Writing Edgy in 2023

Whoa! That last blog post nearly ended the year for me. Seriously, a couple days after posting it I came down with a true illness not seen since August 2019 before anyone gave it a name. But I've recovered, thankfully. (By the way, greetings and salutations for the new year!)

However, something good came out of my drug-induced stupor: creativity. Dreams turn into notes, that turn into outlines, then become paragraphs on pages. And before you know it the first chapter exists. And the writing has not stopped. I'm in a zone where I cannot sleep at night or in an afternoon nap because of the on-going scene construction that would be better done by a Hollywood studio.

Back in 2020 when everybody was alarmed by a mysterious illness and we engaged in lockdowns and all sorts of lifestyle changes, I thought it would be the perfect time to write a post-apocalyptic novel. That lasted about two weeks. I read a few novels on the theme during the following year. Finally I was ready to write mine. When I found a way into the story (e.g., a single mom, her teen son, and a tuba), I could begin.

The first book of my FLU SEASON pandemic trilogy The Book of Mom came out late last year (click that link!). That was all well and good, but during the weeks of cover art and during the publication process, I finished book 2 in the trilogy The Way of the Son, which I expect to be available sometime in spring. Again, a good effort: two full novels within a year. But wait! There's more.

I couldn't find the entrance to the story for book 3 in the trilogy, Dawn of the Daughters, even though I knew the basic story. Then I got sick, swooned a while, and arose at the keyboard to pound out that manuscript. As I stare at this blog post, book 3 sits at what I consider to be 2/3 of the way to the end. That could change, of course. The story left to tell could be a full novel in its own right. I'm tempted to add a fourth book....

But here's the thing. I had two overarching goals for the first book - before I decided half-way that this would be a trilogy - and those were (are!):

1. a story of ordinary (if quirky) people and how they handle an on-going pandemic - without resorting to unusual motifs like zombies or other more sci-fi elements of most stories of this genre.

2. push myself to the edge of the envelope with regard to the sex and violence meter - not to throw gratuitously depicted action in readers' faces but to address the unfortunate likelihood of such aspects in a pandemic-ruined society.

So I let her rip. Book 1 opens with an anecdote of how our narrator was conceived on a nude beach when his mother was technically underage. I let "Mom" be her true self (not in any way based on my own mother), teasing and flirting yet offering quips of wisdom and songs played on her tuba. I introduce a love interest for our narrator, becoming a teen romance - but allowing our teen lovers to do what teens will do.

And the violence! It doesn't appear to shock or to drive an agenda. Rather, the violence our characters encounter is what may very well occur in that lawless situation. It pushed home the real nature of what we might expect were we to be them on the road, seeking sanctuary not only from a virus but from other people who would kill us for an old sandwich. It escalates as they travel from one destination to the next, expecting but not finding a refuge.

But the destination, a barrier island where the family's vacation home still sits, is not truly a sanctuary. Gathering people who are not infected, a kind of community has formed, but not a free society. They are, instead, something of a cult. Again, I push myself to press that envelope to its tearing point. Book 2 takes it much further as our characters try another way to varying degrees of success - yet not enough to settle down.

As I crash through Book 3, having a new narrator tell the story, the opportunities for my twisted mind to unfold schemes is enhanced. And I take full pleasure in the dirty and the dangerous which they encounter in their experiences. They gradually come into the greater world and we see how society is trying to rebuild. It seems a better place and readers may get a sense of hope, but soon the darker underbelly shows through the cracks.

I've stated on my social media how this trilogy may be my final work, with me getting old and surly, my fingers less sure on the keys, my mind taken to greater flights of fancy. Therefore, I'm allowing myself to be as naughty and violent as I can imagine for my characters. They all hate me for it, obviously. And yet I persist. I push and press and kick them forward into their fate! Why? Because I can. Because I'm mean and gnarly, and want to see them suffer. Because I want them to cry out to the universe their misery and pain! To shriek how their suffering brings universal truths to light. And they finally get it: the message. 

