Life’s Full Of Disappointments And I Am Full OF Bees

It’s a horrible feeling to look yourself in the mirror and admit that you can’t do everything. To admit to yourself that sometimes plans, as well intentioned as they may be, are sometimes just plans. Goals are just goals. And sometimes we can’t always do what we had wanted.

It’s a rotten thing to admit to.

It’s a rotten thing to see.

BUT…it’s better to admit to it and to see it than to blind yourself into running into a wall.

Because the thing is this – it’s a lot easier to pick yourself up and dust yourself off if you are willing to accept that you do have limitations, in life and as person, rather than naively ram yourself into walls trying to knock them all down if they try to stand in your way. It’s a good ideal to have, that notion that you won’t give up and won’t let up no matter what but the fact of the matter is that life isn’t about blunt force, it’s about forward movement, and sure, that movement doesn’t always seem to be going at the pace you want but if it’s even inching forward it’s still progress.

Life is about progress.

Even in our setbacks.

But, about my setback – I had decided a few months ago that it’s time to pull the tents down, for the clowns to clean the greasepaint off, and for the circus to close up shop. I am a writer, and always will be but for now, for a very long now, it’s time to stop putting books out. Not because I ran out of material or things to say but because it feels as if I am nearing self-parody. I have seven books out and two last ones on the way and there’s a point where you have to look yourself in the mirror and say – enough is enough. I have put out collections, two fairy tale books, and a novel. With these last two projects my slate is pretty clear. There’s a long lost book I had written ages ago and lost and was going to re-write but it isn’t pressing or necessary. These other books were. I proved to myself that I could do it – I could write, edit, put together, do the art, and release and support my own books (with aid from CreateSpace’s services). I was able to also do it with a LOT of help from friends. I was able to prove to myself that I could do it and I have loved it. I love the process of writing, of editing, of putting the thing together, of doing the art, and of supporting it. I love it and hate it both. Hate it because it isn’t the most fun, and it is stressful to walk the line of ‘artist’ that just wants to create and ‘business person’ that feels the need to sell. But there’s a point where you have to say – enough is enough.

I am at that point.

Which is not to say I won’t support the books I have but that it’s time to focus on other projects in my life. I don’t want to reach a point where it feels as if I am making a fool of myself. And I am being harsh, but I am harsh because I need to be to understand where I am. I don’t want to be someone who publishes out of vanity. And I feel like, with the limited interest in my work that I see, it’s time to re-assess things. Not because I don’t think the works are invalid but because I need to find better ways to get the books out to people. I need to support books I have put out and the two nearing completion, and I need to work on other projects.

None of this is awesome, but it’s necessary.

It’s far more fun, for me, to go through the process of creating a book than it is to support books that are already done.

As for the two books for this year, the ‘last two’. They’re done. I wrote them in two months. One is a book of zombie stories that comprise a novel. I started it in 2000 and slowly added to it and finally realized it was time to finish it. I had sat on it because I didn’t want to be the person that put a zombie book out after the ‘fad’ wore off. Well, that was several years ago and the ‘fad’ is still going so I figured I needed to finish it and get it out. I am currently in the edit of that book. The other book is the third and last of the Meep Sheep books and is a darker story about the passing of the torch from the Queen to her daughters. I wrote that in February and have let it sit a bit before I go back to edit it. I have a lot of work to do on it, to flesh it out, but I like what it is. I was really worried because I knew what I wanted out of it but wasn’t sure how to get there. In getting there the book changed, the story changed, and the ending change…and it’s a better book because of all of those things if you ask me.

The hope and plan for the year had been to get these two books written, edited, and released in Spring in time for two conventions I wanted to do in my area. Alas, the real work is a cruel mistress and I couldn’t afford to do the two shows so I decided to slow myself down and to stop driving myself so hard. I really want to get these books done, out of sheer AHHHHH excitement but also out of the need to move forward to other projects. Art, for one. So this is a setback. A big one. A heartrending one because it means that I have to figure what to do but in the long run it’s necessary and it’s good. I want to make sure these books are ready to go.

And life’s all about setbacks and disappointments and it’s figuring out how to deal with them that begins to define you. You keep moving forward, inch at a time, or you smash your head into things and try to force the world to conform to you instead of learning to move within the world as it is and to slip between the cracks. It is a VERY fuzzy future for me on the artistic front, the writing front, but it’s exciting because whatever happens is going to be a huge surprise.

