Life

Life is like a chicken. It can be pretty stupid and sometimes turns into a greasy mess that gives you a heart attack.

Fleeting

I had something on my mind yesterday. I was going to write about it on here. It's gone now.

I think

I would make a good old person.

I constantly find myself exasperated with the younger generation. I already have a pretty cynical view of the world. I like sitting out on porches and chilling in recliners. And, most importantly, I think I would look terrific in a white beard.

When You Have Nothing to Say...

You might as well say it. Morning comes too early. There's never enough time to balance work and other work. Cartoons are awesome. Endings are too often predictable. Most chandeliers are too low. So are most drinking fountains. Learning a foreign language is like learning a foreign language. Hope is slippery. So are fish. How is China a leading polluter when so many Chinese ride bicycles? A waterfall is just a cliff with a beard. Banisters should never be placed so close to the wall as to inhibit sliding down them. 'EXIT' signs should read, 'Run Screaming This Way!' Trees are too arrogant. Buttercups should actually have butter in them.

And blogs have nothing worthwhile to say.

Intuitive

Some things are not.

Relaxation

Ah, weekends; the time of the obscure seven-day span by which we live in which we are allowed to forget about the eighteen portions of our lives that individually demand our full attention. I love you all, but you can't each have all my time.

Sorry. Choices must be made; priorities determined. What will happen?

Who knows?

But I think I'll be okay.

Obliteration

I've always enjoyed symmetry,
A perfect balance of two things,
And so I'm trying poetry.

What really gave these thoughts their wings
Was my Creative Writing class,
Which causes many ramblings.

When many a young man or a lass
Is feeling like hate's lightning rod,
They embrace poetry's morass.

I'm really not the type of sod
To besmirch others' expression,
It's just I find it rather odd.

I've neither patience nor passion
To express my internal angst
In poetry. I use caution.

In prose I can safeguard against
Personal things or synthetic.
Before truths my fake world hangst.

My problem is quite pathetic.
I don't give rhyms their due forthought.
Thus they're peripatetic.

Well, once again, the words I've sought
Fall out my brain like grains of sand.
But at least there was something wrought.

Typical Whiny Rant

So I'm expected to know things in College. Lots of things. The genealogy of Henry Tudor, how to write a good interview essay, what obscure pioneer of the Millerite movement did what, how to conjugate s'ennuyer...and that's just today. Is it wrong of me to think that I'm different; that I was made for things other than having my brain pummeled eight months out of the year? What if I'm supposed to put something in the world that actually betters peoples' lives? What if I'm meant to remind my fellow humans about what really matters?

People always say to live like this is your last day. They don't mean it.

If today were my last day, I would set aside all distractions and focus on the one thing in the world that feels right to me. Instead I'm coerced into fumbling through things which really don't matter to me.

People always say to reach for your dreams. It's ironic that people are the ones who put the obstacles between you and them.

I always feel swamped; like the expectations of society are the crippling blow that sends me to my knees in the mire of chaos the world presents; like the people around me feel the need to enforce what they feel is relevant and will better my life.

People say the things that create the weights around your ankles and urge you to conform.

People don't know anything.

But, then again, neither do I.

Purpose

This post has none.

Cynicism vs Depression

The other day, I was informed by someone of late middle age that I was too cynical for my young years. If I recall correctly, I had just said something rather dry about the need for people to want to do something in order to do well at it. I have also been studying the life of Mark Twain, a man whose cynicism shines heavily through his work, whom people have claimed was depressed.

As a cynic who was once depressed, I can tell you, they are not the same thing. I have a very cynical view of life, regarding people as creatures of selfishness and a hatred for all things foreign. But I am not depressed. Being depressed is allowing the massive amounts of greed and prejudice in the world to bring you down; I try to press on with my life in spite of it.

And, hey, I get by.

A day without care

Being constantly tired can be good and bad. On the one hand, I never really care too much about what people think of me or if I'm doing something goofy, but I feel like I maybe sometimes don't care enough.

I find myself not caring about whether my work meets the expectations of others; an admirable goal possibly, but one that is not conducive to a typically fear-ridden college experience. Where are we without caring about what other people will do in response to our actions? If I don't let myself go on autopilot now and then, I begin to ask too many questions about whether or not grades matter or if it really has an impact on my goals.

I suppose I should try to find out what my goals are, then determine what could come between me and them.

Waking too early.

Is it a blessing? I have thoughts I wouldn't otherwise.

A curse? The world's unreal and logic is clouded.

Indigestion? But it was good; I have no remorse.

Anxiety? The past is wasted; the future uncertain.

Insecurity? I struggle to have faith in myself.

