THOUGHT BYTES FOR 2005 (Pt. 4)

I’ve been trying to write here all week, but I’ve been too busy to actually do an entire entry on the subjects I had in mind, so here’s just a few snapshots.

ICONS

I watched Smallville on Wednesday and was on the edge of my couch for the whole 80 minutes. The ending blew me away. When Clark threw that crystal, I couldn’t wait to see the Fortress of Solitude. But then, when “To Be Continued” appeared n the screen, I screamed like I woman.

Smallville keeps sucking me in. It’s a great show, with great writing, and the development of Lex Luthor is a showstopper every week. I can’t wait for next season to see where these characters are going. I’ve read rumors that the fifth season is the last one.

As shaken as I was by Smallville’s sudden cliffhanger, the ten-minute teaser from Batman Begins that aired right after quickly silenced me. What I liked most about the movie was how they adapted, not omitted, Tim Burton’s version of the character. I’m one of those few people who liked Tim Burton’s first two movies. I think they were well done, if not for them, we wouldn’t have the Batman we see in comics today. I think the new movie doesn’t ignore those films, but enhances them. Turns the negatives into positives, like using actual locations instead of sets and treating things more seriously. But still, looking at the designs, you can see definite similarities between Burton and Nolan’s visions, and if you’re like me, and watched the first movie after the teaser, you saw you could put Batman Begins ahead of Batman and Batman Returns, and not skip a beat.

I’m looking forward to Batman Begins, and waiting in anticipation for the Smallville’s fifth season opener.

IDEA MAN

Had two ideas earlier this week, and I thought one of them was pretty original. It was a pill that could make men’s semen taste better, so women would be more inclined to give oral sex and swallow. But it turns out someone already had that idea and there’s three different versions on the market.

I haven’t tossed the idea, but I have to actually buy and try these already existing pills to see if there’s any room for improvement. But who will do the taste test?

PROJECTS

Feeling pretty damn good about the writing projects I have lined up, all for myself, still trying to break into that whacky world of professional writing, so I can quit this hell of dying kids and boring people, so I can sleep all day, work all night, and make big bucks creating fictional people who have more character than real ones.

Two are screenplays, one is a comic story, and another is a television series that I’ll hold onto for later, when I have more clout.

The screenplays are cool. One is all already to go, so all I have to do is write. The other is more difficult. It’s a horror story, a slasher film, and that’s more difficult. I can write monster horror, but slasher stories require more character, surprise, and comedic timing. Not that it’s hard, but I just have no experience doing it. And, as my luck would have it, that’s the one I have a lead on with a studio. So now I have to pump this out with my partner and try to get it done asap, beginning with a treatment. But I did jump my first hurtle yesterday. As soon as I got the news about the studio lead, I went outside for a smoke and solved the first problem I was having. I just have to solve the rest.

I’m beginning to think my smoking is linked to my writing, because I do my best work when I’m destroying my lungs.

I’m excited about the comic story, but its main character is black and that’s giving me some problems. I want to break the stereotype that white comic readers can’t identify with black characters. I don’t think that’s true. I think creators put up a race wall, excluding the white majority. It’s a tricky subject, and I don’t have the answers. I do agree with some people who purpose a character’s blackness is related to how accepted they’ll be, and there are examples to prove it. But I know how I feel when I pick up a book with a black character and I’m hit over the head with their blackness, and I’m black.

I feel strongly about contrasts between iconic characters like Batman and Superman, and those black heroes, like Black Panther and Luke Cage, who’ve become icons in their own right, but not sharing the same level of popularity. I can’t shake the feeling there’s a reason why everyone can relate to Spider-Man, but not to Luke Cage. Or how anyone can see himself or herself as Batman, or people wish they were Superman, but not Black Panther, Steel, or the new Firestorm.

I’ve gone back and forth with my character, debating if he should de black at all. Maybe the answer is making a white character with a stereotypical black background. Treat him like a black character, but make him a white guy. Then I thought to screw the whole thing and just whitewash the whole book because I felt the goal itself was stupid. No one will accept black characters like they have Superman and Batman, and who am I to change it? Just tell my story and be done with it.

But that would be the easy way out, and I’m not going that way. Anything worth doing has a road of blood, sweat and tears to get to, and I’m not going to pass up a chance to do something amazing. So, I’m back to the black, but how to make him “acceptable” without whitewashing him? How do I bring the white majority into his world, have them identify with the character, without letting his culture, which is part of his character, keep them at a distance? One possible solution I thought of, make them fascinated by it.

It’s like our love for Japanese samurai and ninja films. Hell, even the new Batman film has Bruce Wayne studying ninjitsu. The mysteries of the culture draw people inward and they want to learn more about it. I think that’s the same effect rap music has on white kids. I think it’s all about differentiating yourself from what you know in one of only two ways, positively or negatively. If you want to be a rebel, then you live in Beverly Hills and listen to 50 Cent. But if you seek acceptance, then you become obsessed with another culture that we deem “exotic”, like Japan, Italy, or Russia.

So, maybe the answer is making black culture more exciting to white readers? God, could that read any more racist and negative? But it’s true, black culture is only appealing to black people. And the white people who do care about it either hate, market, or manipulate it to piss off other white people.

Still thinking…

Meanwhile, I’m writing and crunching out the development in haste so I can move to actually writing the story. Research is cool, but you should read before you write, and that slows things down. That’s what multiple drafts are for, read as you write, then go back and add or subtract during edits.

FEMALE ANALOGY

Okay, here’s the problem with being married…

You meet someone and you think they’re the only one for you. Then you get older, you get wiser, and you realize that there’s more than one person who can meet your ideal. And these people are bumping into you in droves. They were nowhere to be found before you got married. When you were searching for the right woman, all these candidates were invisible. But now they’re all over the place and you keep meeting them. And, in a lot of ways, they’re more of a match to you than your wife.

So, what do you do?

You can’t cheat, both because you really do love your wife and would never hurt her. Or you have cheated, and learned the errors of your ways. Or better still, you have a shitload of money and you’ll be damned if you give up half to someone who didn’t do a damn thing to help you earn it. But, if you’re that loaded, you can have the affair and not get caught anyway, or the wife won’t give a damn because she’s sucking the cock of life on your dime. Fuck if she’s giving that up, even if she would get half, why take that when you have access to the whole thing? So we’ll exclude those lucky pricks, and focus on guys like myself, who love their wives, but damn if they wouldn’t fuck the hell out of the nice chick who smiled at them on the bus.

