Author: Kyle A. Massa (Page 7 of 27)

The World Without William Shakespeare

December 2, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

William Shakespeare looking like a boss at his desk

Lately, I’ve been reading Shakespeare to my daughter. Based on the number of times she farts during said readings, Macbeth is her favorite. (She’s one month old, by the way.)

Anyhoo, all this Shakespeare got me thinking…what would the world look like without him? And I don’t mean the conspiracy theory Shakespeare-didn’t-write-his-own-plays thing. I’m wondering how different our lives might be if the Bard never existed.

So, in a world without William Shakespeare…

…Amanda Bynes, Julia Stiles, Channing Tatum, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and Heath Ledger Wouldn’t Be Famous

Follow me closely here. Amanda Bynes and Channing Tatum starred in the 2006 romantic comedy She’s the Man, a film which kickstarted both their careers. Likewise, Julia Stiles, Heath Ledger, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt rocketed to stardom thanks to their roles in the 1999 romantic comedy 10 Things I Hate About You.

And what do both these films have in common? They’re modern adaptations of Shakespeare’s plays!

She’s the Man is adapted from Twelfth Night and 10 Things I Hate About You is adapted from The Taming of the Shrew, in case you were curious. So, without the plays, we wouldn’t have the movies. Without the movies, we wouldn’t have the star-making performances. And without the performances, we wouldn’t have the stars. That means no Ledger’s Joker in The Dark Knight, no Stiles’s Nicky Parsons in the Bourne films, and no Tatum’s Magic Mike in Magic Mike.

Well, I suppose we’d get along without that last one. But I know my wife would be disappointed.

…We’d Be More Skeptical of People Getting Married After Barely Knowing Each Other

I mean, I suppose we already are skeptical of that. But nobody would rationalize it by saying, “It’s just like Romeo and Juliet!” This means dating shows like The Bachelor wouldn’t exist, and we’d all be better off.

…There’d Be a Hole in Lesson Plans for English Classes

Speaking of Romeo and Juliet, we spent weeks on that play in high school. We also read Julius Caesar. And once I got to college (shoutout to all the Ithaca Bombers) I took an entire class devoted to Shakespeare. Without him, what would all our English teachers do?

They’d probably teach more Steinbeck, which would be terrible for us all. I’d like to thank Will for sparing me that fate.

**…Ray Bradbury’s 1962 Novel Something Wicked This Way Comes Would Need a New Title**

That’s because Ray borrowed the phrase from Macbeth. It’s a far better title than, say, Evil Carnies Attack!

**…The 2011 Disney Film Gnomeo & Juliet Wouldn’t Exist**

To the disappointment of nobody.

…Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” Would be Short a Second Line

That’s because Robert Plant paraphrased Shakespeare’s line “All that glitters isn’t gold” from The Merchant of Venice. Might I suggest “All those wrinkles mean you’re old” as a replacement?

…We’d Be Without Tons of Other Useful Phrases, Too

No more “it’s all Greek to me,” which comes from Julius Caesar, and which is often employed by non-Magic: The Gathering players when Magic players say stuff like, “Tap out, kill your blocker, swing for lethal.”

No more “wild-goose chase,” which comes from Romeo and Juliet. Tough to invent a substitute for that one, since “Uncontrollable pheasant pursuit” just doesn’t have the same ring.

No more “break the ice,” which comes from The Taming of the Shrew. This absence would leave college orientation leaders and first-time Tinder dates bereft of an important concept.

…English Would Have Far Fewer Words

To demonstrate my penultimate point, here’s a brief story for you:

I was undressing in my bedroom, inwardly questioning whether or not my outfit was fashionable, when I heard something downstairs. It wasn’t inaudible, but it was close; a lonely yelping, just on the edge of hearing.

So of course I hurried downstairs, my heart thumping, and when I turned the corner, I saw something obscene: An alligator eating my breakfast. The damn thing must’ve slipped through the open window!

“Well aren’t you nervy?” I growled.

The alligator only shrugged. “I may be jaded, lonely, and even a little zany. But at least I’m not totally worthless—unlike that outfit you’re wearing. I don’t mean to be a critic, but really, honey. Hey, do you have any skim milk?”

Look, I know alligators can’t shrug or speak, and they might be lactose-intolerant. But that’s not the point of this exercise. Here’s the same story again, minus the words widely credited to Shakespeare:

I was _____ in my _____, inwardly _____ whether or not my outfit was _____, when I heard something _____. It wasn’t _____, but it was close; a _____ _____, just on the edge of hearing.

So of course I _____ _____, my heart thumping, and when I turned the corner, I saw something _____: An _____ eating my breakfast. The damn thing must’ve slipped through the open window!

“Well aren’t you _____?” I growled.

The _____ only shrugged. “I may be _____, _____, and even a little _____. But at least I’m not totally _____—unlike that outfit you’re wearing. I don’t mean to be a _____, but really, honey. Hey, do you have any _____ _____?”

He also invented the word “puking,” which I’m grateful for.

…We’d Be Missing Some Stellar Insults

I’ve never called anyone an “elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog,” but someday I might need to.

…The World Would Be Far Less Interesting

Thank you, William Shakespeare, for all the plays, phrases, insults, and more. The world could’ve done without The Bachelor franchise, but to borrow a phrase from you, all’s well that ends well.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Some Things I Learned on My Tour Through Westeros

November 17, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

Westeros Header

I recently re-read the entirety of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire.

…Do you still say “re-read” if you listened on audiobook? We’ll pretend the answer’s yes. Shoutout to late great narrator Roy Dotrice.

Anyhoo, now that I’m back from my tour, I thought I’d share some words of wisdom for those planning a similar visit. Consider this a long-form TripAdvisor review, only with fewer typos (hopefully).

People are super judgmental about parentage

In Westeros, if both your parents aren’t members of the one percent, odds are someone will call you “lowborn.” And if mom and dad weren’t married at the time of your birth, you might even be labeled “bastard,” which is only marginally better than, say, “accident.”

Seriously, people sling birth-related insults like mashed potatoes in a cafeteria food fight. Just ask Jon Snow, Mya Stone, or Gendry what’s-his-name. There’s even a guy named “The Bastard of Godsgrace,” if I remember correctly, which somehow stings even worse. I mean, if I was called the Bastard of Albany, I’d be bummed.

