He gripped his fists tightly, feeling the glove around his fingers tighten and strain. The muscles in his arms were yearning to reach forward, to explode out as he threw a punch, but he knew the timing had to be right. There was only one way for him to take this fight if it was going to go anywhere. As another punch rained down on him, his body tightened up, and rather than ducking under, Miran leaned into the punch. The massive impact smashed into his left hand, just under his chin, and the impact shook him to his core.
But that impact was imbalanced. As his left half careened backwards from the blow, his right half shot forward. The momentum was incredible, and then he let his own muscles explode forward as he went. His fist made clean contact with his opponents chin, and he could feel that impact shoot back through his muscles as well.
His opponent staggered backwards, the blow having sent a paralyzing shockwave through his system. His legs shook, and his eyes were dazed. The blow to the chin had been remarkably precise for such a brutally rough punch, and were it not for the man's remarkable muscles, it may have broken and dislocated his jaw.
Miran knew this was his chance, and that it wouldn't last long. He exploded forward, singing hard and fast, and his opponent slowly but surely staggered backwards until Miran's fist whiffed, the man flat on his back on the ground.
The bell rang, and Miran stepped forward, his hands quickly taking a defensive pose in front of his face. His opponent lurched forward from his corner, fists immediately ready to go on the offensive, and the veins in muscles bulging in his arms and legs going into overdrive the moment he began to move. Normally, muscles like those would slow a man down considerably, making it difficult to move, but Miran wasn't about to let his guard down for a belief like that. He had seen that beast fight before. He may not have been the fastest fighter in the world, but it wasn't hard for him to knock you out with one blow.
The punches came fast and heavy, raining down towards Miran's head with precision, as Miran ducked and weaved under and around them, moving quickly and attempting to stay untouched. It only took a few seconds before Miran realized with certainty that he couldn't keep this up for even a full round without getting hit. He had to do something about it soon if he wanted to have any chance of even surviving the fight, much less winning it.
He gripped his fists tightly, feeling the glove around his fingers tighten and strain. The muscles in his arms were yearning to reach forward, to explode out as he threw a punch, but he knew the timing had to be right. There was only one way for him to take this fight if it was going to go anywhere. As another punch rained down on him, his body tightened up, and rather than ducking under, Miran leaned into the punch. The massive impact smashed into his left hand, just under his chin, and the impact shook him to his core.
But that impact was imbalanced. As his left half careened backwards from the blow, his right half shot forward. The momentum was incredible, and then he let his own muscles explode forward as he went. His fist made clean contact with his opponents chin, and he could feel that impact shoot back through his muscles as well.
His opponent staggered backwards, the blow having sent a paralyzing shockwave through his system. His legs shook, and his eyes were dazed. The blow to the chin had been remarkably precise for such a brutally rough punch, and were it not for the man's remarkable muscles, it may have broken and dislocated his jaw.
Miran knew this was his chance, and that it wouldn't last long. He exploded forward, singing hard and fast, and his opponent slowly but surely staggered backwards until Miran's fist whiffed, the man flat on his back on the ground.
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