C

www.meepsheep.com

Catching You Up

As I sit here and edit the first of two books I will have out this Spring I ponder that there are scads of people that are not really sure who I am or what I do.

KNAVES!

Now is a perfect time to catch up before the zombie novel and the last of the Meep Sheep books hit the scene. And daggumit you can catch up or only a dollar an e-book. Or you can chip away with the physical copies, none of which are terribly taxing on that old pocketbook of yours.

Don’t you want to be in on what all them hep cats at the soad-shop have been talking about? Don’t you want in on the ground floor before I sell out and write my magic-vampire-teen version of 50 Shades of Stuff? Sure ya do. Everyone wants to be first, and if not first then best, and if not best then loudest.

Now’s your chance.

So get on it, chump, I mean, pal of mine.

Links to the RIGHT or you can hit up www.meepsheep.com.

KAPOW! Get some of that awesome right in the KISSER!

(proper blogs will re-appear once I get these darn books edited)

The End Of The Third Age

  Just after midnight last night I finished work on the third Meep Sheep book. It took a little longer than the month I had planned on but I hadn’t anticipated the walls I would hit at the end. I can say that I wrote a novella now. One single story that is 83 single spaced pages. Something I never intended to do or thought I could do. As I had gotten to the end I realized I needed to make some big decisions on things that I hadn’t thought about when the fancy notion of a last book popped into my head.

Oops.

  Well, it’s done. And…it’s not what I thought it’d be. Not that this is a bad thing at all but when I first was sketching the book out in my mind it definitely was different. Even ended in a different place geographically in that world but the logic of the story forced me to change how I was putting it together and writing it.

  And am I happy?

Yes. Though I am much too close to really have a feel for how well the book works. I need to give it a month and go back and edit it and look at it then. Then I will know. But I like a lot of moments in the book and am happy how it comes together. 

And I am sad because this is the end of a journey. These three books were different than anything I wrote and even as the series got darker it was still a fantasy series with characters I am very fond of but I am glad it’s done. I wanted to get the projects off of my plate that had been started but never finished and I have done that. There’s editing to be done but in the end I got done what I need to do. 

The book/s are done. 

Wow. 

I have been talking about this book for a while now and it’s crazy to believe it’s over. But it is. As is a piece of who I was for the past several years. There’s still edits to do, still promotion to do, but really, the course of the ship began to change last night and where it leads, well, even I don’t know that. 

http://www.meepsheep.com

 

Tone

   The notion of tone has been weighing heavily on my mind of late as I work to finish the last book in the Meep Sheep series. A touchstone for those books, for me, has been that they were not dumbed down but were accessible to most ages. I strove to write and release something that wasn’t like the rest of my work but was something that hearkened to a time where stories could be dark and a little dangerous but were not offensive. 

That was my hope. 

   Now, was that why I started writing the first story? Not at all. I started because I had an idea and I had what I hoped was a fun story to tell. To me, that’s the perfect way to start with writing. I know I want the story to be what it needs to be and then worry about the rest later. I mean, I definitely worry over things and context and all that overall I try to let the story do its thing. 

That hasn’t been as easy this time around. 

   With this last book in the series I am tying up loose ends and sending things off into the setting sun. It’s a much darker, much more ‘mature’ book in that it’s about the fact that you can’t always wish away your troubles and that some things need to be faced and dealt. It’s a book about finding your place, about letting go of your past. And its a book about finding the magic in a place where it never seemed to exist before – like yourself. 

I am too close to the book to know how I feel about it completely but the tone is definitely a concern. This is a book about a change, a cataclysmic change and a war. As such It needs to be dark, and the reader needs to feel that darkness. If there’s no danger for the characters then there’s no depth to the story. I just need to make sure I am walking the line and not turning what had been fantasy tales into horror stories. I think I am on that edge. It’s dark, darker than the other two books, but it’s not cruel, and that’s a big part of it to me. I am not trying to make the reader upset or trying to punish characters. I am just trying to serve the story. 

My hope is that my choices work for the best. 

I will round out a lot of the hard edges in the edit. I just want to make sure I don’t alienate people who have been with me for two books. That’s an investment of time and interest and the last thing I want is to betray their trust. 

Heavy is the head fat with stories. 

Sheesh. 

I really need to finish this thing. 

