You are a Writer

One of my English teachers recently asked us what makes a writer. Who are they? How do they act? Along with the usual jokes about being tormented enough or drinking enough alcohol, one guy said, “A writer is someone who writes.”

This prompted me to write about two things. First, to elaborate on what he said. Second, to share the reason why I like meeting celebrities. Trust me, the two have merging points.

A writer is someone who writes. Obvious, you say and laugh, but the statement is true to its core. Writing a novel a year, or maybe multiple novels a year makes you a writer. Submitting one story to an anthology a year makes you one, too. Scrawling notes on whatever paper is on hand, journaling, letters; it makes you a writer.

I know some might feel that the sentiment is diminishing towards the skill and determination of those who make writing their career, but I disagree. That isn’t what I aim to imply. What I want you to leave with is a new understanding of the word “writer”. People are often so wrapped up with the notion of “being a writer” that they don’t realize they already are. They’re hung up on some self-constructed barrier that they need to pass in order to use the term, and it ends up tormenting them and holding them back. Write a certain amount of words a day, be published, receive a certain amount of recognition, emulate a certain tone, make a living off their work, the list goes on.

But here is what I think: those are goals, not qualifiers. They’re great goals, yes, ones that you have to succeed at if you want to write for a career, but for the rest of us not achieving them doesn’t mean you can’t be a writer. Why does it matter? Being hung up on not achieving the lifestyle or recognition that some do is disheartening, discouraging. It can stop you from writing because you think you aren’t good enough.

I told you this related to why I like meeting celebrities. It’s because, in addition to fangirlism of course, it reminds me that they are just people. When I shake their hand and get my picture with them, I’m excited, but all the while I know they’ll have to find somewhere to eat dinner after the convention, and at night they’re probably thinking about the next project they’re working on. They were not always the epic Writers or Actors we know today. At one point they were struggling just like you, but they kept at it and they finally succeeded.

So, call yourself a writer. Don’t be afraid to. Be confident, keep trying, and know your perseverance will eventually pay off in some way. Don’t let the intangible connotations of a title stop you. Don’t ask yourself, “Can I call myself a writer yet? Have I done enough yet? Am I there yet?” If you’re asking yourself those questions, I’d say the answer is yes.

Max Brooks: a defense

If you haven’t read an article about the interview with Max Brooks, or seen the video itself, where he talks about his thoughts on the World War Z movie, you are straight up behind. Here are some links.

Read about it or Watch it.

Moving on. I watched the video before it spread like wild fire (I’m hip like that. Just this one time though) and was refreshed and surprised by Max Brooks’ honesty. He knew what would happen when he signed movie rights away. He knew he had no control, and he admits it. He said no to reading the script once they started filming because he knew he couldn’t do anything about it. He isn’t hiding behind his decision or giving us some false image of a devastated write who had a novel turned into a movie and the script is far from his original book. He is a writer who knew what would happen and is okay with it.

I think I might be alone in my support for Mr. Brooks. I’ve watched as the video spreads and people seem to be shocked by what he said. How could he have let them ruin his novel? Why didn’t he try harder? Let’s blame Brooks!

Get over it, people. Just get over it.

Here is what you need to remember: he made the best choice he could given his position. He sold his movie rights to someone likely to make his novel into a movie–a dream all of us writer’s have and likely will never see come true. He wanted to continue generating profit off his book–also something writer’s only dream of. He is honest with his fans, no BS here–something we should always value.

He is not J.K. Rowling, who was so inflated with popularity that she could make demands seven ways to heaven and no one would ever say no.

If Brooks said his movie rights came with restrictions and his constant input and evaluation, I highly doubt anyone would’ve bought the rights. He is not famous or powerful enough to do that. I can guarantee if you ask a handful of average people who J.K. Rowling or Stephanie Meyer is, they will know. Max Brooks? Not so much.

Max Brooks is the last person on the list you should be blaming. If you have to get angry (and I don’t think you should) get angry at the script writers, the producers, the higher-ups who said it would be a good idea. Not the guy that wrote the book you love, brought you a world that you fawn over, and inspired you.

10 Commandments for Zombie Fanatics

Thou shalt let the naive think that holding out in a mall is the best thing to do in the zombie apocalypse.

