Being a bit frustrated and exhausted with life lately, last night’s Make Good Art event with Neil Gaiman was exactly what I needed to see the light again.

Neil Gaiman was the commencement speaker at University of the Arts last year. His incredibly honest and encouraging speech went viral, pinballed around the internet, and was turned into a little book by the legendary designer Chip Kidd. Last night, Neil returned to the institution where he gave the famous speech, answered some questions, and signed some books. His lovely wife Amanda Palmer even played us a song on the ukulele. It was a fantastic night that even a rude waitress couldn’t ruin.

It was wonderful to sit and listen to Gaiman’s thoughts on writing, art, and life in general. Like sympathetic stings vibrating to the same tone, two things resonated in particular with me right now.

Don’t just write for the money because sometimes you don’t get it and you’re left with work you may not like in the first place. I’ve been writing a lot lately and I’ll freely admit that some of it was for the money. We all have bills to pay and I’m lucky enough to pay some of them with words. But, lately I’ve been doing less writing that I love. I haven’t worked on my book in a week. I haven’t written any short stories. I haven’t written any fun bits of journalism for Geekadelphia. I haven’t finished any video game OP pieces for Arcade Sushi. I’ve enjoyed the articles I’ve been doing, but I’m not comfortable with the rut of complacency I’ve dug myself into. It is time to write more of what I love. So books about Atlantis, aquatic ape theory, jazz music, and dead people are at the top of my to do list again.

The other bit of advice that I needed to hear was to try lots of things.

When asked if he had anything to add to the end of his speech, Neil replied that he wished he had expounded on expanding your experiences. Try new things. Now most people don’t stick to just one career for their whole lives. They bounce around, try different things. Something that might fit this year may not fit next year. Putting this into practice is somewhat frightening but exciting at the same time. I’ve taken this as to not be afraid of change and to seek it out when it suits you. You never know if you like a job until you give it a try. You never know if you’ll finish a story until you do. So, maybe it is time for a change. To try something new. To pick up a new hobby – film photography – or take a weekend vacation somewhere – I could do with an afternoon on the beach with a book. Maybe even a new job.

After hearing him speak, my lovely girlfriend (the University of the Arts Alum who kindly got the tickets for us) and I waited to have our copies of the books signed. She’s seen me around my heroes and finds it quite adorable when I get all nervous around authors and magicians. Thankfully, I didn’t lose my voice and got to exchange a few words with the man who wrote the stories that helped make having cancer a bit easier. It always helps to have a good book when all you can do is lay in bed by yourself and try not to irradiate the cat by scratching her ears.

So thanks Neil, for all of the stories and for the perfect advice exactly when I needed it.

Make Good Art

I recently had the unbelievable opportunity to interview one of the legends of science fiction living right here in Philadelphia. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from Michael Swanwick. I’d interviewed people before, some of them quite famous, and each time I could feel my nerves slowly rising. I’d start second guessing my research and laboring over the word choice in my questions. Swanwick was no exception. I have boundless respect for truly great storytellers and he is, without doubt, one of the best in the world.  I was a bit nervous meeting him, but quickly found he was also one of the most kind and encouraging people I’ve ever met. Yes, I had a bit of a fanboy moment!

The result of the interview was eventually posted to Geekadelphia and subsequently picked up to run in a special edition of Philly Weekly. I don’t think I could be more proud. I know that appearing in print may not be a big deal for some, but I tend to savor the small things that mean a lot to me. I love ink and paper. If I had any drawing ability, I’d spend my days doodling away at intricate artwork using only a pen.

An interview is only as good as the interviewee and for me to take even a quarter of the credit for the interview would be disingenuous. The real credit goes to Michael Swanwick for answering my questions with his usual humor and eloquence and for taking an interview with a goofy guy from a geek blog seriously.

As a surprise bonus to having a few of my words appear in Philly Weekly, my face made it into that same issue as well. A byline and a photo?! Luck you coy mistress, you’ve found me at last!

