Category: Thoughts on Life (Page 2 of 3)

Writing About Touchy Subjects

August 25, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Touchy subjects are interesting by nature. That’s why they’re fun to write about.

Take pineapple on pizza. People have exactly two opinions about pineapple on pizza:

Pizzas should be topped with nothing else
It makes a mockery of a perfectly good pie

I’ve somehow ended up in the middle on that one, which sort of undermines my point. Hmm…

For a better example, take religion. I’m writing about that for my current project, a novel entitled Eggs for the Ageless. It’s a story about a girl who accidentally creates a religion. The existing Gods and Goddesses of her world (the titular Ageless), are not happy.

My book’s religions are fictional, but they’re inspired by real ones, most notably Ancient Greek myths. Therefore, I’ve got a Goddess of Love and a God of War. But I tried adding a little humor, too, with a Goddess of Coffee and a God of Waste Management. Ya know, the essentials.

Controversy is interesting, but it’s also, well, controversial. That’s why I’ve given myself three rules when writing about religion, and touchy subjects in general. They are…

Rule #1: Play Both Sides

I once heard some excellent advice on writing controversial topics: You must argue both (or all) sides. Otherwise you lose conflict and fall into didacticism.

In other words, if all the bad guys in my book were religious and all the good guys non-religious (or vice versa), it would feel too preachy. I’m taking extra care to explore the merits of both sides. And honestly, if there really is a religion with a God of Coffee, I’ll convert today.

Furthermore, subjects often become touchy because there’s no objectively correct answer. Take politics, for example. Humankind has devised countless ways to organize society, and though some prefer certain structures over others, there’s no perfect way to run things. So, if you write about that touchy subject, play every side that makes sense.

Don’t just argue the benefits of, say, monarchies, in the style of Hamilton’s King George. Touch on all the touchy sides. (Although, I have to admit, King George kinda pulls it off.)

Rule #2: Provide a Range of Intensity

Every touchy subject has its fanatics and its casuals. In religious terms, consider the self-flagellating albino dude from The Da Vinci Code versus people who believe in God but don’t really pray or attend church. Though they’re technically on the same side, their belief carries a different intensity. So examine them both.

If you don’t, you’ll fall into the same trap of Rule #1. Imagine, for example, if every religious character in Eggs for the Ageless murdered people in the name of the Coffee Goddess. Not only would that be unfair to coffee drinkers—it would also be unfair to peaceful religious folks, of which the world has many.

I’ve got some fanatics in my book, sure. There’s Sarene, our main character’s mom, who’s so devoted that she tattoos her bare scalp with images of the Ageless (you don’t see that every day). But I’ve also added some laid-back religious types, such as the multi-talented Trast, who’s an early reader favorite so far.

People have strong opinions on touchy subjects, yes. But some are stronger than others. So it is in life, so it should be in writing.

Rule #3: Find the Humor

People have a tendency to dismiss funny stories as less meaningful than serious ones. I disagree. Humor is funny precisely because it gets to the heart of its target. Take this Oscar Wilde quote as an example:

“I think God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability.”

For the religiously inclined, that’s a statement about how humans don’t always live up to God’s expectations. For the non-religious, it’s highlighting the comedic irony of a supposedly omnipotent God. Either way, it’s pretty funny—and certainly meaningful.

There’s humor hidden within most touchy subjects. We’ve covered religion, politics, and pizza—but hey, people can make jokes out of just about anything. Kurt Vonnegut, for example, could find humor in seemingly unfunny subjects. Like this…

“I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone.”

Or this…

“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning do to do afterward.”

Or this…

“Dear future generations: Please accept our apologies. We were rolling drunk on petroleum.”

If Vonnegut can find humor in greenhouse gas emissions, there’s humor to be found in pretty much any controversy. Especially pineapple on pizza.

Looking forward to writing more about touchy subjects in Eggs for the Ageless. More details to come.

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.

Sideburns

May 4, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Ray Manzarek (and his sideburns)

A video version of this post is available here.

