Reading bad books, and the paths to wisdom.

Being a writer I have learned through countless hours of reading, advice from every writer I could find on the Internet, from Harlan Ellison, to the YA Rebels on YouTube, to Stephen King, that in order to be a good writer one must read. And read as much, and as frequently as possible.

Now with being dyslexic, it makes reading a bit difficult, and at times challenging. But I do, and I read authors that I both admire, and believe I can learn something from. My favorite types of reading are detective novels, science-fiction fantasy, I've even read Bukowski, and not to impress or seem pretentious but because the man's personal philosophy and his personal history are incredibly interesting and filled with the most basic human need to be both recognized and left alone. The oddest and sweetest dichotomy I think men of the 20th century could have. The man is brilliant, depraved, brave, and one of the more honest writers I've read.

That being said…

To read a bad book, is very much like asking someone, and paying them, to roughly beat you about the ears, neck, and shoulders for an undetermined amount of time. And the level of brutality involved in the beating, varies upon the degree to which the writing is bad.  And it is the type of beating that leaves you flinching whenever you reach for another book. Unless it's a book from a writer that has never let you down, and even on his worst day will write an entertaining book that you will put your hard-earned cash in the palm of an eager bookseller.

It is my sincere hope, that the amount of bad writing that I create will only be seen by me, and then promptly deleted, and my hard drive erased beyond all recognition, so no trace of it will have ever existed.

 But I realize that I may not be at all able to control that. I will sit here and try to write the most accurate depiction of what I see in my head, trying to remove myself from the process and just let the characters do with they need to do. I can be as persnickety precise with my punctuation, diction, structure, plot, and all of the other things that are actually in my control, and still pump out crap book. Not intentionally crappy mind you, but a book that a person will pick up, read the 1st 5 pages, sniff to see where the excremental smell is coming from, and put the book down and never buy it. From all I've read it seems the one bit of advice no writer can ever give you is how to write a bestseller, or how to convince the reader to buy your book.

Being a writer is a crapshoot, in fact being an artist in any medium needing commerce to survive, takes the dice and throws them blindly. Which is another realization that I've only recently come to, write for love. Write for the love of writing and creating, and the knowledge that you are doing something that you were meant to do, not an occupation or job of work.

So, I have absolutely no problem paying my money to any writer whose book I've read. Whether the book was marginal, or bad, or utterly excremental (I hate to use a word twice, but it fits each time), I will read it I will take what I can from it, and I will try not to make any of the mistakes I might find therein. And I will also endeavor not to steal any of the best pieces, at least not intentionally.

unemployed

Now, this is something I had not expected. 

On September 21, 2011 I was terminated from employment at a company that I will not name. My reasons for allowing the company that terminated me their anonymity is so that I can speak freely and without possibility of reprisal or any nastiness that would befall. Now being among the millions of unemployed Americans in the United States, and not being fully able to avail myself of top legal counsel, I don't want to find myself standing in front of a judge pleading ignorance of libel statutes in the state of New York. What I will say is, and I'm sure most who are unemployed right now will agree, being unemployed sucks.

It is on one hand a bit liberating, and of the other fantastically sobering. It cuts into very harsh relief that your ability to sustain yourself, and those that you are responsible for, has been curtailed drastically.

I've lived and worked in this city for a number of years, more than I can count. Actually, not more than I can count, but more that I am willing to count. And I have never regretted one moment of one year that I have lived in the city. I love New York. And will love it every moment that I'm here for however long that will be, because this is the city that both I adopted and adopted me. However living in New York City, one of the most expensive cities in the world, it is without meaning to gild the lily at all, it's hard. Harder still when you're unemployed, harder still in an economy that heaves and wheezes with every passing day, and every significant world issue that crops up.

New York is very much like the country we live in, on a form of life support with an extraordinarily capable physician, overworked and underpaid nurses, yet with the administration (House and Senate), whose ineptness borders on making the Keystone cops look like a seal team that finally caught Osama bin Laden.

But I digress. The company I work for, foreign-owned run by Americans was a 10 year exercise and education in both personal responsibility, maintaining one's cool under pressure, working with the handicapped, anger management, grace under fire, and most importantly how will avoid throttling grown adults until they soiled themselves. So with those lessons learned I would say that I came away with the better of the bargain. I did not throttle someone until they soiled themselves, although there were many times where an odd smile would appear on my face as I sat in my cubicle, a smile and sure most found unsettling. But it's better that than having the hands of a large black man laced around your throat while he gleefully laughs as your face turns purple. 