Oh, sure, I may, as happens with most of my novels, rein it in during revision. I tend to get the shivers. What would my mother think were she to read this? Well, Mom, I'm all grown up now, so I'm not holding back any longer. I'm being edgy now! Just remember, FLU SEASON is not a theater of the macabre but a view into the near future of what could be. It is a warning not to be too surprised when things don't go our way!

Book 1 THE BOOK OF MOM is available now in paperback and for Kindle. (click the link)

Book 2 THE WAY OF THE SON will be available in spring. The manuscript is completed, revised, and edited. Cover art is in process.

Book 3 DAWN OF THE DAUGHTERS is nearing completion and is expected to be available by the end of 2023. (We also get the story behind Mom's tuba and why it is so precious to her.)

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(C) Copyright 2010-2023 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

The Mother of all Valentine Rants

As we approach that day of reckoning - the most dreaded day of the year for many people - perhaps it's of some comfort to realize that it's all based on someone being executed.

Yes, Mr. Valentine (a.k.a. Val the Officiant) was off'd for marrying couples in secret ceremonies against the wishes of the government. Romans, you know. So strict. Strange how what goes around comes around. At any rate, he paid for his crimes. And there is nothing more romantic than that, right? Dying for love, for the cause of love. So, well, there's that. 

Chocolate, flowers, tokens of affection, greeting cards, love notes.... Most of this slush funding comes as crass commercial putsch, of course. Marketing 101. It's all just a crummy money mill. Invent a season and sell stuff for the season - or else you'll be labeled a rube, called insensitive, shown the door as the truly despicable person you are! It's foolproof inasmuch as only fools prove it. And there are so many fools among us. I see one in the mirror each day. I fall for it every year. But not this year! I've finally awakened from my stupor.

So this love thing...what is it? Science tells us it's nothing more than a firing of neurons. It's a biochemical reaction to a certain stimulus. See a pretty face, feel happy. A pretty face is determined based on genetic programming and environmental quirks. We know what we like. For men, it's easy: there are ass men, boob men, and so on. For women...well, I've read they like broad shoulders and a non-physical attribute called confidence. Magazines can be wrong. Social media is more accurate these days.

Even so, it's a walking stimulus. Advertising is based on walking stimuli; Valentine advertising is based on sex-related stimuli. The problem is that today such stimuli exist year-round, so what's the big deal about one particular day of the year? Because, dear lovers of love, if you do not demonstrate said love to said lover on the day set aside for displays of love, you are a rube at best and an ex-lover in the making at worse. There is no middle ground, only a pit of ruin.

Yet never fear! We have the means to solve your problem. Commercials on radio and television and with increasing annoyance the Internet (every  !@#$%^&* web page!) foist  messages stating that you (me? yes, you!) have a problem. You did not know you had it but you do. And it will zap everything that makes you you from you! You do not want that problem, do you? Obviously not. So for a certain amount of money we can give you something which will solve that problem. Drug companies do this, too, and clearly have mastered the art.

You go along on your simple, unadorned life, thinking it's just a matter of getting older, not having quality sleep, suffering from a poor diet, or not having enough friends, or not enough cool, hip, advertising-worthy friends (but who can ever have enough of those?) and then...BAM!!! No, it's not your fault, so don't worry. Besides, we have a solution. 

Buy this! Plenty to choose from. Eat this! Drink that! Take this! Wear this! Drive that! Look this way! Pay me! Pay us! Pay all of us! Or else you are not the person you want to be. Or else you can never be the kind of person you think you are! Give us money and we will solve your problems. We will roll back time, give you a make-over, prep you for your big debut, help you sweep the lover of your dreams off his/her feet! We will make you a god/goddess! 

Give us your money and all will be resolved. It's that easy.