- c

www.meepsheep.com

Crap, I Did It Again…

  For a guy that never intended or wanted to write a novel I don’t really listen to myself very well. I just finished writing the last story for another long in the works book. 

The zombie novel began a lot of years ago as a short story called The Delicate Sound of Rain. I wrote it and really became attached to the story and the idea of that world. I started to tinker with the idea of a book about zombies but, well, I never wanted to write a novel. Never. Never-ever. So I thought, well, I can cheat it, I can write a novel of short stories. Ha-HA! Genius! I slowly began writing stories for this world and started mapping it out in my mind. I had a protagonist that I immediately connected to and was excited to work on it. 

Then I hit a wall. 

The zombie boom began about then and I realized that there was no way I was going to finish this thing before the boom was over and this was still a time when self publishing was the worst thing in the literary world to ever do. I loved the concept just the same but I needed to let it go. At least for a while. I figured some day, when the boom is long over and I am ready I can get back to work on the book and see what I see. I put together the stories I had as a chapbook and sold those with some other chapbooks to serve as a stopgap between my first book, BACK FROM NOTHING, and any future book. 

I was an optimist, even if I didn’t want to admit it. 

The chapbook was fun but had horribly small print and while it intrigued people it never really wowed them. For some reason I’d tell people at comic shows that I wrote books and they’d be surprised to not see pictures in the books. Weird. 

So 2012 comes and I realize that it’s time to start putting some projects to bed. I had let a couple long standing projects sit and wait for a time when the world cried out for these works and well, that day never came. But they deserved to be finished and released. 

The big one was the novel, A SHADOW OVER EVER, which I had begun work on in 1994. I had written, edited, changed, edited, changed, and worked on and submitted it to publishers for years. Now that I could get things published on my own it was the right time to do it so I set about the task of getting the thing edited then fixing those edits and working to get it put together and out. It was a huge project and a huge book. And I love it. 

I am not sure how well anyone else loves it but I love it. It represents a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a lot of friends that have come and gone in my life during those many years. 

With the novel done it was time to move my gaze to two other projects, one being the zombie novel. That book had sat around for years and years as I waited for the bubble to burst and it never did. Which isn’t to say people are not darn sick of the undead but, well, I don’t care. 

So I got back to work on crafting a world of the living dead. 

The ideas have changed, the world has changed, my main character has changed some, but at its heart I love what it is. I won’t say it’s groundbreaking or any nonsense like that but it’s different. It’s very different. And I like it. 

I have a LOT of work to do. There’s still editing to work on and layout and story order and all that fun but man does it feel good to be done. To have it done. 

The journey, so far as that story, is complete.

Will people like it? Like what it says and where it goes?

Not sure. 

But I like it. 

I like it a lot. 

And that’s a heck of a start. 

…c…

http://www.meepsheep.com

ZING!

So I am stuck working the front desk at work which means I can’t really do my own job and am thus stuck manning phones and directing traffic. Well, I figured I might be able to get some writing in for the new book and started, well, got as far as a title for the story, and left it at that.

When I came back from lunch a co-worker was laughing to herself about SOMETHING but wouldn’t say what. So I just checked the story and saw that I HAD written some of it…only it was HER who had written.

And thus…here’s is today’s Wicked Burn.

Fire Breathers

They breathe fire….Makes one wonder, if they breathe fire, how can they eat and drink? Drink especially. Because if you think about it, if you breathe in and out fire, all the liquid you are trying to drink will just evaporate. You will have to be hooked up to an IV in a hospital because you would be dehydrated all the time. What kind of a life would that leave you with? Not a very productive one, unless you have the IV hooked up at home and you had an “at home” job you could do and never leave your house. Which brings to mind another very important point. If you breathe fire, how in the world will your house survive? It would go up in flames for sure. There must be some sort of fire proof contraption you can create to “capture” your fire while at home or in other situations where breathing fire would not be beneficial to the outsiders….

Oh and just think, you could only buy fire resistant clothing. Better hope your at home job is a gainful one, the extra money you spend on the special clothes, wow! If you are a fire breather, and you are getting dressed in the morning, you better hold your breath as to not take the chance your clothes may catch on fire. Don’t look down at yourself throughout the day either for fear of flame shooting right through your pants… OUCH! Opps,. Here you are!

THIS is my response - 

So there was a hippo once, see, and it breathed fire. It ate a lot of spicy foods. And because it breathed fire it never got smooches.