So, what should we husbands do to get through this crowd of women who we’d all like to know a lot better? Nothing. We just have to tough it out. We were stupid enough to get married in the first place, and now we have to suffer for short-term thinking.

What makes it all the harder are single people telling us how much they envy our marriages. The statement is so full of bullshit it makes me close my eyes and shake my head because nothing can describe the level of funk hitting me in the face.

Hey, I’m not unhappy, that’s a conclusion other married people use frequently instead of facing the truth. That the women we choose for ourselves are probably only 75% for us. There are a lot of other women in the world that come closer to our “match made in heaven.” I think it may be that men hate to shop. No, seriously, I think that may be why so many men end up with women who eventually aren’t quite all there and constantly bump into the bigger, better deal. Men usually just pick-up whatever they need, when they need it. I know I just look at the mannequins, and if they’re wearing something I like, I buy that outfit. I think a lot of men shop that way, very fast, and very immediate, instead of taking the time to really look for something that will last.

After a while sex becomes a biological function, more about dumping a load so you don’t become an insufferable S.O.B., instead of driven by passion, desire, or just a lusting for someone.

What married men probably find so exciting about other women is their freshness. Like the smell of a new car, instead of that old car funk that comes from too many hours of the same people being cooped up together in the same place. Old carpets that have endured shit stains, muddy boots, mashed food and spilled drinks. And after years, no amount of hand washes or turtle wax can bring back the shimmer and shine, the colors are old, faded, and the protective coating is starting to peel. And you start looking at everyone else’s car, how it looks so new. The blacks are deep, the interiors are soft, and you wonder if you’ve got good enough credit to make a trade and afford monthly payments on a new ride.

But you got to give it to that old clunker, she get you from point A to B. You trust her. She’s reliable. She doesn’t breakdown all that much anymore, because most of her stock parts have been replaced. And if you have a vintage model, well, the guys in the new Lexus are wishing they were driving your ’65 Mustang with the ragtop. You may drive her slow, but she roars when she needs to. You keep her inside, waiting for the weekend so you can take her for a ride on Saturday night. Pull into that old school diner on the strip and watch all the young guns stop and stare. They want her, but she’s all yours. She’s got miles on her, but that makes her all the more reliable. You know how she is, what she’s like, how to treat her, and what to do to keep her running. Not like the new cars, always wondering when they’ll breakdown. Most likely it’ll be when the warranty expires. And God help you if you get in an accident, those new cars will fold up on you like paper. But not your Mustang, Charger, or 1961 Lincoln. They plow through 2005 fiberglass like a wrecking ball. That vintage model is built lke a tank and will save your life more than once.

So, what’s my point? I’m not sure I have one really. I guess it’s all about time. The old cars, regardless of manufacture age, are always better than the younger models. Back when safety and durability was as big a part of making cars as aerodynamics and sex appeal.

Mine? She’s a 1975 foreign model who’s given me some problems. I’ve spent a lot on her, but she’s almost just like I want her. A classic in the making, just a couple of adjustments with just the right amount of aging and she’ll be ready for the strip.

LAZARUS

LAZARUS: Immortal Coils is coming along, the colored pages are looking good, but the colorist and I aren't in agreement with some of the computer effects for the book. See, he believes and follows the DC style of coloring, and I’m no one to dispute DC’s way of doing things. They instruct colorists to make sure they don’t distract from the main figure in a panel, and unless you’re real good, you don’t add too many fancy effects like blurs, flares, or textures.

But the scene in question is a car chase, and I think if there’s any point in a book where blurs are necessary, that’s it. I also asked for flares to bring out the light and power of a car explosion, and I referenced pictures of actual car explosions to prove my point. Again, you don’t want to take away focus from the main character. But, in a scene like this, wouldn’t the explosion be the main character? And if not, shouldn’t we at least aspire for realism as much as possible?

The problem I have with DC’s approach, philosophically anyway, is they're too grounded in the medium, comic books, and don’t ask or even dream of aspiring for anything greater. In the past, I’ve been told that I need to remember comics are not movies. And that’s true, but the line between the two is not as thick and wide as many do think. A man in blue tights and a red cape, flying across the sky may be the most unrealistic thing imaginable. But that’s not the point. The point is to make it look real. To make people believe that a man can fly. So, if computer effects can make something look more real, even is it defies some written rule, how could it be wrong? Shouldn't realism supersede whatever comic book standard is written in a book?

That’s the question I’m wrestling with right now. I’ve emailed some professionals, asking for the names to colorists I can talk to and figure out if my thought process is flawed or not. Of course, there are those who will say it is, but my gut tells me I’m not insane. And the proof is inside any anime book on the stands today. No, not manga, anime. In Japan, animes have movie books like our live action movies. In front of the book, the anime is shown in storyboard fashion, frame by frame, skipping a beat here and there of course, but showing you the whole film or episode in detail. The point is, in Japanese anime, within certain respects, realism is a factor. And if you look at those frames, you see how my ideas can work. The realism, with exceptions here and there, sucks you in. And while they do play with reality a bit, the exceptions they make don’t take anything away. They may choose multiple colors in an explosion, but that doesn’t mean the explosion itself looks any less real. In fact, it looks more real, because what does something look like when it explodes in space? And these ideas came from American films like Star Wars. So again, how could I be wrong?

Still, my decision is finale. The colorist will do whatever I want him to do, so I have to make sure that the decision I make is the right one. That’s why I want to talk with someone with some years under his or her belt. I emailed Danny Miki and Joe Quesada because both have been cool in the past and very gracious with their time. I’m hoping they won’t mind my asking for their help again.

We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, an artist friend of mine had a dream, and I try to work by it. He told me: "I dreamt I was at a beach, and there were all these people standing near the shoreline. It was high tide, the waves were crashing down, and everyone, including me, was afraid to go in. Then, as we all just stood there, we saw this little old guy start to walk out, towards the waves. We all screamed for him to get back, because he'd be crushed, but he just kept going. A huge wave rose up against him, and came down so hard we all knew he was dead. And when the water pulled back, he was gone. A few minutes passed, or at least it felt that way, and off in the distance we saw this person swimming, bobbing up and down like a dolphin. Then, they swam to shore, and as they got closer, we could see it was the same little guy who got pounced on. He walked up out of the ocean, and in his hand was this gorgeous oyster. He opened it, and inside was a pearl. And as I was looking at it, and then him, it hit me that the little man was Jack Kirby. He looks at me, and says, "You should go out there more often. Never know what you'll find."