If you receive a wedding invitation, check the “Respectfully Decline” box

I’ve been to three weddings this year and the body count remains at zero (as far as I know). If this was Westeros, I wouldn’t even be alive to write this article. And if you think Westerosi weddings are dangerous, try a Dothraki ceremony. In the words of Illyrio Mopatis:

“A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair.”

If you must attend a wedding, arrive armed and don’t touch the food. And if the DJ starts playing “The Rains of Castamere”—yes, even the remix—run.

Imposters are everywhere

John the Fiddler, Jon Snow, Gryff, Young Gryff, Alayne Stone. Whenever you meet someone in Westeros, I suggest doing a background check, post haste.

George R.R. Martin is more sex crazed than a 14-year-old

Seriously, the guy can’t go five paragraphs without mentioning boobs, brothels, or some variation of the word “fuck.” No wonder HBO wanted the series adaptation.

Don’t be a peasant, because you’ll probably be murdered

Also, people will call you “smallfolk,” which is insulting.

…But don’t be a noble, either

You’ll probably get assassinated by your most ruthless rival, at which point they’ll claim your lands, income, castle, and underwear (presumably).

The safest approach is to become a middle-class working joe. Not that Westeros has a middle class, mind you.

Anyway, whatever your job is, it’s going to be horrible

Whether it’s the lifetime vow of celibacy for the Kingsguard or the lousy food of the Night’s Watch, every job in Westeros is kinda unappealing. Some other examples:

Hedge Knight: This is like being a freelance writer, in that you’ll take any project, so long as somebody pays you—which is never much, by the way. But at least you’re not sleeping under a hedge. Unless you really are sleeping under a hedge, in which case, you should’ve read the job description closer.
Septa/Septon: Meh, this job seems kinda boring—unless you’re the septa shouting, “Shame!” during Cercei’s penitence walk.
Maester: This looks like a desirable profession at first glance, since you just read books and offer unsolicited advice. However, several Maesters have met nasty ends, i.e. Luwin and Kerwin. Plus, Lady Barbrey Dustin made unflattering observations about them: “Isn’t it clever how the maesters go only by one name, even those who had two when they first arrived at the Citadel? That way we cannot know who they truly are or where they come from.” Alright, fine, I suppose that is a little sus. I’m out.
Whore: No thank you.
Hand of the King: Similar to the Vice President, minus the potential for biopics. Plus, the last few Hands have gotten caught in the proverbial wood chipper. A brief list:
- Jon Arryn: Poisoned by his psycho wife.
- Ned Stark: Imprisoned, framed, and beheaded.
- Tyrion Lannister: Nearly decapitated in a botched assassination attempt, then subsequently fired. Technically acting Hand of the King at the time, but still…
- Tywin Lannister: Shot in the bowels by his son whilst pooping.
- Harys Swyft: I don’t remember this guy and I’m sure you don’t either.
- Orton Merryweather: Hired because his wife was frienemies with the Queen Regent.
- Mace Tyrell: Hired to forestall the end of a hopelessly fraying alliance. Also a doofus.

I’d rather work in customer service than any of these jobs, which is really saying something.

Keep a dream journal

This is a must since dreams are so often prophetic. Sure, you’ll stress over portents and symbols and whatnot, but you’ll have an advantage over those who don’t bother. Take this dream from The Ghost of High Heart as an example:

“I dreamt a wolf howling in the rain, but no one heard his grief. I dreamt such a clangor I thought my head might burst, drums and horns and pipes and screams, but the saddest sound was the little bells.”

Though she never made it to the show, she totally dreamt of the Red Wedding before it happened. Alas, nobody in Westeros enjoys Freudian dream interpretation.

At least the food’s good

They may not have GrubHub in Westeros, but who needs it when you’ve got options like this?

“They began with a broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig.”

“There were loaves of crusty bread still warm from the ovens, crocks of fresh-churned butter, honey from the septry’s hives, and a thick stew of crabs, mussels, and at least three different kinds of fish.”

“They started with a creamy chestnut soup, crusty hot bread, and greens dressed with apples and pine nuts. Then came lamprey pie, honeyed ham, buttered carrots, white beans and bacon, and roast swan stuffed with mushrooms and oysters.”

Fortunately, they don’t have Tapas restaurants. Now please excuse me while I go raid my pantry.

In Conclusion

I hope these notes have enlightened you regarding Westerosi culture. If not, I wouldn’t recommend traveling there anytime soon.

…Unless you’re arriving via book, that is. In that case, visit as often as you like. I know I will.

Kyle A. Massa is a fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Thanks to this Gizmodo article for collecting the meal descriptions.

A Post-Apocalyptic Halloween Greeting

October 31, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

First thing: Happy Halloween!

Second thing: When did the world end?

I’m being facetious, of course. The world is still intact, and will remain that way until the Philadelphia Eagles win another Super Bowl, at which point all existence will implode upon itself. But in my new short story, The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author, the world is kaput. And today, I’d like to give you a behind-the-scenes at this story.

The Inspiration

Last year, a certain global pandemic made the future seem grim. And here in the United States, we also had rampant police brutality (and still do, sadly), along with an anxiety-laden election that inspired an attempted insurrection at our capital.

So yeah. Not a great stretch there.

Sad to say, 2020 made me contemplate the collapse of civilization far more than I ever had. Being a writer, I manifested those contemplations as post-apocalyptic stories.

Such narratives are strangely optimistic: They promise life—albeit often bleak—even after catastrophe. But post-apocalyptic stories can also be arrogant, because they often assume the near-extinction of humans qualifies as the end of the world. Here’s the thing: Even if humans die out, planet Earth will still endure (probably). To quote the great humanist Ozzy Osbourne: “The world will still be turning when you’re gone. Yeah, when you’re gone!”

So, I imagined a future where Earth moved on from humans, though books still existed (even the bad ones). Thus, The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author was born. Or rather, written.

The Writing

As with many of my stories, this one had many failed incarnations. I knew I had the elements—I just needed to configure them properly. Those elements were, in no particular order…

A prolific yet talentless and inexplicably cheery author based on Kurt Vonnegut’s Kilgore Trout (and a little on me)
A wagon full of books
A sand-swept, desolate landscape
Offbeat humor
Godlike cockroaches

Number two turned into a wheelbarrow, and number five went from plural to singular, but the rest remained essential. But how would I fit the pieces together?

