Adventures in Writerland: The Ugly Truth About Success in Publishing

Warning: The following contains butt-hurt and the overuse of commas. Viewer discretion is advised. 

I’m not afraid of putting my nose to the grindstone in the name of telling a good story.

I can close my door, cancel plans, wake up early, stay up late, suffer blood-letting editing session after blood-letting editing session.

I can be the Rocky Balboa of writing.

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Yet throughout this Herculean process, I’m taunted relentlessly by the possibility that all of this self-sacrifice could be in vain.

The cold reality is there are people that have been trying to publish for years and have nothing to show for it.

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When I was young and naive, I thought these people simply weren’t talented enough for their work to be in print.

They didn’t try hard enough or refused to take constructive criticism.

They were the faux-intellectuals like the ones in my creative writing classes; self-professed literary geniuses who thought they were deep because they dead-ass copied F. Scott Fitzgerald’s writing-style (poorly) and gave overlong descriptions about birds singing. Their inability to find an agent was a result of their own hubris and not indicative that the world of publishing is a heartless mistress.

However, I’ve learned a hard lesson watching people with actual talent trying to make it into the writing industry: Success in publishing isn’t necessarily predicated on skill.

There are just as many “bad” writers that receive attention as there are “good” ones.

50 Shades of Grey is the most sold book in history and it is literally a Twilight fanfic that was written on a Blackberry.

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Yep.

Most people know it is total garbage and have mocked it relentlessly since it first burst into popularity. But that doesn’t change the fact that E.L. James currently has more money than both you or I will make in our entire lives courtesy of this skid-mark of a novel.

So I guess she’s the one that got the last laugh.

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In a sense, this should be encouraging.

Surely that means if something as terrible as 50 Shades can find a major publisher willing to back it, your book can too.

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Then, I remember the detective novel JK Rowling wrote under the name Robert Gailbraith made paltry returns even though it was quite good, at least in my opinion. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it became a best-seller until it was revealed who the true author was.

So what is a writer to do?

Sadly, I know the answer.

Basically, you just have to let go and accept that your magnum opus may not be that magnum to some people. That, in spite of your best efforts, it will likely disappear into the ether along with countless other works of fiction.

You may never become a millionaire and, realistically, you’ll be lucky to make a living at all…..

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Buuuuuuuut, who wants to admit that? I would much rather live in my fantasy world where I am a revered authoress who will appear onto the literary scene like an angel from on-high and spread enlightenment upon the masses.

Idealistic image of someone reading my stories:

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More realistic image of someone reading my stories:


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I suppose one can never know what lies in store for their career. They can only cling to the hope that through hard work and dedication, they will rise above the pits of mediocrity and learn to soar amongst the eagles.

In all seriousness, it boils down to whether or not you believe you have a story worth telling. If you do, then you have to tell it regardless if you will receive high-praise for it or not.

Because, at the end of the day, it’s not about money. It’s about creating and sharing your passions with the world.

Or something like that, I don’t know.

Thank you for reading!

No, Your Story Isn’t Original and That’s Okay: A Brief Essay on Originality

I think it’s safe to say this generation of movie-goers and readers are more analytical about their media consumption than ever before. You needn’t go far to find blogs, vlogs, reviewing sites and more for detailed critiques of just about any form of story-telling you care to think of.

On the one hand, I think this is a good thing. People should demand well-constructive narratives and ideas that challenge them in all forms of media whether they be comics, movies, or books.

Nevertheless, I’m also noticing a trend that has budded as a response to this movement and it’s a bit…annoying.

It’s the perpetuation of an ideology that maintains if anything is even vaguely similar to something else, it’s a knock-off.

The problems with this line of thinking are twofold.

For one, it stunts the growth of future writers because it forces them to live in a constant state of paranoia that their story is a copy of something else.

When Hunger Games was at the pinnacle of its popularity, many people decried it as a knock-off of another novel-turned-movie titled Battle Royal, a story revolving around Japanese students being dropped off on an island by the government and ordered to kill each other.

Now on a superficial level, Hunger Games does sound like its premise was lifted from Battle Royale. However, if you chose to look further and actually read the two books you’ll realize they have basically nothing in common.

(For those of you interested in an explanation of how they differ, I will leave a link here.)

For another, if you think about it, just about every story is a “copy” of another.

Example: Harry Potter is a knock-off of Star Wars.

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No, really.

Think about it.

Both feature orphaned boys raised by their uncle and aunt to believe that they are perfectly normal only for an old family friend to come into their lives and reveal the truth about their lineage.  It then becomes clear they must defeat a great evil, who is much closer to their own identities than they had previously thought, by using the arcane arts.

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Their mentors die which forces them to continue alone, armed only with the wisdom they obtained from their teachings and the love and support of their friends. Both characters must also control their darkness, which threatens to overtake them and makes them more like their arch nemesis than they previously thought.

Oh, and they both refuse to kill the enemy, but the antagonist dies in the end regardless.

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While it’s fun to laugh at how similar these stories seem on the surface, the reason we find it humorous in the first place is because they are vastly different in every other respect.