IF SUICIDE WAS EASY, I'D BE DEAD

My last post generated a little “buzz” from my friends, each trying to help by giving me ideas or information on losing weight. One even threatened me not to do anything stupid. All of their comments were about health and being healthy, which sparked something interesting I’d like to comment on.

Being healthy and being skinny are two different things.

I don’t care if I’m healthy. When in was 237, I was healthy. Despite me laziness, I had no high blood pressure and could walk farther or dance longer than a lot of skinnier people. My blood counts were pristine, I’d never had any serious illness, and rarely did I catch a cold.

When I lost the weight, I was tired most of the time, had bronchitis, and went to the ER with a kidney stone that was so painful I was curled up like a baby, begging for morphine in the ambulance.

But, I still prefer one to the other any day of the week.

I’m hitting a serious low point here because I don’t know what to do with myself. I compared depression to taking a shit, and how it can be a relief once it’s all over. But I didn’t mention that, while it’s happening, it feels pretty bad. What I’m going through now can be compared to taking a shit while having the flu. That painful emptiness in your stomach as your body involuntarily contracts, you keep bearing down, but there’s nothing there. You haven’t eaten because you’re nauseous, but you’re body refuses to accept defeat, and all that comes out is water that’s only making you’re fever worse. Your ass hurts and bleeds from multiple wiping, your leg falls asleep, your stomach is so empty you want to puke, and just when you think it’s over your stomach bears down again, forcing a gush of body sewage.

That about sums up what I’m feeling right now.

I was standing in my bathroom mirror this morning, looking at myself, trying to figure out why I can’t just do what I’m supposed to do. I went through the list of questions in my head, looking for answers, and all of them were unattainable. Well, not unattainable, but unreachable in my immediate future. So I looked for other solutions, and there I found myself. I’m the answer to whatever’s troubling me, no one or nothing else. Just me, and then I broke down and started crying because I’d gone in a big circle and landed right where I started. I know my problems, I know how to solve them, but I just can’t seem to get my head together to do it. The most torturous thing is the not knowing why I can't get my head straight. Not knowing why I just can’t do what I’m supposed to do. Why I have all the confidence in the world in the morning, and by the end of the day I’m right back to where I started. Between work and home, everything that’s important to me changes. I start in the morning, weighing myself. 185, thirty-five pounds past my weight range, and I think that officially qualifies me as obese. I begin with the chip on my shoulder, and building up my ego. I begin mapping out a diet plan in my head, similar to the old one. I go over exercises I need to do, things I should and shouldn’t eat. I leave the house and arrive at work full of hope and confidence. If I’m lucky, I successfully avoid the coffee machine, and no one will buy a cake for no reason at all and sit it in the lounge to tempt me. And, if it’s a really good day, they do, but I beat temptation, get my cup of water and go. But then something happens on my way home. I begin thinking about Coffee Bean Ice blended mochas, about chocolate bars, television shows, and sitting on the couch playing video games. I think about exercise and I can feel my body getting weak. I can feel the pain and stress on my muscles. I’ve already projected myself two months into the future, and I can feel the fatigue, having exercised every day with little to no results because I’m too aware of what I’m doing. And I tell myself I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna walk through that door, do my exercises, eat a decent meal, go to bed on time, get up the next day, get to work on time, and repeat the same thing all over. I tell myself I’m gonna do it, and keep doing it, and the weight will drop off. I won’t think about time. I won’t think about pain, sweat, fatigue and hunger, because I can do this. I’ve done it before, I can do it again, but it’ll be easier this time. I lost 100 pounds in 6 months, so I can lose 30 in less time. And when I’m back in my range, it’ll be second nature, so I’ll keep going, harder and faster, until I’m back to 137. I’m back to size 31 waist pants, a six-pack, muscles, barely any body fat, a sagging ass, and low body temperature. I’ll go back to jogging and wearing sweaters in July because I’m freezing in the middle of the summer. And I’ll make it last this time, I’ll have fun, I’ll buy new clothes, get tatted, and maybe get my dick pierced. It’ll last this time. My life will go back to what it was, when I got to work on time every day, did my job, then went home and wrote for hours. Or I can quit my shitty hospital job and get another one, because they’ll see a skinny, assertive, hard working guy versus the fat lazy guy who just sits at his desk. And if you think fat people aren’t discriminated against in the job market, you’re wrong. I’ll enjoy how big my penis looks and my wife will take pictures I can put on the internet for extra cash, while I join an escort service and have old ladies pay top dollar to jerk me off. I’ll write my screenplay and hit the red carpet. My wife and I will be on E!’s Top 100 Sexiest Couples, I’ll have photo shoots in magazines, sign my comic book at conventions, and all will ask me how did I do it, AGAIN.

But all that changes by the time I get home. All of it slips away into fantasy, and it becomes the impossible, the imagined, or the things that shouldn’t care about or need. I slip into father mode, and all that matters is my wife’s love. She doesn’t care how I look, so have that cake, eat that jar of peanut butter, sit your ass on the couch all day, play video games, and when everyone’s asleep you can pull out the Janine dvd and rape yourself till your dry and it hurts to piss. All that becomes okay.

But then I wake up the next day. I look at myself in the mirror, again. And I cry, again. I shed tears for all the dreams that begin with a “Day 1”.

That’s where I found myself this morning, staring in the mirror, wondering what’s wrong with myself. Why can’t I go back? Why can’t I do it all over again, just like before? Why do I fail before I even try? How did I have all that confidence to do something amazing, and now that I need it again, there’s nothing?

I went from my bathroom to the bedroom, getting ready for another torturous day at the hospital, and my wife met me in the doorway. I looked into her eyes…
I wanted to unload, to breakdown, to curl up like a baby and scream, “Why? Why can’t I do it again? What’s wrong with me? What do I have to do to go back and flip that fucking switch in my head?”

But all I could do was look at her, my tears began to fall, and her face melted from a smile, to confusion, until landing hard with concern. She begged me to tell her what was wrong, but what would I say? Worse yet, what would she say? The same things I already know? The things that have already gone in one ear and out the other?

So I stood there, shook my head for her to ignore me, which is like asking a New Yorker to ignore what happened on September 11, 2001. But my son started crying, her mother reflexes kicked in, and she was gone.

