Monkey Bars

Posted by Amanda on Monday Feb 8, 2010 | Classified as: Literary Debauchery | Sub-Classified as: fiction, the craft

N.B: I wrote this sometime in November when I supposed to be writing for Nanowrimo. There’s something about speculative fiction that makes me smile.

The past is my playground, where I’m free to ride the merry-go-round as many times as I please without being scared of the monsters beneath. I like the swings best. I’m poised to jump as I pump my legs to shoot myself higher and higher; I’m reaching a place where I used to be queen of the castle. Or, at the very least, a duchess with a lot of pull with the rest of the nobility. After the swings, I go to the slide and ride the slick surface to its end, raising my arms in the air. The slides are joy. It is the highest and lowest point in my life.

The future is the challenge of swinging myself up to the top of the monkey bars to perch and dangle my legs between the bars. At seven, I was limber, agile, and energetic. At twenty three, I am ponchy, cumbersome, and no less energetic. So I scramble, trying to reach the top of the bars so I can look over the other houses in the neighbourhood. My surburbia. My kingdom. I just know that somehow the top of the monkey bars is where all of dreams will come true. But, here I am, staring at the monkey bars, paralyzed by fear that I won’t be able to get up there. The pebbles pay the price as I scatter them with a flick of my ankle.

The present seems to be someone’s idea of a drunken one night stand: it seemed like a great idea when both parties were intoxicated but the morning after is always a bitch. So I drink a fifth of the vodka I had stashed in my purse in one tough swig. It burns going down. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m still afraid of those stupid fucking monkey bars. Another bunch of pebbles are punished for their insolence. I’m alone on the playground when my mom calls at me from across the street; it’s getting dark and she made me dinner.

But I can’t go in. Not yet. I need to best those monkey bars.

Another fifth of the vodka downed before I toss my purse unceremoniously to the side. The bars are low enough that I don’t have to jump to catch them. My arms always burn in protest.

Too much work, they moan. Let’s just go back down to the ground and the pebbles and our mom.

I won’t take no for an answer. I’m so sick and fucking tired of being on the ground when it seems like everyone else can get to the top of the monkey bars. I hate them for being better than me. I hate being second best. I hate waiting. I ignore the pain in my arms and attempt to swing my legs up to catch the other bars with my heels. Several tries later and I’m still swinging with my legs half bent.

I hate these monkey bars.

After another stiff swallow of vodka, I’m tipsy. Angry. Upset at my failures. I rode the merry-go-round four times without falling off. I even closed my eyes, in spite of my brain reminding me of the monsters beneath that steal and eat unlucky little girls who don’t pay attention. No monsters ate me. My past loved me, relished my presence. So why didn’t the future welcome me with the same reverence?

Fucking monkey bars.

I try a few more times, but am met with the same failures. When my mom finds me three hours later, I’m sopping drunk from polishing off the bottle of vodka and crying from not being able to get where I know I need to be. Those monkey bars will solve all my problems. I know they will. Mama, why can’t I get to the top of the stupid monkey bars? Why am I such a fucking failure?

She soothes me, placing a calming hand on my clammy forehead, and holds me close to her sweet smelling blouse. Oscar de la Renta swims through my senses and suddenly I don’t want to get to the top of the monkey bars, as long as I’m safe on the ground. I have so much to be thankful for on the ground: my pretty mother, the pebbles, the grass, the terrifying merry-go-round, and the simplicity of knowing that my feet would always find their way.

You can reach the top of those monkey bars, my sweet, she murmurs into my lank black hair. Just believe in yourself. Try something else. Don’t be stuck on one method. Do everything. Try everything. Be spontaneous. Attack them. You are the maker of your design. But don’t run too fast. The present is a gift.

Yeah, the sort of gift that a mean aunt would give me on Christmas, I retort, burying my head between my knees. It’s not spinning down there; this weird chasm between my legs.

But it is a gift all the same, she says, smoothing my hair with a wise hand. Do not be so quick to judge yourself or others. We can help you reach the top of the monkey bars, you know. We love you.

Just like so many times before, I shrug off her help and protest that I’m a big girl who can take care of herself. I don’t need anyone to help me. I got up there once. I can get up there again. You should see if Dad needs you. I’ll be in soon. I promise.

