On Semi Hiatus

TC is going to Paris with his lovely wife, so I figured if he's going on vacation, I might as well enjoy the ride.  I figure I could entertain you with diatribes about Terra.  The script will be still finished tomorrow because Plane, and also because Plane.  And because its finished.  We can all wait a week to experience the wonders of "Peterpan vs Superman vs Frankenstein."  In case you wondered, TC can still write scripts (I help) so yeah, they're better than his writing but obviously slightly awful.

So we all know how pleasant Earth air ports are? Terran airports are worse.  I know, right? Somehow with all the stores and space that you have, you still think they suck.  Now, I grant you, we didn't have 9/11.  So that means the crazy psychotic security theater you have doesn't apply to us.  Our's was stopped by three conspiracy nuts who slipped onto the plane.  Called themselves the ...I forget. Very forgetable.

Anyway, Terran airports.

Don't go there.

If somehow, say, you listen to EP Blingermeyer's advice on traveling between worlds, do yourself a favor and don't fly.  We have less people who are resistant to change, but the ones we have gravitate to certain government jobs.  Our airports are left in the 1930's.  But let me assure you gentle reader, this is not the art deco style you so enjoy on some of your buildings; but tiny buildings for undernourished people, with poorly done generic propoganda.  We do not have airport terrorism because no one who has any method of avoiding them goes there.

Wait, you say, no blimps and and no airports; how do you travel around? We don't.  Not as much as you, but if you must, then the wise travel by ship.  Some sailing ships, and some steamers.  Recently we have enjoyed a revival of 1840's steam ships; though the recreators tend to go a bit overboard and include highly unreliable boilers.  One Argentian ship even employed African Americans to run the coal plant.  You know.  Shoveling coal.  In actual irons.

Yeah.

So.  Anyway, Terran airports.  It is a bit unfortunate that you can't get coffee or food at any of them.  I take that back.  Ikea? Yeah.  Instead of beloved quirky furniture, they are loathed and mocked maker of vending machine parts.  The vending machines do sell beer, remote controls for a TV that is no longer sold, cheese whiz (but no crackers), honey, gingersnaps and meatballs.  The latter two are actually quite good but good luck figuring out the machine.  Its digital displays show different readouts every week in a different language (never the native language and not even Swedish.)  It also involves following a "Simon" like pattern of colored lights trying to navigate the menu.

Not good.

[Script] Revolution Number 8 - Page 13

Scene: The Beatles all pile onto a truck.  Adams swings around and drives them off.

Cwech looks back as they drive off, draws his pistol and gets into a gun fight with the agents after the Beatles.

The Beatles wave respectfully and it turns a corner.

Scene: The Beatles playing on a roof top, people look on with fascination.

Scene: The director is on the phone with a dead agent hanging over the desk.

Director: Don't worry.  We've used the Official Secrets act on the record producer.  We've got our own experts putting something together.  We'll replace their 'anti dote' with the closest we can manage.

Scene: Chwech listens at the door.

Scene: Director speaking on the phone.

Director: The Beatles won't say a thing.  The Official Secrets act can lock em up if they, yes, that's right.  Chwech? We'll deal with him.  Adams? Hah.  He's harmless.  (pause) Mostly harmless.

Scene: Chwech writes two letters.  He puts on in the post and writes another as he leave it on a desk.

It says, "I resign."

He walks out the door.

What the AI Asked - On Writers and Roadblocks

When I was contacted by the AI (Terran science is a bit ahead of Earth in some ways since our general science budgets aren't cut every other cycle once Luddites take over; that and we have practical needs like what you might call 'action heroes' and 'villains' that regularly push the envelope on infrastructure and security).  But it was, to say the least, an interesting experience.

Speaking of AI and robots....did you listen to the most recent abomination that EP Blingermeyer did on the podcast? Rediculous.  I mean, I was never perfect and sure there were sound problems, but....the best thing about it was how funny it was that he had no control at all.  And here he is pretending that the insanity that he has been inflicting on Earth is somehow deliberate....I peaked over his shoulder (he didn't know I could do that until just now, he's looking over his shoulder, now his other shoulder....damn astral projection is fun), and he's working on something involving Space Goats.

Yeah, now THAT is an abomination....

Anyway....