About the most rebellious thing I did in my teenage years was grow out my sideburns like Ray Manzarek.

You might know Ray Manzarek as the keyboardist for The Doors. You might know The Doors as the psychedelic rock group that did “Break on Through (To the Other Side),” or “Light My Fire,” or “The End,” or any number of other rock radio staples.

I discovered the man and the group because of the music they made. But on a purely cosmetic level, I really admired Ray Manzarek’s sideburns.

Refer to the picture above. Ray’s sideburns were long and thick and perfectly symmetrical. To me, they were an almost artistic continuation of hair down to the upper jawline. It’s easy to grow out a beard or a mustache, but sideburns are different; they require a certain finesse, a certain style to pull off.

Being a dopey 16-year-old, I went ahead and assumed I had the requisite finesse and style. So I let my sideburns grow. And grow. And grow some more. Actually, maybe “mutate” is a better word for what they did.

My Manzarek-inspired sideburns developed a texture similar to bristles on a brush. I feared that if I trimmed them I’d ruin them, so they exploded not only downward, but outward, to the point that they protruded from either side of my head, sort of like wings.

I’d show you a picture, only I feel like that would be like a horror director revealing the monster in the very first scene. What you come up with in your mind is always more frightening, anyway. Suffice it to say that my sideburns really didn’t look very good.

That fact, however, wasn’t especially important to me. What was important was that no one else at school looked like me, and I didn’t look like anyone else. I’d basically joined a party that had ended four decades prior, but whatever.

I think pretty much every American high school kid goes through this phase at some point in adolescence, this phase where we copy a behavior or a trend that seems unique, even though we’re making it less so by copying it. Only for my phase, I copied an anachronistic (and kind of gross) hairstyle.

I remember re-watching an old video of myself playing basketball during the Manzarek Sideburn Era, one that my dad had filmed. He’s talking with my cousin in the background, and my cousin asks where I am on the court. My dad says something like, “The floppy hair and the sideburns.” There’s a pause, and then my cousin says something like, “That’s an interesting look.” And then nobody says anything.

The sideburns died sometime during my junior year. My mom politely handed me an electric razor and encouraged me to at least trim the sideburns if I wanted to keep them.

Instead, I shaved them. The magic of the sideburns had dissipated. Besides, I’d been getting enough grief from my friends.

It’s funny how important those sideburns were for the short time I had them. The allure of facial hair to a teenage kid is something like tattoos to college students; it’s a form of self expression that goes beyond others because it’s right there on your skin, out where everyone can see it.

I still have sideburns, though now I trim them and they’re even with my eyes. I’ve attempted other hairstyles imitating other musicians; when I discovered Iron Maiden, for example, I very seriously wanted to grow my hair past my shoulders, a la Bruce Dickinson. It always grew outward but never downward, so eventually I gave up.

These days, I get a clean cut every few months. Sometimes I apply a little pomade to the front, but I’m afraid I’m getting too old for that look. That’s alright. A lesson I learned in high school: my hair is probably not my best medium of self expression. That’s what my crappy classic rock band t-shirts are for.

Maybe someday my Manzarek sideburns will return, perhaps if I’m forced into the witness protection program for some reason. But for now, I’ll stick with the hair I have. It’s a lot less itchy.

Kyle A. Massa is the author of the novel Gerald Barkley Rocks and the forthcoming short story collection Monsters at Dusk. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. He lives somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats.

Two Pitchers

April 6, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Author’s Note: A video version of this post is also available here.

Nature’s Classroom is a sleepaway camp somewhere in New York State. As a fun excursion, sixth-grade students from Goff Middle School took an annual trip there to learn about conservation, wildlife, active living, and how to make convincing fart sounds while people were trying to sleep.

Nature’s Classroom was my first extended absence from home. I’d never spent an entire week without my parents, my sister, my dog Daisy, or my Game Boy Advance. It was a rough time for me. I remember being stressed and nervous and uncomfortable.