One is science fiction with fantastical elements sprinkled in, one is fantasy. One takes place in a boarding school in Europe during the 90s, another long ago in a galaxy far, far away. One is about a child, while the other is about a boy in his late teens or early twenties.

The differences go on, but I’ve made my point.

The reason stories fail is not because they are similar to another story. The issue arises when it adds nothing new to the themes that it is trying to present, or it follows the exact same path that its alleged predecessor tread.

The concept of an orphan boy destined for greatness isn’t an idea invented by J.K. Rowling. In fact it’s used so often it borders on cliché. However, the way Rowling implements it is unique because their absence is not used merely as a vehicle to allow Harry to have adventures without parental intervention, or to make him a more sympathetic figure. Harry has no loving family of his own and so his friends become like family to him and the stakes are higher whenever their lives are in peril. He leans more heavily on them than the typical person might, even at that age when friendships are essential to personal and social growth. This forces us, the audience, to become more emotionally engaged in the characters’ fate because without them he has nothing.

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So instead of worrying about how similar your plot or themes are to other works, focus on how you can play with the audience’s expectations and make the story yours. 

Perhaps a subplot in your novel is about a character who wants to avenge a fallen family figure. Typically, at the end, the character decides not to go along with it because murdering that person would make them “just like” that character. However, maybe your character does go along with their plan and is happy with their decision, up until the point where they realize it has changed them for the worst. Your character has then lost a part of themselves they can never get back.

Maybe they aren’t even aware they have been changed by the experience until a trusted friend or family member points it out to them. This creates conflict and makes your character more three-dimensional.

This is only one example. There are tons of different things you can do to make yours story stand apart from other similar works.

Above all else, make sure to put a bit of your soul into everything your write. I know it sounds corny, but there is only one and your thoughts and opinions are your own.

Explore your identity.

Ask yourself why you believe what you believe. Dig deeper into ideas that might confuse you, or frustrate you about other works of fiction.

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And remember, in spite of what Cinema Sins may tell you–

*grabs megaphone*

Tropes are not clichés!

Thanks for reading!

Why I Won’t Watch”Bird Box” On Netflix

WARNING: MILD SPOILERS FOR “BIRD BOX” AHEAD. 

So….it looks like Netflix has adapted Josh Malerman’s Bird Box into a movie…..

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And as you can see, I’m not excited about it.

It’s not that I think all book-to-movie adaptations are bad, in fact some of them are quite good (ex: Holes, Stand By Me, Carrie, Lord of The Rings, Harry Potter, etc).

It’s just that some books are not meant to be made into a visual medium for a variety of reasons.

“Bird Box” is one such book.

What makes “Bird Box” so effective as a horror novel is that Marlerman understands people fear the most what they don’t understand. We never see what these creatures look like, nor are we ever given a conclusive explanation as to what they are.

Theories are bounced around–they are us from another dimension, they are angels, etc–but the only way to find out what they are is to look at them.

And once you gaze upon them, you don’t live to tell the tale.

Throughout the novel, the protagonists must rely on their senses (sight excluded) to avoid falling prey to these terrifying beings.

We as readers are wearing metaphorical blindfolds of our own because we only “see” what the characters do. We hear a rustling of leaves, feel a drop in temperature. But we don’t know what’s coming and that makes the experience more visceral.

So whose bright idea was it to turn this story into a movie?

If you made it an audio-drama or podcast series, that would make sense but a movie? A form of entertainment predicated on sight?!

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I also have a feeling our monsters in question will fall prey to the movie industry’s vitriolic hatred of ambiguity.

Over the past decade or so the visual arts have developed this strange fetish with over-explaining everything. Hollywood’s releasing of prequel movie after prequel movie is evidence enough of this, answering questions we didn’t want answered. Sometimes the results are good (Rogue One) but most of the time they are not (Solo).

Not to mention, in today’s climate, I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to hammer in some “humans bad” message into the mix just for the hell of it.

Book explanation of Creatures: 

Well, they could be inter-dimensional beings that transcend our conventional understanding of the universe and our mortal brains simply can’t comprehend them, and thus fall back on a primordial instinct to self-terminate. Unfortunately, we will probably never know.

Move Explanation of Creatures (probably): 

They are creatures we created with global warming and heteronormativity and they are taking back the earth in an attempt to restore the balance we destroyed with our hubris. WHEN WILL BE LEARN?!?!

Regardless, I have zero interest in giving this flick a watch.

If the premise draws you in, I recommend reading the book instead. It’s a pretty quick read and will give you hours of enjoyment.

Unlike..this thing.

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The Soul-Reaper’s Hymn: a Short Story

Author’s Note: I wrote this for a vocabulary-based challenge a co-worker proposed and thought I might post it here. Enjoy!

One particularly disagreeable night in late December, Dr. Rothchild received a telegram from a fellow erudite and former student, Edmond Talbot, which piqued his interest.

Have been delivered package of suspicious origin. Stop. Pray come to my home at earliest convenience. Stop.