Oh, for shame. Got no money? Well, then you don't count. Never counted, in fact. And who would want you anyway? That is, without the money to buy all the solutions you obviously need to fix all the problems you obviously have in order to fit into this perfect, virtual society we have constructed and dutifully maintain for the glory of all who worship the almighty Valentine and the many minions of Münchausen mania! Only then will you be worthy of membership!

Just click off and log off the obstinate media and social media and return to your quiet humble existence. Perhaps cuddle up with a wonderfully understanding book boyfriend/girlfriend. Many do. It's not that weird. (I have 14 books I can recommend; see the top right corner of this page.) Three-hundred pages or so will definitely last longer than an awkward round of that sexercise thing you used to do - well, that was before the Valentine thorn in your side started to hurt, before the roses wilted.

Yes, I know I like to rant. Sometimes it helps. Sorry. Probably there's a pill for that. And I have some money squirreled away for just such a solution to such a problem - a problem I never knew I had, couched in a Valentine I never requested or expected, from a person I have yet to meet, smeared with chocolate melted in a hot car then re-solidified later. At least, I think it's chocolate. It counts.

(There do not seem to be any memes for "book girlfriend" FYI.)

  

P.S., For those who take this blog post as a desperate cry for help, I can confirm that I'm...yeah, kinda okay. Besides, I've got an unopened tub of ice cream just waiting for languorous consumption. And a backup tub in case I need it. And clear  directions to a donut shop. On the way to the book store.

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(C) Copyright 2010-2022 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

On the Overwriting of Sex Scenes

As Ferris Bueller once said: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." Or, in my corruption of that quote, Life can bowl you over and leave you flat on the road. This month has been rather like that: a lot happening, most of it overwhelming in both positive and negative ways.

Last month I mused on my Epic Fantasy novel, the one with dragons, and I promised to regale you with other random musings. Given the busy-ness of this month, I've almost missed my chance to keep a perfect record of one blog a month. But as I work on my latest novel, a post-apocalyptic tale of an [adult] boy and his [young] mother and a [heirloom] tuba, I'm reminded of another older-woman/younger-man story.

Today I celebrate my first novel published, then published again, AFTER ILIUM, in which a young college graduate named Alex tours Greece and Turkey, especially the ruins of ancient Troy, also known as Ilium. He's a History major, after all. Also naive, innocent, idealistic, and romantic - four strikes against him.

The thing I remember most about this novella filled into novel status is the sex scene. I think I probably should have won an award for Most Overwritten Sex Scene. But I assure you the effect was entirely intentional - not simply a case of an undisciplined writer running off with the thesaurus. As everything is described from the point of view of this young, inexperienced lad in a tryst with an older woman, it seems appropriate to wax poetic in his interpretation of the acts proffered. 

After meeting on a cruise ship and suffering an awkward seduction, the woman named Elena accepts him - he might be amusing - and when they have the opportunity in a hotel she welcomes Alex into his first real sexual encounter:

“Shhhh,” Eléna whispered. She pulled him back onto the bed. “Let me enjoy you.”

He thought then that he was about to go sailing on a wild, stormy ocean. No telling what would happen! He expelled a big breath, freeing his anxiety, and the woman knew it was time to raise the anchor.

She guided him on a tour of her body, and he was willing to explore each port of entry, languishing there until she called him to continue sailing her fragrant seas. She invited him to climb her sacred hills and navigate himself into position so she could entertain him with all of the sweet delights from her bag of tricks. He found there a treasure trove of new sensations forced upon him. She coaxed him onward with sweet whispered words and dainty nibbles, and they felt the bed shaking, much like the swaying of the ship—just as ancient Helen and Paris must have felt as the two of them set sail for Troy, he imagined—now rocking them into a sacred rhythm, as her fingers raked his back and shoulders, as he willingly stretched then confidently pushed and forcefully strained and, with enraged power, released the iron gate to the gushing flood of life: all the books, all the classes, all the exams, all the rules of his parents and the stupidity of his fraternity brothers, and the church and the importance of perfect teeth and the essays for scholarships, and all the strict years and months and weeks of frustration and being a good little boy!—launching all at once into the deep, deep well of memories, lost forever in a swirling instant of naked, humbling ecstasy. She waited, shaking, until the memory had evaporated and he breathed once more, feeling the tension in his body flee in terror.

