Monthly Archives: January 2017

Homer and Calliope

I call upon My Muse:
Please let me sing your glory,
But this time, I would like to hear your story.
Tell me about the Bard, I ask, the blind one,
The first true poet. Tell me the tale
Of how he found his fame and lost his sight for you.
He would be the greatest poet ever seen,
The earliest poet ever remembered
(past maybe the fifth generation).
What made him so special?
What made you love him so much?
Was it his qualities? Was it his poise?
Did you take pleasure in his bearing?
Was it some glint in his eye that proved his devotion to you?
Is that how we seduce the Muse?
Or was it his discipline?

That Homer must have been a fine young fellow,
A smart young lad,
To assemble all those verses, those stories, from bits and scraps.
Who was he? Was he even Greek
Or a captive barbarian with an adopted tongue
Taken from his old world to the new across the sea,
That sea that he said looked the color of wine.
When did you find him? As a boy?
Precocious and at odds with his tutors?
Or as a man? At court? Or in the streets?
What were your first thoughts when you saw him?
When you heard him speak?
Did you hate him at first, like in the modern love stories?
Or did you choose him before he even knew himself?

And did he always love you?
Did you come to him in a moment of blinding revelation
To knock him on his back?
Or did he come to you, sculpting your pedestal with his words,
And sacrifice himself upon your altar?
How long did it take him to woo you
Before you succumbed to his words?
And when you did, how blessed was the night?

But you were no blushing bride even to Homer, were you?
No, you were already married.
What did your husband think when Homer caught your eye?
Has Apollo the jealousy of his stepmother?
Did he gnash his teeth? Foam at the mouth?
Or was he dismissive of this mortal’s advances?
Was to him Homer’s impending renown the stuff of mere legends
Whereas He was a living Myth?
What were his words?
How long did it take him to show his wrath?
How long did it take Homer to feel it?

Did he know the doom that awaited?
He must have–but did he even know who you were?
Were you revealed to him?
Did you warn him of what was in store?
Had you no share in your husband’s gift of Prophecy,
Or did He keep it from you?
Still, you must have known the danger.
Did you come to the bard disguised?
As a swan? As a laurel tree?
Or perhaps as a human girl, a woman for him to fall in love with?
Then how could he have known?
What would you have shown him?
What would he have felt?

For the doom that awaited could not have waited long.
What did Apollo do when he knew himself cuckold?
How long did he wait? Did he strike at once
With heavenly fire
This insect who would steal from the sun?
Or did he first seek to prove himself,
As Pallas with the spider at the loom,
In a contest for his own wife’s heart?
And would the Muse still choose him?
Would you have chosen him over your mortal pet? Having done that?

But maybe this isn’t how it went at all.
Maybe you only came to Homer in dreams,
As a voice in his head, as a whisper in his brain
When he sang for his supper and posterity.
Maybe Homer was only said to be blind
Because he called the sea dark like wine
Because he lacked the words, the language, to describe it
To the satisfaction of the ages.
But that is not your story.

Homer loved you so well, Homer loved you so deeply
That he shamed the God of Light with his words,
And so he was plunged into darkness.
But did he forget there’s no drowning a voice in the silence?
Did he not know, not foresee, that darkness only makes a voice louder,
Only makes a heart more full of its own light, of its own brilliance,
So he had elevated his rival with a very seat on Olympos
Alongside the Gods in perpetuity.
Could he not have known? Perhaps he, too, loved the Blind Bard,
Perhaps even long before you did, and fostered him for you,
To be sacrificed on the altar of narrative art.

But that is for you to decide.
Because this is your story.

On Theft

One more thing before we begin in earnest.

The concern that I have had in the past, that has been echoed to me by concerned friends who don’t really seem to know what they’re talking about, is that online content can too easily be pirated.

Let us be clear. The real fear for the emerging writer is not, has never been, that we will be overheard by the wrong person. The real fear is that no one will ever actually listen.

That being said, I want to talk about the nature of Theft.

Do you remember those commercials they used to have before everyone had Netflix that compared illegally downloading movies to stealing a DVD or even a car?

Is that a fair comparison? Hmmmmmm.

Why is theft wrong?

If I steal a car, the person who owned the car doesn’t have the car anymore. This is a HUGE inconvenience, because they then have to shell out the cash for a new car. Or their insurance does, if you’re into that kinda thing, but it’s still a huge drag. The point is, if you steal it, they don’t have it and can therefore no longer use it themselves.

If I steal a DVD, why is that wrong? There are plenty of other copies of that DVD on the shelf, especially if it’s recent enough that it’s expensive enough to bother stealing it. It’s not like me having that DVD is going to prevent anyone else from seeing that movie, ever. So why is it wrong?

Well, this time, it’s wrong because the company selling it was going to make money off of that DVD. I deprived them of their right to make that money.

This, presumably, is the same reason why piracy is a form of theft and therefore bad. The fact that anti-piracy advertising is historically ineffective is traceable to three primary causes: 1) nobody watches the ads and even when we do, we resent them; 2) they made the mistake of calling it “piracy”, which sounds like the coolest thing EVER; and 3) for a long time, they really didn’t give any incentive not to.