Harder still was listening to a friend who called after reading my blog to give me words of advice. My friends are loyal, they love me, but they don’t understand me. Not even the ones I’ve known over a decade. They don’t really know how I tick, none of them do, so they offer advice on what I should do, what they think I can do, and I listen because I respect them, but they’re not helping. I know what to do already. I know how to get it done. The problem isn’t information or words of encouragement, because they were never there before. It’s me. I’m the problem. I’m the solution. Always have been, and always will be.

I’m the one who has to get myself off the shitter. But my leg is asleep, my stomach keeps cramping, and I’m bearing down again.

JPG.

THOUGHT BYTES FOR 2005 (Pt. 3)

I’m still trying to get back into the swing of writing here every day, so I’m just going into a ramble and shitting out whatever thoughts come to mind.

SELF-DEFECATION

Sunday, I was helping my daughter sign her Mother’s Day card, and she came to a letter she knew, but couldn’t remember. The first thing she said was: “Daddy, I can’t do it.”

I paused for a second, as I normally do, trying to process the information and figure out how best to proceed. I knew she learned the word, she’d written it before, but children’s memories are short, so she could have forgotten. I helped her by giving clues, and after she thought about it, she repeated: “I can’t do it.”

I knelt down, took her in my arms, and in a soft, but parental voice I told her not to say those words ever again. I told her there’s nothing she can’t do. NOTHING. Then I coached her, taking one letter at a time, and when we got to the letter she “didn’t know” she remembered and wrote it down.

Today, I got to work an hour late. Part of a regular routine I have that might be a symptom of a pre-existing problem. Basically, I hate my fucking job. But, when I passed the glass windows of my building, I caught my reflection and was horrified at what I saw.

I’m fat.

What scared me wasn’t that I didn’t know this, but that I let it happen and did nothing to stop it. I wasn’t repelled by the fat guy in the glass, but more from the man underneath. It wasn’t the fat I found disgusting. It was the laziness, the gluttony, the lack of confidence and courage.

I thought about my words to my daughter, how I told her not to admit defeat, ever. And I saw how daddy needed to follow his own fucking advice. Being fat, for me, is a simple formula: Pleasure vs. Pain. You can either sit on a couch and stuff your face while watching television (and that feels fucking good), or you can get out there, in the sun, and do something until your muscles ache, you’re breathing hard, and your covered in sweat.

Gluttony covers a person’s entire spectrum of behavior, that’s why most fat people are obsessive about everything from food to sex. When I lost weight two years ago, I’d turned my obsessive streak into an advantage by changing the things I obsessed over. Instead of sex, I went crazy with exercise. Instead of food, I would drink water like mad, until my stomach was so full, there was no room for solids. Things progressed to where I hated to eat, and I think that’s where I eventually fucked myself up.

Obsession, when it’s directed, never lasts long.

Some deny that, like comic collectors. Some have obsessed over the same books and characters for decades. But I think all would agree that, at some point, they stopped collecting. Whether it was for financial reasons or not, they stopped. And that pause lasted for weeks, months, and then years. Every comic collector has a “What brought me back” story to tell. And during that time, they pursued something else other than comics.

My obsession for losing weight changed on October 31, 2003. I was celebrating my anniversary and my daughter’s first trick or treat, where she actually went door-to-door. I was in such a good mood, that I felt no wrong in having some candy. Plus, my mother had made a shitload of food, pies, and two cakes. I thought: “it’s a holiday, no worries.” This, after not having any sweets for over a year and you can imagine what it was like.

I could have called me Pooky.

When the first chocolate bar hit my tongue, I was gone. I actually have little recollection of what happened. My sugar high was so strong, I only know what happened when it was over, I was so full it felt like all I had to do was open my mouth, bend over, and everything would come pouring out. That’s when it hit me…

Purge.

I went home, into the bathroom, closed the windows and door, grabbed my toothbrush, and shoved it as far down my throat as it would go.

Throwing up isn’t easy. Especially for a guy with no gag reflex. You’d be surprised how far that toothbrush went before anything came up, and when it did, I saw little difference between that, and what would have come out the other end in about two or three days. I was in there for an hour, getting rid of everything I could. When it was over, I felt good, but knew I had just crossed a line. I’d busted my cherry, meaning it would come easier the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that.

I told my wife, and she freaked. She sent me to a dietician who weighed me and said that, while I wasn’t too skinny, I could gain some pounds. My range is 137 –150, I was 137 in clothes, and the doc preferred that I get to 145. I learned that I was on a starvation diet, eating only one breakfast bar, a salad, and dinner (vegetables, salad, and one serving of white meat) every day, plus working out for over an hour. I left the dietician feeling good. So good, that I thought nothing of eating a brownie for breakfast. It was followed by popcorn and a hotdog at the movies. Then, for dinner, I had a Superstar at Carl’s, chili cheese fries, their chocolate cake…

You get the idea.

I still exercised, but I did it less and less. The switch in my head had been flipped you see, I went from losing, not to gaining, because I was still conscious and paranoid, but to relaxing. Where I was obsessed that I would gain the weight back, as so many have before, I fooled myself into thinking I would never, or could never, go back. So I got lazier about my exercising. My two and a half hour, six day routine went to an hour for five days, then forty-five minutes for four days, etc. My low carbs rule went out the door the first time I had rice topped with ground beef and spaghetti sauce (a home fave). And my secret passion was peanut butter, I never liked it, but suddenly I had become insane for it. The doctor theorized that I was getting so little protein, that the minute I had peanut butter, my body targeted it as a major protein source. And peanut butter can be healthy, but not when you’re eating an entire jar in one sitting. And not when you mix it with ice cream, chocolate, cereal, cookies, cake, brownies, etc.

Exercising went from something that I just did, to an effort. I went from 6 reps of 20, to three reps of 10. Eating right became an event that I had to announce, instead of just doing. Losing weight the first time was unintentional for the first few months; I simply wanted to eat right. Then, once I saw the results, I went further. I never said I was on a diet; I was simply living a better life. But, once I started to backslide, I tried to recover by going on diets, and none lasted. I grew, and kept growing while family and friends around me did nothing.

The hardest part being me, is “fan participation”. In my life, there’s a lot. I’m highly affected and motivated by the people in my life. If they say: “You look great.” Then I do, and I have no worries. But, people aren’t always honest. Most importantly, people don’t always give a shit about you. Not in the way you want or expect them to care. My wife told me it wasn’t her responsibility to help me lose weight. It’ my responsibility to eat right, regardless of my surroundings. In other words, if she comes home with a jar of peanut butter, even though she knows I binge on it uncontrollably, I should have the strength not to eat the whole thing.