I had promised it before.

I hadn’t been home in five years. I slept on the playground, curled around my empty bottles as though I gave birth them. But I didn’t want to leave without reaching the top. I would take as many tries as I needed in order to get up there.

There are countless more attempts before I collapse on myself underneath the stars and clouds. I am alone in this, I think to myself as I weep bitter tears. I am alone. These stupid monkey bars are going to be the end of me. I can’t get where I need to be. What if this is all there is? What if I never reach the top? The monkey bars cast frightening shadows across the playground as I drift into an uneasy sleep, full of empty dreams and sad nightmares. My unconscious doesn’t bother trying to scare me anymore. The loneliness scares me enough.

The dawn breaks and I begin with making another attempt, falling on my back and knocking the wind out of me. Tears stream down my face as I curse the Divine for failing to notice that I was struggling. I gave everything I had for so many years, happy to feed the heartless, the soulless, and the aimless with my heart, soul, and ambition. All I asked for was to get to the top. So why am I still here at the bottom? Why am I, your raven daughter, the one to pay the price for mistakes I haven’t had the chance to make?

I throw more pebbles at the sky and curse the infernal Divine.

I sit on the swings, trying to be the queen, the duchess. A startling man wanders onto the playground and manages to catch up to my swinging, smiling warmly at me. He says his name is Michael. He has green eyes like spring leaves. I like him instantly. I ask him if he’d like to ride my merry-go-round and he says yes. The monsters raise their scary eyes above, curious about the man called Michael. Michael plays games with me and we are happy. Mama doesn’t call me inside this time, she just watches from the door to our house, smiling and content that someone is playing with me. I’ve had other boys play with me on the playground but they all left when it was time for dinner or when it got dark.

Michael stays with me and drinks the raspberry schnapps I buried underneath my slide a few years back. It is sweeter with company. He tells me that I’m pretty and that I should smile more. So I smile more to make him laugh. He laughs with every fiber of his being. He is a man and a child. I envy him his merriment but his smile is pretty, with the gaps between his teeth and a twinkle in his leaf-green eyes. I like him. He is pretty and handsome and perfect. I hope he stays with me forever.

The monkey bars loom in the growing dark.

Can you climb to the top of the monkey bars? I ask him, swigging the schnapps, feeling the alcohol warming my veins. I’ve been trying but I can’t get up.

Michael is very tall. Tall as a tree. Even taller than Dad.

When he stretches his arms, he can touch the clouds; he says that they tickle his fingers. He hops up to the top of the monkey bars and reaches for me but I can’t get up yet. I’m still stuck on the ground and in the pebbles.

I can’t make it, Michael, I sob, wracked with guilt and sadness. I want to come up.

I can lift you, he soothes. Lean on me. Let me save you.

I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.

It’s beautiful up here, he says as I sit on the ground, fists in my hair. Please let me help you.

I refuse. I want to be up where he is but I need to get up there myself. He doesn’t understand me. I am alone again. Michael is ahead of me. I am jealous of his ease. Why do I always struggle?

But he doesn’t want to be on top without me so, without another word, he lifts me on his shoulders. I protest loudly; I’m afraid of heights and of the monkey bars. I don’t want to go up, I tell him. It’s okay to be on the ground.

No, you belong up there, he grins. Go and I shall follow.

I grasp the top of the monkey bars and pull myself off his shoulders without a lot of fuss. He is so tall that I graze the clouds. They tickle my cheeks. Michael is so handsome and perfect. I love myself when we are together. I sit on the top of the monkey bars. The sky is peaceful. The neighbours wave as they walk their dogs. I am so happy that I wave back. But the great epiphany has not come and I find myself disappointed.

Michael sits with me and wraps his arms around me. I am still ponchy and cumbersome but he just squishes closer; he is unafraid of the external me. Smile more, he says as he rests his strong chin on the top of my head. We are on top.

We are together. Life is a miracle.

Mama calls to me from our front door. She is proud of me for reaching the top but she was proud of me no matter where I stood or sat or danced. The Divine still ignores me as I sit with Michael’s arms around me but it’s okay. I don’t need their approval or help anymore. I have Michael. He has me.

The monkey bars have been bested.

Now I’m eyeballing the clouds.