Thou shalt never say thy weapon of choice is a katana, chainsaw, or machine gun.

Thou shalt not haughtily roll thine eyes when someone says they like zombies but do not know as much as thou.

Thou shalt hold thy tongue when thy neighbor says Zombieland wasn’t a good movie.

Thou shalt not rage when people think the World War Z movie is an accurate portrayal of the book.

Thou shall remain composed when someone opposes your opinion on fast or slow zombies.

Thou shalt refrain from imploding if thine neighbor asks, “Who is George Romero?”

Thou shalt calmly explain thine position on whether or not they were zombies in 28 Days Later.

Thou shalt not judge another based on whether or not they have seen Shawn of the Dead, Night of the Living Dead ’68, or Dawn of the Dead ’78.

Thou shalt never allow thine zombie beliefs to be based on any one actor, one movie, or one book.

Lovin’ You Ain’t Easy

I didn’t want to take another bite of Nicky’s homemade pasta, so I don’t. I pushed the noodles around the plate to make it look like I made progress, then reached in to my pocket and withdrew a cherry Jolly Rancher. I unwrapped it with as much stealth as I could manage and popped it into my mouth.

“I mean, this is a great space, Cyrus. You can do a lot with it.” Nicky gestured to the open living room.

I hate the way she says my name. Cy-risss. I hate most things about the girl named Nicky who told me she was my girlfriend. Really, I hate anyone who tells me what to do and how things are.

“Do you see what I’m saying, though? Like, a couch here would be great and a big TV. You even have room for like, a nice coffee table or something.”

I met Nicky while I was teaching Russian at a community center in town. She hung around after class, talking to me about anything she felt like. She was a pretty girl. My age. Some would’ve considered her attractive, but I doubted she could hold her own in a fight or run a mile without becoming breathless.

The first time she asked me on a date I declined. She persisted, week after week, and finally I said yes. Better to have it over with sooner rather than later. I couldn’t quit the job. I needed the money. Besides, I became curious. I’d never had a girlfriend. I’d never had interest in the opposite sex–or any sex for that matter–and wondered how relationships functioned. I often suspected I was declined from jobs after the interview because people didn’t like my disposition. I didn’t know how to act normal, and figured I’d learn something from being around her.

“So, hey. Why won’t you go to that party? Are you intimidated by my ex? He’s going to be there, you know.” Nicky leaned over the table, her chest near my face.

I honed my manipulation skills while being with her, that’s for sure. Nicky, being so manipulative herself, proved a good model and test subject for my own wit.

“I don’t know, Nicky, I guess I just feel like he still likes you and you might have something for him, too.”

Play in to her narcissism. Appear weak, the inferior being in the relationship. Allow her to reassure me, be submissive to her will.

“Aww, baby, you know that isn’t true.”

“I know,” I say. I take a bite of the pasta. Let her feel like I need her, I can’t function without her.

“You’re so sensitive, Cyrus.”

“I know,” I say, my voice softer this time. Pout bottom lip just slightly, look down at plate.

“Well, we don’t have to go if you don’t want. We can have a night in, but we’re definitely going to my place.”

I try to keep the smirk off my face by masking it with a sheepish smile. “Really? That sounds a lot better.”

“Cool. So anyway, I was thinking maybe my couch and coffee table would look nice in here.”

I swirl more pasta around my fork, then set it down once I realized what she said. “Why would you bring that stuff here?”

Nicky’s face darkened. She shoved away from the table. “Ugh, obviously because I think we should move in together! We’ve been dating for four months and two weeks!”

Things had gone from mildly interolerable to homicide-inducing in a split second. I needed to break myself from the weird daze of a life I’d been in since dating her and forget learning normalcy. If I couldn’t get a job like a regular person or feign normal social relationships, so be it.

Now, how are you supposed to say it? “Nicky, I’m breaking up with you.”

“You–what?”

Nicky’s body shook with rage. Her fists were clenched so hard I wondered if her nails drew blood.

“I said, I’m breaking up with you. I’m not interested in doing this anymore.”

“Doing THIS? What the fuck does that mean? We love each other, Cyrus! You don’t just stop being interested in that!”

This wasn’t going as well as I hoped. It seemed obvious. I no longer wanted to be a part of the relationship. I stated it. She should be walking out of my apartment and life.