Yeah, and a junky should have the strength not to take drugs, and serial killers should know not to kill people.

My point is, people who love you will do and say things, taking for granted that you’re a responsible person. They’ll tell you something to be nice, not considering that you may have a malfunction that prohibits you from processing that information in the right way. So, when I weighed 237lbs, and people would tell me I look fine, I actually believed them and kept eating like a pig. And when I started to gain weight, and people told me I wasn’t, when it was obvious I was, I kept eating. I was hoping that they wuld be my safety net, and warn me, if not stop me, from losing something they knew I’d worke dso hard to achieve.

I was wrong.

If you’re eating a whole cake every day, gaining weight, and people tell you that you look the same, well then, why exercise when you can chill and eat cakes all fucking day?

Another thing, people’s perceptions are most often fantasies.

The saying: “Things are not always as they appear” is a fact when it comes to appearance. How you look to you and others is totally different from how you really look.

Example 1: When I was 237, my wife had no idea. Even though I would suffocate her during sex, even though she was buying size 42 waist pants for me, the news that I weighed so much was a huge surprise to her and my friends. Why? Because she saw me everyday and had become numb to may actual appearance vs. what she saw and cared about.

Example 2: There are some coworkers or mine who, when I was 237, I thought were skinny. But, when I was 137, suddenly I saw them as fat. Now, that I’ve gained weight, they’re getting smaller. Their physical appearance was based on my physical appearance, and how I saw myself.

Example 3: When I was 137, even though my wife experienced increased sexual desire for me, she often complained because I was no longer soft, cuddly, and warm when we snuggled. In fact, we spent little time together because I was so active and tired from exercise. My sex drive had dropped, so I hardly craved sex, making her want to more. But, when we did, my body temperature had dropped significantly, so I was always cold, and my hipbone would dig into her during sex. She also believes a man should be larger than his women, and I was so small, I could wear her clothes. Thus, my losing weight had been uncomfortable for her both physically and mentally.

Example 4: When I war 137, people were constantly on my back, telling me I had lost too much weight. One coworker even tried to force me to eat pizza, and I was harassed whenever there was an office party. I later found their actions were fueled by their ideas about my appearance. They weren’t used to seeing me so small. Their pressure for me to eat was fueled by their desire to have me meet their expectations and what they were used to seeing. They were used to seeing me fat, so they couldn’t’ handle a skinny me. This was proven when I discovered, while I was losing weight, my supervisor was being questioned about my health, asking if I was sick. And I would get people asking me if I was well, and after I told them I lost weight, they’d ask: “Was it intentional?” On top of that, the only person who didn’t harass me, was my boss, and she’d only knew for six-months.

I’m not blaming them, or transferring my regret and disappointment on them, what they did wasn’t intentional. But it proves the point that people are false (ie. full of shit). It’s a default setting in their personalities that, if they’re not aware of, is persistent. They believe what they see, even if it couldn’t possibly be real. In film, its called Suspension of Disbelief, when an audience will believe the unbelievable, and it’s fueled by the same principle that argues the existence of God. If you see it, it must be real. Problem is, it doesn’t take into account that what we see is controlled by our brains, and with most people having some kind of mental malfunction, it just means most of what we see is fucked up.

But, if that’s not the case, then you can always count on one thing. People just don’t care and talk out of their ass way too goddamn much, without taking into account that you can’t say anything to anyone, but people don’t fucking think before they speak.

So, I got fat again.

Not as fat as I was, but getting there over time. I’ve tried to stop it with no success, and again it’s fueled by those who’ll tell me I’m fine when I’m not. And though it’s obvious to me, I’ll listen to them because I want to. Because the alternative takes to much energy and commitment, and sitting on the couch hurts a lot less than jogging.

And there I was, looking at my reflection and thinking of my words to my daughter. I won’t say what I’m gonna do, because losing weight is like suicide, if you talk about it, there’s a 90% chance you’ll chicken out. But I will write this, if I do lose weight again, whether it’s now or later, I’ll never listen to anyone ever again. I don’t care if I’m puking in a bucket for the rest of my life, everyone from my wife to my friends can kiss my ass.

We, fat people, are not happy, and I think it should be avoided at all costs. Even if I get lung cancer and die, if smoking keeps me from eating, then I’ll smoke a ten packs a day until they drill a hole in my throat. Fuck it! I’ll drink my Slimfast through a tube, and wear turtlenecks.

If there’s any fat people reading this, I’m one of you, and I’m telling you to lose weight. Whatever it takes, do it. Don’t let anything stop you. Don’t buy the medical bullshit being stuffed down you’re throats about the “healthy ways to lose weight” because there are none. Being “healthy” today is nothing but a brand name and an expensive price tag. Don’t listen to your family and friends, because as much as they love you, they’re also ruled by their expectations of you. They don’t want you to change, it’s unsettling, and it knocks their world off balance and may even suggest they need to change some things about themselves. Misery loves company, and so does laziness.

To all my friends out there, and to anyone else who has someone who needs to change, I have two words for you: TELL US! Call them on the phone, write them a letter, or just tell them to their face. Say: “You’re fucking fat. You need to lose some fucking weight, or I’ll have to stop seeing you because you’re making me look bad.”

One thing triggered my weight loss.

One thing turned a 237-pound fat ass into a 137 lean machine with a six-pack.

When I asked a coworker what my New Year’s resolution should be, he said: “Lose weight.”

How could he say that? Because he didn’t give a fuck about me, or my feelings.

Friends like that don’t come cheap.

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OLD SHIT

I’m trying to catch-up to all the time I’ve been abscent, so here’s some old stuff I have laying around for filler.

Here’s an old poem I wrote back in the day, I don’t think I even had a title for it.

Do you want to be free?
Then you must be evil.
Only evil people are free.
Goodness has too many rules.
People believe the true difficulty of existence is being good,
But the reality is, being good is simple.
The difficulties of life come from doing wrong and living with it.
You think it’s easy to kill someone?
How hard is it to walk away from some asshole, leaving them in “peace and love”?
But, to stare in someone’s eyes and take their soul away,
To embrace the majesty of it, the power, and claim it for yourself without madness taking you…
That’s truly difficult, because you die with them.
You are one, you share the same fragility, and the fallacies of religion come crashing down around you both.
And the power of God can be obtained, by anyone.
Let me ask again…
Do you want to be free?
The power of choice.
Power to choose your own destiny, free of interference from a glorious abomination and damnable revelation.
More importantly, do you want to be eternal?
Living in the darkness, and feeling the cold around you?
To walk the night paths free of fear and dangers,
Roaming the fantasies and nightmares that are your playground.
To feel your victim go limp in your arms and turn to dust before your timeless eyes.
Do you want this evil gift I offer?
If you want it, come for it,
And I will send you to hell.