In one aborted draft, for example, our main character encounters several characters on the road, trying (and failing) to sell a book to each. Here’s an excerpt from a draft I wrote in June:

“I hope you don’t mind me saying,” said Oliver, “but you look like a romance guy.”

The man Oliver spoke to, the alleged romance guy, was a squat, balding brute with a bulky frame hidden beneath a flak jacket. He stood with his massive hands squeezing each other, like the jaws of two wolves snarling over a scrap of meat. His eyes were cold and gray and lifeless. They did not blink.

“Kissing,” Oliver continued. “Lots of kissing and squeezing and moaning. It’s borderline erotica, but not quite there. A little softer, you might say, but if you’ll excuse my saying, you look like a soft, loving sort of guy. Deep down, I mean.”

The man spat in the dust.

I was proud of the writing here, especially considering I dictated it during my commute. Yet the story never felt like it was about anything. It needed more depth, more nuance, more meaning.

So, I tried a new tactic. This time, I changed it from third-person to first.

I knew a guy once who told a joke. The joke went like this: What’s the difference between a writer and everybody else?

Wait for it, wait for it, then comes the punchline: Everybody else makes a living.

Big laughs, big laughs. Funny because it’s true. I know from experience.

See, I sold my books before the end and I sell them now, too. You would think that a global apocalypse would open people’s wallets, but no. I’ve still never sold a copy.

Warmer. The first-person voice felt better than third, but it hadn’t solved the depth and nuance problem. Again, I had to ask myself: What is this story truly about?

The answer: lost friendship. We all have that childhood friend we lose track of, that person we grew apart from, though we can’t explain why. This is a story about the friends we lose—and maybe even reconnect with.

The Finished Product

At first, The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author was a placeholder title. However, I liked the rhythm so much I kept it. I’m proud of this story’s blend of post-apocalyptic setting, offbeat humor, and a dash of horror (hence the Halloween release).

Want a taste for yourself? Here’s an appetizer:

“Hello, human.”

Ah. So I’ve been spotted. I tip my hat to the hybrid face now leering at me, hoping the casual gesture belies my dread.

“How many books would you like to buy?” I ask the drone. “A copy of each? This is your lucky day, my friend. I have plenty.” (I have plenty because nobody ever bought a copy, even when there was money to buy them with. But I keep that detail to myself.)

The drone approaches me. He wears a flowing robe that matches the dull gray of the world around us. The way his legs dance beneath, I can tell he has more than two.

“A book?” he asks with a lopsided grin. “Why not a blessing? Why not the Blessing? Shall I describe the process to you?”

“I’d rather describe my books to you.” I peel aside the tarp on my wheelbarrow like a magician revealing the vanished rabbit. “I’ve got hardcovers, paperbacks, matte finish or glossy. My newest stories are written longhand in notebooks, or sometimes upon several napkins. Not the most appealing medium, but I’m sure you understand, what with the state of publishing these days. Ah. Try this one.” I pass a hardcover copy of Shank & Shiv: Attorneys at Law to the drone. Sweat trickles down my back. “Supernatural legal thriller. John Grisham meets William Peter Blatty. You look like you’d enjoy it.”

The drone’s green eyes squint at the cover. “This cover is…”

“Gorgeous? Why thank you. I made it myself. With Photoshop. Remember Photoshop?”

The drone flips over the book and reads the back cover aloud. “‘They say demons love contracts. That’s why Shank & Shiv, demons and best buddies, open their own half-legal law firm in New Jersey.’”

I nod. “Remember New Jersey?”

A shrug, and the drone reads my name from the bio. “‘Oliver M. Fudge.’ Is that you?”

“One of me. It’s a pen name, you see. I’m a genre-hopper.”

“Fascinating. Now, I’ve listened to your pitch. Will you listen to mine?” The drone’s insect mandibles tickle the air. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I am an emissary. I offer the Blessing of the Roach to the refuse of this world. Refuse such as yourself, Mr. Fudge. Do you wish to see clearly and breathe freely? Do you wish to ascend higher than your predecessors ever dreamed? If so, the process is simple.”

“Simple, eh?” I study the drone, my gaze lingering longest on his antennae and the legs beneath his robes. “Seems like you’re still working on it.”

“A transitory state. You should see me when I’m all grown up.”

“I’d rather not. I’d rather sell you a book.”

And here’s what advance readers have thought of the story:

“A strange, comical, and heartwarming story.”
“This is quite a shift to the typical apocalypse tale.”
“A really sweet little story about friendship, giant roaches, and terrible short stories during the end of the world.”

Click here to purchase your copy of The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author. Happy Halloween!

Back at the Albany Book Festival

October 4, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

It was 10:25 in the morning, my socks were quacking against my Adidas Slides with each step, I was lost between the austere granite slabs of UAlbany’s campus, and yet I recall feeling content. The Albany Book Festival was back.

To be clear, last year’s event wasn’t cancelled—it was virtual. However, I was Zoomed out, so I didn’t attend. This year was back in-person, masked and socially distant.

I brought my Special Olympics New York backpack, a pen and notebook, a packed lunch, and some cash (because one can never have too many books). I also came clad in the aforementioned socks and Slides, which was in hindsight, a poor choice.

I was aiming for comfort.

“So, are you a student here?”

I’m almost 30, and I got this question about that many times. I’m pretty sure it was the footwear.

10:35am

I slipped into the day’s first session about five minutes late. Fortunately, the back row was open and introductions were proceeding.

Three people sat at the head of the room, six feet separating them. On the left: Dana Spiotta. On the right: Ed Schwarzschild. In the middle: Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah. “I’m sitting between two of my professors,” Adjei-Brenyah said with a smile.

Despite the signage, I still managed to get lost.

I scribbled two pages of wisdom over the next 45 minutes. Aside from the parentheticals, these are direct extracts of my notes:

3rd v. 1st person – Nana has both in his new book (re: point-of-view)
“Novel? Yeah! But short story? Where’s the novel?” (Adjei-Brenyah’s impression of agents)
“It’s like getting married.” (Spiotta’s comparison for writing a novel.)

I don’t quite recall what all my scribblings meant, but I’m glad I scribbled them. There’s nothing so inspiring as listening to talented writers discuss writing.