Isaac Asimov lived in West Philadelphia for a time and to commemorate his time here, Kyle Cassidy (super-awesome photographer extraordinaire), Steven Segal (EIC of Philly Weekly), and of course Eric Smith (Master Chief of the geekiest blog in Philly) started a petition for . To help raise support for the cause, they organized a geek group photo-op in front of Asimov’s old place. A bunch of local Asimov fans showed up and, as it turns out, a number of them were legendary sci-fi authors themselves!

To commemorate the occasion, Kyle mounted a ladder and shot a group photo of everyone in attendance. Being sandwiched in the middle of the photograph, behind Michael Swanwick, Gardner Dozois, and just above Gregory Frost, I couldn’t help but feel that I was perpetrating the ultimate fanboy photobomb. I still feel quite unworthy.

It was a good day and I couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest geek in Philly.

Don’t get me wrong. I love video games and see them as a brilliant medium to tell stories that could never have been told any other way. But, like any medium. They can suffer from copycat syndrome. Too many times a unique game will strike it rich and others will swoop in to copy the format or setting until the entire market is flooded with dozens of titles that all look the same.  It makes for seriously boring gaming. Just look at the box art for any Call of Duty or Battlefield game. Even their box art looks the same.

You know you’re suffering from video game fatigue when you know exactly what will happen before it does. When boss fights don’t surprise you. When you know to let the boss slip by you to smash into a wall and stun himself. When your fingers hover over buttons because you know that there is an imminent quick time event. You know you’re suffering from gaming fatigue when your forehead is permanently red from all the times you’ve smacked it with the palm of your hand because of the obvious plot and dialogue.

When a game pulls you from the abyss. It is something special. BioShock Infinite is something special. Obviously.

Now, I knew this game would be good. Well, I said I knew but in reality it was only a desperate hope based only on probability. The other Bioshock games were brilliantly executed atmospheric musings on intellectual themes. They pushed the boundaries of video game storytelling out just a little bit further in order to make a bit more room. Bioshock Infinite filled up that extra space and, in one heaving stretch, pushed the boundaries of interactive storytelling even farther out.

I don’t want to get into the nitty gritty of a usual game review. Bioshock Infinite is amazing. Its a once in a generation game that will smash down any preconceived notions you have about video games being unintelligent crap to keep our eyes out of focus and mouths foaming in idle stupidity. Bioshock Infinite is the most intellectually challenging video game I’ve seen in a long while. It is a game worthy of philosophical discussion and analysis. Like the best artwork, it is a game that will open your eyes to view your world in a new light. Yes, go buy it. Full price even. It is that good!

What did Bioshock Infinite to shock me out of my gaming malaise? It treated me like an intelligent human being.

From the moment I put it into the console, Infinite never once talked down to me. It revealed its story in well paced increments. Each revelation was yours because the answer was never simply handed to you. It anticipated your questions, left you tantalized, then offered you just enough to figure it out for yourself. But even when you thought you had the game figured out, it would toss you from your skyline rail, flailing through the air, and into a new situation you hadn’t even considered. Whenever I thought I had Columbia figured out. I was very much wrong. Being wrong shocks you out of whatever gaming doldrums you’ve found yourself in.

That is when I realized something. I realized that Bioshock Infinite was more than a video game. The best way I can describe Bioshock Infinite is that is less like a video game and more like an interactive novel based on some of the best science-fiction writing I’ve seen in a long time. It is rare that a game provides the amount of depth and thought that Bioshock Infinite does. It feels like it was lovingly crafted by hand and mind rather than just programmed by a team of disinterested code monkeys. It tackles social and philosophical issues like the best imaginative fiction and does so with a bold confidence that you never see in mainstream media at all. 

Infinite isn’t perfect. I wish Elizabeth had more of an active role in combat other than simply opening up tears. Pull a rain cloud out of thin air so I can shock a mob, or mash together some pots and pans with telekinesis to make a cannon ball. I wish the weapons weren’t so numerous and similar. But these are minor gripes with an otherwise otherworldly experience.