Yeah, I was a goth. And in serious need of psychotherapy.

Here a couple of porn reviews I did as samples for a porn mag. I’m still waiting for a callback

Biker Chick Cum Easy 2
VCA Pictures. D: D3. Alexis Malone, Lauren Phoenix, Nicole Jordan, Simone, Anell, Casey Pink, Madison Sin, Kim Chambers, August Avila, Scott Styles, Alex Sanders, Lee Stone, Grant Michaels, Dick Tracy, Tyce Bune. 84 Mins.

The term “crotch-rocket” takes on a whole new meaning in this high-octane raunch fest that shifts from soft to hard in 0.6 seconds while you hold yourself for dear life. BCCE 2 is a peek into the lives of bikers and their bitches. They’re modern cowboys on steel charges, the male elite, and the only ones who can satisfy these women of wild abandon.
The tape starts with Alex Sanders in a three-way that remains within legal limits. Followed by Simone who revs things up with a hot striptease lead-in before sucking & fucking Scott Styles in a scene that challenges your dick muscles to stay clinched or blow too soon. It’s balls to the wall action! These chicks demand to get fucked hard, roaring like Harleys and spitting expletives. Amplified by believable surroundings and attention to detail that immerses you in the biking world. Even August’s dildo is zebra striped. And Kim Chambers is a streamlined muscle machine, shooting vaginal juice like hot fire.
BCCE 2 is sure to make rounds at biker clubs everywhere.
Marketing: This video’s uniqueness and energized sex makes it a must have.


Killer Sex and Suicide Blondes
Wicked Pictures. D: Michael Raven. Julia Ann, Jessica Drake, Kaylani Lei, Ice LaFox, Justine Joli, Brad Armstrong, Steven St. Croix, Evan Stone, Gino Greco, Randy Spears; Jonathan Morgan (Non-Sex Role). 95 Mins.

With Hollywood movies like The Brown Bunny, the line between depictions of sex in mainstream and adult cinema is thinning. Some consider the possibility of it disappearing completely to be far-fetched, but Michael Raven proves otherwise. Julia Ann stars as Gemini Black, a trained killer whose mind dances between homicide and suicide, in a film that proves story driven sex is more inciting than any specialty gimmick.
Killer Sex does suffer from limitations - The music is repetitive, sound quality is poor, and a disturbing shot of Brad Armstrong’s ball-sack distracts from the lovely Kaylani Lei’s lips, but the film still triumphs. The story is strong and not so heavy that it slows pacing between sex scenes. The sex choreography repeats itself, but empowered by different character emotions keeps them exciting. Julia Ann is mesmerizing both in and out of bed with her portrayal of a woman driven by grief and hate. Second only to Jessica Drake, whose acting is equal to her beauty and sexual appetite, her scenes with Ice LaFox and Steven St. Croix drives you to masturbation. But Julia’s spotlight isn’t stolen and holds it firmly with Steven and Evan Stone, mixing hate and aggression with a lust for sex and revenge.
Although the film’s character development isn’t sustained, Raven compensates, directing the emphasis from story to sex. It devolves from movie to porno and remains excellent. Diverting attention away from an underdeveloped ending that comes off a little too preachy. Killer Sex and Suicide Blondes is a feature that screams for a sequel.
Marketing: Women will like the story. Men will love the sex. This movie is tailor-made for couples.—

And finally, my pitch for the White Wolf novel contest. As hard as it is to believe, it’s not based or inspired by Underworld. I’d had a similar idea about ten or eleven years ago called Wild Ways. I found out about the White Wolf’s contest with only four days until the deadline, so I updated and pitch it, based on the contest rules that it contain at least one of their new characters.

I don’t think I’ll hear from them any time soon, but it was worth a shot.

In 2004, White Wolf re-introduced their Worlds of Darkness with Vampire: The Requiem, followed by Werewolf: The Forsaken. Newcomers marveled at gothic horror in a modern setting, but loyalists were shocked by the disappearance of several Clans and Tribes from the previous models.

Wild Ways bridges the gap between the two ages in the World of Darkness.

The Garou and Kindred were bitter enemies with humans caught in the middle of a war between two supernatural powers. Foreseeing a holocaust leaving none the victor, oracles from both races forced a truce. A symbiosis called The Pax, where vampires would remain in the cities, werewolves stayed to the wild, and their human allies would safeguard the existence of both.

But werewolves and vampires have their own separate enemies. For centuries The Wrym fought with the Garou, while The Seven conspired against their own vampire race. They join forces to manipulate the Garou and Kindred until The Pax breaks so they can rule remnants of a shattered world.

As battles erupt across the globe, the werewolf oracle, Doomwise, knows the wolf leader Elias Winterborn and the vampire Prince Maxwell hold the power to stop the war. But Maxwell has fallen to the manipulations of Solomon Birch, leading him into a war with Elias’ Storm Lords, one battle between two saviors that would signal the end of everything. Doomwise’s only hope is hiring The Nameless and convincing The Unholy to stop the conflict so Elias and Maxwell can remake the pax.

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FROM THE ARCHIVES

HERE'S AN ENTRY I MADE A LONG TIME AGO, BUT NEVER POSTED BECAUSE OF THE RACIAL STUFF IN IT. AT THE TIME, I FELT PEOPLE WOULD TAKE OFFENSE AND MISREAD IT, THINKING I WAS A RACIST OR SOMETHING. BUT TODAY, I'M IN A "WHAT THE FUCK" MOOD, SO HERE IT IS.

BITCHING

Day #7 of my illness and I’m still dragging my ass to work. Why? When did I become such a bitch for my job?