I mean, OK, there’s the threat of jail-time, sure, but there was a time not too terribly long ago (well, OK, it was before everyone had Netflix, so maybe it was pretty long ago) when there were some TV shows out there, in particular, that just simply weren’t available–or at least, weren’t available in some parts of the world. I had friends abroad who used to “pirate” episodes of Battlestar: Galactica because they lived in Belgium and it was the only way they could watch them. One of my friends insisted that he would gladly pay money, real money, for the privilege, but that option just wasn’t available. He was forced to wait spoiler-filled months for the seasons to come out on DVD or even longer for them to show up on TV.

But that’s not really the point of this post.

This post is about me, and how I do and don’t want you to pirate my stuff.

Here are the rules. Once I figure out how to install the option, I intend to have a “donate” button, just in case you want to give me money. I also might go the admittedly lame route of opening myself up to advertising to get a revenue stream from that, hopefully, once I get famouser.

In other words, I won’t actually ask you, the consumer, for money directly. For now. I’m just not cool enough to get away with that yet.

So to speak of “theft” in the sense of illegally downloading in that context is pretty silly. I want you to read this stuff. I want you to tell your friends and your family and your colleagues and your bosses and your students and your enemies and your ulcers and your children’s children unto the umpteenth generation. And I’m not gonna ask them for money, either. (Well, I’ll ask, once I figure out how, but only politely.)

But here’s where I draw the line.

Theft is bad because it deprives the victim of something, be it the use of the car, the potential for financial advancement or even just the renown of being associated with it. This is the real reason (one of the reasons, anyway) why plagiarism is bad. If you’re going to share my stuff, you have to actually, well, Share it, to use the Facebook term. You can’t just copy it down and plaster it on your own wall like you were the one who wrote it. This is what copyright law is designed to combat.

If I were to plagiarize someone else’s post, first of all, I would deprive them of the glory of being associated with it, which is a dick move to begin with. Second, I would be able to use that post for my own nefarious money-grubbing ends, which is equally uncool, whether or not the author of the piece was also asking money for it.

But there’s an even more insidious from of intellectual thievery.

Imagine if I stole a story you wrote. I passed it off as my own, on my site. People liked it, because, oh, I don’t know, I have better marketing than you have. (This is how you know I’m making this up, because I absolutely suck at marketing.) And because people liked it, Hollywood decided to come in and buy that story (“your” story) and make it into a movie, which made gazillions of dollars.

But then you wanted to write a sequel.

Sequels are dependent on intellectual property rights, but in the eyes of the world, those are no longer yours. They’re mine and, frankly, Hollywood’s.

“But I wasn’t finished with that story!”

Well, tough.

Can you prove that you wrote it?

Well, actually technically you can, because it’s right here on your site. See where it’s dated? I’m sure there’s a way to circumvent that, but I’m equally sure (my knowledge of all things computers being confined to my crush on Felicity Smoak from Arrow) that there are ways of circumventing those ways etcetera etcetera

But by that point, we’ve both gone so far into debt from paying lawyers’ fees that neither one of us can really enjoy anything ever again.

So don’t steal stories, OK? Read them, enjoy them, share them with your friends, but do not, do not, DO NOT call them your own. Unless they are your own.

I’ll tell you what, though. If you see something you like on this site and you think “Gee, that’s great, but I think it could be even better!”, talk to me.

On Blogging

I want to be clear about what I do.

I’ve seen a lot of “writing blogs” where self-help instructors talk about fiction and what it means, often rehashing the same doctrinal rules I ignored even when I was in school for this, or else hold the backs of their hands firmly to their forehead and apologize every few weeks for not posting enough.

That is not the kind of writer I wish to be, neither of those two.

I want to actually write stories on the net. Original content. Flash fiction, poems, short plays, perhaps the occasional essay if it holds my interest.

But in the long term, I don’t want to write a “blog”.

Blogs are too linear. I don’t want you to come to my site and see what I posted yesterday and forget all the rest. I don’t want a thread of stories reaching back, I want a net that spread out over your consciousness, and across the world.

As such, this whole thing is probably going to be temporary. Eventually, I hope, I’ll figure out how to unwind this thread and build it into something more like a wiki, placing the emphasis on the interconnection of stories rather than on time.

On the Internet

There are two aspects to the Internet that I hear people talking about that always seemed to me to be in contradiction with each other.

On the one hand, the Internet is a place where everything is permanent. “Be careful what you put online,” our elders admonish, “Your grandchildren will be able to see it!”

And on the other hand, the Internet is fickle and ephemeral. Posters like myself are expected to have new content every other day, at least, to remain relevant, to keep from being forgotten in the din.

But there is something at the conjunction of these two aspects, a kind of mutability of the net that is exemplified by Wikipedia, if nothing else, changing daily, hourly, even minute by minute to update the world, so that we are left to ask “Is this an encyclopedia or a newspaper?” When, of course, it is neither.

So how do we use this conjunction? Is there a way to manipulate the net, to play the strands of the web like a spider, to create original content that can change over time.

Is it even ethical to do so?