By the end of it all, I was in awe of the brilliant complexity of what I’d just experienced. Everything from racism to quantum physics was encompassed by a story about the connection between a father and a daughter. It left me with a satisfied feeling and a jaw hanging open. 

BioShock Infinite did something special for me. Got me excited to play video games again.

So, this was it.

I heard her showering in the hotel bathroom. The hollow echo of water followed the steam, up and out of the open doorway and into the bedroom. I laid back on the bed with a scratchy towel wrapped around my waist and my feet still flat on the floor.

My eyes were closed as I listened to the bursting staccato rhythm of water drops on ceramic. I imagined cascades of water trailing off of her elbows and whipping the tiles. She might have been washing her hair.

The late afternoon sun shown through the window and through my closed eyes, leaving the redrawn memories of the day sketched in orangey-red on the back of my eyelids. A smattering of panoramic views on all sides of swaths of green and white mountains along with the whitish azure of the lake below our sailboat. We’d had a picnic of brie, bread, and booze on the lake. If we’d had enough to drink, one of us might’ve forgotten how to sail back to shore. But it didn’t matter, neither of us really knew how to sail anyway. We just pointed the boat in a direction and hoped, much like we always did.

I hadn’t had very many thoughts over the past month. There seemed to be very little point. But I remember her looking up over my shoulder, while we drifted, at what I presumed to be more mountains and grassy valleys and saying, “In this place, the impressionists were more realists, and the realists more impressionists.”

Having not entertained any abstract thinking the past few weeks, all I could reply with was, “Hunh?”

“Look,” she said as she gingerly guided my gaze, with a hand on the back of my head, towards the valley stretching off to the side, “looks like paint strokes more than anything doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” I was concentrating now as I always did when her fingers were laced through my hair. She was right. The mountains looked like they were carved out of oil paints with a brush rather than carved from rock by rivers and wind. “What made you think of that?”

“I’d always wanted to be in a painting.” She smiled at me.

She did. Every time she wandered into a museum I’d either get a poke in the ribs or a text message about stepping out of this world and into the one inside the frame on the wall. She was always so logical and I loved it when she succumbed to a bit of fantasy. Fantasy was my sandbox and I appreciated having a playmate if only for a few fleeting minutes.

The steam and sounds from the hotel bathroom subsided and I opened one eye to find her standing nearby wrapped in a scratchy towel all of her own. She’d tucked it neatly under one armpit and had draped a wad of wet black hair over her shoulder.

“You’re next!” she said. Then whipped her towel off and over my face.

—–

I heard the news four weeks ago. I took it the same as everyone else, at first.

One morning, she came down the stairs of our apartment and unfurled, in one swift motion, an old atlas made of cloth with frayed edges. I’d been eating a breakfast of home-fries and bacon while adding some coffee stain rings to my latest manuscript. The corner of the map dropped into my mound of ketchup at the side of the plate.

She pulled the Monopoly box off the nearby shelf, flipped it open, and placed a pewter sailboat piece over central Europe. My eyes followed from the pewter piece up her arm to find smile and that piercing look she gave me when she was excited. It had the unflappable confidence of childlike desire. I couldn’t deprive her of anything when she gave me that look. I could only smile and nod. So, that’s what I did.

She reached out and dropped another Monopoly piece into my hand. It was a surfboard. She remembered how much I missed the ocean while we were living here in the city. She’d often fall asleep with her head in my lap as I watched old surf movies to quench my thirst for fiberglass and sea spray on my face.

I manipulated the minuscule figure up to balance on the end of my thumb then flicked it up into the air like a quarter. It tumbled over and over before bouncing twice across the Pacific ocean and settling right next to a small group of tropical islands.

Shrugging, I looked up and smiled at her. She kissed my forehead and ran a hand across my chest as she went upstairs to pack…

Luckily, passion sometimes overcomes despair, and there were a few airline pilots working simply because they couldn’t stand being anywhere else but up in the sky. One such man flew us out to the mountains of central Europe and had just shot us out over the Pacific in his old employer’s private jet. The inside was all red carpet, velour cushions, and crystal fixtures. But it had a comfy enough bed, and I slept any fears of air travel away with the rhythm of her snoring next to me.

