Writing and Reading

I’m already technically about eight hours late in this, but it just came to me; as some of you know, along with writing, I’m also an avid video editor. It’s a hobby of mine. I love visuals and music–music videos.

And about a year ago, I created a video–not necessarily about 9/11 itself, but about the sacrifices and courage of those who fought in response to the tragedy of 9/11. I think about those who died every day. I also think about those who died and are dying and are still alive fighting as hard as their hearts could handle for the justice and well-being of our nation. They’re our guardians of honor. They help us remember to not live in fear; because that’s what 9/11 intended: to instill fear. Our guardians say no. Not on their watch.

So here’s that video I created, for those who’ve never seen it. It’s one of my best….

Believe me, certain experiences are worth writing about. And those certain experiences happen enough that they simply have to be chronicled in some way–either fiction or biography. I’m writing this post only because I absolutely have to–it’s too good to pass up. I’m talking surreal joy here, the kind of joy that makes you laugh and not have the power to stop simply because you’ve seen something completely nonsensical and illogical.

I have a day job. Yes, me, the wretched writer. And it’s an early day job, too. As in, I get up at 6:00 in the morning. Every day. Usually, it’s the shake-off-the-cobwebs-and-drag-my-sleeping-feet morning and pay-attention-to-the-road ordeal every day, and it’s usually boring and uneventful. I grab a granola bar and drink some juice for a quick breakfast, pack my lunch and head out.

This very morning itself was slightly different. You see, I have two roommates. Last night, it just so happened that one of my roommates had a couple friends over. My other roommate went to bed at some point. Not sure when. So for the rest of the night, it was my one roommate and his two friends, laughing and enjoying themselves. They had pizza. And beer, I’m sure. Absolutely nothing wrong with that. I say live it up.

Now, bear with me–we live up on the second floor apartment, and along with the front door there’s a back door out to a balcony with a stairway winding down to the parking lot. The balcony’s about a good four feet wide and spans across the way on the building about twenty feet.

I had my lunch packed, I’m ready to go–I open the back door to head out to my car in the back lot, and I find my roommate and his two friends sleeping peacefully. On the porch. On the floor of the porch. Literally passed out.

Luckily, it was a very comfortable night, not too cold, not too warm. The three of them were sprawled out, no blankets, no pillows. Just out in La La Land, snoring away, on the floor of the porch. And the three of them managed to blanket a section of the porch with their bodies.

I’m not joking–I had to carefully place my feet in several places to get across. It was like walking through a mine field. No kidding.

Once I was across the sleeping human mine field, I made my way to the car and couldn’t stop laughing.

Right there was prime material for any book, fiction or biography. See? Life can be entertaining and still be realistic!

As a kid growing up, I was always fascinated with, well, fantasy! I thought fantasy was, well…fantastic (nearly draining my account of f-words in my literary stock here, oh, well, save one word which shall never appear in written form here ). Who couldn’t love THE LORD OF THE RINGS, or how about that classic ’80s film “Labyrinth”? “The Dark Crystal”? Great stuff. There are numerous others. I was a huge fan of the good old-fashioned swords and sorcery and bulky, grizzly warriors and crafty thieves and their snickers and sneers. I even enjoyed the whimsy of the lighter, childlike tales of magical dreams like ALICE IN WONDERLAND. The rabbit hole became a mystifying thing for me.

Little did I know how really deep that rabbit hole could go.

As I got older, my imagination evolved into something more grounded, inventive, I guess you can say. And surprisingly, the more grounded, the more mystified I was with the fantasy genre as a writer rather than a reader.

Let me explain: one of the first books I ever wrote when I was young just happened to be of the fantasy genre. Big surprise. I was in love with the genre. I quickly learned of one of the largest challenges in writing fantasy–and that is simply the sheer scope of actually creating a real world of names and places and things and concepts and cosmic and natural rules and laws. Every thing. EVERYTHING. That’s pretty daunting. Even more daunting, making it believable was like that unclimbable mountain with the overly sheer cliff walls. Impossible to reach over.

Hats off to the fantasy authors of legend and the now: Tolkien, among the best. I’ll be completely honest. My first try at a novel shook me up a little. Rough-edged and raw, doubtful, maybe a little overwritten, too many characters thrown in too little space–I had it tough. I learned quick how the challenge exhausted me mentally. Even emotionally.

But at the same time, it mystified me even more. Thinking about the scope of these imaginary worlds–it enthralled me to no end. The idea that a man–like Tolkien–could create this utterly massive world. Middle Earth. And it was so believable, so real. As if you really were walking down the trails leading to Hobbiton.

I quickly learned what my true strength was in writing, in that it seemed to be that more of an urban fantasy world meshed with snapshots of my real-life experience and bits of philosophy and religious or spiritual legend, and especially the concept of myth, fueled my flow of the story storms in my head and the ideas and premises. I think it was because I was so passionate about research. Discovery. The what if fascinated me in terms of constant malleable thought, rather than a curious, mysterious wonder. For those of you who have delved into my fiction, THE CAIN LETTERS, you may understand what I mean when I say…what if.

Knowing that, I can safely say, though, that I have an even deeper appreciation for the true, basic fantasy genre. The literature literally almost seems born from nothing except a purely magical thought. As in, here’s Tolkien…. Hobbits. I call them hobbits. And this is what they are. Yes. That’s simply remarkable. And to build from that astounds me. A completely original, unreal, unrealized idea–practically formed out of nothing and everything, it seemed–came out of this man’s head.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not demeaning my own genre of writing, which is indeed a hot flyer in the multi-faceted fantasy genre. We all know urban fantasy’s making it huge. But, again, as a writer, not a reader, I have an even deeper appreciation for the creation of worlds and stories–simply out of pure imagination, seemingly without any relation to real experiences or events or anything. Anyone ever jokes about the cheesy swords and sorcery–seriously, mouths shut, listen to me. Authors of fantasy are true kings of imagination. Not kings of research and discovery, no. But still, we do respect one of the greatest jewels in fiction writing anyway: and that is imagination.

It’s what makes the rabbit hole go deeper. And deeper. And deeper.