They had many rules at Nature’s Classroom. Don’t waste food, always consider your biological footprint, don’t jab each other in the stomach as a show of adolescent dominance (yes, we really did this before going to bed; we called it “Poke Wars”). Most often, we were lectured about proper nutritional habits. For example, the dangers of soda.

Now I’d be fine without soda. It’s not like I poured Fanta over my cereal or gargled with Moxie. I’m not Buddy the Elf or anything. But once in a while, soda was a special treat my parents allowed me to indulge. For instance, at a bowling alley birthday party one year, I remember informing them that my friends and I were “drunk on Sprite.” So yeah. I was a fan of soda.

That fandom didn’t go over well at Nature’s Classroom. One counselor, a dreadlocked, khaki shorts-sporting dude—we’ll call him Alfonso—preached the dangers of the beverage.

“Soda makes you fat,” he said, using the same grave tone Obi-Wan chose when describing how Anakin killed those younglings. “Soda gives you cavities. Soda hooks you with bright colors and carbonated fizz. But soda’s got zero nutritional value.”

Okay, I thought. Can I have some soda now?

The answer, tragically, was no. They did not serve soda at Nature’s Classroom, nor did they offer anything with even trace amounts of sugar in it. Our only options were water, milk, and some murky brown substance they claimed was unsweetened iced tea.

Yet on the last day of this week-long ordeal, Alfonso and his cohorts relented.

“You guys have been awesome,” he announced. “Like, a super group. So as a thank you, we wanted to give y’all something special…”

I gripped the lunch table. My eyes went wide. Soda, I thought. Say soda!

“Lemonade! We’ve got lemonade for everyone!”

Maybe not the gift I’d wished for, but I didn’t want to be rude. And as far as I was aware, the sugar content of the two beverages were pretty much the same. It would do.

“There’s a catch, though,” Alfonso added, lifting a soil-stained finger. “Your table has to finish your water pitcher before you get your lemonade, okay? Water, then lemonade.”

That was another Nature’s Classroom thing. You had to share a pitcher of water amongst the seven other poor saps at the table. I’m not sure what the lesson was there, except learning to hate the kids who poured too slowly.

Alright Alfonso, I thought as I downed my first glass. I’ll play your game, you sick bastard.

I felt a little like Gollum must’ve felt around the Ring. The only thing standing between me and my precious: This stupid pitcher of boring water.

Frustratingly, nobody at the table took more than a cup. They were busy reminiscing about all the fun times they shared the past few days, about how happy they were to see their families again.

Didn’t you people hear what Alfonso just said!? I wanted to scream at them. Lemonade! We can have lemonade! Look, I know it’s not root beer, but come on. Help me out, here!

Nobody did. So I put the team on my back. I felt like Jordan in the fourth quarter of the ‘98 Finals, Game Six. I must’ve slammed at least that many glasses of water, if not more.

Then came my reward. Alfonso nodded approvingly, then returned with a pitcher of golden lemonade. And I thought, You know what? I worked hard for this. No. I earned this. I deserve as much lemonade as I want.

I didn’t even bother sharing with my ungrateful tablemates. From that pitcher, I’d estimate I drank a good 75, 80 percent.

“Okay,” said Mr. B., my sixth grade science teacher. “Get on the bus, people. We’re going home.”

I think I made it 30 minutes before the pain set it.

You know that scene in Alien when the creature bursts out of John Hurt’s chest? That’s what my groin area felt like. I expressed my growing discomfort to my friends, Jimmy and Jeremy. They’re still two of my best friends to this day—though after recalling this story, I have to wonder why.

I was looking for some encouraging words from my pals, you know? Maybe a, “Hey, you’ll be alright!” or a, “Don’t worry, your bladder won’t be totally ruined.” Instead, they pointed out every rushing body of water we passed, whether real or imaginary.

“Did you see that garden hose over there?” Jimmy asked, tapping on the window. “I think it was trickling.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Jeremy countered from across the aisle. “I heard it was, like, gushing. Just spraying everywhere.”

