No More Heroes – Journal 7/3/17

I’ve accidentally just done some math that says if I play my cards perfectly, I’ll have grown to an audience of over 15,000 by the end of this year. With the exponential growth of this place I would still be surprised to, but I’m staying humble. No one got anywhere with great expectations, Mr. Dickens.

There was one time in the second grade I had an idea for a story. Me being a child and thinking that being pitied was the same as being liked, I often wrote about myself being the hero of a story being greviously wounded so that people would be sympathetic (and like me, because I was the hero). Only to think some time down the road that some of the things I wrote about were just plain bizarre. That story I wrote in the second grade was titled “Airsoft”, and was a story about me and my friends getting into an airsoft game where I get seriously wounded by a big, burly man on the enemy team during a match. I think in my mind I was making a Karate Kid takeoff. Alas, the story was three pages long, ending when I wake up in the hospital and the man who injured me gets jailed. A couple of things to know about airsofting: if you aren’t a fucking moron, you won’t get seriously hurt. Also, there is no 7 year olds vs. adults tournament that I am aware of.

But that’s how I wrote. I thought that I needed to be a sympathetic character in my own stories so that people would be fond of me, at least in my own head. How pathetic does that sound saying out loud? Most of my writing about myself from back then deals with harm and self-importance similarly.

One of my hallmarks of stories back then would be to find a way to knock myself unconscious because I didn’t know how to transition scenes properly. Get knocked the fuck out, wake up, and be surrounded by people who are nursing you and musing about how brave you were for being knocked the fuck out. This was a fatal flaw in many works I “published” on the internet back in the day. It became way too easy to wake up in a situation where you’re safe, and the fight rages on because you’re in a coma. SO when you DO wake up, all the cool shit has happened! What the hell was I thinking?

Even in Avian American, this is totally evident in some scenes where I thought it would make sense to use and old Jaketrope, and also it kinda worked too well in some aspects of the story.

Speaking of Avian American, I’d like to talk about the title of this journal for a moment. No more heroes. I’ll give a brief recap of the story if you don’t want to wade through it: Abaddon is a dude with wings, 14 years of age (like a certain someone who wrote it, and like a certain series that person read). Abaddon has wings, is living on the lam, and discovers two other people who have wings, Eleanor and Heather. Eleanor and Abaddon form a bond of sorts, and through a series of scrapes end up in New York to hide out, Heather dead or presumed.

In the first 30 pages, we see the story progress from the perspective of Abaddon, the lead. Near the 30th page, the perspective changes to be that of Eleanor’s ominously, as they have an epic kiss. Clearly I was good at romance, because Abaddon dies roughly 5 pages after the perspective shift. Eleanor sees it, has the reactions in the fight that takes him, and then continues from her perspective until I gave up on the piece (which features flying, fighting, car chases, mechs, asylums for the different, and some chick who’s also a cat or some shit *what the fuck, me*).

No more heroes. I thought it would be an epic twist to throw in Abaddon as a red herring, because he doesn’t develop as a character at all throughout and then serves only to be a point in Eleanor’s character. I thought it was terribly clever.

Then I would be trapped in trying to have a story continue through the deaths of the protagonists that take the place of a previous one. Like how there’s camp counselors that get picked off in each Friday the 13th, but the perspective is always omniscient is the thing. This would be a first person story with very minor horror elements, if any, that simply continues because there is more story still happening. I’m doing something similar in the Deneb Mythos. I might still do something with that idea in a one off story.

One thing I’m terrified of is being trapped in writing the same damn things over and over again, yet I insist on writing about nature. I always wondered why mythology of any major civilization has answers for similar things to each other. Mountains, stars, the sun, the moon, trees, rivers, all that good stuff. I think because there’s a certain purity in nature that deserves to be immortalized, fucking ironic as that is.

I always find myself writing about the gaze of the forest, or the awesome peaks of Mount Si. The Snoqualmish people of Washington state believed that Mount Si was Snoqualm himself, the moon, and told his prometheus story where he fell from the sky trying to stop Fox and Blue Jay from stealing the sun. He fell from a cedar rope, and there his dead body lies in in North Bend. Mount Si.

This journal’s excerpt is from “Cryptsinfreeze”:

“Remembering it all
So much brighter
Than perhaps it was
And used to be

A truncheon clubbing
Dead neurons running
Still with energy to
Power this machine”

In which another theme I constantly revisit over my fear of losing memories. It’s a crypt frozen at the moment of burial, every dead memory. Even this stupid Avian American story I’ve long since given up on.

Cheers to not giving up any more! In fact, I might be getting into MMA or Boxing sometime soon. As with most people, I’m worried about my face getting misaligned because it’s about the only feature I have going for me other than my bubbly nihilism and anti-liberal liberalness.

Here’s to 205 followers, and the 4th of July tomorrow! Hope you all have your digits intact by the end of tomorrow.

Happy reading!

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