I have to say, I'm not a violent person, I am infinitely patient but not overly tolerant. I have my moods once in a while, as everyone else. I wake up in a funk and salvage my day as best I can and do something that is positive and upbeat. I am exceptionally goofy at times, I find humor in just about everything, I have been known to be both sarcastic and satirical in the same sentence, and I am a man of infinite with and jest. But there are times where the lack of regard, and mutual respect attacks my tolerance and leaves me fuming. As I write this blog the words of Harlan Ellison are ringing in my head. 

If you don't know, and you really should, Harlan Ellison is one of America's greatest fiction writers. The man is responsible for some of the most powerful imagery that I've ever read, he and his work bear the integrity of being the last sane man on the planet, and his integrity speaks in both his writing, and his lectures, and in every quote he has ever made that has ever been televised or recorded. And he has remained a devout man of integrity from the very beginning. I love his work, I love his beliefs, I think he's brilliant, and he can be the most eviscerating commentator on both society bad writers, and the inability to tolerate hypocrisy in any form. 

Now having said that, I'm thinking of any number of rant he may have gone on, on any subject that was brought to him and the level of anger and honesty in his voice is astounding. But it's the most pure thing I’ve ever heard, it's like a punch in the face. No holds barred knuckles to flesh to bone, hits you instantly and you get it. And if you don't get it that you're not the type of person that should ever listen or read Harlan Ellison. 

So as I'm thinking about my job, as I'm thinking of the things that I would do on a daily basis, and on the methods that I would use to ease my temper on a daily basis, I think back to the times where I wasn't so successful. My fist would beat the Formica of my desk and rattled both the computer and my cube mate, and I would get up from my desk search for a hot cup of coffee, or some form of sweet pastry, and try to calm myself. And those instances would happen more frequently, especially when those who supervised me would lose what little fortitude they had, and effectively soiled their panties and we have the Smalltalk in the office.

A singularly one-sided conversation pointless on nearly every level yet it gave you a chance to stretch my legs, so there was some benefit to it.

But I'm digressing again. 

That being unemployed sucks it is not something that I would recommend to anyone if they can avoid it, it is a vacation that you really would love to end, and there are no boat drinks, there are no shapely stewardesses, waitresses, or native girls wearing biodegradable yet tastefully made costumes. 

There are no endless stack of multicolored chips and the din of several thousand electronic beeps bops and whistles in the background. It's not the kind of vacation I think most people know that. 

The search for work continues daily unabated, and stark contrast the numbers of telephone calls returning with optimistic news continue abated but not with optimistic news. And you fight to hold back the worry and the concern, and you watch far too much CNN and CNBC and other news shows to scrabble through the messages to find some nugget of hope that the economy is going to rapidly turn around.  

And the country will not be run by Republican nimrods, and that those same Republican nimrods that are currently in office will do something to aid the people who put them into office in the first place. And that the wanton posturing of seemingly perplexed GOP's, will cease being a fashionable and they will actually do the work that they are being paid for. 

Again I digress. 

The point being I am currently unemployed, tirelessly looking for another position that will at the very least afford healthcare, and allow me to remove one thumb from the dam, and take one worry biscuit off my plate, and relax a bit. But for now I will write, I'll resume my attempts at the various projects that I tried while I was employed, I will pursue the small businesses that I initially started, for it is almost easier to start your own business then to find a job in this economy. 

So that's it for now, no more digression, no more aggression, just bright hopes for a new year to those I love and the world.

NYCC, or Four Days that will live forever.

I'm nervous, excited, sleep deprived, and in need of a nice pastrami on rye with whole grain mustard.

October 14th is rapidly approaching, and the reason that date is so significant, is because of The New York Comic Book Convention. For comic books geeks, cosplay adventurers, and fanboys alike, this event is our version of the mecca that San Diego Comiccon is for East Coasters. However, that's not the only reason, for there are several reasons, this event is gloriously anticipated.

The trouble with listing those reasons, is that I could ever encompass what NYCC means for anyone other than myself. So that's where this blog will journey.