11:35am

With the opening session complete and my coffee thermos empty, I needed a bathroom. Not for the first time that day, I learned how labyrinthine UAlbany’s campus is. (Don’t worry—I ended up finding one.)

That left five minutes until the next session, which I devoted to meeting local authors in the Campus Center Ballroom. Had I acted faster, I might’ve joined the 40 or so folks tabling at the event. But hey, there’s always next year.

Inside awaited books. Books perched on platforms, books displayed on racks, books upon books upon tables arranged in concentric rings. I made the rounds and met many of the people behind those books, including Keith W. Willis, Shana Gourdine, Bill Moloney, Eleanor Kuhns, and Laura Heffernan.

My loot from the event.

(Not pictured: The Milky Way bar I devoured on my way to the next session.)

12:10pm

This panel began at 11:45, so I regrettably missed much of it. Ed Schwarzschild was back once again, this time paired with Emily Layden, author of All Girls, a novel about a New England boarding school.

My favorite bit of advice from Layden: “An editor’s job is to see your work for what it’s trying to be.”

12:37pm

Unfortunately for my groaning stomach, there was no lunch break on the schedule. So, with eight minutes until the next session, I discovered a distant table tucked beside the shadow of the Campus Center stairs and removed my mask. Time to eat.

(My meal, for the curious, was a turkey sandwich with baby carrots, saltine crackers, a banana, and a granola bar. Did not snap a pic.)

So there I sat, munching on my sandwich, watching masked people flow up and down the stairs, swinging their complimentary purple totes, consulting their programs and floor maps, chatting about this panel or that book. I eat turkey sandwiches every weekday—but that Saturday’s sandwich tasted especially good.

12:45pm

This was the first session I was on-time for. I padded lightly, reducing the squeaking of my Slides as much as possible, then chose a seat at the end of the row beside a woman knitting a purple sweater. “Are you a student?” she asked me.

Peter Osnos was the featured speaker, in conversation with Paul Grondahl. Osnos is a remarkable guy, first as a journalist covering the Vietnam War, then as an editor, now as a publisher, and always as a writer. The guy has seen some shit, and he’s met many important people along the way (some of them shitty). A short list: Robert McNamara, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, Donald Trump, and Vladimir Putin.

Of our modern times, Osnos commented, “I think we’re living in, as we always will, a time of turmoil.” I found this statement oddly comforting. Every generation has their turmoil: The Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam, 9/11, the pandemic (I know I’m missing a few). Yet if we endure these turmoils, someday we’ll speak of them in the past tense.

But the best exchange went like this:

Grondahl: “You’ve been a reporter, editor, and publisher. Which is your favorite?”

Osnos: “Grandfather!”

1:45pm

“When you’re in the storm, it’s hard to describe. It’s just…life.”

I can’t recall the question that sparked this response from Quiara Alegría Hudes, but I loved it. She wore a suit jacket with pink and blue flowers, and she sat on a stage in the Campus Center West Auditorium, six feet away from interviewer Sarah LaDuke.

The stage just prior to the interview.

Hudes is perhaps best known for co-writing the musical (and screen adaptation of) In the Heights with Lin-Manuel Miranda, the guy behind Hamilton. But her career goes far beyond, with numerous other playwriting, screenwriting, and essay credits. Her current project: A memoir entitled My Broken Language.

When asked how to honor the varying cultures of the people in her book, Hudes answered, “Authenticity lies in the multiplicity of voices present.” A profound statement.

2:45pm

I rounded out the day with a talk from Elizabeth Brundage, a veteran author who’s an Albany native herself. Her new book is called The Vanishing Point, and it sounded so intriguing I picked up a copy myself. When asked about the book’s genre, Brundage said, “I don’t try to think about genre too much when I write. I just try to write a good novel.”

I dig this sentiment. Especially in the indie space, I worry some are too fixated on genre. I’ve heard far too many authors cautioning others against genre hopping and breaking conventions, when I fear that approach might lead to homogeny. After all, I can’t recall ever reading a book and thinking, Wow, I love how conventional that story was.

Anyway, I digress. Later in the session, Brundage summed up her feelings thusly: “I’m interested in people. That’s my genre. People are my genre.”

Later, I got in line to meet the author. She was personable, and she wrote a kind dedication in my book: “From one writer to another.” Of course, she must’ve seen my footwear.

“Are you a student here?” she asked.

3:30pm (Or So)

As I drove home in my 2005 Honda Element (nicknamed “The Box” by my wife), I pondered this essay. I wondered what the point would be, beyond notifying people I’d attended the Festival. I thought about masks and the pandemic, about how one year ago, this event existed only online. I thought about a sentiment I’ve heard so often, always in different forms, but always the same: Why didn’t the pandemic bring us together?

For over a year, every person on earth has had something in common. You’d think that would inspire unity, but it’s only fueled division: Masked versus unmasked, vaccinated versus anti-vax, cautious versus no-worse-than-the-flu. For many, this dissension is cause for despair.

But at a gathering as relatively small as the 2021 Albany Book Festival, I found the unity the world’s been longing for. I saw people joining together, masks and all, to celebrate our shared passion: books.

Books. Simple as that. Words printed on pages and bound together, covered by shells of cardboard, matte or gloss. Words from one person to another. Words that help us realize how much we have in common, or how little, and why there are reasons to hope either way.

My right Adidas Slide quacked as I pressed it into the accelerator. I merged onto I-90, and I headed home.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.

A Season Preview from an Oft-Disappointed New York Giants Fan

September 7, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

New York Giants disappointment

Usually this blog is about writing, reading, and sometimes cats. Today, it’s about disappointment. Oh, and also football.

I’m a lifelong fan of the New York Giants. And by “lifelong,” I of course mean since my early high school days, when I discovered Madden for the Nintendo GameCube. It’s been over a decade and we’ve been through a lot: two Super Bowl victories, two identical quarterbacks, and two years of Ben McAdoo. And when I love something, I can’t help but write about it (even when it bums me out).

So here’s my preview for the upcoming Giants season.

Last Season

On second thought, let’s not review last season. Too disappointing.