Fear? If I sleep too long, will the world forget I exist?

Impatience? I now resume my mediocrity.

Or does my mind simply reject any place where dreams come true?

A bit of French...because I can

Well, this is going to be a bit flawed, but I'm going to try rambling in French.

Les gens qui essaient de vous amener à penser à votre avenir sont toujours vous dire de vous imaginer dans cinq ans. Ce qu'ils ne semblent pas comprendre, c'est que je n'ai absolument aucune idée où je vaisou ce que je vais faire encore un an à partir de maintenant. Idéalement, je suppose que je me vois commeun écrivain à succès qui donne à de nombreuses organisations caritatives et est capable de s'accrocher à son humanité. Il frustre la plupart du temps juste moi pour savoir que cela n'arrivera jamais; mercibeaucoup de conseillers d'orientation.

It's like having my own private code...that millions of other people know!

Editing and Legos

I'll admit it; revising and and editing are not my favorite aspects of writing. I like putting my thoughts and stories into words, but admitting that those first words weren't necessarily the right ones is a struggle. So, for these few minutes of blogging, I am setting aside the usual necessity for rewriting and am indulging in just typing what comes to mind. I miss my Legos. I have quite a nice collection, but it's still in Oregon at my parents' house while I'm over her in Tennessee. For many years of my life, building with my Legos or setting up awesome action shots was a form of stress-relieving that probably was one of the main reasons I actually made it through high school. But I haven't picked up a new Lego set or even mashed up already owned ones in years. I suppose that, someday, when I'm rich from tricking people into buying third-rate literature, I'll have a special room devoted to my Legos. I could even paint the walls with suitable backdrops for the different genres. The Star Wars ones could be on a space background, the Medieval ones could be on a green, rolling hills thing, and the underwater ones could be in a special tank. *Sigh* I have such lofty goals for the future; it's a shame I don't have any measurable skill with which to take myself there.

Things going south...or north. Who's to say?

Sometimes things just don't work out. You sit down to take a test and all your studying seeps out your eyes, giving you a headache. Your writing is atrocious. Your agoraphobia flares up and cripples you socially. Your attempts to publish you aforesaid atrocious writing explode like the Death Star (or the Death Star II). Your faith in yourself is virtually nonexistent. You feel insufficient because you suck at multi-tasking. You can't think of anything to write in your blog. The carpet of acne on your body is both excruciating and hideous. Your classes overwhelm you. Simple things confound you. And, no matter how hard you think about it, talk about it, or pray about it, you still have no idea what you are going to do with yourself or what sets you apart from any other tall freak.

But then there are the bad days...

Some Freewriting From Class/ Pangaeanvasion Blip

A fresh blast of heat from the red desert of coals was just a little too warm to be welcome, even with the biting chill of oncoming night that lingered on Lenara’s half-roasted body. She briefly considered turning her backside toward the quivering embers, but considered how she would look warming her posterior at the bread-baking station, and dismissed the idea with a smirk at the private image.

Instead, she just decided to be glad it was her turn to monitor golden, glistening loaves that served as the main staple in the Defiants’ diet.

Supper had become more than the highlight of Lenara’s day; it was the only time besides when she trained with Sernah when she felt truly warm. Despite the fact that breakfast was typically heated as well, it was eaten hastily among the Defiants and usually wolfed down individually before any personal interaction was made; a quick, lonely stab of nourishment before the days’ chores began. Lunch was even worse. It was usually taken by each person in their respective packs to be eaten when hunger impeded further work.

But Lenara was a people person. She thrived on the camaraderie brought about by a meal spent more in discussion than consumption, and that only ever happened in Marbrook when it was time for supper.

Lenara’s nostrils suddenly flared as a fresh blast of warmth. The enticing smell of fresh bread, crusted to perfection, singed her nose with yeast-scent and heat, causing memories—both recent and barely-recalled—to bubble to her surface thoughts. Bread seemed to be the one uniting factor in her life.

She could remembered the smell from Frenter’s old hut; the old patriarch of the Saget River Village puttering around his tiny living quarters and humming some absent-minded tune as he stirred his famous tomato stew.

“The secret, dear child,” he had once confided in a much younger Lenara concerning his special recipe, “is letting people believe that there is a secret.”

Drivers

Okay, what do drivers even do?! They mostly just seem to go out of date as soon as you install them. My computer is currently telling me that my audio driver is severely dated, but the sound is working just fine! So, what is going on here! Is it just another way that software people try to make you ashamed of your machine? Well, sadly enough, it's working. I feel like I must be missing out on something, but the blasted thing refuses to install correctly.