I love comics, as anyone who's known me for longer than two minutes can attest. I've read them all my life, spanning both child, callow youth, and now adult. My dream to be in the comic book industry was the reason I trundled my well worn duffle bags, filled with art supplies and guitar strings, to NYC, with only 300 dollars, and a return bus ticket in my pocket, back in 1993.

Now we fast forward to 2011, and the unfortunate truth is is that it's taken awhile to get to this point, where I'm actively pursuing a career in comics. And now that I am, the comiccon has taken on a new meaning for me. And the further interesting bit, is that this year will only be my second time attending this event.

Being a comic book fan for more years than I'm willing to tally, I'd never attended NYCC. I'd not gone even as a fan. All things considered, I was far too occupied with living the life of a young man in NYC, which anyone who's lived that particular kind of life can tell you, that while it's exciting, it can suck away years, before you're even aware they're gone.

It wasn't until 2009, when my mother asked me to attend a comic book convention with her, in Novi, Michigan. My first ever Convention experience was the Motor City Comiccon, where I met Doug Jones (who's now one of my mother's favorite actors, and knows her by name...yeah.. my mom's awesome), and spoke to one of my comic book idols, the late Dwayne McDuffie. Who I'm not ashamed to say, I stalked for the remainder of the convention, attending his panels and hanging out at his booth. And it's all due to my mother, and Dwayne McDuffie, that my passion for comics, was re-ignited, and burns as intensely as it ever had before.

During the interim, I've fostered collaborations with artists, to join me on the path to a career in comics as a writer (I'd originally started as an artist, but I'm now a victim of an incurable for of worditis, and it's grip is unbreakable), and together with those artists, I believe we've done some incredible work for non-professionals. This, and my insatiable appetite for all things iFanboy, the fervor for this upcoming NYCC, is now at the level of, a small child waiting on Santa Claus.

So, with October 13th looming, and with NYCC hanging in the air, like a gigantic candy filled pinata, I'm bouncing in my chair with childlike anticipation. The excitement of meeting my writing and artistic idols, legends in the industry, eager wannabe's (like myself), and publishers alike, will culminate in a series of days, that will live forever for me. I can't wait...cya there.

Preview Pages for "Tattoo Lake" - Unlettered

The following pages are from a comic book pitch, illustrated by Joseph Laney,and written by yours truly.

THE WILD HUNT - Pitch Pages

THE WILD HUNT- Pitch to Image Comics. Written by Eric Bass, Masterfully Illustrated by Ibrahim Moustafa - Pages 1 - 5, plus Cover Mockup.

In Brief, to my defense.

The entries into this particular blog have, on occasion, been remarkably brief. From the random commentary on the assault to my olfactory senses. To the sporadic riff about my love of movies and bringing my daughter into the Marvel collective.

And most times, I'm writing these entries, in areas where writing in one's blog, is expressly verboten. I will no divulge where, that would be telling, but if you know me, you know from whence I write. And knowing that I should be doing other things, sadly does not offer a secret thrill of, getting away with something. Blogging clandestinely, isn't the same as having a romp in the bathroom of a movie theater, or stealing a piece of candy from the display case. It's this studious, hunkered down, looking more at the keys than the screen, type of thing, that requires (to a lessor or greater degree) uninterrupted space and time.

When you're writing, you don't want to field a barrage of questions about, JQuery, or HTML Validation, or having the "it's time to clean your fridge, because the condiments are battling the thing that used to be salami" argument. These are things that don't sprinkle, they dowse you with muse abusive distraction, that you can't shake rapidly, or at all in most instances.

So why do I write in places where interruptions will come at me like hordes of sugar crazed pre-teens, and I'm wearing a gumdrop suit?

It's a need. I need to write, I finally achieved that "golden level", where writing is like breathing and if I don't do it, I gasp and suffocate, expire and die. Well, not so fatalistic, but I would not want to be around me, when I haven't written anything, and the craving to do so is upon me. You'd have a better time with a tweaking crackhead, than you would with me and the muse is back. She's dry and willing to cooperate, provided we seclude ourselves, fortified with donuts from the "The Doughnut Plant" and coffee from Starbucks.

In brief, to my defense, they're in the neighborhood.

Cabblog 07.07.12

Well, the cab ONLY smells of tacos AND feet. To which on this hellishly hot day...is a blessing.