The Offseason

The Giants’ splashiest offseason move was signing wide receiver Kenny Golladay, whose biggest claim to fame was being overthrown by Matt Stafford every Thanksgiving. He’s a decent number two fantasy option, but can he become a number one real-life receiver? I’m skeptical.

If we’re asking Giants General Manager David Gettleman, the answer is yes. Of course, this is the same David Gettleman who traded Odell Beckham Jr., let Landon Collins walk in free agency, and selected Daniel Jones with the sixth pick in the 2019 draft (more on Daniel later). Forgive me if I’m dubious.

In fairness, Gettleman made some savvy decisions in the offseason. I liked the signings of Kyle Rudolph and John Ross, and I really liked the addition of Adoree’ Jackson to an already strong secondary. If only the draft had gone as well. Speaking of which…

The Draft

For once, the Giants were picking outside the top 10, but just barely; they had pick number 11. There were several impressive players available, but of course, Gettleman considered none of them. He had eyes only for DeVonta Smith.

You may wonder how I know this, and no, it’s not because Dave and I are friends on Snapchat. It’s because everyone knew. To quote Matt Lombardo of GMEN HQ:

“There is a feeling inside the NFL that Gettleman is enamored by Alabama wide receiver DeVonta Smith.”

This might’ve been acceptable if the Giants were playing solitaire. However, there were 10 other teams preceding them. And one of those teams was (cue the horror-movie scream) The Philadelphia Eagles.

Eagles fans, if you’re not familiar with them, are notoriously rowdy. This is putting it kindly. For example, after their Super Bowl victory over Thomas Brady and the New England Patriots in 2018, local officials slathered crisco (and later hydraulic fluid) on polls throughout Philadelphia. Why? To prevent Eagles fans from climbing them.

See? Rowdy.

So it came as no surprise when, with the 10th pick in the 2021 NFL Draft, the Eagles once again got rowdy and selected DeVonta Smith.

Look, the closest I’ve gotten to being an NFL General Manager is playing fantasy football with my friends. But even I know that if I want a player, I shouldn’t blather about it. Clearly, Mr. Gettleman has never had to risk losing his fantasy league. (Although maybe Giants owner John Mara has, and his punishment for losing was hiring David Gettleman.)

So, with the Giants on the clock and no DeVonta Smith on the board, Dave did the mature thing and quit. He traded the pick to the Chicago Bears, who incidentally drafted Ohio State quarterback Justin Fields, who’s incidentally probably better than Daniel Jones.

The G-Men drafted some other receiver at number 20, a guy named Kadarius Toney, a.k.a. Yung Joka, according to his Wikipedia page. Pundits have claimed he might be a sleeper in this draft, which is cool, but not exactly what I’m looking for in a first-round pick.

What To Expect This Season

It’s time. We need to talk about Daniel.

Daniel Jones, a.k.a. Danny Dimes, a.k.a. Eli Manning’s approximate clone, troubles me. His career began with a bang: Four touchdowns and a comeback win against the then-Brady-less Tampa Bay Buccaneers. It was the most fun I’ve had watching the Giants since their Super Bowl XLVI victory.

However, Jones fumbled twice in that game. This was easy to disregard in the moment, but as the mistakes mounted, a pattern emerged. In 21 career games, Jones has committed 36 turnovers.

Never one to be outdone in mediocrity, David Gettleman remedied this problem by building around Jones. Hence the aforementioned acquisitions on the offense.

But if we think of Daniel Jones as the turkey in our Thanksgiving dinner, we see the logical fallacy in such moves. Say we invest in perfect stuffing, delicious gravy, jiggly cranberry sauce, and Bob Evans mashed potatoes. Great, love the support. But the turkey is the centerpiece of Thanksgiving. If it’s, say, woefully undercooked and likely to give everyone salmonella, does the rest of the meal really matter?

Look, I’m not calling Daniel Jones an undercooked turkey. He seems like a good guy. But I fear he’s not good enough to save the Giants.

Therefore, I see the Giants hovering around .500 this year (not that you can actually finish at .500 anymore, what with the 17-game schedule). Fortunately, they once again find themselves in the worst division in the league, which means they might somehow make the playoffs at 9-8.

And hey, there’s room for optimism. Head Coach Joe Judge looked solid last year, leading the Giants to a near-upset of the eventual Super Bowl champion Buccaneers, plus a shocking win over the Seattle Seahawks. They also boast a staunch defense, which should be even better this year. And let’s not forget the return of running back Saquon Barkley, one of the most electrifying players I’ve ever seen.

So, will the Giants’ solid defense and improved offense carry them to victory? Or will David Gettleman drag them down into the pits of ineptitude? We’ll find out Sunday at 4:25 eastern against the Denver Broncos. Looking forward to the disappointment.

The Real Reason Frodo Didn’t Ride an Eagle into Mordor

August 19, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

“Bilbo and the Eagles” by Ted Nasmith

There’s a common question posed by readers of The Lord of the Rings trilogy: Is Tom Bombadil robotripping?

Also: Why didn’t the eagles help Frodo?

No, I’m not talking about the NFL’s Philadelphia Eagles (thank god). Nor am I talking about the band (though now that you mention it, I’m down for a little “Hotel California.”) I’m talking about the Great Eagles of Middle-Earth, also known as the Eagles of Manwë, also known as something else, I’m sure, because everybody has like 10 names in Middle-Earth (i.e. Gandalf).

According to this Screen Rant article, cartographer Karen Wynn Fonstad calculated Frodo and Sam’s journey was 1,779 miles long, all on foot (hobbit feet, as it were). They rowed down rivers, stumbled through bogs, and wandered into giant spider lairs, all while they could’ve hopped on giant eagles and dropped the ring into Mt. Doom.

There are many explanations, the most likely of which being that J.R.R. Tolkien wanted some actual conflict. In this post, I’d like to give you my explanation. It all started at RIA, better known as Rivendell International Airport…

“Sam,” said Frodo. “We’re late.”

If Gandalf (their travel agent) had been present, he’d have some quick rejoinder prepared. A frequent flyer is never late, Frodo Baggins… But Gandalf wasn’t present. If he was, they wouldn’t be late.

Frodo and Sam found themselves in the lobby of Rivendell International Airport. The drop-off zone outside had been a madhouse, packed with horses and ponies and passengers. It was no less chaotic inside: men, elves, and dwarves jostled and bustled like soldiers preparing for battle. All of them stood between the hobbits and their flight.