After dropping us on the tarmac at a little island resort, the pilot took off without refueling. Time was running out for everyone and pilot probably knew that very well. I could understand his reluctance to bother with refueling. We only had a handful of hours left anyway, and I guess he figured he would see how far he could get over the glassy blue water before it was over.

“Over here!” She shouted.

Off to the side of the tarmac ran a beach that hooked around like a sandy saber into the tropical water. Scattered along the tree line were a half dozen bungalows of hardwood and palm fronds. Each one had a pair of comfy looking driftwood lounge chairs placed out front under red and white striped umbrellas.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I paddle out for a couple before it gets dark?” I said.

“I don’t think that it’s gonna get dark tonight. They said something about the friction with the atmosphere?” She said.

“Might be pretty.”

“Yeah. Is it weird that I’m sorta – looking forward to seeing it?”

“Nah, I’m a little curious too. Should be one hell of a show.”

Probably would be. We would see in few hours. 

She trotted off down the beach to one nearest bungalow, pulled up the umbrella obscuring the sunshine, and tossed it off into the jungle as if it had insulted her by simply daring to cast a penumbra over her lounge chair. She settled onto one of the lounge chairs and waved lazily over to me as she stripped down to whatever she was wearing under her clothes.

She was gorgeous and normally I would have stood transfixed as she disrobed, but I was too preoccupied unpacking the only bag we brought to dally with such fleeting physical fantasies. I didn’t have much longer to get in what would probably my last surfing session.

The only bag we brought was a padded metallic silver surfboard bag. Even though we were headed all the way across the Pacific, there wasn’t much point in bringing a change of clothes. All I really needed was that 10-foot plank of fiberglass that would provide me with the satisfaction that I so craved. 

Hefting the board under one arm, I trotted over to where she was reclining by the bungalow and laid the board in the sand. I kicked off my shirt and shoes, kissed her, and sprinted off down the beach with the board. Looking up at the waning afternoon light, I knew that the end of the day would be coming soon. Each good ride requires a quota of four short ones and a wipeout. I wanted at least one good ride.

The sunset bathed the crashing waves in orange and yellow light. There was some red mixed up in it as well. That was new. Amongst the fiery waves I paddled, ducking under the soupy foam, I let the broken ones roll over my back. I let three waves pass before turning around to paddle furiously, digging my cupped hands deep into the ocean and clawing my way forward to match the speed of the oncoming wave. It rolled under my feet, tipping the board forward and I felt its power. It toyed with me, then finally grasped the board under my torso. I stood up and angling myself, I cut across the side of the wave. As I glided along, I glanced up to see the sun dip below the horizon, but the red glow stayed in the sky. Everything looked like all the other colors of the spectrum had been dialed down to only leave the reds.

I’d been lucky and caught a good wave on my first try. It was shapely and let me rock back and forth across its face as it rolled lazily to shore where I hopped off and glanced up the beach at the pair of recliners. She was laying there patiently watching my every move as she always did when I was out surfing. She’d never asked to learn but always seemed to be fascinated with what I was doing out there in the ocean.

I looked over my shoulder at the crimson tide rolling in and figured that I’d go out on top. I had one good ride and that was enough. I’d fulfilled my part of the deal and it was time to lay down and relax.

I loved my surfboard in a way that was probably unhealthy when it came to caring for a inanimate object. It was one of the few prized possessions I’d kept with me for my whole life. It was that board and a beat up black classical guitar that followed me for years. I don’t think I could have rid myself of them if I wanted to, or tried. They would have simply followed along somehow like an abandoned pet that knew the way back home. I loved them for their loyalty and for how much they were a part of me and showed it by caring for them unconditionally.

But, I left the board by the sea with the tiny shore break lapping against it.