And hippos LOVE smooches.

Smooches and waffles.

Well, one day a pretty lady hippo came up to the hippo and was all…wanna smooch?

The hippo was all upset and sad because he couldn’t or he’d burn her face all up.

She blinked at him all shy like and smiled…and as she smiled snow came out of her mouth.

He shook his head.

What did he just see?

She smiled wider and the snow came out in clumps.

How in the…

“So, wanna smooch?”

He smiled and as he did flames came out and he nodded his head enthusiastically.

And thus, happiness was born.

HA!

Nice trick, lady!

My Monster – a story

My Monster

Last minute story I conjured up today. I suppose it’s in honor of the ending of another year.

No one would take you.

No one.

So I did. I took you. I took you and brought you home.

What else could I do.

You were my monster.

And I loved you. I loved you. But maybe not enough.

At least that’s what they say.

But I remember you, my boy, and how we’d play together, in the backyard. You didn’t like sports, no, but you loved to pretend, so we’d pretend. We were space men invading a far off moon, in search of alien enemies. I remember teaching you to swim in your grandad’s pond. I remember sitting up with you all night after your dog was hit by a car and how you refused to leave his side for hours even after he was dead.

But I never loved you enough I guess.

That’s what they say.

I hadn’t seen you in, what was it, three, four months before today. You were back from school on a break and needed money. You and I had an argument, I think, about something stupid. They were all stupid though. All of them. Money, girls, drugs. They all blur for me into a decoupage of pain. A stain that can’t be cleaned up. But that’s what all of this is, isn’t it? The stain that won’t come clean. Your mother could have fixed things. I am sure of it. I am sure. But that dark spot in her chest wasn’t nothing like they said, was it?

And looking at you now I can still see you laughing in the back yard as we shoot the aliens together. And was everyone just an alien in the end, or was it you that were from somewhere else? Somewhere cold and distant.

And they tell me I should have seen the signs. I should have seen something. ANYTHING. And I saw everything, even in the letters that were simply asking for an extra fifty dollars until your school loan came through. But sometimes even seeing everything you can miss it all. Like the way you never wore short sleeve shirts, so I would never see the cuts there. Or the way you would somehow get smaller the madder you get, as if you were retracting, compacting, preparing as if for an explosion. Or how at the end there you wouldn’t look me in the eye so that the last memory I have of you was the way your hands would clench and unclench as we spoke, and how bad you smelled, and how the last thing you said to me was ‘bye dad’. And then there was the gulf of those months and then a call from your Aunt Karen telling me to turn on the news, that you were on the news, and did I know, did I know what it would be? Did I know?

That’s what they all want to know.

Did I see it?

Did I see what you’d do?

Did I see the monster you’d become?

And how do I tell them that for me, even at the worst, when your grades were declining and you were getting into fights and were talking back to me that I only saw the laughing little boy playing space man in the backyard? How do I tell them that the monster they see is still the miracle that his mother and I had prayed for when she had learned she couldn’t have children? How do I tell them that my monster was once someone too? How do I tell them that I still love him and will bury him in an unmarked grave beside his mother?

And how do I tell them that I know as little about what created my monster as they do, and that even if they find some reason that it will never clean away the stain of what he did, or its effects. How do I tell them that in five years, in ten years, in twenty years I will still love my monster, even as I hate what he became and what he did, and nothing can ever, ever change that.

Because he may have been my monster, but first he was my son.

12.31.12

c

Trimming The Fat

   For me there’s few things as upsetting as editing my writing. Well, wait, that’s not true, I really like editing my work when I am doing the editing but when it comes to someone else, well…I think loathe is letting the act get off a little easy. There is just something so clinical and cold to it all that it really rubs me the wrong way…when someone else does it.

Ah, and there’s the rub.

Now, I am not going to tell anyone that I am some genius that can edit their own work and can make stories into pieces of magic that transcend the page. No. That isn’t me. BUT I can tell you that I know the story I want to tell and know it pretty well. And in knowing the story I want to tell I am a pretty good person to go back to find errors, fix errors, and fill out the story where it’s a little weak. I know what the story is trying to be, and in that, I am a pretty good person to get it to where it is heading.

Ah, but not always.

Because sometimes you’re just too darn close and you NEED other eyes on the work. You need someone else to look at it and tell you what you’re missing, where the story is weak, and can sometimes tell you the brutal truth when something just doesn’t work.