Admittedly, Rothchild didn’t need much goading to quit his quiet home in the English countryside. As of late, his modest estate was abuzz with anxious servants armed with wreathes, tinsel and candelabras, all at the beck and call of his nervous wife Petunia. She was preparing for yet another tedious Christmas party where she would attempt to ingratiate herself to members of high society all while making a terrible nuisance of herself.

He didn’t know why his friend should call on him so unexpectedly over something as mundane as a package, but if it gave him a reprieve from the commotion that came with the Christmas holiday—the decorating the meal-planning, the damn four-string quartet—so much the better.

At the earliest opportunity, Rothchild called for a cab and made for the bachelor’s flat where he was received by a pinch-faced parlour maid who announced him like an amateur actress that had forgotten most of their lines. She proceeded to flee the room without taking his hat or coat as if worried that some malevolent force would lay claim to her should she linger too long.

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Talbot was in a dark humor, that much was clear. He was partially consumed by his armchair, placed before the fireplace. One thin leg was crossed over a knobby knee and he peered into the flames as if he hoped some ancient wisdom would pour forth from the flue.

He hardly made any notice of his friend as Rothchild took a seat across from him.

“Hard to find good help these days,” he remarked pointedly, holding his hat in his hands.

Talbot did not offer a word of apology for his poor reception. In fact, he impudently refused to meet his friend’s eye. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a worn bit of parchment paper.

“I have called you here because I do not know whom else to turn,” the bachelor spoke at last. “Several days ago, I received a letter and package most peculiar in nature. There is no return address nor did the author deem it appropriate to sign their name. Whomever sent it is a complete mystery.”

He passed the letter onto Rothchild who read it attentively. 

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To Whom It May Concern, it read in cramped and frantic handwriting.

I have placed this record in your care as the evil within it is of far greater power than I can stand. It was given to me by persons unknown as a gift Christmas last whilst my wife and I were hosting our annual Christmas celebration. Intrigued by this unexpected parcel, I proposed we give it a listen. This idea was met with much enthusiasm as we were all deep in our cups and bored of the usual tawdry party games one typically engages in this time of year. 

No one was more intrigued and pleased by this unusual diversion as I, however, my enthusiasm was shortly lived.  As soon as I set it to play, we were assaulted by the most accursed sound to ever be played. My wife, pregnant with our third child, suffered a miscarriage days later. Two more men suffered incredible chest pains and were sent to their graves not long after. As for myself, I have been driven mad by the constant sound of the sirens droning. I feel Her presence even as I write this. Her words are like an athame plunging into my very soul. 

Ever since that fateful night I’ve not had a  moment’s respite. Forgive me for passing my misery onto you, but I have tried all other means of destroying it. I can only hope that by gifting it to another as it was gifted unwillingly to me that my torment may at last be ended. 

May God have mercy on our souls.

Anon.

Rothchild gazed up from the letter, raising a ruddy eyebrow at his old friend.

“A curse, is it?” he inquired.

“I, too, doubted the veracity of his claims,” Talbot confessed, a twinge of shame shining through on his face. “Until…Mrs. Woodword.”

This caught Rothchild’s attention immediately. So that was why he’d been met with such a rude awakening upon his arrival. Typically it was the elderly house-keeper from Corn who admitted him at the door rather than the pigeon-faced youth he’d encountered earlier.

“Surely she has not come to an unseemly end?”

“She lives,” Rothchild admitted. “Although I fear she will never be the same. She had placed the record on whilst she was mending an old shirt of mine. I found her lying prostate on the floor just there some time later.”

He gestured to a spot three feet from where Rothchild sat.

“Her hair turned white at the roots and she was murmuring fearfully to herself.”

“Anything significant?”

Talbot waved dismissively. “Nonsense, utter nonsense.”

“I see,” the guest mused, situating himself in his chair. “I assume you have not taken it upon yourself to listen to the record in question?”

It might have been Rothchild’s imagination or Talbot’s close proximity to the flames, but he thought he detected the slightest sheen of sweat forming on his compatriot’s brow.

“I haven’t.”

Rothchild harrumphed.

“You are skeptical.”

It wasn’t a question, but the retired professor answered it as if it had been.

“Extraordinary claims demand extraordinary evidence, Talbot. I understand you are more, shall we say, broad-minded when it comes to matters of the supernatural. However, I am rather set in my ways and I maintain that it is simply impossible for inanimate objects to be imbued with paranormal powers.”

“That is the reason I called you hear tonight, old friend. To give me courage to plunge into the unknown.”

Rothchild smiled in amusement. “If it’s courage you require, then I’m more than happy to supply it. Although I believe a glass of port would have the same effect.”

“No,” Talbot shook his head. “I must have a clear head for what is to come.”

He wiped his hands upon his shirt front, then made for a wheeled table where a gramophone rested in repose in the unlit corner of the room. To Rothchild the contraption looked perfectly mundane, but the care with which Talbot moved the device made it seem as if he were a pallbearer taking a coffin to the grave.