On the Trepidation of Transparency

Posted by Amanda on Tuesday Jan 12, 2010 | Classified as: Literary Debauchery, Personal Development | Sub-Classified as: navel gazing, the craft

violetminded slipped into a new skin on Sunday. Design may be anything but transparent but, on the surface, it’s all out on the table. There’s a way to navigate around the site. Up in the left corner is the logo. There’s a place to read content. It’s mathematically creative. Unpredictable in its rationale but it all comes together. After all, there’s no way to disguise bad design as something else.

When I write fiction, I peel back my hardened exterior and let everything in (and out). My characters are the ones on the chopping block. If they screw up, I can fix it. I can be the referee: “Time for you to fall off that rooftop and I don’t care if you don’t like it. But no sexy time until I say so.” Okay, well, maybe I’m more of a bad mother than a referee. Yet, when it comes to vulnerability in non-fiction, I freeze up. I shy away. I don’t want to over-share in text. You can’t really retract something in text. You can’t will it away. The internet monster is an elephant like that: it has a long, unforgiving memory, unless you go and commit social networking suicide (there’s an app for that!)

Transparency is contradictory to a lot of the internet teachings that I’ve swallowed during my ten years online. Many of the best of the best in the community have often warned against sharing too much online. It’s unprofessional. Blogging is serious business. Only recently has it started to shift in favour of wearing your intentions on your sleeve and get right and out personal with your readers.

I was more than a little nervous when I talked about the Death pet. Not only was I addressing a topic that is awkward and uncomfortable but I was revealing a side of myself that I rarely acknowledged: a frail, scared little girl who still misses her Grandma nearly seventeen years later.

The women I admire within the blogging community are all about the transparency, the love, the truth. When I talked to Kelly about her talent for sharing her innermost secrets/fears/dreams when writing Cleavage, she told me that it was all about finding balance. There’s no way a person can live with their skin off. You have to find a way to give of yourself without losing yourself entirely.  And the writing that you’re really, really scared to push “Publish” on? Those are the posts that really matter; they’re the ones you’re obligated to write and share with your readers.

Truth is a beautiful thing, especially when it comes to the written word. The best kind of writing is full of microscopic truth: truth that can’t be proven but is felt. It’s honest. Maybe its witticisms are biting but they’re forthcoming. The writer gets her words out there and even if its fictitious (or the facts are bald-faced lies), the writing is honest.

Truth and transparency in fiction is easy. Truth and transparency in non-fiction is terrifying. Slipping violetminded into a new skin was a labour of code and design. Slipping out of my skin will be a labour of love.

If you’re looking for more on microscopic truth and finding your True Self in writing, check out “If You Want to Write” by Brenda Ueland. Truly exceptional book.

When Facing the Ferryman, Bring Exact Change

Posted by Amanda on Sunday Jan 3, 2010 | Classified as: Literary Debauchery, Personal Development | Sub-Classified as: death, navel gazing

Twentysomethings are all about contemplating their navels: a whole lot of self indulgence and not a lot of substance. At twenty-three, I’ve done my fair share of navel gazing. Where am I going? What am I doing? Why is life such a complicated mess? Whine, whine. Sniffle, sniffle. My poor, misunderstood generation.

It’s all white noise.

A hospital room is a parity shift: it forces us to gaze outward and reflect. To shift our ones to zeroes. It’s uncomfortable. It’s painful. It’s the Goddess of Grief getting under our skin, blurring the lines between creative paralysis and the inevitability of numbness.

I’ve sat in more hospital chairs than I care to count. Been down this road too many times. It never gets easier, no matter how many times we’ve been there before.

I sat on her bed this afternoon and looking into those watery blue eyes. I loved her for the women she reminded me of. I knew she was leaving behind a legacy of lives that she had affected. All I need to do is look down at my engagement ring and see her face reflected in it.

Reflection. Parity as defined by quantum physics. Death as the greatest equalizer of them all.

We rarely consider death until it lands in our lap, demanding to be acknowledged, like a hungry pet before dinner time. But the pet isn’t yours. You never wanted it. You don’t want to be around it. It terrifies you. And yet, it’s here. It’s purring sweetly in your lap and you must deal with it; it may claw your eyes out while you’re sleeping if you don’t.