And the truth then is brutal, and it hurts, but if it’s a longer work, if it’s a big work it’s easy to lose sight of the road you’re on and easier to stray off into unnecessary tangents. You are just too close to the work to get a good feel for what needs to be done so you need someone to step in and to pull you back onto the path again. But there’s a fine line there, a very, very fine line in how to do it.

My issue with editing and editors specifically is that they are looking at the story the in a way that benefits THEM – they are helping to shape the story that THEY want to read, and I guess that’s fine if it’s their book that the piece is going in, or if it is something they commissioned, but outside of that the editor has to be VERY cautious on how they mold that work. An editor is great for grammar, for repetition, and for the mechanics of what makes a piece work. An editor knows the cold mechanics of all of this, but what they don’t know is the emotional context and the reasoning behind it. They don’t always appreciate the writer’s stylistic choices, choices which oft times SEEM repetitious and awkward yet are part of the story.

I have gone through that more than a few times where editors felt that aspects of my style didn’t work, and where they wanted to re-shape the story to fit what they wanted it to be. Now, I was putting these stories into their publications so I wasn’t going to really argue much beyond the cursory bit of standing my ground because it’s THEIR release, not mine, but I also made sure that whatever changes I made were only for THAT version of the work and that when it came time to release it myself I would put MY version out then. Because I would rather the story be a tad awkward and reflect MY vision than be something that reflects someone else’s vision because it’s MY story, not theirs. Something I do wonder if editors forget.

The writer, love it or hate it, is an artist, just an artist that uses words and I wonder if too often the artistry of what they are doing, or trying to do, is lost under the axe of an editor. And heck, we need editors to make sure we don’t let fail something that could be special were it not for some simple mistakes. I needed one on the novel because my grammar is poor at best and some things needed to be tightened. And I lucked out in getting a friend to do it that respected the vision of what I was trying to do and they helped me make the book better. Ah, but my editor on the novel also brought distance with them, a distance that didn’t get them involved too deeply in the shaping of the book beyond the cosmetics. And I suppose that’s my personal preference – I would rather my story, my book, fail because of me, because I didn’t do my job than to have someone step in and change what I intended the work to be. I would rather fail or succeed by  my own hand rather than trust someone else to do what is right, what is best.

In saying all of this I have to admit that I am very, very curious what the relationship with an author and an editor are like when it comes to professional work because I bet you it’s a lot different. I would like to think so at least. In MY mind I picture the editor and writer sitting down to discuss changes, ideas, reasoning, and together shaping the book. It still would feel weird to me, but an editor is like a music producer – there to help you ‘sound’ better, but again, it’s a find line between making sure the sound is clean and the song moving forward and the producer/editor stepping in to change the music, the tune, or add or subtract something that they don’t fully appreciate.

Writers need editors. It’s just a simple fact. We need them because we don’t always get it right. We don’t always make the path clear. And in a perfect relationship the editor will come in and make sure that the story moves forward with as few obstacles as possible and will guide the author forward so that they can make sure that they feel the work still reflects their ideals and vision. And if that isn’t the goal of the editor, well, maybe they need to look into other work.

c

www.meepsheep.com

Thanksgiving–a story

This is a story I wrote for the 2012 Thanksgiving. My tribute, of sorts. This is also notable as it will be part of a book I am working on for 2013. The book has been long in the works and will finally be finished and see the dark light of day.

Enjoy. (By the by, it’s unedited, so forgive me any errors you may find)

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

Thanksgiving

The town was silent as the night fell. A thick mist slipped from the woodlands, from the fields, and through the streets covering everything in a thick shroud. Far of in the distance, a world away from the town there was an explosion and a firecloud that rose like a Phoenix into the sky but nothing in the town stirred or moved. As dawn came over the land and the first rays of sunlight touched the edges of the town the sound of muffled sobs whispered across the town and an hour later there came three gun shots, two in quick succession then a third several minutes later and then the silence returned.

