This morning, I caught one of those HP laptop commercial where someone of some import waves their hands around and images appear. Most of the images I saw seemed to follow some kind of fantasy theme. And at the end, they showed the personality’s name and a kind of title: Paul Coelho, Alchemist of Words. It all intrigued me and I looked him up on the internet.
In a short time, I got a sense of his works. Much mysticism and fable. So I downloaded samples of some of his novels to my phone. And, since the book “The Alchemist” seemed to be one of his more notable ones, I bought the whole version.
Some of what I read contained encouragement to follow one’s dreams. It also acknowledged a spiritual realm and an ultimate purpose to one’s life.
Since I have pretty much been a materialist the past few years, these characteristics usually throw up a red flag for me. But, I gave his work a benefit of a doubt. Maybe his stuff could be read completely metaphorically. Or maybe I’ll just enjoy them on an entertaining level.
It was also interesting that he pirates his books. Like Cory Doctorow, the desire to share his works is stronger than his desire to make money on them. That got me thinking that I feel the same way. And, in my head, I started to make a list of what I most wish to accomplish with my stories, in order of priority. And here’s what I came up with:
1. Write one story, and some people read it an enjoy it.
2. Write one story, and have a lot of people read it and enjoy it.
3. Write one story, and make some money with it.
4. Write one story, and make a lot of money with it.
5. Write lots of stories that a lot of people read and enjoy.
6. Write lots of stories and make some money with them.
7. Write lots of stories and make a living writing.
8. Write one story that people remember forever.
And just as I’m compiling this list in my head, my wife brings an envelope in from the mail. It’s an essay that my father has written. Briefly skimming it, it seems to be his trying to come to terms with time, change, mortality, and the afterlife. The same stuff I think about all the time. And there’s a note on the essay saying that he’s trying to get it published.
Then, I get to work and watch a couple movies. The first is of a schizophrenic and reclusive writer and artist called “In The Realms of the Unreal.” And I decide to continue the troubled genius theme with “My Architect,” about the architect Louis Kahn.
What do I make of all of this? Obviously, an impetus to take my writing more seriously, both in my stories and this blog. But it also has made me think about how I can reconcile the belief that there is nothing beyond what we can sense with our physical senses with the desire to discover something beyond our senses. I am both a rationalist and a romantic that loves stories about swords and sorcery. I’m an agnostic who still feels drawn to the esoteric worlds of Hinduism and Catholicism. I believe that our consciousness ceases to be when enough of our brain cells expire, but I want so much to continue on thinking and experiencing forever.
Can I channel any of this into my stories. Some aspects I already have in some of my stories. I deal with fate in “An Appointment With Destiny.” I deal with the all-too-rapid passage of time in “The Mower.” And maybe I will find the way to finish them. but I also hope I can find a way to express this central existential dilemma.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Monday, March 24
Got up just a bit earlier today. But didn't get much done. Already 6:40 and all I did was surf. I'm on 6 Million now. The whole first act now establishes a close relationship between the protagonist and the creator of the Time Machine. Tooth his hurting a bit. But I don't think I should take the Vicodin before going to work. Afraid it may put me to sleep. Gotta start spending less. Tax refund disappearing. Looking forward to the other refund. Election day coming. Hope Obama gets in. Trying to get a few open jobs done at Brady: POSnet CMS, Brady Flash, and MedRespond. Justin will be gone soon. Hoping the new director shapes up the team.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Department of Fate
The following is from the first chapter in one of the stories I am working on.
The Department of Fate was housed in the tallest, and darkest, office building in town. No other building, nearby or otherwise, matched it's height, width, or weight, actual or symbolic. And though physically impossible, no matter which of the nearby buildings one might have been in, it seemed one was always seemed to find themselves in the shadow of the granite behemoth. It was as if the lustreless black stone sucked in every ray of light that was fortunate to get past the clouds that always seemed to linger around the city. And the sinisterness of the facade was compounded by the fact that the only windows to be found on the 150 stories were on the one-hundred-and fiftieth. This is what was assumed to be the oppulent residence of the director of Fate herself, the deathless, blind old crone that decided, with exacting detail, what was in store for each and every citizen, from the day they were thrust into this world, till they day they were plucked away.
But even though the Department was central to every citizen's lives and thoughts, no one outside the department had ever seen the inside of the edifice. That's becasue all external relations were handled at numerous branch offices about the city and surrounding municipalities. And since Fate was not one to waste any more money than it had to, these offices were usually within very old buildings that evidently received very little maintenance. It seemed the only visually clean surface to be found on the buildings were on the door handles themselves, worn smooth by the hands of centuries of penitents, who visited the offices to meet with their assigned caseworkers, pleading for more favorable treatment by the Department.
They say hope springs eternal. Well it must. Because though it seemed that those responsible for the layout and lighting of the office interiors had done everything in their power to create a depressing environment, every office was always filled to the gills. And it couldn't be said which looked more pathetic: the fields of desks where the tired and overworked caseworkers unceasingly listened to their clients' latest sob stories, or the crowded waiting areas where citizens of all types silently practiced their pitches until their names were called.
Wilem Porter sat in one of these waiting areas. He'd sat there more times than he could remember, but had never gotten used to the place. It was just as repulsive now as it was when he had first visited the place as a young teen. Back then he'd only stop by a few times a year. But over the years, his visits had become more frequent. His present visit was the third this month. There were even a few times in recent months that he had unexpectedly just found himself in the waiting room without remembering how he had ever gotten there.
The Department of Fate was housed in the tallest, and darkest, office building in town. No other building, nearby or otherwise, matched it's height, width, or weight, actual or symbolic. And though physically impossible, no matter which of the nearby buildings one might have been in, it seemed one was always seemed to find themselves in the shadow of the granite behemoth. It was as if the lustreless black stone sucked in every ray of light that was fortunate to get past the clouds that always seemed to linger around the city. And the sinisterness of the facade was compounded by the fact that the only windows to be found on the 150 stories were on the one-hundred-and fiftieth. This is what was assumed to be the oppulent residence of the director of Fate herself, the deathless, blind old crone that decided, with exacting detail, what was in store for each and every citizen, from the day they were thrust into this world, till they day they were plucked away.
But even though the Department was central to every citizen's lives and thoughts, no one outside the department had ever seen the inside of the edifice. That's becasue all external relations were handled at numerous branch offices about the city and surrounding municipalities. And since Fate was not one to waste any more money than it had to, these offices were usually within very old buildings that evidently received very little maintenance. It seemed the only visually clean surface to be found on the buildings were on the door handles themselves, worn smooth by the hands of centuries of penitents, who visited the offices to meet with their assigned caseworkers, pleading for more favorable treatment by the Department.
They say hope springs eternal. Well it must. Because though it seemed that those responsible for the layout and lighting of the office interiors had done everything in their power to create a depressing environment, every office was always filled to the gills. And it couldn't be said which looked more pathetic: the fields of desks where the tired and overworked caseworkers unceasingly listened to their clients' latest sob stories, or the crowded waiting areas where citizens of all types silently practiced their pitches until their names were called.
Wilem Porter sat in one of these waiting areas. He'd sat there more times than he could remember, but had never gotten used to the place. It was just as repulsive now as it was when he had first visited the place as a young teen. Back then he'd only stop by a few times a year. But over the years, his visits had become more frequent. His present visit was the third this month. There were even a few times in recent months that he had unexpectedly just found himself in the waiting room without remembering how he had ever gotten there.
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