I’m not the only one with a bad track record when it comes to being affected by death. At eight years old, I lost my grandmother, my best friend in the whole world, to lung cancer. Mortality doesn’t cross the mind of a child. I had to acknowledge the hungry Death pet as it rubbed against my leg, eager for attention. I didn’t understand. Was Grandma simply not coming home because she didn’t love me anymore? Was she angry at me for being too loud when my brother and I were playing outside in the yard and that’s why she died?

The worst part of a child’s grieving is believing that it’s all their fault; that if they had been better children that somehow the death could have been averted. They’re told that of course it’s not your fault, my child. She’s in better place now. She wants you to live your life and move on without her. They’re given a cookie or a video game and told to go and play. Once a child acknowledges the Death pet, she can’t simply will it away. It will haunt her forever. The magic of childhood slips away and the child is left bereaved and stuck; the Goddess of Grief demands a sacrifice.

Emma has a point: no one wants to hear that it’s time to move on. It’s altruistic to think that when we face the ferryman that we want our loved ones to move on without another thought. We want to be remembered. We need it. That’s why we live our lives; it’s what gives us meaning. We want our lives to have meant something.

When I face the ferryman, I intend on bringing exact change. So place pennies on my eyes, have a big party, and bury me somewhere with a view.

Role Playing Games as Creative Fodder

Posted by Amanda on Tuesday Dec 29, 2009 | Classified as: Literary Debauchery | Sub-Classified as: the craft

Some kids grow up with dads that teach them how to play baseball or basketball. Other kids grow up with dads that teach them how to shoot cans in the backyard. And even others grow up with dads who show them how to fix up muscle cars in their garage. But these dads aren’t my Dad.

My Dad didn’t teach me how to change my oil or how to throw a three pointer from the top of the crease (well, I learned how to do the latter with a lot of time and energy on the part of my sixth grade basketball coach). What he did teach me was the value of a good story. One of my first encounters with the glory of storytelling outside of the usual realms of our bedtime stories was when I discovered that my Dad and his friends often stayed up past my bedtime to play games in our basement.

I thought they were playing Mario or something. Little did I know that he and his friends would introduce me to a world that would haunt me for the rest of my life. This world is not only made up of sorcery, magic, and d20s; it is guided by expert storytelling, worldbuilding, and other bits of geekery that would later stoke my creative fire.

Years later, I’m a writer whose roots are firmly ensconced in geekery and all of its finery. I still find myself going back to the failsafe worlds of Dungeons and Dragons and Shadowrun, finding solace in their structure, tables, and use of dice.When I have nowhere else to run to, creatively, I pull out my copy of the latest Players Handbook or my Shadowrun rulebook. I sit down on my couch with a cup of tea, a flat surface to roll on, and my dice bag.

And then I get busy.

The world of Instantiated is a serious nod to the likes of Shadowrun and BioShock, with its dystopic beauty and unrequited love of technology. So, if I’m writing in the Instantiated mindset and I can’t figure out what kind of character I need for my crew, I roll a new Shadowrunner. Or, if I can’t figure out why my characters act the way they do, I remind myself: WWGGD (What Would Gary Gygax Do?)

Role Playing Games give us creative fodder that’s useful in a number of ways, even outside the realms of character and worldbuilding. In Third Person, Monte Cook proposes that working in the realms of RPGs provides a storyteller with a chance to collaborate and allow his/her players to shape the story.

The GM [Game Master] knows that he or she needs things to start at Point A and continue to Point B, and to observe ahead of time what direction Point B lies from Point A, but it is not until the players are involved that the GM will know the actual road choices, the timing of the trip, or the detours, and stops along the way.

But if diving into the realms of Dungeons & Dragons or Shadowrun doesn’t interest you (after all, you’re a writer and have no such business playing silly games), then might I suggest trying the D6 Game.

The D6 Game

• Go and grab some regular D6 (six sided) dice from your Yahtzee game (or something)
• Grab a sheet of paper while you’re up. Oh, and maybe a Coke. Grab one for me too?
• Anyway, take your piece of paper and create a table of values (two columns); one column will represent the description of the value (hair colour, eye colour, alignment, etc.) and the other will be the value itself (brown hair, blue eyes, good person, etc.)
• Determine the possible outcomes for each of the questions you want to ask yourself.For example: if you want to know what your character’s profession should be, list out some professions that you think might suit him/her on a separate page. On a 1, he becomes a petty thief. On a 2 or 3, he becomes a magistrate. On a 4 or 5, he becomes a lordling. On a 6, he becomes the king.
• Rinse and repeat for all values. This’ll take a while. Hence, the Coke.