No need to guess, it’s when I had kids. But that’s how they get you, isn’t it? The power brokers who benefit from a system that chews you up until nothing’s left, but annoying gristle that sticks in their teeth. And you don’t see it coming, because you’re too busy stuffing yourself a gingerbread check that comes every two weeks. Next thing you know, you’re too heavy to move and comfortable where you’re at. Televisions, stereos, Ikea furniture and a $20k car are weighing you down, and you’re not working to live, but pay creditors. You fear being too broke to eat Carl’s Jr. or see a movie in a stadium theater. So you keep working to keep your cable, dvd’s and comics, the acceptable drugs of choice that zombify you into another “normal” person, chanting “one of us” repetitively.

The only saving grace I have, coming to this hellhole every day, is Howard Stern, and even he is getting thin. Used to be he was funny, or at least interesting, every day. Now, some mornings he’s just boring. So I hit the “scan” button on my car radio and notice that way over 75% of the stations I’m cruising are Spanish speaking. And I can’t help, but feel like there’s something wrong with that. Then, when I arrive at my job and park, the structure’s overhead speakers are pumping the same Spanish shit over my head.

I have a really big problem with Spanish becoming the primary spoken language in LA, I’m not the only one, and NO it doesn’t make me a racist to feel this way. This has got to be the only place where people from another country can come here and expect you, a born and raised citizen, to speak their language, and get surprised when you don’t. I was doing customer service once, and I woman called in, immediately speaking Spanish. I had to interrupt her to let her know I didn’t speak Spanish and asked if she spoke English. I said, “I’m sorry, no hablo Espaniol.” And she replied, “And why DON’T you speak Spanish?” Yeah – in PERFECT English.

I realized after that, this whole language thing, it’s not an issue of prejudice, but ego and the ethnic self-importance that a lot of minorities have, including my own. A lot of people in this country don’t speak English simply because they don’t want to, and that pisses me off because our government supports it through their inaction and political kowtowing for minority votes. Which is a sign of a bigger problem, that being an American has lost all importance in our own country. People are entering this country with no desire to become a citizen. And why should they, when we place no importance on it either. It’s feels like years since I’ve heard someone refer to themselves as an American. The only person to use the word is the President, and I think he’s using it less and less.

But maybe this is what we deserve for stealing this land in the first place?

We interrupt this rant for another rant –

God, I hate my fucking coworker, the one I mentioned yesterday, the old hag. Okay, we’re both fucking sick, but she’s going on and on about it, milking for fucking attention. It’s driving me insane! She always has to talk, I’ve noticed that about her, no matter what’s she’s doing, she has to talk. Even if you have no interest in her, what’s she’s doing, where she’s going, or anything else even remotely connected to her, she has to tell you anyway. Have you ever met a person, whose need to be heard was so aggressive, that they talk out loud for no reason? No, they’re not talking to themselves, but just out to anyone within earshot. That’s what she does and it kills me every time. You could be talking about rat shit, and she’ll find a way to get in the conversation and steer it to her and how SHE handles rat shit. It’s fucking insane!

We now return to our regularly schedule ranting still in progress –

But what are you gonna do about it? Nothing. People more powerful than you or I have already tried and failed. I always get pissed when someone a Hispanic will use the argument that Americans are too stuck-up to do their work and that’s why we need them. If my race’s only claim to importance was cutting grass and picking fruit, I wouldn’t brag about it. And I know a lot of people that cut their own fucking grass instead of paying someone else to sit around for three hours claiming to do a job that only takes an hour, and still fucking it up. And there are a shit load of people on unemployment who aren’t too proud to cut grass, pick fruit, or clean houses, I’m one of them, and I'd do it gladly if it would get me the fuck away from this annoying old lady.

Satellite radio will probably become the suburbs for anyone who can afford the money, a place away from the increasing Hispanic population. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, I don’t think it’s racist or prejudice to not like the lifestyles of people from other cultures. Or to see your country gravitate it’s powerbase from legal citizens towards illegal aliens. That’s a very important term we don’t stress enough, ILLEGAL. As in “against the fucking law”. The proof is staring you in the face. Those that become citizens respect this country. They can speak English and they’re proud of it. Those that don’t, aren’t, and it shows. Why do we kowtow to them, I’ll never know, and I’ll never know how an illegal alien can have a child here who’s a citizen. How can two illegals make a citizen? Explain that to me, because I thought two wrongs couldn’t make a right.

There she goes again, “Oh, I can’t think. I’m sick, and I want the world to know I’m sick, but I’m still here at work because I’m the fucking Lady of Guadalupe.” God! I’m sick, but do I bitch? Do I complain? Well, yeah, but it’s okay if I do it here. Who’s here? No one. But out there, I keep my mouth shut. I’m a man; I take the hit and keep going. Now that I think about it, my wife does that too, gets sick and bitches about it constantly. It’s real fucking annoying.

Anyway, to wrap this up, if anyone does read this, you’re probably thinking I’m a racist or something like that, another label we like to stick on things nowadays. Well, you’re wrong. I’m not, but there’s no law, nor is there anything wrong with not liking something or someone. We eat a lot of shit in this fucking country. We smile pretty and open wide while some PC group shoves political correct propaganda bullshit down our throats, and it stinks so bad we stop talking to one another. We just smile and nod, like everything is okay, when things are boiling over and it takes twelve nimrods in a fucking courtroom to make us explode. [Robin Quivers said something I very profound, she mentioned that the reason why black people riot and destroy their own neighborhoods id because they don’t own anything. Not the apartments they live in, the stores they shop in, the cars they drive, nothing. And white people don’t riot, but march, because they do own everything and care for their property.] But we don’t have to like everything or everyone. No one and nothing is perfect, you need bad qualities to have good ones. Every race has faults and it’s not prejudice to see them and not want to be around those people because of it. And there’s nothing wrong with letting that out, voicing your views and being heard. That’s what this country is about, funny how that gets lost somewhere in the PC ramble. It’s free speech if you only have something nice to say about someone, God forbid you get real and speak from the heart and not a teleprompter.

I think the beauty of America is an Alabama Porch Monkey and a Louisiana Redneck Honky walking from opposite ends on the same road, meeting face to face and telling each other how much they hate the other. They shake hands, respecting their mutual disdain, and then going their separate ways. Everything’s in the open and honest, they know where the other stands, respects their views and moves on, not letting it hinder their lives in any way. Wouldn’t you prefer that over the alternative, guys in hoods, not knowing who to trust or where you stand before there's a burning cross on your lawn, or a Malakoff cocktail thrown through your window? Maybe race relations in this country would be a lot better if we pushed the slogan, “Hate, but don’t hinder” – you can hate me all you want, but don’t stop me from living my life. I wonder if that would change anything?

Probably not.