Rothchild took this as an opportunity to rise slowly from his seat and lumber over to stand beside Talbot. For a moment, they both admired its anatomy. It was a handsome device, made from varnished wood and a large pavilion cone. It hardly looked like the harbinger of evil Talbot claimed it to be, although, he supposed, it was not the device itself but rather the record that it had rested on its plateau that was meant to spell doom for any listener.

“Well,” Rothchild stated, breaking the silence, “shall we?”

Talbot’s Adam’s apple bobbed in trepidation. He broke away as if having second thoughts before diverting to a small desk cramped in a corner near a window. With some effort, he pulled open one of the stiff wooden drawers and produced a pile of unused parchment. Once dipping a quill into a well and determining it would do as a suitable writing instrument, he returned to where Rothchild stood and passed on the paraphernalia over to him.

Rothchild gazed down upon his new burden and then back to his friend.

“So I am to be the spirit’s secretary?”

“You have a much faster hand than I,” he explained. “Should we succumb to the wiles of…whatever malevolence should exist inside this recorder, I want there to exist some evidence as to what has befallen us.”

“Now really, Talbot—”

“Please, Rothchild, if you’ve ever considered us friends you shall do as I ask. I respect your skepticism if you can respect my lack of courage.”

Rothchild opened his mouth to protest, but as quick as a mouse-trap, it was shut once more. True, he believed the man’s indulgence in this rubbish to boarder on lunacy, nevertheless, he could not deny he was fond of the lad and had been since he was a student under his wing back at Oxford.

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Talbot took his elder’s silence as an agreement. “Transcribe what the voices are saying,” he said. “Perhaps others will be able to divine some meaning from it.”

Rothchild nodded. “Where shall I sit?”

“On the floor, perhaps. If you should fall as Mrs. Woodword did you, shan’t have far to go.”

The former professor’s gaze plummeted to the floor, dubious as to whether or not he would be able to rise again once he’d seated himself. Pressing his lips together, he resigned himself to the role he had been asked to play and sank to the cold and stiff wooden boards.

With a creak of his limbs and a twinge in his back, he was properly situated, pen at the ready.

At least soon, there would be an end to this nonsense. Perhaps then they could have a glass of port or sherry and complain about the affairs of state as was customary in polite society.

“Ready and waiting,” Rothchild prompted, goose quill pen poised over the page.

There was a pregnant pause where Talbot’s bony hand rested nervously on the crank. However, with the reluctance of someone meeting the firing squad, he set himself into motion and played the record.

The innocuous jangling of sleigh bells gushed forth and a piano forte jumped in excitedly. 

And then…

In mere moments, their senses were assailed by the wild screech of a banshee. 

The taste of copper was thick and heavy on the back of Rothchild’s tongue, his chest compressing as if he were physically rotting from the inside out. Through weak eyes burning with tears of anguish, he looked to his companion.

Talbot had doubled over, hand clutched over his heart. His complexion was as colorless as snow, lips blue.

The air around them thrummed with the din of the woman’s inhuman voice. The room decayed before their eyes. The floral wall paper peeled and cracked like dead skin, the wood warped and slivered. The paintings mounted on the wall faded into near obscurity as their gold and opulent frames tarnished and dulled. 

Though they lost all power over their mental faculties, their souls were still tethered to their fleshy bonds with no means of escaping. Unwittingly, Rothchild’s pens scratched across the page.

His blood was boiling and frothed behind his eyes. until it poured down his cheeks in rivulets 

All other sound had cancelled out, even the thud of Talbot’s lifeless body as it struck the ground. His lifeless eyes bore back at Rothchild, a permanent mask of horror.

A wordless scream choked him as the chambers of his heart closed and his world fell to blackness.

Upon the parchment read a message neither of them would ever read.

On the blood-soaked page were the small but legible words:

Baby, make my wish come true

All I want for Christmas is you.

 

Christmas Songs I Love

Wow.

Two posts in one month.

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It’s almost like I’m a responsible blog-writer that updates on a regular basis again.

Anyway, for my last entry I wrote all the Christmas songs I hate, so I’ve decided for the sake of fairness, to write a post about the Christmas songs I enjoy the most.

Carol of The Bells

It doesn’t matter if it’s played with lyrics or without, this song blows my mind every time. It’s busy without being overwhelming and so energizing it makes me want to snatch that violin right out of Lyndsey Stirlings hands and play it myself.

It just gets me pumped in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s one of the few holiday songs that would go well with a car chase or shoot-out. If they played this in the background of Die Hard, it honestly wouldn’t feel that out of place. Especially if it was this version.

Unlike other Christmas songs, I have yet to find a bad cover of this particular ballad. In fact, it was hard to find a sample of this song to use for this post because there are so many brilliant ones to chose from. It’s like it’s so phenomenal that it’s impossible to screw up.

You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch- Thurl Ravencroft. 

Even without the positive memories I have of listening to this song while watching The Grinch on VHS at the tender age of three, I would still love this song.

It starts as pretty basic, claiming The Grinch is “mean” and “a heel”, etc. But then the insults snowball into brilliantly crafted slights that they would make a middle school bully ugly-sob.