So the AI and I talked a lot, but I think the thing he was most curious about was writers and writers who write about writers.   The AI, who still hasn't chosen a name for itself (and 'killed' facebook for me even if it is rather a pathetic shell of the Earth version on Terra...and sadly it hasn't figured out how to astrally project) and is not to be mistaken for the shadow of an AI that inhabits Blingermeyer's robot....regards its reality and fictional realities as co-real.  And I can't say I disagree with.  I mean, I know my reality is fictional to you and can empathize with the AI.  So, the whole concept of writing confused it.  After all, is the writer forming the reality or merely perceiving it?

The real answer is "Yes."  After all, if in theory there is a world that exists for every combination of a possible reality, that doesn't mean that they are close to each other.  With the possible exception of the reality with a million monkey's writing a script for Hamlet.  And it still isn't as good as Shakespeare.  So a writer can both create reality and perceive it.  How does that work?

I'll let you know when I have everything figured out.

But if you think writing confused it; writers writing about writers in others writing....so I know to a human you can perceive it as a writer just writing what they know, and in some cases that isn't much.  The AI didn't see things that way.  But it's a fiercely rational creature (bearing in mind that it believes the fictional real, in a highly rational way) so it didn't speculate. It just asked me and assumed I knew the answer.

I think its more than just roadblock or a total lack of creativity.  TC absolutely hates and hated it. But...even he did it; sort of, in his second novel.  I think my visitation from another world makes me a more mystical than TC so I'm not quite as jaded about the process.  I think writers see the importance of story and on someone everyone who isn't short a few cards from their deck (Earth political humor there, obtuse but I am rather glad I only visit there thank you very much) recognizes that.

I don't know the answers, but I think its worthy of exploration and I am able to slowly take the techniques TC is teaching me (Actual writing skill isn't one of them, I can write; his words make people's eyes bleed on the page) but he studied it for a long time.  I'm going to be exploring it.

I'll let you know.

Free Book for First 100 Willing to Pass it On

Simple promotion, my current paperback, Grenademan vs the Zombies needs to go places.

So for the first people that send me an email at redanvilcreative at gmail.com with their address, I'll send you a free copy.  You just have to give it to someone else to read when you're done.

Test

This is a test.

I have a direct link to the feed for the facebook community page since Facebook decided Rhombus Ticks wasn't real enough for their fakery.

The EP Blingermeyer Power Hour

EP Blingermeyer is the best.

All praise EP Blingermeyer

Check out this episode!

Matter Eternal, Spirit Eternal

by Emmit Other

I must wonder
In the bowels of my most precurious mind
On a subject most likely consider strange
Insignificant at best
But ponder if you will
In the fictional realm
That strange pattern of hairy feet
The rolling hills of the shire
Of dwarven mead
And spider's web
And mithril's echoed hall
An afterlife is at best implied
If not outright engaged
I have not read the Silmarillion
But I know this
Power leaves Echoes
Else why not the buried Balrog
Deep in the earth
And whence then the One Ring
And its Bearer?
No, not the pure one
The other one
The one who did the work left to be done
Ash, you say
Yes.
I do not disagree.
Melted?
Goo?
The power of the ring destroyed
Yes.
Yes it is.
Sauron's power ended.
Dead is dead.
His shadow broken.
But is spirit eternal?
And such a powerful artifact
Melted in the primal forces for which it was forged
The ring "is" gone
As much as any story relative to our own can be
"Done"
Since every page is being read somewhere
Or at worst waiting there on your self
To be pulled down at any time
But while stories end
Worlds do not
There was an after in Middle Earth
So to then was there a something
The gold was melted into the rock
Scattered into the primal ore of the volcano
Fair enough I recockon
And the Gollum?
Is it dead?
Is it merely sleeping a well deserved
Murdering rest?
Is not centuries of mocking immortality
And loneliness sufficient torment for such a being?
But really
What happened?
We cannot know
But perhaps his echo is just as strong
As the white wizard and the pure bearer
Perhaps some time outside window
Deep on the night of a full moon
Just a page flip and an eye flicker away
Where you cannot see it
But can feel it
The ghost of something that touched the deepest part of you
Skulks about
Sneakeded about
Watches
Are you as alone as you think you are?
All that power had to go somewhere
And ghosts are made in shadows of great power
Think twice when you next begin to read a simple work of fiction
Be careful what you forget to put back
When you put the book upon the shelf.