Things rarely go the way I want them to. I hoped it wouldn’t become a trend.

Her first strike hit me in the temple with surprising force. I tipped sideways in my chair. In attempt to stabilize my hand flew to the table but landed in the pasta. My whole body went down as she kicked the chair and toppled me over. My face burned as it dragged against the short carpet. I began to stand but Nicky came around the table to kick me. I warded the attack. She lost her balance and fell onto the floor.

There was no way she could’ve hurt herself by tumbling onto the carpet, but she started screaming that I broke her arm, then her leg, that she had internal bleeding. The slew of insults and promises to put me in jail were too numerous to remember. I sat on the ground and watched her pace back and forth and yell, unsure of what to do.

Eventually she called her friend who picked her up. I didn’t dare see her out mostly because I worried it would provoke her and she’d call the cops.

I watched her drive away then went to the kitchen, washing the cold pasta sauce off my hand and cleared the dining room table.

At least I knew relationships weren’t going to work for me. I retrieved a handful of candy from my pocket.

Maybe I’d get a pet some day? Sounded much easier.

—

In The Undead Situation you might remember Cyrus referencing his one and only girlfriend, Nicky. I’ve always had some details of their relationship mapped out in my mind, so I thought it would be fun to share one of those moments. Cyrus was very young at this point and hadn’t become the man we know in TUS.

Zindie Review: GUGGA by Jonathan Lambert

When I read GUGGA by Jonathan Lambert I laughed, pondered, snickered, and was thoroughly amused. All of that experienced in a short story? Yes, so clearly I have to recommend it.

I’ve never reviewed a short story before and the thought of doing so put me at an impasse. How can you talk about the plot without giving something away? How can you discuss the development of a character, a theme?

Well, you can, but just not in detail. Here is what I’ve come up with.

GUGGA is a satirical, witty, and well written story following a shambling zombie who happens to have a quite a bit of a history from when he was living. It is a tale of romance, tragedy, and hope as the main zombie, Gugga, meets another zombie who changes everything.

The story is self-published (all the more reason to buy it at only .99 cents) but the writing is solid and it is obvious the author took great consideration in developing its pacing, little humorous quips, and overall structure. Highly recommended for a fun, satisfying read.

Blaze Wright’s First Kill

“How long are you planning on staying with Carolyn?”

“I don’t know, mom. I don’t have anywhere else to go right now.”

“Well it isn’t good for you to stick around and influence Joey.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and pressed it against the bed. Two deep breaths. That’s all I needed to calm down. The humid, musty air of the room I’d been staying in filled my lungs. I let the breath out in an even, slow exhale. I held back a cough, fought the urge to slam the phone down and light a cigarette, then brought it back up to my mouth.

“I know, mom. I’m trying to find somewhere else to go.”

“Well, have you visited dad since you got back?”

My right eye twitched. The onslaught of negative questions and comments from my mother always did that to me. On average I could make it through more than three. I wasn’t on my game today.

“I saw him last week.”

“For how long?”

Fuck, did it never end with her? “I was there at least an hour,” I lied. “Maybe an hour and a half.”

She was silent on the other end, then, “Beatrice, I have to go. Something is wrong outside.”

Mom would never cut a conversation short unless something was very, very wrong. “What is it? Do you need me to come over?”

“I need to go. I’m going to call the police. I’ll call you back.”

Click. She was gone.

Downstairs Joey was throwing his coveted tennis ball against the mudroom screen. It made it rattle. The noise irritated me. It dug into my ears, made me want to scream. Accompanied with Carolyn’s occasional, noncommittal shout from the kitchen commanding him to stop…yeah, I was going to lose it.

This was my new prison. Instead of sand and tent walls I got cardboard boxes of Joey’s old stuff piled to the ceiling in the guest bedroom. Instead of a blazing hot sky above me I had blotches of gray clouds and rain.

Carolyn had never cleaned this room. They never needed it. Just a junk room. Every year she boxed up Joey’s old stuff and saved it. What was she holding onto? The idea that Joey’s father would come back and they’d have another kid? That the toys and clothes would go to use again?