He continued collecting souvenirs as she directed him southward, showing him a lush garden of delicious, juicy fruit to sample, even daring him to taste the puckered kumquat. The festive banquet of Eden spread before him! She sighed in pleasure, like the wind in the sails, and encouraged him to gather all the treasures that he could. He responded by lapping furiously at the fountain of youth, growing not younger but older, gaining maturity. And when he feared he might finally be satiated, she called for him to return to port, to push hard into the harbor until his vessel was fully docked and his wares completely unloaded.

In the end, she was satisfied far more than she had expected to be, and much more than she had been for many years of married life. He listened to her confession as though it were a siren’s song. She had nearly forgotten how wonderful such a vacation trip could possibly be. She lovingly kissed her captain for what seemed endless days and weeks, and thanked him sincerely for the voyage. And he, spiritually exhausted and morally bankrupt beyond reason, reluctantly surrendered into her gentle hands his last ounce of gold.

However, the scene has always bothered me. Most likely, I worried what my mother might say about it. Scandalous, indeed. She was so proud, however, that she told all her church friends to read it. That would make it a bestseller for certain! Anyway, no complaints, no rough feedback. I imagined well-read folks would take exception with the lavish description, calling it pretentious, overwrought, or silly - it is silly, I'll admit, but for a purpose. 

At any rate, that was long ago in publishing time, but AFTER ILIUM still exists if you wish to read more of Alex's great adventure wooing Elena then losing her, then fighting his way back to her only to realize the catastrophic truth about the entire situation - a young man's best lesson.

I continue writing on my work-in-progress, POST, the apocalyptic story mentioned above. There has not yet been any need yet to write a sex scene, but some pre-pandemic incidents have been referred to in conversations. I know what's coming later in the book. Times are tough in an apocalypse, you know.

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(C) Copyright 2010-2021 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

Et tu, Valentine Dude?

As we approach the day of reckoning, the most dreaded day of the year for many of us, perhaps it's of some comfort to realize that it's all based on someone being executed. 

Yes, long ago Mr. Valentine was killed for daring to marry couples in secret against the wishes of the government. Romans, you know. So strict. Strange how what goes around comes around. At any rate, he paid for his crimes. And there is nothing more romantic than that, right? Dying for love, for the cause of love. So, well, there's that. Otherwise, it sucks.

Chocolate, flowers, tokens of affection, greeting cards, love notes.... Most of this slush funding comes as crass commercial putsch, of course. Marketing 101. It's all just a crummy money mill. Invent a season and sell stuff for the season - or else you will be labeled a rube, called insensitive, shown the door as the truly despicable person you are! It's foolproof inasmuch as only fools fall for it. And there are so many fools among us. Especially this week. I fall for it every year. But not this year! Oh, noooooo.

So this love thing.... What is it? Science tells us it's nothing more than a firing of neurons. It's a biochemical reaction to a certain stimulus. See a pretty face, feel happy. A pretty face is determined based on genetic programming and environmental quirks. Also cultural sensitivity training, perhaps. We know what we like; we have been taught what we like. For men, it's easy: there are ass men, boob men, and so on. For women...well, I've read they like broad shoulders and a non-physical attribute called confidence. Perhaps also some cash in the bank. I've heard that. Magazines can be wrong, I've also heard. Or it's all fake news. 

Even so, it's a walking stimulus.  Advertising is based on walking stimuli; Valentine advertising is based on sex-related stimuli. The problem is that such stimuli exists year-round, so what's the big deal with the focus being on one particular day of the year? Because, dear lovers of love, if you do not demonstrate said love to said lover on or near this special day of love, then you are identified as a dolt at best and an ex-lover at worse. There is no middle ground, only a pit of ruin, an abyss of regret. And that pit is not filled with chocolates - not even half-bitten chocolates.