Walking up towards my beach chair, I waved at her. She waved back frantically and pointed up over my shoulder to the sky. It was changing colors like the aurora borealis but the magnetic greens and blues were replaced by purples, yellows, oranges, and reds. It all seemed to be coming from a central point in the sky and emanating out of an enormous ethereal fireball. It was more light and show than substance.

I laid down on the lounge chair next to her. It evidently wasn’t close enough, so she shimmied it right up against mine and looked up at me when she was finished with an approving flicker of eyelashes. I must have been smiling like an idiot.

“What?” she asked.

“You look funny when you do that.” I said.

“Glad it’s only when I do that. You, on the other hand, look funny all the time.”

“It’s a talent. I’ve worked hard at it.”

“You still need a bit of work young grasshopper, you have not mastered the funny look yet.” She said with a grin and tucked her head under my armpit.

We laid there without saying a word and watching that false second sun in the sky grow larger. I knew that it wouldn’t stop expanding until the light engulfed everything. She knew it too. I think everyone did whether they wanted to or not.

A bit of wind started to thread its way through the jungle, rustling the palm fronds and leaves with a hiss. With each lap on the shore, the ocean rose higher and higher much more quickly than it usually did. I wondered if it would reach us before the light in the sky did.

I looked down at the face in the crook of my shoulder. Her eyes were closed, but I saw them moving under the lids like a kid under his blanket after lights out. Both would be reading stories, one from a book, the other from her memory. I wondered what she was drawing on the backs of her eyelids. She might have dipped her imaginary paintbrush in her well of memories and was recalling something long forgotten. Maybe she was trying to relive our sailboat picnic. I wanted to know, but I figured it best to leave her to her thoughts.

Her eyes shot open and looked directly into mine. I quickly looked away, a bit embarrassed of my curiosity.

“Regrets,” She said, “that’s what I was thinking about.”

“I…ummm,” I said.

“I know you didn’t ask, but I wanted to tell you.”

“Did you find any?”

“Only one. You have any?”

I thought for a moment that took longer than I wanted it to.

“Nah, not a one. Not anything that matters all that much. What was your one?”

“You.” She burrowed deeper into my shoulder so I knew that she was lying. “Are you content?”

I looked at the wrinkles in the skin of my shoulder, little crevasses leading down to her face and amber colored eyes. They reflected to red and yellow light that surrounded us and and engulfed us. I thought I saw a tiny reflection of the orb in the sky. It must have been midnight, but it was brighter than any day I’d ever seen.

“I’d like to think so. Doesn’t much matter now does it?” I said.

“No, but it would be nice if we were.”

“I’d definitely say so.”

“Yeah.”

We simply watched the midnight sunrise grow larger and larger in the sky until everything was white.

My trip to Vegas was an interesting one. I’d never been to the Southwest before and Vegas seemed like the shining beacon of escape from reality that I needed. I wasn’t wrong about it being an escape, but Vegas wasn’t quite what I expected. It began as a quest to see the magic of Penn & Teller, but the city gave me another sort of magic that I wasn’t expecting.

Inspiration.

That tricky little bastard is always where you least expect him. He’s usually off playing foosball with a pair of Egyptian god when you need him.

The inspiration struck me as I was walking over one of the many freeway pedestrian overpasses. Usually they are lined with chain link to keep the wayward casino loser from hurling himself into traffic. In this case, the bridge was lined with plexiglass. The view was pretty good, so I help up my phone to snap a few passing photos. When I looked through the screen, I saw that the reflection of the hotels behind me were reflected faintly in the plexiglass. They looked like phantoms from another dimension and I immediately knew I had found some interesting photos. I quickly snapped a couple and uploaded them with a tweak or two to Instagram.

Reflecting on the photos later, I realized that these phantom hotels were a metaphor for how I felt about much of Vegas. Everything there was a phantom representation of some place else. The photos got me thinking of alternate dimensions, ghostly parallel worlds, and the “what if’s” of Las Vegas. Whenever I start thinking of these things, a story starts to brew.