It was noon when the flies arrived, their thick black cloud moving slowly over the land, beginning as a small cloud that joined with another cloud and that vast mass moved slowly towards the small town and with it came the sound of movement through the fields. The first of the dead emerged from the corn fields at noon and by the time the last of the scavengers that shambled slowly after their brethren. There were so many of the things flooding into the town that the cloud of flies that formed above dimmed the sun and brought an early night. The air was filled with the sound of the flies and the low growl of the things as they moved along the streets and through the open doors of the homes. Home after home after home the dead entered and stumbled through, the scent of the living so strong that it confused them, made them believe that the living were still there. A group of scavengers found a pen with three dead pigs that were fat with maggots and rot. Their slow gait quickened as they descended upon the pigs and the weight of them broke through the fencing, the bodies of several of them getting impaled and stuck on the remnants as the others went to the animals. Their gnarled hands dug and clawed and tore until the meat was pulled free and the things shoved fistfuls of flesh that crawled with maggots into their mouths and chewed slowly. For many the food simply dribbled out of their torn throats and rotted bellies. As the last of the pigs was devoured the new arrivals to the pen began tearing at the bellies of the freshly fed, tearing the stomachs open and dipping their own hands inside to eat whatever they found within. While the scavengers fought over dead animals and rotten meat the hunters made their way to the center of the town and sniffed the air.

Meat.

They smelled meat.

At the edge of town there was a great commotion as several scouts happened upon the house where the shots had come from and immediately the home was full of the dead as they sought out the bodies and made quick work of them. The hunters remained though, smelling something else. After several moments the thirty hunters turned as one and began moving quickly towards the church. And as they went so followed the scouts, and finally the scavengers, what was left of them, made their way slowly to the church as well. The great congregation of the dead descended on the church and shoved, shoved, shoved at the doors until finally they bowed inward, the hinges cracked and the great wooden doors gave and the things forced themselves within. The church was silent and full, each pew holding a parishioner and even more filling the second floor and its many seats. The townsfolk were all bowed as if in prayer and made no move as the things bit and tore at them, made no move at all as their stomachs and throats were torn open for the dead to feed. The church filled with hundreds of the dead and none remained outside of the building that could get inside, even those that couldn’t, the crawlers that trailed behind the pack, quickened their pace to try to get into the building before the meal was done.

And the dead feasted on the bodies of the towns people, pulling them apart and boring holes within them as they picked the bodies clean. Their dead were a writhing mass and as they ate the flies that followed and lead them came as well so they could get their own meals, though none settled on the people of the town, choosing the healthier meal of the dead. The dead all stopped suddenly and lifted their heads and turned them towards the front and the altar when the great barrel that had been placed on a long white plastic table fell over and spilled its dark contents all over the floor. Those among the dead that could smell what was inside hissed and moved away from the fluid and the rest buried their faces in their meals again and returned to their noisy work.

As the last of the dead made their way within the church two small forms climbed down a long ladder that had been leaned against the back of the building where there was a small entrance to a loft that looked down on the congregation. The boy was the first down and he helped the girl, a thin thing with long red hair, down and made sure she had her footing before he marched over to a hissing crawler and put his boot through its head. This done he quickly returned to the girl and she handed him a chair leg with some wet fabric and he traded her that for a lighter. The girl, taller than the small boy with the fierce eyes by a foot, took her own chair leg and flicked the lighter again and again and again until it lit and she set it to the fabric and her torch erupted to match the boy’s. She looked at him, her face drawn and pale, and she smiled weakly and he nodded and they split up and she walked around the back of the church. In a minute he heard her whistle and he whistled back and both set their torches to the sides of the church where they had poured kerosene and the sides sprang to life with fire. The boy ran to the next point and did the same, then to a third point along the sides and when that was alight he ran to the front where he found her waiting. Each went to a barrel and they pushed their barrels over and gasoline poured out in two rivers that joined into a sea that ran down the gulleys the boy had dug and to the doors of the church. As soon as the barrels were overturned and emptying the boy took the girl’s torch and nodded and she moved away. Within the church the things went about their meal, too busy gorging to notice the scent of kerosene, or gasoline, or fire, or fresh meat. The boy watched the things a moment and as he watched a grin began to form, something he would never let her see, never let anyone see, no, this smile was just for them. And as he smiled he threw the torches into the gasoline and ran. The church erupted with flames and still the dead ate as the fire washed over them, devouring them as they devoured the poisoned dead of the town of Inston. The boy and girl had happened upon the town looking for supplies and had found the place empty, everyone dead within the church, their hope finally lost, and it had been she that had planned this feast.

She that had planned this dinner.