Yet never fear! We have the means to solve your problem. Just like the commercials now on radio and television and with increasing annoyance the Internet (every ^&@#$%^&* web page!) there is a message that you (me? yes, you!) have a problem. You did not know you had it but you do. And it will zap everything that makes you the you that you think you are right out of you! You do not want that problem, do you? Obviously not. Well, as luck has it, we can cure you of the problem you did not know you had.

So for a certain amount of money we can give you something which will solve that problem. Drug companies seem to do this, too, and clearly have mastered the art. You go along with your simple, unadorned life thinking it's just a matter of getting older, not having a quality sleep, suffering a poor diet, not having enough friends, or at least not enough cool, hip, advertising-worthy friends (but who can ever have enough of those?), and then...BAM!!! It hits you. No, it's not your fault, so don't worry. Besides, we have a solution. 

Buy this! Plenty to choose from. Eat this! Drink that! Take this! Wear this! Drive that! Look this way! Pay me! Pay us! Pay all of us! Or else you are not the person you want to be. Or else you can never be the kind of person you think you are! Give us money and we will roll back time, give you a make-over, prep you for your big re-debut, help you sweep the lover of your dreams off his/her feet! We will make you a god/goddess! 

Give us your money. It's that easy. Oh, for shame. Got no money? Well, then you don't count. Never counted, in fact. And who would want you in his/her life anyway? That is, without all the money to buy all the solutions you need to fix all the problems you obviously have in order to fit into this perfect, virtual society we have constructed and dutifully maintain for the glory of all who worship the almighty Valentine and his many minions of Münchausen mania! Only then will you become worthy of membership in the Valentine Club. 

Just click off the obstinate media and return to your humble, quiet existence. Perhaps cuddle up with a wonderful, understanding book boyfriend/girlfriend. Many do. It's not that weird. Three-hundred pages or so will definitely last longer than an awkward round of that sexercise thing you used to do - well, that was before that Valentine thorn stuck in your side and started to hurt. Here's to that box of chocolates you eat all by yourself!

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(C) Copyright 2010-2018 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

The Valentine Dude Strikes Again!

Most people cannot handle a truly epic "epic fantasy" all at once so I'll interrupt the run-up to the launch of EPIC FANTASY *WITH DRAGONS with this holiday smirk....

As we approach the day of reckoning, the most dreaded day of the year for many of us, perhaps it's of some comfort to realize that it's all based on someone being executed. Yes, long ago Mr. Valentine was killed for daring to marry couples in secret against the wishes of the government. Romans, you know. So strict. Strange how what goes around comes around. At any rate, he paid for his crimes. And there is nothing more romantic than that, right? Dying for love, for the cause of love. So, well, there's that. Otherwise, it sucks.

Chocolate, flowers, tokens of affection, greeting cards, love notes.... Most of this slush funding comes as crass commercial putsch, of course. Marketing 101. It's all just a crummy money mill. Invent a season and sell stuff for the season - or else you will be labeled a rube, called insensitive, shown the door as the truly despicable person you are! It's foolproof inasmuch as only fools fall for it. And there are so many fools among us. Especially this week. I fall for it every year. But not this year! Oh, noooooo.

So this love thing.... What is it? Science tells us it's nothing more than a firing of neurons. It's a biochemical reaction to a certain stimulus. See a pretty face, feel happy. A pretty face is determined based on genetic programming and environmental quirks. Also cultural sensitivity training, perhaps. We know what we like; we have been taught what we like. For men, it's easy: there are ass men, boob men, and so on. For women...well, I've read they like broad shoulders and a non-physical attribute called confidence. Perhaps also some cash in the bank. I've heard that. Magazines can be wrong, I've also heard. Or it's all fake news. 