I left Las Vegas with some enjoyable memories, a lot of thoughts, 2 photos, and inspiration for a ghostly short story. I’ll let you know how it turns out when I finish writing it.

I’ve written book reviews for a small newspaper. I’ve done the occasional concert or music review for websites. But throughout most of my critical career (HAH!), I’ve reviewed video games. Large or small, I’ve reviewed everything from highly anticipated console blockbusters to the lowliest of iOS games programmed by a pair of brilliant guys in their one bedroom flat.

If I’ve learned anything over the years of forming opinions about other people’s work is that judging the exhaustive creative effort of others still makes me fidget in my seat. I get to consume the creativity of others, then make a judgement from the absurdly almighty critic’s Olympus where the review copies flow like the unending river Styx.

It took me a long time to realize the source of my incessant discomfort, but when I did it seemed oh so obvious. Because I had never written a book, recorded an album, or coded a video game, I felt woefully inexperienced with the actual creation of the work I was judging and therefore inadequate.

I had a notion of what was bothering me, but I won’t bother trying to express it in my own words when a quote from Ratatouille sums up my feelings perfectly.

“In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the ‘new’. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends.”

There’s two major points in that quote and he’s right with both of them.

The first point is that it is achingly easy to dismiss something as a fetid piece of trash that is better set on fire than be experienced by anyone. Negative criticism, without any constructive quality, can become a lazy ditch into which writers can become mired and unable to escape. I’ll admit to falling into this trap on occasion. I’m not proud of it, but it happens sometimes when you’re tired and in need of a quick paycheck.

It is delightful to waste your time thinking of metaphors involving flaming paper bags of poop or the crust around your mouth when you’re thirsty. But in the reality of writing reviews, time is better spent analyzing why you didn’t enjoy something. That is where the true value of a negative criticism peeks its head out of the metaphors involving week-old tripe.

Basically, if I think something is shit, I do my best to explain why and provide some helpful suggestions for improvement, all the while being as entertaining as possible so you’ll get some enjoyment out of it.

The second point Ego mentions is the “defense of the new.” Anything new is usually looked at with a combination of curiosity and bewilderment. Something new upsets your balance of expectation and familiarity with any sort of medium. Think of a book or movie or video game that left you with a sense of awe, wonderment, and satisfaction. They were “new” to you and shook up what you thought was possible. The problem with the new is that it can be financially risky for companies always looking at their balance sheet. Therefore, when something new is truly great, it is up to all of us to hold it close and shout about how good and new it really is. I realized that I had to be less of a critic and more of a curator.

Then the companies can rinse and repeat it until it becomes old and we all find a new “new.” But I digress.

As I wrote this little blog post, it helped me come to terms that I occasionally judge things for a paycheck. I realized a few things about what it means to be a good critic.

Here’s my top 5 list of characteristics of a well written review:

1. Don’t dismiss anything you didn’t enjoy without some thought as to why.

2. Always provide suggestions on how to make things better.

3. Create some of the things you review. That way you’ll learn just how hard it is.

4. Be less of a critic and more of a curator of the good and new.

5. Always be entertaining.

Now that I’ve sorted out some of my feelings on being a reviewer of sorts, I think I might be able to remove the first word from the title of this post.

Why?

• I found a wonderful woman.
• I graduated from Temple University.
• I wrote more words and better words than I ever thought I could.
• I read dozens and dozens of books. (Some by my talented friends)
• I learned a lot. (About photography, writing, making movies, drawing, superheroes, etc)

Last year was fantastic because of my friends and family and for that, I’m very thankful.

2012 is going to be damn hard to top, but I’m willing to try. I’ve set up a few goals for myself that are quite lofty but I figured that if I reached that much farther, I’d accomplish that much more.