“Come on, Sam. Hurry!” Frodo, unencumbered by any bags, plunged into the fray. Sam, weighed down by all their luggage, chugged along behind.

“Do you think we can fit this all in carry-on, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked as they ran. “Should we check a bag or two?”

“No,” Frodo answered gravely. “We’d never see them again.” He swept his gaze over the crowd, noting a dwarf slurping a pint at the airport bar, an elf enjoying a kingsfoil salad, and a hooded man reading a mystery novel. “We must hasten, Sam. The Dark Lord has eyes everywhere.”

“Even in the bathrooms?”

“Especially in the bathrooms.”

“Aye, he’s evil enough for it. Hey, did you pack the…you know?”

Frodo touched his chest, feeling the solid metal between skin and shirt. It was such a small thing, such a little thing, yet it heaved on the chain about his neck like a lead weight. It was the One Ring, the ultimate weapon of the Dark Lord Sauron, the bane of Isildur, forged in the fires of Mt. Doom, retailing for $999.99 at Jared, the Galleria of Jewelry.

“I have it,” Frodo confirmed. “But let us not speak of it. Too many ears in this airport.”

“Unfriendly eyes, unfriendly ears.” Sam shook his head. “What’ll be next? Unfriendly toes?”

As if on cue, an elf sped past and crushed Sam’s toes with a roller bag. He yelped, but Frodo didn’t notice—he was pointing ahead. “Look. The security checkpoint.” He hurried onward, leaving Sam to hobble behind.

Though Rivendell was a haven of beauty and enlightenment, its airport security was staffed by the TSA. They were a brusque people, a grouchy people, and it was said that folk who displeased them were plucked from line and cavity searched, just for the hell of it.

One such TSA agent awaited behind a kiosk, an old crone with faded blonde highlights and fingernails the size of pairing knives. Each nail was painted a vivid purple, and they clacked like the bones of a skeleton as she rapped them upon her kiosk.

“Have your passport and boarding parchment out and visible,” she growled at them.

Sam gulped. “I’m scared, Mr. Frodo.”

“Be brave, Sam. Our flight is due to board any minute.” Frodo approached the woman at the kiosk, bowed his head, and presented his documents.

The woman’s hand descended like a bird’s talon. “Name?”

“Underhill,” said Frodo, keeping his eyes down. “Mr. Underhill.” Gandalf, their travel agent, had insisted on secret names.

The woman clacked her purple fingernails, then shifted her gaze to Sam. “And you?”

Sam offered his documents. “I’m Mr., umm…Gardner?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “That a name or a question?”

“N-neither,” Sam sputtered. “I mean, both?”

Her gaze drifted to the luggage. The woman still had yet to blink, and Frodo was beginning to wonder if she had eyelids at all. “You don’t have any razors in those bags, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What about aerosol cans? Firearms? Fireworks? Lithium batteries?”

They’d never heard of such things in the Shire (except the fireworks), so it was easy to shake their heads no.

“Good enough,” she said, stamping their boarding parchments. “Now get outta my sight.”

Ahead awaited more security. “Arms and armament in separate bins,” barked one of the surlier TSA agents. “Empty your pockets, and remove all metal.”

All metal. That meant…

Frodo stopped short. “Sam. The Ring. They’ll make me take it off.”

Sam frowned. “They’ll give it back, though, won’t they?”

“They might. But what if they’re servants of the Dark Lord?”

“Oh.” Sam scratched his head. “Hadn’t considered that.”

“You two!” the surly TSA agent screamed. “You’re holding up the line. Move move move!”

They moved. Sam hauled the luggage into bins, then stacked them onto the conveyer belt. They hustled ahead.

The Ring still hung around Frodo’s neck. He tried to look as innocent as possible as he stepped through the metal detector.

Beep.

“Honestly, squirt, are your ears clogged by the fur of the Cats of Queen Berúthiel?” The TSA agent beyond the metal detector jabbed a finger at him. “Back through. And make sure your pockets are empty.”

Frodo turned around, wiping sweat from his brow. He knew it would beep again, but if he removed the Ring, they’d claim it for their own. He stepped through again, and—

Beep.

“That’s it. Time for a cavity search.” With a little too much satisfaction, the TSA agent snapped on a rubber glove.

Frodo’s eyes went wide. “They’re going to take it. Then the quest will be for naught, the Dark Lord will win, and the Shire will be ruined. And we’ll have to apply for flight vouchers.”

“No, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, striking a determined expression. “Let us be rid of the TSA, once and for all.” Suddenly, the musical score swelled, and Sam stepped forward heroically. “He has…a pacemaker!”

The TSA agent blinked. “A what?”

“A pacemaker.”

“Oh.” The agent shrugged. “Why should I care?”

“Because that’s what’s setting off the metal detector. Just a pacemaker. No need to harass us further.”

“Hah. Good one. Now bend over, little man. Let’s make sure nobody’s smuggling any Longbottom Leaf…”

Sam looked stricken—but Frodo had an idea.

“Fine,” said Frodo, unbuckling his belt. “We’ll just be late to our trial.”

“Trial?”

“Yes, trial. My associate and I are lawyers.”

The TSA agent’s eyes went wide. “Lawyers?”

“Aye,” said Sam, nodding and smiling. It seemed he’d caught on to the charade. “We love suing people. We sue them all the time.”

“In fact,” added Frodo, warming to the role, “we’ve got a class-action suit pending against the Witch King of Angmar for stabbing people with his Morgul Blade. We’re suing him for all he’s worth—which isn’t much these days, but still. Care to join him?”

The TSA agent glowered at the hobbits. His eyes flicked from one to the other, as if sizing them up. “A pacemaker. Aye.” He snarled at them, like a rabid dog, then waved them through.

Sam gathered their belongings and hoisted them onto his back. He was still hobbling from the damage to his toes, but he did his best to keep up with Frodo. They raced through the terminal.

“We’re at Gate whatever-that-is,” Frodo huffed, pointing at the swirly Elvish runes. “Hurry, Sam!”

They hurried. They hurried through dwarvish families, elvish business professionals, human tourists, and finally, they arrived at their gate…

Just in time to see their flight take off.