Even so, it's a walking stimulus.  Advertising is based on walking stimuli; Valentine advertising is based on sex-related stimuli. The problem is that such stimuli exists year-round, so what's the big deal with the focus being on one particular day of the year? Because, dear lovers of love, if you do not demonstrate said love to said lover on or near this special day of love, then you are identified as a dolt at best and an ex-lover at worse. There is no middle ground, only a pit of ruin, an abyss of regret. And that pit is not filled with chocolates - not even half-bitten chocolates.

Yet never fear! We have the means to solve your problem. Just like the commercials now on radio and television and with increasing annoyance the Internet (every ^&@#$%^&* web page!) there is a message that you (me? yes, you!) have a problem. You did not know you had it but you do. And it will zap everything that makes you the you that you think you are right out of you! You do not want that problem, do you? Obviously not. Well, as luck has it, we can cure you of the problem you did not know you had.

So for a certain amount of money we can give you something which will solve that problem. Drug companies seem to do this, too, and clearly have mastered the art. You go along with your simple, unadorned life thinking it's just a matter of getting older, not having a quality sleep, suffering a poor diet, not having enough friends, or at least not enough cool, hip, advertising-worthy friends (but who can ever have enough of those?), and then...BAM!!! It hits you. No, it's not your fault, so don't worry. Besides, we have a solution. 

Buy this! Plenty to choose from. Eat this! Drink that! Take this! Wear this! Drive that! Look this way! Pay me! Pay us! Pay all of us! Or else you are not the person you want to be. Or else you can never be the kind of person you think you are! Give us money and we will roll back time, give you a make-over, prep you for your big re-debut, help you sweep the lover of your dreams off his/her feet! We will make you a god/goddess! 

Give us your money. It's that easy. Oh, for shame. Got no money? Well, then you don't count. Never counted, in fact. And who would want you in his/her life anyway? That is, without all the money to buy all the solutions you need to fix all the problems you obviously have in order to fit into this perfect, virtual society we have constructed and dutifully maintain for the glory of all who worship the almighty Valentine and his many minions of Münchausen mania! Only then will you become worthy of membership in the Valentine Club. 

Just click off the obstinate media and return to your humble, quiet existence. Perhaps cuddle up with a wonderful, understanding book boyfriend/girlfriend. Many do. It's not that weird. Three-hundred pages or so will definitely last longer than an awkward round of that sexercise thing you used to do - well, that was before that Valentine thorn stuck in your side and started to hurt. Here's to that box of chocolates you eat all by yourself!

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(C) Copyright 2010-2017 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

The Valentine Dude Strikes Again!

[As it turns out, I am occupied today with certain...umm...particular matters, so I am re-posting last year's subtly-edited blog post. See you on the other side.]

As we approach the day of reckoning, the most dreaded day of the year for many of us, perhaps it's of some comfort to realize that it's all based on someone being executed. Yes, long ago Mr. Valentine was killed for daring to marry couples in secret against the wishes of the government. Romans, you know. So strict. Strange how what goes around comes around. At any rate, he paid for his crimes. And there is nothing more romantic than that, right? Dying for love, for the cause of love. So, well, there's that. Otherwise, it sucks.

Chocolate, flowers, tokens of affection, greeting cards, love notes.... Most of this slush funding comes as crass commercial putsch, of course. Marketing 101. It's all just a crummy money mill. Invent a season and sell stuff for the season--or else you will be labeled a rube, called insensitive, shown the door as the truly despicable person you are! It's foolproof inasmuch as only fools fall for it. And there are so many fools among us. Especially this week. I fall for it every year. But not this year! 

So this love thing.... What is it? Science tells us it's nothing more than a firing of neurons. It's a biochemical reaction to a certain stimulus. See a pretty face, feel happy. A pretty face is determined based on genetic programming and environmental quirks. We know what we like. For men, it's easy: there are ass men, boob men, and so on. For women...well, I've read they like broad shoulders and a non-physical attribute called confidence. Magazines can be wrong, I hear.