• Watch all of the classic movies that I’ve missed (Casablanca is just one of the many…)
• Read 100 Books
• Read 100 Comics
• Draw 100 Pictures (Doodles don’t count)
• Take 100 Photos (Not instagram snaps or selfies)
• Develop Black and White film myself using only coffee and orange juice. It can be done!
• Cook a spectacular meal once a week
• Travel as mush as possible
• Now, each of these are important to me, but there is one goal that supersedes the rest and will be the absolute focus of my attention and passion.

By my 25th birthday, May 3rd 2013, I will have completed the first draft of my first novel.

There we go. It has been said, so it must now be done. I’ll do my best to add some updates along the way for anyone who cares to have a look at the failings and follies as I wander down this new path into the bayou. I’m very lucky to have encouraging friends nudging, poking, prodding, and shouting me along every step of the way.

There are a few words down already, but it will take many more to complete the tale in my head. I don’t expect it to be good, but I expect to have a manuscript with every little worthwhile idea in it. After May 3rd will be the time for taking a razor blade to the ideas that don’t work, the characters that fall flat, and every worthless word.

That’s it! That’s the plan.

For the rest of my friends, THAT MEANS YOU, I hope you have a happy and healthy new year!

Music has long been a tradition in Zelda games. They’ve not only played an important role in deepening your connection to he world, but in the lands of Hyrule, music has the power to change the world around you. Music is what endeared me so powerfully to each one of these games. Their sound inspired the wonder, awe, excitement, and joy it was to save the world from the evil wizard Ganon or whoever else was threatening the serenity of Kokiri Forest, Lon Lon Ranch, or Clocktown.

Majora’s Mask was a singular and very strange entry into the series that stands apart from the rest of Link’s adventures. It was the absolute perfect next step after Ocarina of Time. With the perfect Legend of Zelda game already created, how could you possibly try to top it? Well, you don’t try to top it at all. You simply create something new. Majora’s Mask brought you out of your comfort zone and into a strangely familiar world with ties to Hyrule, but much of it remained a complete mystery. This game felt like no other Zelda game before or since. It was creepy, dark, and dabbled in strangeness of many kinds. That strange mystery is what captured my imagination.

The music was not an exception to this concoction of the weirdly familiar. There were many new tunes for you to wrap your ears around, but it also featured the themes you’d kept in your heart from Ocarina of Time. These familiar songs however, sounded a bit off. Not wrong or bad. Just off, like they’d been played through a different instrument than the original. Like they’d been played through a music box or the organ grinder box of an odd man with many masks. It was this wonderful new and reworked music that ties Majora’s Mask to the rest of the Zelda games and to my soul.

Thankfully, someone with infinitely more musical talent, seems to have been affected just as much as I have by the mysterious soundscape of Majora’s Mask as well.

Time’s End: Majora’s Mask Remixed

Time’s End: Majora’s Mask Remixed is a reworking of ten of the classic tracks from The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask. Unlike the majestic reworkings of the Symphony of the Goddesses that recently toured around the world in honor of Zelda’s 30th Anniversary, Time’s End eschewes grandiose arrangement and instead chases after something much more esoteric, personal, and intangible.

Time’s End captured my emotional memories that were hiding deep inside since the days when I had an N64 and that golden holographic cartridge. It reminded me of how I felt when first playing Majora’s Mask, but not quite with exact precision. Actually, if it makes any sort of sense, Time’s End pulls up my memories of what I thought I was playing. It evoked memories that have through the passage of time been tinged with bits of imagination and the filter of strange ingenuity. The game of Majora’s Mask that I played that is still rumbling around in my head is very much different than the one I could pick up again. The graphics and feeling and controls would be completely different.

Each track on the album sounds like the memorable songs from the game, but they have so much more life to them than ever before. There’s footsteps and muffled voices in the background along with the static of a vinyl record. These tracks are not exactly what I remember from the game, but much more of what I felt when I was playing it. The recognizable themes are there in each song, but they are somehow more alive, evocative,  and new.

The composer Theophany’s reworking captured my faded memories of a game that I loved and let me relive all of the mystery and wonder that I felt while I was working my way through with a controller. Only this time, I could shut my eyes and let it wash over me.