It goes from accusing him of having “garlic in [his] soul to having “termites in [his] smile” to having “all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile.

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Food for thought…

There are a few covers out there….including this one–

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But you can’t beat Thurl Ravencroft’s ocean-floor level bass in the original ballad.

I mean, come on, his name is Thurl Ravencroft.

You might as well quit now.

Oiche Chiuin- Enya

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I‘m leaving the link here because WordPress won’t let me upload it for some reason. 

I love Silent Night in general, but hearing it sung in Gaelic with Enya’s hauntingly gorgeous voice is nothing short of magical. The ethereal quality of her singing makes it seem as if the notes are being carried on a soft winter wind, winding through a snowy landscape. Every time I listen, I’m instantly awed by its majesty. At the risk of sounding corny, it genuinely feels like you’re listening to an angel.

It’s so peaceful it makes me want to curl up my the fireplace and fall into a deep Christmas sleep.

My Favorite Things

Alright….so….

Truth be told, I honestly don’t know why it’s even considered a Christmas song.

The only references that could be vaguely tied in with Christmas are the mentions of “snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes“, “brown paper packages tied up with strings” and “sleigh bells.” Even then it’s a tenuous connection at best.

Regardless, it’s played at Christmas time (for some reason) so I’m including it.

From a writer’s perspective, it’s a veritable feast for the ears. The language is so rich and vivid you can practically taste those crisp apple strudels yourself.

For me, it’s less like listening to a song than it is rereading one of my favorite poems.

It creates such brief but impactful visuals like “wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings” and “Silver-white winters that melt into springs.

Even if it’s not “technically” a Christmas song, at least it has more clever word-choices than most pop-holiday slog being excreted these days.

Hark The Harold Angels Sing

It’s hard for me to pin-point exactly why this song holds such sentimental value to me. Maybe it’s the arcane language or the chills I get from a tabernacle choir belting it out, giving the words weight and power.

Perhaps it’s the mental image it invokes of a congregation of angels spreading good news for all men.

Or maybe it’s because it’s one of the more overtly religious Christmas songs so it doesn’t suffer from being over-played on the radio as many seasonal tunes are this time of year.

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Me to the DJ that plays Last Christmas for the 30th consecutive time in one day

Regardless of the reason, it is and always has been one of my favorites.

Dance of The Sugar Plum Fairies- Tchaikovsky

This song is wonderful at telling a story without using any words. The tinkling notes at the beginning really do make it seem as if there are small, magical creatures prancing around under the nose of humans.

There’s such an element of mystery that permeates throughout the entirety of the song. Every time I listen to it, it gives me that giddy feeling of being a kid again and spying on something amazing.

Do You Hear What I Hear? 

I love songs that tell stories and this song’s story is perhaps one of the most uplifting Christmas songs out there. What makes it so wonderful in my eyes isn’t necessarily the diction or the melody, but the powerful message behind it.

It’s not just a catchy ditty to sing on the radio, it’s meant to be a harbinger of hope that transcends class division. It promises good news to everyone, not just the privileged and wealthy.

There are plenty of other cheesy songs out there that preach about peace and love and blah, blah, blah, but this songs comes across as earnest and heart-felt. There’s a weight to it that just isn’t there with most other songs.

The Little Drummer Boy

There are many songs that try to come across as heart-felt and poignant, but there are few that achieve that goal, especially Christmas songs. In most cases, they are overly sentimental or saccharine with their “Christmas is for giving, blah, blah, blah.”

Not this song.

It’s about a boy who is so dirt poor that the only item he possesses, other than the clothes on his back, is a drum. However, when he’s approached by men of great stature and fortune who tell of a newborn king and all the extravagant gifts they’re going to give them, does he shrug and go home? No. Does he go to the manger and say “Yo, Baby-J, I’m broke. Think you could hook me up?” No.

He gives Him the gift of his music. Literally the only thing he can give him, and it’s enough. He plays with his heart and soul and his efforts are appreciated by everyone.

It’s a song about giving what you can even when you feel as though you don’t have anything of value to offer.

If you don’t find that moving, you need to check yourself for a pulse.

A few others 

I didn’t want this list to be too long, so here are a few honorable mentions:

O Come, O Come Immanuel

Come All Ye Faithful

Feliz Navidad

We Three Kings

Blue Christmas

So there you go! I actually posted something positive for once!

Don’t get used to it.

Hope you all have a Merry Christmas and a Happy Holiday!

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Christmas Songs I Hate: UPDATED

What better way to kick off the holiday season than by being a total curmudgeon and discussing Christmas songs I actively despise.

Honestly, I am not creating this list for you. I’m doing it for myself and for the sake of my sanity. I work in an office where Christmas is piped in at all hours of the day and so I can’t merely “turn it off” if I don’t like it. I’m stuck with it.

I’m trapped in a snow-globe of Christmas cheer.

So why not share the pain?

Where are you Christmas?- Faith Hill. 