Fucking pathetic. Holding onto memories was useless. Weak. I pulled out my zippo and flicked it open. The flame came to life and wavered in my breath. I flipped it open and closed, staring out the window.

This place would blaze up in a heartbeat. All I had to do was toss the lighter into the stack of Joey’s million identical, equally useless crayon drawings and watch it go. It wasn’t just the junk that would go. Those pitiful memories would be gone, too. I’d be releasing Carolyn from whatever prison these objects held her in. When they burned up she’d be free. Joey would be free, too, as he got older. He wouldn’t be tied down to these objects that told him who he was when he was young. What he wanted to be.

Yeah. He’d be free, too.

Footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs. I swung my legs over the bed. My boots thumped loudly on the scratched, warped oak floor.

“Bea, I’m going to the doctor. Can you watch Joey?”

Carolyn was in the doorway. Her forearm was wrapped in a fresh roll of gauze. Red was already seeping through where the bite was. One of Joey’s friends bit her, but she said it was fine. It’d been hours and it hadn’t stopped bleeding. She held it close to her chest, elevating it. Her skin was pallid.

I offered first aid. She denied it. As far as I was concerned, I was off the hook.

My first impulse was to say no, I won’t watch your brat kid. But to her, the woman who let me stay in her house, I said, “Yeah, of course. When will you be back?”

“An hour, maybe two if it’s busy. Everyone has that flu you know, so it might be bad at the hospital.”

Carolyn knew I hated kids. She blamed it on my inability to have any of my own. That wasn’t true, but no matter what anyone said they’d side with Carolyn on the subject. That tension between us became tangible each time she asked me to watch Joey. We knew what one another was thinking.

At least she thought she did.

“Well he’s playing in the kitchen. I told him not to go in the front yard. Watch for him, though. You know how he is,” she said.

I nodded.

Carolyn turned to leave. She clenched the doorframe as a fit of coughs overtook her. A splatter of blood hit the ground in front of her. I saw, but looked away when she turned to see if I’d caught it.

“See you later,” I said, turning my head to the window. I flicked the lighter on and off.

***

Joey was a bad kid. Not as bad as I had been growing up. Fights in schools, lying, disobeying his mom. Those were bad things, so Joey was a bad kid in my book. Whenever Carolyn left me to watch him she came home surprised at how well behaved he was.

Why was he so good with me?

He wasn’t. Like I said, he was a bad kid. When Carolyn asked me to watch Joey I didn’t really watch him. We both knew the policy. When mom left and it was just us, he could do whatever he wanted inside as long as there was no evidence afterwards. The only exception was that he couldn’t go in the front yard because he would inevitably leave the door open.

Carolyn was worried he would be kidnapped or run over. I just hated it when the door was left open. It irritated me as much as his tennis-ball-mudroom game did. Something about him making the house insecure irked me. His lack of consideration for anyone else around him.

I was in my cardboard prison cleaning my last prized position—a bead blasted Glock—when I heard nothing. Nothing was a bad sound. When I glanced out the window to check the backyard Joey wasn’t there. I didn’t hear anything. No cars, no kids playing. I reassembled my gun and put it in its lockbox. Carolyn’s rule. No guns around Joey. He’d tell if he saw me.

When I went to the head of the stairs my fists tightened. The front door was wide fucking open. He knew the rules when he was with me and he stuck to them. He knew what happened when he broke them, too.

I took four steps down the stairs when I heard something. Meaty, gristly noises. Popping. At the landing of the stairs to the left was the entryway to the kitchen. That’s where the noise came from. I took the steps slower, getting ready to catch Joey in whatever bad act he was in.

But Joey was dead.

I stood in the entryway of the kitchen. Beheld the sight before me. Mr. Carlson, the next door neighbor, was leaning over Joey. Eating him. The noises were of him ripping parts out of Joey’s chest cavity. Each time he jerked a rib up it popped.

Blood was pooling around Joey. It seeped into the crevices of the tile floor, spider webbing outward. Signs of a struggle, swirls and smears of blood, started at the mudroom and ended at the scene. Mr. Carlson’s body was burned beyond what any human could handle and remain standing. His skin was black and crispy from his head to his toes. Clothing fused with skin.

The scent hit me. Fresh blood. Organs. I was back at the campsite with my dad after he killed a deer, helping him load it into the truck.