They were meant to fly on the back of a great eagle, a hulking golden bird with a wing span wide enough to blot out the sun. It sped down the runway, cawed, and with three beats of its massive wings (both stamped with the words “Southwest Airlines”), it lifted off and soared into the distance.

Frodo slumped against the glass. Sam collapsed beside him.

“Cheer up, Mr. Frodo. We can always book a new flight to Mordor.”

“But Sam. We’d have to go through customer service.”

They glanced at the customer service desk. Thousands of people stood before it. Most were dead on their feet, their corpses rotting and stinking, while the living were blanketed by cobwebs and dust.

Frodo shook his head. “No, that way lies doom and despair. We have no choice but to walk, or take an Uber. And I left my phone at home.”

“Dropped mine in the toilet,” sighed Sam. “Suppose we’re walking, then. Think anyone will join us?”

“I’m sure Gandalf can book us some companions.” Frodo slapped his friend on the shoulder, then stood. “Fuck it, Sam. Let’s form a fellowship.”

Why I Find the Charmin Bears Revolting

August 4, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

The Charmin Bears are an abomination.

…

I might be coming in a little hot there. But really, the Charmin Bears are gross.

You know them. They’re that pack of multicolored ursine cartoons that hold regular family meetings about the quality, texture, and thickness of their toilet paper. They also tend to dance crazily, rub their faces on the paper, and, worst of all, wiggle their (thankfully clean) butts at the camera.

Talk about TMI. Do we really need to watch an egg ricochet off a stack of toilet paper? Do we really need to watch a disembodied arm smear some blue substance off its wrist? (Both happen in almost every Charmin ad.)

No. No we don’t. For these reasons and so many more, I’ve had it with the Charmin Bears. Enough to write this here blog post.

I get it. Toilet paper is pretty much essential. Most people use it multiple times a day, and for good reason. The thing is, we don’t need to talk about it—especially not with such gleeful detail.

When’s the last time you had a conversation about how soft your toilet paper is, or how many ply it is? And god forbid you ever demonstrate the virtue of your toilet paper brand by dumping some thick blue liquid onto it. I understand the allure of creating cartoon characters to your products, but please. Invent some cartoons that are less obsessed with the bathroom and what goes on in it.

Take, for example, this commercial:

For those too nervous to watch the above video, it depicts two Charmin Bears sprinting down the beach in slow motion, presumably because they urgently need to poop. This is just poor planning on their part, because nobody wants to use a porta-potty, let alone one at the beach. (Also, why do we need the close-up on the bouncing butts? Also, whose idea was it to bastardize the theme from 2001?)

Some readers might be surprised by my contempt for these vile bears. I’ve been known to laugh at a bathroom joke or several in my day, and I’ll continue to do so.

But the problem here is context. Many people watch television while eating, which means you might be trying to enjoy your dinner when suddenly a Charmin Bear appears, waving its ass in your face and complaining that a competing brand left pieces behind. Thanks a lot, Charmin. I just lost my appetite for shrimp and rice.

Furthermore, the Charmin Bears need a serious review of priorities. I don’t know any other family that spends so much time discussing such frivolous topics. I’ve certainly never met a family that rubs toilet paper on their faces or debates how many pounds it can hold without ripping. Why not discuss some normal topics, like school, or sports, or the weather, or, I don’t know, anything else?

I can’t vouch for bears, but most humans use toilet paper and never discuss its merits. Sure, once in a while you’ll get some brand that’s especially crappy. But otherwise, toilet paper should be like the roof of a house: necessary, but rarely spoken of.

Now I should acknowledge that these advertisements are clearly working. Hell, I’m writing an entire blog post about them, which would delight any advertiser reading it, regardless of whether or not I actually like the ads. Perhaps that’s their strategy.

But for the time being, my distaste will rage on. Please, Charmin Bears, scale back the toilet paper talk. For the sake of us all!

The Wild Ride of Publishing Wide

July 12, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

Being an indie author is like being a grizzled old fisherman—you catch more if you cast a wider net. (Of course, dear reader, I know you’re a human, not a fish.)

I build my net out of websites. BookFunnel, Amazon, Smashwords, even this very site you’ve found yourself on. The more sites you can buy my books, the wider my net. Speaking of which, let’s take a look at the net.

This Here Website

Yes, you can buy books on kyleamassa.com without ever leaving it. And sorry for the salesy marketing speak, but it’s now easier than ever.

When you bought a book from my site in the past, you’d receive an automated email with several files attached. Functional, but not optimal. I’ve got a better way now thanks to BookFunnel.

When you buy a book on my site, BookFunnel automatically emails you with a download page. You may select from a loaded buffet of options, including Kindle, iPad, iPhone, Android, or computer. BookFunnel will hook you up with the proper file type, and often deliver it right to your desired device.

It’s really quite an elegant service. If you’d like to try it out for yourself, you can download my triptych short story collection, Past, Present, Future. It’s everybody’s favorite price: free.

Almighty Amazon

Yes, Amazon is essentially essential at this point for any indie author. My books have been there for years—but there’s a newcomer to the party.

You may remember Big Riches, Fine Wine, and a Pinch of Dragonsbane appearing as an exclusive story on my site last year. Now that it’s existed for a full calendar year, I’ve given it to Almighty Amazon.

To be clear, you can still buy Dragonsbane on my site. Just trying to expand that net, ya know?

A Smashing Smashwords Discount

If you’ve made it this far, you’re in luck. Smashwords has an annual summer sale, and two of my books, Gerald Barkley Rocks and Monsters at Dusk, are both discounted for—please don’t pass out—75% off.

So, for the summer only, you can get either (or why not both?) for $1.24 per purchase. They are not going to get any cheaper than that!

Widening That Net

It’s important to me to make my books available in as many places as possible. Yes, I want to sell more. But I also believe book should be available to anyone who wants to read them, no matter where they find them.

I hope my wide net finds you. And, if not, please email me at kyle@kyleamassa.com and let me know. I’ll see what I can do for you!

Thanks, GRRM: Lessons Learned from George R.R. Martin

June 21, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

George R.R. Martin

Whether written or read, every book is a lesson.

George R.R. Martin is one of the best I’ve ever learned from (and for more than just his gratuitous descriptions of food). GRRM’s writing has made an indelible impact on mine. So today, I’d like to share some of my favorite lessons with you.

(Be forewarned—there will be spoilers for his books!)