I think Faith Hill is an amazing vocalist with incredible range and heart, however, I can’t get behind this song. I know a lot of people love it because it’s nostalgic value, but it’s a very meh song when you listen to the actual lyrics and message it’s trying to convey. If anyone besides Faith Hill sang this, it won’t be listenable at all.

“My world is changing/ I’m rearranging/ does that mean Christmas changes too?”

Uh. No? Why would it?

Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)-anyone. 

My main gripe with this one is the fact that it sounds like the tail end of a much better song for the entire song. You know what I’m talking about, the point where the song is almost over and the singer is basically just riffing off nonsense to stall for time. Only in this case it’s the entire ballad.

The snow’s comin’ down
(Christmas) I’m watchin’ it fall
(Christmas) lots of people around
(Christmas) baby, please come home

I’ve yet to come across a Christmas song that is as lyrically uninspired as this one. I will say if it weren’t for the backup singers constantly reminding us it’s Christmas, it probably wouldn’t be as annoying, but as it stands, it’s irritating to be told over and over that, oh yeah, this is a Christmas song.

 All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth- Spike Jone & and His City Slickers 

On the whole this song is relatively harmless. But when sung by this guy…it gets stuck in your head like plaque to your arteries. It builds up and builds up until you have a heart attack and you die. Or wish you were dead, whichever comes first.

I know he’s supposed to sound like a kid when he sings this, but it’s not very effective. It’s more grating than anything else. And disturbing.

I think a much better song is I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas. At least the singer in that ditty doesn’t have a creepy Herbert The Pervert lisp.

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time-Paul McCartney

Look, Paul McCartney is a wonderful singer/song-writer…..

This is not a good song.

It’s like someone wrote a song with boring and repetitive lyrics over the sound of a Microsoft Powerpoint dissolving effect. One wonders if they even wanted to sing this song in the first place or if the producers just put the pressure on them to make something holiday related.

All I Want For Christmas Is You- Mariah Carrey. 

I’m going to confess that I have a hard time getting into most couple-related Christmas songs, but I find this ballad particularly unlikeable.

Is it the lyrics? Maybe. Although I think one of the major issues with this particular ear-worm is that the message doesn’t match up with the melody when you really think about it. The lyrics–when you read them rather than listen– are pretty forlorn and earnest.

I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas
Is you
You

That’s very sweet. However, the music itself is very upbeat and fun which totally contradicts the emotions the lyrics seem like they are trying to convey. It’s like if you played The Sound of Silence to Madonna’s Like a Virgin.

It doesn’t help matters that it is constantly being piped in at shopping centers and offices around the country either….

The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don’t Be Late)- Alvin and The Chipmunks 

Hey, what’s better than a Christmas song with sub-par lyrics? A song with sub-par lyrics sung in high-pitched voices. I guess there are worse tunes out there, but lyrically it’s a pretty weak song.

Christmas, Christmas time is near
Time for toys and time for cheer
We’ve been good, but we can’t last
Hurry Christmas, hurry fast
Want a plane that loops the loop
Me, I want a hula hoop
We can hardly stand the wait
Please Christmas, don’t be late.

It’s not a unique story either as it’s basically just children whining about wanting Christmas presents. Perhaps I’m reading too much into this, but I prefer my Christmas with a bit less helium.

And the Christmas song I hate the most is……

Last Christmas by Wham! 

Words cannot express how much I hate this song.

But I’ll try anyway.

The lyrics aren’t too bad (certainly not as bad as Christmas; Baby Please Come Home), but the fact that the chorus is repeated over and over and over makes it nigh impossible to enjoy.

We get it, dude. This chick hurt you and now you’ve moved on.

….except you haven’t because you saw it fit to pen a song about how you’ve moved on, which would suggest the exact opposite. Maybe she left you because you write trite lyrics to horrible holiday-pop songs and she wants to hear something original for once in her fleeting existence.

Not to mention the melody is so dead and lifeless it makes me want to fall asleep.

I’ve listened to multiple renditions of this song and none of them could make it work.

I suppose the only solution is to tough it out until January.

If you have any Christmas songs you can’t stand, feel free to share.

I will be posting a list of Christmas ballads I actually do like soon so I don’t come across as a total Scrooge.

Happy Holidays and I will see you soon!

Being a Writer is…

Being a writer is-

..spending hours trying to describe how a character walked through a door.

…looking up synonyms for “said” every other sentence.

…typing for 3 hours straight and then deleting everything but one sentence the next day.

…having 10 works in progress you’re probably never going to finish.

…imagining yourself discussing your books on a talk-show even though you’ve never finished anything.

…drinking so much coffee you consider cutting out the middle-man and just getting a caffeine IV drip.

…overthinking movie and TV plot-lines and envisioning how you could write them better.

…washing down crippling self-doubt with a bottle of Captain Morgan.

…forgetting to eat because you’re almost finished writing that scene you’ve already written 6 different times and will likely write 30 more.

…convincing your relatives what you do is still relevant to a society that thinks watching rich people getting manicures somehow qualifies as entertainment.

…asking Google things that should probably get you put on a watchlist or excluded from a dinner party.