Even so, it's a walking stimulus. Advertising is based on walking stimuli; Valentine advertising is based on sex-related stimuli. The problem is that such stimuli exists year-round, so what's the big deal for one particular day of the year? Because, dear lovers of love, if you do not demonstrate said love to said lover on or near this special day, you are a dolt best and an ex-lover in the making at worse. There is no middle ground, only a pit of ruin. And that pit is not filled with chocolates.

Yet never fear! We have the means to solve your problem. Just like the commercials now on radio and television and with increasing annoyance the Internet (every single ^&@#$%^&* web page!) there is a message that you (me? yes, you!) have a problem. You did not know you had it but you do. And it will zap everything that makes you you right out of you! You do not want that problem, do you? Obviously not.

So for a certain amount of money we can give you something which will solve that problem. Drug companies seem to do this, too, and clearly have mastered the art.

You go along with your simple, unadorned life thinking it's just a matter of getting older, not having a quality sleep, suffering a poor diet, not having enough friends, or at least not enough cool, hip, advertising-worthy friends (but who can ever have enough of those?), and then...B A M ! ! ! No, it's not your fault, so don't worry. Besides, we have a solution. 

Buy this! Plenty to choose from. Eat this! Drink that! Take this! Wear this! Drive that! Look this way! Pay me! Pay us! Pay all of us! Or else you are not the person you want to be. Or else you can never be the kind of person you think you are! Give us money and we will roll back time, give you a make-over, prep you for your big re-debut, help you sweep the lover of your dreams off his/her feet! We will make you a god/goddess! 

Give us your money. It's that easy.

Oh, for shame. Got no money? Well, then you don't count. Never counted, in fact. And who would want you in their lives anyway? That is, without the money to buy all the solutions you obviously need to fix all the problems you obviously have in order to fit into this perfect, virtual society we have constructed and dutifully maintain for the glory of all who worship the almighty Valentine and his many minions of Münchausen mania! Because only then will you be worthy of membership in the Valentine Club!

Just click off the obstinate media and return to your humble, quiet existence. Perhaps cuddle up with a wonderfully understanding book boyfriend or book girlfriend. Many do. It's not that weird. Three-hundred pages or so will definitely last longer than an awkward round of that sexercise thing you used to do--well, that was before that Valentine thorn stuck in your side started to hurt.

Whew! That was so cynical! But that was last year. Remember? So relieved..........

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(C) Copyright 2010-2016 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

Three stories we are sick of...

As we touch the mid-point of the spring season, I am reminded of three things: 

1) Put away everything of value so the next tornado cannot blow it all far and wide.

2) It's too late to plant that garden so no reason to get out the tools, seeds, and fertilizer.

3) The book writing business is not suitable for man nor beast, so why bother? 

Right away I will likely get rebuttals. Some may ask why I stay in this gods-forsaken alley of wind and I bluntly repeat "The Day Job! The Day Job!" Others may decry my sniveling rant as an affront to the precious Gaea and her bouncing bosom, an excuse the lazy pull out whenever it suits then, green thumbs or not. And there are those who would chastise me for supposed Puritan vanity, as though only my books suffered the outrageous slingshots and arrows of cliches. Enough said then!

Throughout this new year, I have been able to ascertain there are three stories, types of stories, or story memes retold that nobody is willing to welcome any longer, and henceforth should be exiled to the dustpins of hosiery! Here they are in all of their unspoken glory--and beware the variations, too.

The love story. Emotional linkage. Moreover, two young romantics slathering over each other. Worse yet if one of them is of some special, protected category such as ghost, gremlin, zombie, homeboy, vampire, wolfboy, fairy, fairytale meme, or English teacher. It is enough that we recognize that people have this flaw, this need for completion, this urge to copulate with another person or "person"; must the rest of us read all about it? see it splayed open across the grand screen? discuss it through the night on social media, as though it were a traditional recipe for disaster? Sure, we have the so-called "anti-romance"--but isn't that just another sheep of another color than black? Let them do what they do in private and leave the rest of us alone, thank you very much. 