He ran to her and grabbed her hand and they stood and watched as the church became and inferno and not one of the things within broke free of their hunger, their need, their addiction and this, this was their weakness, their greed. Something that made still tied them to their human counterparts. He squeezed her hand and she looked at him and smiled and he returned it. It was a small victory in a long, awful war but it was something. And sometimes small victories were good enough. Sometimes it was the small victories that meant everything. She squeezed his hand again and he looked away from the fire and back to her and she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek and his face ran a deep shade of red.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Hunter.”

“Happy Thanksgiving.” He replied before both turned their gazes back to the fire and the brief warmth it gave.

 

www.meepsheep.com

Why We Do It

Every so often I find myself asking – why do I do this?

And sometimes I don’t know.

Sometimes I am just staring up from the bottom of a deep, dark well and I honestly don’t know why I do it. Why I write. Why I paint. Why I draw. Why I take photos. Why I put events together.

Sometimes I just don’t know.

And that’s normal.

And it’s good.

We need to re-examine things from time to time, especially the things we love and are passionate about. Without constant questioning we start to meander and lose sight of what it is that drives us on and fuels us with that passion. There’s a point where you need to ask yourself – why am I doing this? What’s the point?

And why do I do it?

I do it because I love to write. I love to tell stories. I love create worlds and people to fill them. And I love to shine the light on the things people don’t always see. Sometimes these are ugly things but so be it. We need to face the ugly from time to time to appreciate the beautiful when we find it.

I draw because I love it. I am not a good artist but it makes me smile. It lets out my silly side and taps into my creative side. I doodle more than outright draw but that’s what gives me the joy. Sometime quick and dirty and simple. I still prefer pen and paper since I can do things more precisely but I have grown to love drawing on my phone since it’s a quick fix with immediate results. Yeah, I know – typical American.

I paint because I love it. I had wanted to learn to paint for years and was too timid to do it until a friend gave me a starter set for Christmas one year and I have been painting since. About five years now. I am not a good painter, at all, but I have fun, and I think that comes through. I have slowed down for about eighteen different reasons, but really, part of me is still in that – Why Do I Do This phase and looking at a box of twenty paintings makes me question myself, much like looking at a box of unsold books does.

I take photos because I love it. Again, not good, but sometimes, sometimes I am not bad at all. I don’t take photos as much as I would to but I do love it. It’s another way to be creative and to set scenes. I am still too timid to really give myself to it, to go with all of my ideas, but I am trying, inch by inch, to get better and get more of my personality into things.

I do events because I love them. I love putting people together who have similar passions. I love working with people who are still finding themselves, their audience, and their path. I love adding to the culture of Flint, even if but in a small way. And I love creating things that inspire people in some way.

Why Do I Do It?

Because I have to. I do the things I do because it drives me crazy to see how little thought and imagination goes into some of the events I see. It drives me crazy to see how so many always seem to have their hands out waiting for someone to fund them and their convention, hobby, whatever. There’s so much that can be done if people just work together, and in a city like where I live, Flint, we need to work together more than anything. I love this place, as many flaws as it has, and want to help to make it better. Sure, art shows and horror cons don’t do much to change people’s safety, and doesn’t create a future perhaps but it’s only by inspiring people and passing our passions on that we can actively change the future. Without that passion, without a reason to stay, people will leave. And if moving makes you happy, then do it, but sometimes staying means more because you can effect the place you live.

You can change it.

Why do I do what I do?

Because I want the things I do to create my legacy. And hell, even if people forget who the hell I am, at least I want to know that I tried to make a difference. I cared enough to try. And the future is only created moment to moment and if we give up inspiring others, inspiring ourselves then we give up on the future. There is so much indifference and apathy anymore, so much negativity about everything that we have to keep the fires burning for one another because someone has to. I do this stuff because it isn’t about fame, or money, but about trying to make a difference. Heck, we all want to make enough to survive and then some to be silly with but that can’t be what we live for. It can’t or we live for nothing. And it’s easy to forget all that as we struggle day to day and the debt piles up, and the stress compounds, but what the Arts give us, what passion gives us is a way to see past those things and into the future, or the past, or anywhere we want. We do the things we love because we have to, not because we want to, but because we have to. Because not doing them drives us crazy. Not doing them makes us feel as if we are wasting away.

And the only thing that can outlive us is the future and it’s better to help create that future than to help destroy it.

So, take a moment and ask yourself my simple question -

Why Do You Do It?

- c

www.meepsheep.com