So, the next time that you find yourself floundering in the realms of your story, try playing the D6 Game, running a mission, or participating in a D&D campaign. You might find yourself pleasantly surprised.

Why Genre Fiction Gets Me Going

Posted by Amanda on Monday Dec 28, 2009 | Classified as: Literary Debauchery | Sub-Classified as: the craft

Note: I read both literary and genre fiction, though I write primarily genre. Contrary to popular belief, I love both. I know. *gasp* So, even though I may defend genre fiction, I by no means belittle literary. You can put your pitchforks down now.

Readers and writers the world over repeatedly debate the merits of genre fiction vs. literary fiction, dividing themselves by shaking their fists wildly and name-dropping.

“Tolstoy, you fools!” screams the literary crowd.

“Gaiman! Gibson!” retorts the genre crowd.

The genre-philes call the literary folks old curmudgeons. The literary folks swear the genre-philes are talentless hacks. Well, maybe not in those words, but the fists are still shaking and the blog posts keep flying. I guess that’s why I’m throwing my chips on the table on this one (even if I don’t have many to begin with). But instead of applying the tired old facts of the debate itself, I’m just going to explain why genre fiction gets me hot and bothered under the collar.

The “real” argument need not apply here.

I don’t define my love of genre fiction as a guilty pleasure. There’s nothing guilty about it. I read what I enjoy and I enjoy, for the most part, quite a bit of genre fiction, delving mainly into fantasy, science fiction, and horror. As a byproduct, these are generally the genres that my writing tends to fall into. I’d say that this was an accidental pigeonholing on my part, but as Popeye says, “I yam who I yam.”

My father — a fiercely intelligent, fun-loving, extraordinary geek and fellow genre fiction lover — introduced me to reading when I was very small with fun books on dinosaurs, magic lamps, and pirates. Naturally, when my brother and I were a little older, we followed in his footsteps and raided his library, where we were introduced to Stephen King, Dragonlance, true crime, and science fiction.

My mother — a woman whose charm is surpassed only by her beauty and strength — was a pretty ill lady when we were growing up. We spent many Fridays and weekends travelling from our home in the Interior to the growing expanse of Vancouver. In an effort to keep my brother and me entertained while our mom was meeting with neurologists and surgeons, Dad read to us. He didn’t read us Rand or Chekhov (although, arguably, we might’ve enjoyed a few of his short stories).

He read us The Hobbit, complete with the voices of the different characters. During our trips, we got him to re-read and explain the passages as he went. We would discuss how, even though this was fantasy, we could apply the lessons Bilbo learned along the way to our own lives. My favourite was trying to figure out how not getting eaten by trolls could translate to my life. Also, my Dad used to do an incredible Gollum voice, long before Andy Serkis snapped up the role.

Mom would be consulting with doctors while we were trudging through Mirkwood Forest. She would have bad news for us, but we would make it all better by hopping on Nori’s back or taking a walk through the Misty Mountains. Genre fiction helped keep my family sane and happy during the worst of times, while it entertained and taught us during the better times.

Tolkien, for me, cemented the importance of finely crafted worlds and beautiful conlangs. His characters were memorable, deep, beautiful, and engaging. The plot was intricately woven without confusing the likes of me and my five year old brother. This is a genre fiction writer whose prose is considered a classic amongst the many; he who defied the shackles of literary fiction and created a world of his own, rich and lush.

Which leads us to the now, to the writer sitting behind the laptop, and to why my writing falls into genres.

Why Genre Fiction

1. Reality has rules. Reality’s rules are boring. Genre fiction encourages us to suspend reality and make the impossible seem possible.
2. I write (and read) to entertain, which is much of the reason why I’m in the midst of getting into the video game industry.
3. Genre fiction is very accessible for readers of all ages.
4. My favourite novels in genre fiction are as focused on characters as they are on plot, which challenges me to write equally memorable characters alongside engaging story.