Variation: The love story set in a dystopian society where good is evil and black is white and everyone is out to get everyone else because that is the way of the world and nobody is better or worse than anyone else and the equal ones are slightly more equal than the others who are not. Often they must play a game to determine who is most equal.

Example. A Beautiful Chill, an oft-repeated cliche of campus unions and reunions where Art and Letters rejoice in depravity unyielding up to the final revelation of slaughter. Woe is me, sayeth the love-lorn Author. (Credit for keeping it real; that is, on Earth and in modern times.)

The discovery of a new world. In this avenue I would add all the usual doorway, portal, gateway, wardrobe, tunnel, and wormhole stories where one of "us" goes somewhere else and woo-hoo it's almost like where we came from or it's quite different and aren't we amazed! And what does our hero/heroine do there? Exploit the darn place to within an inch of its lifeline! Such stories have been foisted upon us as warnings of what we have become or what we shall or might become if we do not pay attention, pay through the nose, or pay the first-born child of every family in debt to our fanatical financials and lords of leisure! And yet we take no heed and continue to fall into our dubious inheritance. No more! "If it ain't here, it ain't real," quoth one long-lost quotation master. Who should care for a world of pure invention?

Variation: The parallel universe, the time travel story, the dystopian tale--all of them poor representations of the main theme, all relying on our knowledge of our existing set of circumstances in order to make pun of all that we hold close to us and dreary. They mean to trick you. Smoke and mirrors, just smoke and mirrors. Mind not the poor excuse that is what you have now, for life could be far, far worse over there.

Example: The Dream Land, a lengthy tome [read 'trilogy'] ostensibly of interdimensional [read 'doorway, portal, etc.'] intrigue [read 'political skulduggery'], alien romance [see above complaint], and world domination [yet not, thankfully, in a sexual bondage sort of depravity]. Too many giant war rabbits to my liking.

The medieval family clash. As a variation on new worlds is the old world meme. I speak here of our vainglorious return to the days of yore as they stick in our craw and decay forthwith. Either said stories are poor recreations of history mismanaged or they are faux pas histories which serve only the purpose of greasepaint stages of perversity. Need we more of that? There is good reason those days of yore are done, and none too soon: we who represent the greater good in our species are simply too embarrassed by what we are capable of bestowing upon our peers. While we may wish to relive the highlights and even selected lowlifes, the sum total of all our aspirations is a rousing return to that which never was and cannot be all in the name of trying it again for the better and falling, indeed, crashing from great dragon-borne heights to the fire-pit below! Then we know the mirror has finally broken and we lie splintered and bleeding.

Variation: The story that hides in a return to mythological creations and through them and their unfolding narrativity seek to impress us with the drudgery of life in those ancient days. Be glad of the life you have now and forget those of long ago. Yet such creatures and the winsome gods and goddesses themselves make for poor judges of our tastes today. Be not fooled or made a fool!

Example: After Ilium, where the narrative necessarily parallels the standard liturgy yet is viewed through the rose-colored lenses of a neophyte (often called 'the lucky loser') for the purpose of excising emotional dewing from unwary readers. Quite dubious in the depiction of an infamous battle. The major sex scene is a fruit basket of delights, however.


Solution. Seek not for such misguided diversions but instead search out only the fair and acceptable solutions to the diversions you crave, for they do exist. Break free and live a life beneath a tree, in the fields of the locust, all barefoot and squishy, with fluffy-bunny clouds overhead and the wind in your hair, like all good little munchkins who have survived remakes of wizard-themed films. And if that fails you, then there likely is little hope; you might as well embrace your day job (night, whatever) with hardy gusto, for you are not worthy of being entertained by the likes of we. Good day to you, Sir!


[The preceding was discovered by a couple of lovers whilst they sojourned on a newly discovered world after reading about ancient wars and played a game of trumps. Authorship has yet escaped confirmation. It is presented here solely for amusement, for it has no other discernable use.]



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(C) Copyright 2010-2014 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.