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COMING IN FROM THE COLD

Been a while, hasn’t it?

Well, I’m back, after getting spanked by Merlin and a fan to get my ass in gear.

I’ve tried several times in the last few weeks to write something here, but nothing felt right. Not that I didn’t have anything to write about, I just didn’t feel like sharing. I’ve been pretty down the last few weeks, which is normal for me. Whenever I feel good for any extended period of time, you can be sure the clouds will form, the rain will fall, and Charlie Brown will return.

So, now that I’m here, what should I do?

Should I write about my book, LAZARUS: Immortal Coils?

Things are moving forward, slower than I’d prefer, but it’s worth the wait. My penciler is Carlos Rafael, and he’s doing some great work. Frank Martin is the colorist, and he keeps blowing me away. Last week, I received the first four pages, colored, and I was floored. It took a bit of time to get the skin color right on the Hebrews, but when we did, it worked better than expected.

The story takes place in 2005 and 33AD, and I was adamant to portray the people as accurately as I could (i.e. No Whities). But it was difficult to go with my original idea of having them be totally black, with afros and the works, because I didn’t want to limit my audience or type-cast the book. I had to settle for somewhere in the middle, and I’m very happy with the results. Pages 9 and 10, which set up the first action scene are already colored. It takes place at night, and Frank really brought Carlos’ pencils to life.

Now, I’m setting things up for lettering and book design. Artmonkeys is hooking that up, and I’m very excited about the end results. They worked on CrossGen’s titles, and while the company went belly-up, it wasn’t because of the production quality. Their books were gorgeous, and I own several for that fact alone. So, having Artmonkeys on LAZARUS is a big thing for me.

On top of all this, Casey Edwards is a phenomenal artist who just turned in some work that’s pure gold. There’s an energy to his work that makes it leap off the page and blows the back of your head clean off.

All this, plus an incredible cover from Liam Sharp, dramatic illustrations from Kevin Sharpe, and I think I’m all set.

So why am I afraid? Why am I nervous? Why do am I questioning how the book will sell?

Because everything I have is riding on this, that’s why. I had to eat my pride, and go to my father, asking him for the money to make this happen, and he’s investing thousands of dollars based on nothing more than my word.

My wife has spent the last ten years supporting me, never wavering, living a half-life while I fucked around when I should have been working. And now that I am, she’s so excited. To her, this book is proof that her faith in me wasn’t wasted.

And for me, it’s a validation.

My life is full of questions and contradictions. Sometimes, I feel like I’m constantly searching for the truth about myself. I’m thirty-three and feel like half my life is a mystery. I didn’t find out my real age until I was in fourth grade, because my mom had fibbed to so many schools, for so many different reasons, that I never knew I was older than everyone thought. A lot of people have lied to me, and it’s not all bad. In high school, a friend told me I had a secret admirer when I didn’t, just to make me feel better. Another time, he got a friend of his mother’s to boost my self-esteem by telling me I’d make an attractive actor, like my idol, Tom Cruise. My father shielded me from the craziness he and my mother were going through by separating himself from me, and I spent years thinking he’d abandoned me. Leaving my mother open to fill my head with nightmarish thoughts, making it impossible for me to love or live with my father when she sent me to him. I hated my dad for things he never did, or never explained. And in his world, better the children hate the father, than ruin the mother’s image. My father is the most amazing man I’ll ever know, and spending years hating him, when I could have learned from him, breaks my heart.

More than questioning if there’s a God, I ask myself who’s the real JPG. I think I know, but I’m never quite sure. There’s a large chunk of my past I can’t even remember. After the age of fourteen, memories begin to blur together. I’ll have a flash of something, but have no idea when it happened, how old I was, or if it’s even true or a dream. The truth is my obsession, which is pretty ironic for a writer who loves fiction. But it’s also the reason, or the gimmick, behind this blog site. To wipe away the bullshit, and see things as they are. Hey, I’m not trying to uncover any great mysteries. I just want to take a look at the world for what it is, instead of what others would have us believe.

Getting back on point, when this book is published, the response from it would be validation because I’ve never known with any degree of certainty if I can write well or not. My grammar is for shit, I know that, but that’s not what I’m worried about. I still have my high school teacher, Mr. Carney, in my fucking head, asking me “Who would want to read about you?” when I told him I wanted to write my memoirs. I can still see that big “F” on my report card, when I failed his English class. I can see it all, every scholastic failure and regret, telling me that there’s no way in hell I’d make a good writer. Yet, there’s nothing else I could ever imagine myself doing. And what if, after this book comes out, it’s proven that I’m not very good at it?

When you publish an OGN, or anything, it has to be successful on at least one of two levels. Either it makes a gang of money. Or, it opens doors that lead to more work. The odds on LAZARUS making a lot of cash are against me, and I know it. Even with a major publisher backing me, being a no name is a hard hurtle to climb in the comic biz. Especially now that writers are enjoying popstar status, if you’re not a name, then very few people give a damn. But, the one thing I am hoping for is an opportunity to walk through some open doors. That’s where my fears are focused. Not with whether or not Laz will make bank, but if the story isn’t good, if it’s not well written, those doors won’t open. Worse, some of the ones that have opened will shut on me. The response I’ve received has been positive. Everyone who's read or heard the story and seen the characters really gets into it. Everything in my gut tells me this will work, but my mind still fucks with me.

So, as time progresses, my fear escalates, and I wonder what will be the final verdict on the book. Will people cheer my name as a new up & coming, or put me down like unwanted dog?

I don’t know. I just know that I put my heart into this book. I’ve given it my all, and followed the rules as best I could. When it’s all done, I’ll take a deep breath and go to as many conventions as possible to pimp my wares. And anyone who knows me knows that I’m not a public kind of guy. I shun the light, like a cockroach. But I’ll do whatever it takes, because I feel that strongly about my work, and the work of everyone involved.

Above my desk is a picture of my friends and I, at the 97 or 98 San Diego comic convention. I think it was, or close to, the last time we were all together as DMS. I look at the picture, four guys with dreams, and I wonder what would have happened if I’d just…

Well, you can’t go back in time. What’s done is done. This post feels like it’s all over the place, so I won’t search for some perfect ending, because it hasn’t happened yet. As soon as I have some lettered pages, I’m submitting to publishers. If they take me? Great. If not, I’ll self-publish without them. Either way, the ending won’t come until LAZARUS: Immortal Coils is released…

I’m hoping it’s a happy one.

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