That is not to say that all genre fiction is as good as people say. In fact, the masses are generally easily entertained and can often fall prey to transparent plot and terrible writing. The same can sometimes be said for literary fiction but it’s a hell of a lot more difficult to bamboozle those that fall into the literary crowd than those that fall strictly into the trends of genre (specifically the latest vampire craze, which everyone is cashing in on).

I, for one, don’t tend to follow trends in writing, so I’ll stick to writing science fiction, dystopic cyberpunk, or high fantasy, thank you very much.

Chasing Geekdom

Posted by Amanda on Sunday Dec 6, 2009 | Classified as: Literary Debauchery | Sub-Classified as: favourite

Some kids grow up with dads that teach them how to play baseball or basketball. Other kids grow up with dads that teach them how to shoot cans in the backyard. Still others grow up with dads who show them how to fix up muscle cars in their garage. But these dads aren’t my Dad. My Dad didn’t teach me how to change my oil or how to throw a three pointer from the top of the crease (well, I learned how to do the latter with a lot of time and energy on the part of my sixth grade basketball coach). He didn’t condone pink or frills; at best, I was raised to be a warrior princess, not a pampered brat.

Instead, he opted to teach me the right way to build a character in Dungeons and Dragons (D&D); the right way to corner a Supra Class car in Gran Turismo for the PlayStation 2; and the importance of tactical mastery in Warhammer 40K. As a second generation geek, I didn’t know that being a geek – especially a female geek – was generally considered odd. To me, it was the only normal I knew. When I came home crying in the eighth grade, it didn’t take long for my parents to figure out why. The girls were mean. The boys were meaner.

Geek just wasn’t cool.

Lucky for me, I wasn’t into cool. I was into geek. So I kept on playing D&D and Magic: The Gathering with my nerdy friends, in spite of the permanent stain on my high school social status. Before I knew it, I’d gathered a bunch of the geeks, nerds, and misfits from school and put them in the only place I knew that catered to our kind: my parents’ house. By the time twelfth grade rolled around, the LAN parties my brother and I threw had become a thing of legend. Geeks and gamers from all over our hometown clamoured for admission.

After I graduated, the geek love accelerated. Suddenly, the guys who picked on me during high school were wondering what my Xbox gamertag was and if I’d be willing to play Halo on Xbox Live. The girls were wearing “I <3 Geeks” tshirts when, just minutes earlier, I had been socially ostracized because I didn’t fit the mould. Gone were the days of hiding my comic books behind a Cosmopolitan. Gone were the days of hiding in my parents’ basement, rolling d20s and d6s long after the sun had gone down and come back up again.

En masse, geek was cool, hip, and, as they say, perhaps even bangin’.

There are conventions – Cons, as we call them – for every kind of geek. Anime geeks have SakuraCon, Anime North, and Anime Evolution. Comic Book geeks have ComicCon. Gamer geeks have E3, the Penny Arcade Expo (PAX), and BlizzCon. There’s even a Con for the multi-disciplinary geeks: DragonCon. There is all kind of love for geekery, especially amongst the geeks themselves. On my way to see The Old Republic panel at PAX 2009, there was an abundance of high-fives and hugs on the way into the panel. Groping aside, it was a show of comradery I hadn’t been party to before the abundance of Cons.

Geekery may be on an upswing but we’re still wary. You may see your local comic book store brimming with curious hipsters and trend-watchers, eager to catch the next boat to Geekdom, but you won’t see the old-school geeks there, especially the ones like my Dad and his friends. They’ll be swigging beer and tossing dice, laughing about the good ol’ days when there weren’t any conventions and when being a geek meant eternal torment from the Flash Thompsons of the world. They leave the hipster wrangling to us. We Padawans, not yet Jedi Masters and no longer considered younglings, are able to bridge the gap between the wannabes and the nerdcore.

As for me, geek chic or not, I’ll continue to proclaim my geek status to anyone who will listen for longer than a nanosecond: no, I never downed Onyxia as a prot-specced pally but yes, I have sat up all night to contemplate how to turn my favourite movies into pen and paper roleplaying games.

It’s just more fun that way.

This is a submission for The Broken City Magazine’s fifth issue called “The New Hip”. It’s also somewhat cross-posted from my writing blog, Empty Pages.