Lesson 1: It’s Good to Bully Characters

Though I’ve covered this subject before, it remains a tough lesson to internalize. Yet the truth is plain: It pays to be mean to your characters.

Nobody’s nastier than George R.R. Martin. He beheads poor Ned Stark in book one, murders Renly Baratheon in book two, then goes ham in book three by killing Catelyn Stark, Robb Stark, Joffrey Baratheon, and Tywin Lannister (among others).

And those are just the characters who die. The ones who live fare little better, i.e. Jaime Lannister getting his hand lopped off, Bran Stark being tossed from a tower, Daenerys Targaryen losing her son and hubby within hours of each other, and so forth.

I am almost certain Martin likes all these characters (with the exception of Joffrey). Yet he still bullies them. It’s the right thing to do.

Imagine, for example, if Martin liked Robb Stark too much to have him killed at the Red Wedding. Doing so would deprive us of one of the most shocking plot twists in modern literature—and television, for that matter. (I remember when the Red Wedding episode of HBO’s Game of Thrones aired. People could not stop talking about it.)

Bullying one’s characters means putting them in difficult situations. This forces one’s characters to be clever, courageous, and resilient; in short, it makes them more interesting. The meaner the writer is, the more momentous their characters’ eventual triumphs will be.

Lesson 2: Plan Ahead

As a kid, I dreamed of writing series. I dreamed of trilogies, quartets, quintets, whatever you call a six-book series, and more. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire is a planned seven-volume series, and it’s masterful.

Before anyone writes an angry comment, let me clarify. Martin’s series is masterful. His writing pace? Not so much.

But part of what makes the five existing books so compelling is their foresight. The more you read, the more you’ll notice that those vague prophecies and ethereal dreams always seem to come true. That’s because Martin plans ahead, and has a destination in mind.

Consider this passage from Catelyn Stark’s point of view in A Game of Thrones:

“Sometimes [Catelyn] felt as though her heart had turned to stone…”

An innocuous line when you first read it. Yet once we get to book three, when the Freys murder Catelyn and Beric Dondarrion resurrects her, she goes by a new name: Lady Stoneheart.

And that’s just a subtle example. Adding these nuggets throughout the series makes the books feel even more intertwined and interconnected. Plan ahead and reap the rewards.

Lesson 3: A Good Mystery Goes A Long Way

I’m not much of a mystery reader, but I probably should be. I always enjoy books with even a hint of the unknown. Martin has those hints in spades.

There’s the classic R + L = J equation, a long-standing theory which I won’t spoil for readers (but was confirmed in the series). Also, what the heck happened to Benjen Stark, who went ranging in the wild in book one and never appeared again? And what game are Illyrio Mopatis and Varys playing together?

I’ll stop there to preserve my word count. But you can visit the long-running Forum of Ice and Fire or the series’s Subreddit for more mysteries and possible explanations. If a series has enough enigmas to fill two websites with content, you know it must be special.

Lesson 4: Perfection is an Illusion

In second grade, I decided I wanted to be a writer. Fantasy was my genre, chiefly inspired by The Lord of the Rings. I loved the trilogy, yes—but part of me resented it as well. I’d convinced myself that no one—particularly me—could ever write anything better.

Then, 10 years ago, my dad invited me to watch a show I never heard before: A Game of Thrones. He’d heard about it somewhere and knew how much I loved LOTR. So, we watched the pilot. (Not really the type of show you should watch with a parent, but so it goes.)

Here’s a short list of the things I witness on my first visit to Westeros:

Nudity
Incest
Attempted child murder
Several creative uses of the word “fuck”
Characters who aren’t clearly good or evil

What blew me away was the audacity of the story. Game of Thrones took epic fantasy, a genre that celebrated heroism and the triumph of good over evil, and turned it into something far uglier—and in many ways, more compelling.

I spent the summer of 2011 watching new episodes every Sunday. The other six days of the week were spent tearing through the novels. And though it didn’t come immediately, I eventually had an epiphany: I liked A Song of Ice and Fire better than Lord of the Rings.

When you see perfection improved upon, you realize nothing’s perfect. There’s always more to be done, a higher place to climb, a better book to write. GRRM’s work helped me see past the ceilings I’d always believed were there. I doubt I’ll ever write anything better than Lord of the Rings. But if Martin could do it, it can’t be impossible.

Thanks, GRRM

Though we’ve never met, I’ve learned so much about writing from George RR Martin. I hope you did as well.

The Illusion of Effortlessness

April 5, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

talent

Jordan’s jump shot. Aretha’s voice. Shakespeare’s wit. Cage’s acting.

These people and their talents have one thing in common (except the last one—that was a joke). They all appear effortless.

As someone who loves writing, I’ve noticed this phenomenon in my chosen craft. I’m listening to an audiobook by Neil Gaiman right now, for example, and all I can think of after every story is, Wow. He’s so talented. I’ve gotten into the audio game of late, and even Neil’s reading feels effortless.

Of course, it isn’t. Mastery conceals years of practice spent honing a craft. We’ll never see the millions of shots Michael Jordan missed to perfect his form, nor the countless hours Aretha Franklin spent in church singing her favorite songs, nor the numerous revisions Shakespeare no doubt made to his plays. And even Nicolas Cage probably practices his freakouts.

This illusion can be understandably frustrating, especially for those striving for equivalent mastery. I want to become a full-time writer someday, so when I read a superb book that’s sold millions of copies, I always feel a little jelly.

Why can’t it be that easy for me? I wonder. Why can’t I have that kind of natural talent?

Here’s what I need to remind myself: Effortlessness is an illusion.

That’s not to say natural skill doesn’t exist; some musicians are born with perfect pitch, for example. But no one achieves mastery from innate skill alone. Practice, dedication, and perseverance are essential, no matter how effortless the final product might appear.

Why write this? Because I forget it all the time, which makes me think others do, too. Sometimes we envy people for their skills, all the while forgetting that we could achieve the same proficiency—or even surpass it—by working hard. Natural talent is places some further ahead than others before the starting gun sounds. But hard work can close the gap.

Next time you compare yourself to someone else, remember that effortlessness is an illusion. They got where they are by working hard—and that means you can do the same.

Unless you want to act like Nicolas Cage, that is. No amount of practice will get you there.