This unknown composer recaptured the mystery of my memories of Majora’s Mask. It makes me glad that the game had such a profound effect on someone else as well.

The album is available for free or on a pay what you want basis. So go grab a copy for yourself and see what I’m talking about. While you’re at it, throw this artist a couple bucks because genius could always use a patron.

Readers are detectives. Why else would they bother reading?

Each time you pick up a book, you’re looking for something. You might leaf through a Lonely Planet guide to find the best hostels in the Leblon neighborhood of Rio De Janeiro or caress the pages of a book by Murakami to find some meaning in the little details filling out their, and your, world. Hell, we all know you’ve picked up some schlocky paperback just to find some entertainment. (For the record, there is absolutely nothing wrong with paperback genre fiction. A good thriller by Michael Chricton or Matthew Reilly is nothing to scoff at!)

Readers are curious by nature. They want to look in all the nooks and crannies between the ink and pages. The characters present and enigma begging to be unwrapped. The plot is a string of events just waiting to be uncovered. A good story unfolds like a paleontologist brushing off a dinosaur bit by bit. They first find the fossil by poking around and asking people where they might find something. Once they catch a glimpse of fossilized bone, then, little by little, more and more of it starts to make sense. When all of it is revealed, you’re left with something very much new, intriguing, and satisfying.

A book is a fossilized dinosaur made of glue, bits of paper, and ink.

Now that I’ve fully embraced a passion that was a part of me from the start, I feel a bit more complete. Denying writing would be like denying my love of ice cream, hamburgers, Doctor Who, or Top Gear. It is part of how I identity and has been for awhile. But now, people are starting to identify me as a writer as well and have brought me into their little circles.

My first experience with writerly people was at community college while I bounced between two professors of polar opposite predilections. One was stewed in the hard-boiled world of newspaper journalism, while the other was steeped in the delightful tea of fiction and poetry and metaphor. One taught word economy while the other preferred flowery language. This dichotomy I experienced each day, sometimes only hours apart, taught me how to adapt to what was needed. I learned how to let the words flow while keeping them concise. I learned what was needed for each situation and even the gray spaces in between. It was these two professors that gave me the yin and yang of writing. It was up to me to find my place between them and make it my own.

Community college also gave my my first partner in words. Being budding a fictional fantasist himself, John Martin was the ever encouraging voice I needed to keep my hobby of writing reviews and fiction alive. We whispered to each other about ideas while sitting over girly cafe drinks in the local Borders. It became a veritable think tank of fantastic fiction ideas and each new idea kept us excited and placing one word after the other. We weren’t being paid or even thought that we’d ever be paid, but the pure fun of creation kept us going.

Fast forward a year or two and I found myself writing for Geekadelphia. From there, I was catapulted into a sea of creative people all doing what they loved. What really boggled my mind was that they were somewhat successful. Their passions had paid off and I’d never seen this before. I was so used to dreaming that seeing the possibilities got the cogs turning inside my head whizzing about in earnest.

At last we come to a group of people who spend their free time herding words into groups to create images, essays, and stories. One member of our group of writerly people wrote a piece about how everyone in the writing group intimidates him. Eric is right. That fear keeps me writing. It is a fear of disappointing not only myself, but the rest of the lovely people who generously read the words I write while still in their roughest form.

But, what also keeps me herding words into stories is the admiration I hold for each person in the group. They’ve finished books or are writing them with the prowess of Pynchon. They consistently turn in personal essays or poems so sharp and witty that I slice my fingers open on their words as I read them. My admiration for them and their work keeps me plodding away at my own writing. They offer honest encouragement and have no problems poking a few holes in my ego if some air needs to be let out of my head. These people also give me something to aspire to. Whether it be honesty in editing someone else’s work or simply the way they put words together so eloquently, I learn a little bit from each of them in the hopes that I’ll become that much wiser.

Herding words is like herding cats, it takes a lot of work, but in the end it’s pretty fun and you might end up doing the impossible.