…having a million tabs open at all times.

…going to a coffee place so often the staff begins to recognize you and you have to start going somewhere else to avoid the awkwardness.

…wondering if your story idea has already been written by someone more talented and attractive than you.

…needing to use your “lucky pen” that you do your best writing with.

…spending 10 minutes looking up just the right white noise so you can concentrate for once in your life.

…composing a strongly-worded essay in your head while in the shower and immediately forgetting how to speak your own language as soon as you open a blank document.

…meticulously researching to get even the most minuscule detail correct in spite of the fact most readers probably won’t notice.

…reading the best writing advice and not following any of it.

…anxiously awaiting feedback on a W.I.P. from a friend/family member only for them to eventually tell you it was “good.”

…habitually fluctuating between thinking you’re a total artistic genius and everything you’ve ever written is an insult to the written word in the span of thirty minutes.

…hoarding stories told to you by friends and family in hopes of using it to flesh out a character one day.

…combing through your work to make sure everything is correct, only to print it and immediately find an escape.

…writing tirelessly for hours only to produce a handful of paragraphs people can read in five minutes tops.

…looking up writing memes instead of actually writing something.

…reading blog posts about writing to avoid your W.I.P.

…actually writing.

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Why Books Are Better Than People

It could be my experience in customer service that has inspired me to write this post, however, this is something I’ve always believed to some degree:

Books are better than people.

Don’t believe me? You will soon.

Books are always available. If you are up in the middle of the night, you can just roll over and pick it up. A book won’t care that it’s late. Conversely, if you want to put the book down and come back to it later in a few weeks/months/years, the book won’t be offended. It will be more than happy to let you enjoy its wordy-goodness some other time.

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You don’t have to make small talk with a book. A book does all the talking for you. That’s literally it’s job. You just comb over the pages with your eyes and let the words transport you to another time and place. There is no horrifying pause as it waits for you to comment on something it’s said, or exchange vapid pleasantries. It’s so undemanding.

It’s portable. If you have a small bag, the sky is the limit. You can take them on your commute to work, to a party, to your grandparent’s house, to your backyard, on vacation. Taking a human everywhere you go is just impractical. And why would you want to? They make so much noise.

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If it annoys you, you can get rid of it. Unlike humans, if a book annoys you, you can simply dispose of it. You can force it on your enemies. You can write a strongly-worded blog post. You can leave it in a stranger’s mailbox. You can light it on fire and burry it in the woods. All without fear of receiving a lawsuit.

They smell better than people. Old or new, books have an amazing smell. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of walking into an old library, the beautiful vanilla fragrance of forgotten pages is enough to make you drunk with lust for the written word. I could honestly smell books all day, but, you know, I need to work a day job to buy food or whatever. People on the other hand…..well, anyone who has ridden public transport knows that humans don’t boast such a pleasing odor. I bet you’re wrinkling your nose just thinking about all those unwashed bodies you encounter on a daily basis.

Now stick your head in a book.

See? Isn’t that better?

Ssssssssh.

There are many wonderful books to read. There are so many imaginative, energizing, inspirational, magical, excellent, titillating, colorful books to read. Somewhere out there is a book about any subject you could possibly imagine.  You could spend hours– days even–exploring a library and reading and never want for anything besides food.

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People? Nah. I think there are, like, three wonderful people in the world and all of them are dogs.

Books are free (at the library). People demand more than long stretches of time sitting in silence. They require “fun” activities to ensure a working relationship. Want to go to the movies? Money. Want to catch up with a friend at the coffee shop? Money. Want to entertain yourself for hours by reading the latest best-seller? Library. Boom. Take that, other humans.

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Happy reading!

That First Damn Line

If anyone were to look up from their dinner plates at me at this moment they would see someone on the verge of taking a plastic spoon from her empty soup bowl and gouging her own eyes out.

I’m at a restaurant under the false impression that I am going to be doing some writing this afternoon.

I need to leave my house, I thought. There are too many distractions here. Surely if I go out into the world inspiration will just pour out of me.

Instead I ordered my food, sat down, fitfully read over my first draft, got food, and persisted to languish over a blank document for almost an hour.

Now my food is gone but my frustration remains.

The reason being I can’t think of that first line.

Every good story has an amazing opening hook, one that sinks its teeth into a reader and refuses to let go. The line that’s like a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth, refusing to relent. The harder you try to shake free from it, the more it fights back.

I do not have that line.

I’m blocking.

I have a deadline, but I can’t stop resisting.

I type one line.

No, that’s wrong.

Delete.

I type another.

Wrong.

Delete.

Is this story even worth telling?

Type.

Delete.

Would music help?

Delete.

Should I read some more?

Type.

Delete.

Does anyone else care whether or not I finish this?

Delete.

Cliche.

Delete.

Cheesy.

Delete.

Perhaps the problem is not with the sentence. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with the work itself but the expectation I’ve placed on myself.

I try to follow the current. To let the voice and tone of the piece speak through me, nevertheless, there’s that wood pecker of a critic, pecking away at my brain as I type.