Is this my destiny--to always be one step behind in the ever-escalating tower of technology? Huh, that actually doesn't sound too bad. Alright, I'll just enjoy the sound drivers I have and worry about other things, like how iTunes is giving me wahalla.

Things I'm doing

I'm a human...I do things, no matter how much I try to avoid it. Even procrastination turns out to be hard work. Alphabets, stories, dishes, music, cooking, playing games, keeping up with assignments; these are all things that we just do to give us some feeling of being 'ahead of things'. We're not, but it's nice to feel like we are. Off the top of my head (which, if genetics have any say, will be covered in hair for the next forty to sixty years. *whew!*) I can think of at least twenty major things that I need to do today, but I really have to decide to perform these tasks without any significant thought or dissection. So many things could happen throughout the next few days or even the next few minutes that could render whatever tasks I perform today moot.

It always makes me cringe when I see people desperately trying to stay on top of things, frantically planning out every infinitesimal detail of their lives with no margin for error. I prefer to have a malleable plan for things and a general direction for my activities, but I try to not confuse this with being in charge of my own life. All I can do is retain my humanity, move on, and try to not lose sight of the meaningful or fun.

And that actually comforts me.

Alphabet

I now have a new respect for the people that created the ancient alphabets. My wife and I have been trying to create something new and exciting for an alphabet for use in my novels about Atlantis, but we just keep falling back on what's already been done. Putting together things that actually look like they belong in the same piece of writing is surprisingly difficult. I can only hope that we've done something remotely worthy of note.

Anyway, mostly I'll just be using this for naming of the characters and places in their own ancient script. I don't know if I'm up to inventing an entirely new language. I already have trouble learning French.

Well, just so this post can sound creative, here's a completely original excerpt and quote from Shadow, the mentorish character in my book, who was around well before United States common law. Right, so don't even think about making any connections there.

[Nadon] immediately tried to return the gift as Shadow finished untying the dagger’s sheath still hanging behind him. “No I won’t,” he argued, uncomfortable even holding the weapon, “I don’t kill.”

Without pause, Shadow threw the scabbard to him as well. “Of course you do,” the warrior countered, “Everyone does. It’s just a matter of whether you kill by action or inaction.”

Think about it.

A moment taken

I now take a moment.

Ah, that was nice. Sometimes you just have to think for a bit. Anyway, I now take a moment to complain about the lack of morality in today's literature.

Many works out there, no matter how enthralling or well-told, are severely lacking in this department. There are ceaseless acts of petty revenge, people behaving selfishly in relationships, meaningless flings, power struggles with no clear champion or noble hero, and people in general doing the wrong things for the even 'wronger' reasons.

I can't help but ask, "Why?" Do people really see no redemption for humanity, or is this simply how humanity is viewed nowadays. Whatever happened to the selfless actions of Robin Hood or Luke Skywalker? Where is the mighty heroism of Beowulf (not the selfish character from the movie) or Achilles? Where are the Narnias, Wonderlands, and Phantom Tollbooths that make our protagonists better people?

It is my fervent hope that they are not gone. True, selfless heroism can be saved. I'm writing a story on it; try picking it up some time. Yes, this whole thing was just a plug for my book, but it doesn't make my argument any less poignant or my concern any less real.

A new generation needs its true heroes. Where are they?

Nadon-Kesh, the floor is yours (that's my main character, btw).

Cliffhangers: Their Purpose and their Failings

As someone who enjoys sci-fi, fantasy, comic books, video games, and tv shows, I encounter many cliffhangers in my life. Somewhere swimming in the back of my mind right now is a final showdown between the Flash and his archnemesis, Eobard Thawne, over the entirely revamped DC universe, an emotional Chuck Bartowski holding a dying Sarah Walker in his arms, Luke Skywalker versus an evil, all-powerful entity, a now too-powerful-to-be-interesting Eragon intent on slaying Galbatorix, an unconscious Desmond Miles stuck in the memories of his ancestors, and Commander Shepard speeding toward Earth to save it from the Reapers over a hundred years from now.

I enjoy cliffhangers. I create cliffhangers in my own writing, and appreciate a good segue into a following piece of the puzzle. But here is my problem; what happens when the questions arisen by the abrupt ending are never answered. Few things are more aggravating to a fan than having their heroes suddenly cease to exist and being left to wonder what the creators had in mind.

At the moment, I have no hope of ever discovering who Earl Jr.'s real father is on My Name is Earl, what becomes of Robin Hood's brother, Archer, on the cancelled BBC series, what becomes of the supposedly fated union of John Stewart and Shayera Hol on Justice League, or whatever becomes of Darman, Atin, or any of Skirata's other clan from the Star Wars: Republic Commando series. Oh sure, I forget for a while about these nagging questions, but whenever I am reminded of these heinous shortcomings and blatant disregard for fanbase, I find myself growing very angry at the perpetrators.