Mr. Carlson saw me. He was getting up, his body creaking, pieces of him sloughing off and slapping against the floor. His guttural wheeze and foggy, white eyes made me think one word.

Zombie.

My gut told me to kill Mr. Carlson. I listened. Carolyn’s favorite cast iron frying pan rested on the counter to my left. I grabbed it, hefted it over my head, and with both hands I brought it down onto the monstrosity’s head. The top half of his skull flattened. Viscous chunks of brains squeezed through the fractures in his skull. His eyes popped. His groans stopped. Mr. Carlson dropped to his knees before falling backward onto Joey’s decimated corpse.

I was breathing hard. The frying pan was heavy in my hands. I backed out of the kitchen and shut the front door, locking the deadbolt.

Joey was twitching. He was sitting up. His chest was gaping open, loopy intestines sliding out of his body, slapping onto the kitchen floor as he tried to roll over. A wave of blood came out of his chest. He was up fast.

I gripped the frying pan and brought it towards his head at a side angle. It brought him down, but he was still moving. There was a dent in his face, smashing all his features to one side, but it didn’t hit his brain. I hit him again. Harder. His skull cracked. His neck snapped. The force of my strike knocked him into the dining room table.

I was panting. My chest was tight. I just killed my step-sister’s son. And our neighbor.

I waited for either of them to move. After a minute the silence in the kitchen was interrupted by the sound of a car crash outside and a long scream.

The frying pan was heavy. I set it on the counter and went upstairs for my gun.

Whatever this was, I was going to survive.

No one would get in my way.

—

I wrote this story last year and decided to clean it up and share with you guys. Blaze deserved some attention, especially since Cyrus has been in the limelight so much. As you remember from The Undead Situation Blaze shared her first zombie experience in the house in Monroe. I wanted to create the story in detail from her perspective. I thought the title “Blaze Wright’s First Kill” was the perfect title since it was her first zombie kill, though I did think it was slightly misleading since she has killed before. Just not zombies.

How to stop watching a show

There are a lot of shows on TV. A lot. Not all of them are good.

Well, let’s face it; most of them aren’t good. But, like me, you might find yourself getting into a passive cycle of watching said bad show every week because you 1) were waiting for another show you like to come back on 2) are desperate for entertainment/ a distraction from something you should be doing or 3) like the premise of the show. Let’s rationalize these irrational thoughts. Maybe after this you’ll stop watching right away, or have these thoughts in mind for the next time a bad show comes on.

1) You were waiting for another show you like to come back on
Don’t beat yourself up. While waiting for Game of Thrones and Mad Men to come back you started watching The Following. It happens to the best of us. Instead of wasting your time on bad shows, spend that hour rewatching an episode of a good show. You get your fix without developing further commitment to a subpar show. Whatever you do, do not resume the second season (if there is one) of a bad show, under any circumstances.

2) You’re desperate for entertainment/ a distraction
Monday night and you really want some good TV time? Need to clean/do homework/ write and want a lame excuse not to? It’s easy to turn to a TV show you find yourself criticizing every two minutes and constantly complain about. But is watching whatever drudge the Sci-Fi–oh, excuse me, SyFy–channel is pumping out worth it? You’ll probably feel a hell of a lot better if you just do whatever you need to do rather than waste your breath and brainpower watching something you ultimately derive no pleasure from. The more episodes you skip (try not to break down and binge) the easier it will be to stop watching all together.

3) Like the premise of the show
Yep, we all loved Psycho. Does that mean Bates Motel is a good show? It doesn’t, you think, but are you still watching it? You’re not? Why are you still reading this? Anyway…Face it; you’re more attached to idea of a show about Norman Bates than the reality. We wanted it to be good, but due to the teen drama, forced use of technology, and unsuccessful harkening to 60s aesthetics while still existing in 2013, this show absolutely sucks. Sticking with a show you aren’t sure about and want to change is exactly like a fizzling relationship; better to cut ties now because the longer you watch, the more disappointed you’ll be.

An episode of Bates Motel.

There you have it. Three problems and solutions to help you recognize and stop watching bad TV shows. It’s really a matter of commitment and rational thought. Look into your heart when browsing your DVR, ask yourself: is this really what I want?