If I try to escape, to take a break, I will not come back to it. I  will delay and wait for a perfect day that will never come. A day where I will be free of apprehension and self-doubt.

I wait for it.

I wait for it in the florescent lights, swallowed up by the light sound of chatter and the scraping of silverware on porcelain.

Type.

Delete.

Unpopular Opinion: Peter Rabbit and the Food Allergy Controversy

Disclaimer: I have not seen, nor do I plan on seeing Peter Rabbit. My opinions are entirely based off of information I obtained from reading articles online detailing the scene and it’s execution (no pun intended). If you have seen the movie yourself and would care to share your opinion on how this particular instance was portrayed in the article I have linked in this blog post, please feel free to do so and correct any misconceptions I may have. 

I never thought I would write about Sony’s ‘Peter Rabbit’ movie simply because nothing about it intrigues me. It seems like just another paltry cash-grab from the perpetually idea-starved Hollywood. The jokes are flat, the demeanors of the rabbits are nothing like their book counterparts, and it is doubtful the production team have any interest in giving the classic story the dignity it deserves.

And yet here I am writing about it, not in order to give my opinion on the film itself as I still have no desire to watch James Corden and his ilk leave rabbit pellets on my childhood, but to give my two cents on the latest controversy.

Yep, that’s right.

A movie about Peter frigging Rabbit has a controversy. 

One revolving around a scene that transpired between the bunnies and Mr. McGregor.

“A human character named Tom McGregor is allergic to blackberries. In a quest to gain access to his garden, rabbits pelt him with fruits and vegetables before using a slingshot to send a blackberry flying into his mouth. It works. Mr. McGregor struggles to inject himself with an EpiPen and then has anaphalaxis and collapses”

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And, for once, I can sort of get behind the whole outrage machine. I should likely reserve judgement until I’ve seen the film myself,  however from what I’ve read it seems pretty clear.

Peter Rabbit is a a goddamn psychopath.

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He essentially tried to murder a man onscreen.

Of course people are angry about this. It makes complete sense why so many would want to see this pulled out of cinemas. If I was a parent, I-

“I’m pretty sure Beatrix Potter will be turning in her grave about now,” Ms. Rose, who lives outside Guildford in Surrey, England, said in an interview on Facebook Messenger. “Allergies are often not taken seriously enough anyway. To have them trivialized on the big screen by such a popular character is immensely disappointing.”

….Wait…what?

Mr. Mendez said in an open letter to the moviemakers that they should not mock food allergies, which are often life-threatening.

“Making light of this condition hurts our members because it encourages the public not to take the risk of allergic reactions seriously, and this cavalier attitude may make them act in ways that could put an allergic person in danger,” it said.

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So let me get this straight….people aren’t angry that a beloved bunny from a timeless classic tried to commit homicide to raucous applause by his peers. They are mad because it trivializes food allergies…..

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THAT is what you took from that scene? Not the fact that it grotesquely depicts a man’s air passages slowly constricting until he collapses from lack of oxygen and is presumed dead?

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The would-be murderer in question

An adorable bunny in a blue waistcoat with an English accent attempted first-degree murder in a kid’s film and it’s portrayed as a joke! Get some perspective!

Would you feel better if he’d used a garden hoe to decapitate McGregor, or would that be offensive to the children of impoverished farmers?

Seriously, it doesn’t surprise me so much what offends people so much as why it offends them.

People being white middle-class women with a “can I speak to your manager?” haircut.

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I understand food allergies should be taken seriously and to be complacent with a sufferer’s diet could have disastrous consequences. Nonetheless, the way these women carry on about people with food allergies make it sound like they’re some sort of protected class that has endured centuries of persecution.

Was there a food allergy holocaust I wasn’t aware of?

Were children with food allergies sent to do slave labor in peanut butter factories until they swelled up like Viola Beaugarde?

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I realize I’m being flippant here, but it just fascinates me that people can stray so far from the point. They have something they could be justified in having a problem with, and they focus more on the method in which the attempted murder was carried out than the fact that a murder was attempted at all.

Or at the very least they could make an argument that what he did was very mean-spirited and shouldn’t be praised as being funny. That line of thinking actually makes sense and argues that it’s teaching kids to be dicks to one another. At least that’s a somewhat reasonable claim.

But nope, it’s aaaaall about the food.

There’s even a hashtag circulating meant to bring awareness to food allergies as a result of this film.

Look, we get it. Food allergies are serious. But not everything needs an awareness campaign.

Yes, they made light of something horrible and I would argue that it may have been misplaced in a kid’s film.

However, if you’re that worried about it, I don’t know, maybe talk to your children about it instead of getting into fights with random strangers on the internet.

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At the end of the day, it’s just another pointless cog (or hashtag) in the outrage machine. We can only pray that this movie scandal, like many before it, will be quickly overlooked in favor of another overblown whine-fest courtesy of the maternal internet users of the Western World.

Article: Sony Apologizes for ‘Peter Rabbit’ Movie’s Allergy Scene by Jacey Fortin