I, Seth Saunders, do hereby resolve to never leave my readers leaving on a cliffhanger.

Ahh! I'm being attacked by myself from an alternate universe because of what I know about the history of Atlantis!

To be continued...

9/6/11

You know a post is serious when the title is simply the day's date...but, in this obscure case, you would be completely wrong. I will now proceed to write a random set of haikus concerning my present status.

Class is cancelled, but

I wish I could have slept in.

C'est la freakin' vie.

Words to be written

Are trying to find a way

From brain to dead hands.

Two different things

Clamor for my attention;

I try to be fair.

The past, imperfect,

And the future, limitless.

Two books, one story.

Ideas are dead,

And outlines are found wanting;

Hiccups in my brain.

Regardless, I write.

With nothing to say, I speak.

Swords clash; arrows fly.

Prologue snippet for book two of the Nadon-Kesh Saga

Wave after wave had failed to subdue him, until the slow trickle of blood from the hypothermic corpses began to drift down toward the trampled site of Bacle’s deadly, stationary performance, creating a convex, conical carpet of blood, bodies, and ice at his dancing feet.

Suddenly, the veil of his fighting trance had begun to lift from Bacle’s vision as he had realized that no more enemies were forthcoming. Wary, and not a little proud of his impressive display of dominance, he had quickly swiveled his head to all sides to see what could have possibly brought sense to these monsters among men.

That had been when he saw the Beast.

And now, here they stood; Bacle, surrounded by the congealing evidence of his brutality, and the Beast, backed by a hundred his kind, was staring straight at Bacle from three meters away with something slightly more than a look of respect and a little less than one of admiration on his bestial face. In the short stalemate, Bacle found time to catch his shallow breath and to examine his attackers in depth.

He at once saw that the grandiose tales of the Pangaeans had, at the same time, been far-fetched as well as understated. No great defects, self-inflicted scarring, or fearsome war paint covered the paragons of human physique, and yet their awe-inspiring presence and solemn magnitude was only offset by the sense that they could, at any moment, leap upon unsuspecting prey. Intelligence fought with a thirst for battle behind their stoic, somewhat snarled expressions.

The all seemed to be regarding the gasping, blood-drenched with a certain respect, except for the Beast who simply nodded. Unsure what that meant, Bacle let the silence continue a few seconds longer while he continued to collect his thoughts and his breath, the frigid air stinging his throat and invigorating him in case of another attack.

Finally, the Beast uttered the wholly unsurprising string of grunts that were Bacle’s first introduction to the Pangaean tongue, and the order was apparently understood on his end because what had first appeared to be a backpack adding an extra bulge to the giant man’s fur cape suddenly released its hold from around the Beast’s tree-like neck and fell gently to the snow. Lifting itself from where it had landed, the backpack began to create a miniature moat around the Beast’s right side as it walked forward to receive instruction.

Bacle saw that the backpack was a young girl of about ten years with dark hair similar to her bearer’s and eyes of deepest blue that seemed to signify her as unique. Despite himself, the general nearly laughed out loud at how ridiculously scrawny the girl appeared amid the wolf-men.

Then something happened that did make Bacle laugh.

“We welcome you to our conquest, fierce warrior,” the girl said in flawless Atlantean at a prompt from the Beast, “Please do us the courtesy of letting us know if you will be fighting for us or against us as we subdue this land that we may know whether to strike you down or welcome you as one of us.”

The single guffaw of amusement that escaped the incredulous Bacle seemed to determine his fate in the hands of many, and at least half of the wolf-men began to surge forward at what they took to be a blatant insult. But, shockingly, as Bacle prepared himself for the onslaught, a simple gesture and glare from the girl stopped them in their snow-covered tracks, eliciting another unbelieving smile from the general. A few angry grunts from the girl sent her apparent underlings cowering back into formation.

“It’s alright,” she assured Bacle, turning back to face him, “my people do not understand your displays of…” she paused for a second, “funnying. Allow me begin diplomacy.”

Bacle was still in shock at the words emerging from the girl’s mouth as he tentatively let his blade drop to his side. Aside from her slip-up on ‘funnying’, the little hide-covered queen was speaking as well as Bacle supposed any young Atlantean noblewoman her age might.

“I’m Bacle,” he finally replied, unsure as to whether he should be looking at the Backpack or the Beast.

And another bit

This used to be a serious post. You missed it.