This was not helping. With about two hours to go, I removed my seatbelt—despite what my parents would advise—to relieve the pressure on my abdomen. I also hunkered down in the seat and covered my face, and maybe cried a little.

At this point, one of the chaperones said, “You guys better lay off that kid. He looks like he’s gonna pee his pants.” An astute observation.

At about the halfway mark, I turned to Mr. B. and pleaded, “Mr. B. Can we please stop the bus? I really, really need to go to the bathroom.”

To which the merciless Mr. B. snapped, “Nope. We are not stopping.” Evidently, he hadn’t had as much fun at Nature’s Classroom as the kids.

So that left me with two options. Option A: Endure the pain and try my best to ignore Jim and Jer’s aquatic quips. Or, Option B: Release, and be forever known as that kid who peed his pants somewhere along I-90.

I wasn’t a stellar test taker, but even I knew the answer to that one. So I gritted my teeth, squeezed my crotch, and reminded myself, There’s no place like home. Or better yet, a bathroom.

Miraculously, I arrived at the Goff parking lot with mostly dry Levi’s (there might’ve been a few dribbles). There awaited everyone’s parents and siblings to greet us. They stood on the sidewalk, waving and smiling and pointing and waving some more. Finally, after so long apart, we could all go home together.

Not now, family.

Before the bus even stopped, I was ramming fellow classmates aside. I had no choice, really; I was near the back and I couldn’t afford to be polite. When I reached the front, I leapt off the steps and ran not toward, but away from my family. It hurt to do it, but it hurt more to hold in all that lemonade.

For the record, I did make it to the bathroom before the floodgates opened. I stood at the urinal for oh, 15 minutes, give or take. Still the most relieving bathroom break I’ve ever taken.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. 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 about cats.

Lessons From Cats

March 16, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Let’s talk about cats.

Cats are great. I didn’t fully understand this fact until my wife and I got cats of our own (pictured above), but it’s true. They’re fun, sometimes strange little animals, but we can learn a lot from them.

Let’s discuss the greatness and majesty of our feline friends, and how we might better emulate them.

Cats Are Forgiving

Our cats love to play, though I’ll admit, animal playing is more like wrestling, or sometimes fisticuffs. They beat each other up, they take naps, and when they wake up, they’re friends again. Until the next fight.

Takeaway: If you’ve got a problem with someone, let them know, and then get over it. No cat-style wrestling necessary. The nap is optional, but comes highly recommended.

Cats Are Friendly (Sometimes)

I used to think cats didn’t like people, but that’s not really true. Sure, some cats are like that. But most of the time they’re selective; they have people that they establish a rapport with over time, and then you’re buddies for life. You also get bonus points toward cat friendship if you happen to be the one supplying them with food every morning.

Takeaway: We don’t need to be selective, necessarily, but we should surround ourselves with people that make us happy. And if those people give us food, that’s cool, too.

Cats Find Joy in the Little Things

Soley, our orange cat, has a favorite toy. It’s a stick with a fuzzy bee on the end of it. That’s it. She doesn’t have a laptop computer and she doesn’t really care for cars. Aside from that app designed for cats, she doesn’t give a fig about my phone.

I’m not trying to be all “discard your earthly possessions, man.” I’m just saying we humans can take note. Sometimes it feels like we need big flashy things to be happy, but we really don’t. There are simple things in life, and we should cherish them, too.

Takeaway: Find your stick with a fuzzy bee on the end of it, and enjoy.

Cats Are Funny

Luna, our grey and black cat, likes to climb on my shoulders and purr in my ear. Soley enjoys walking up to us, meowing once, and then walking away. I’m not sure if they mean to be funny, but they are.

For humans, the lesson is clear: Let’s not forget the importance of laughter! There’s no better link between people (and animals) than a good loud laugh.

Takeaway: Laughter is universal, no matter what language you speak.

Cats Have Their Own International Holiday

Yes, there is such a thing as International Cat Day. Clearly, this day was established not by humans, but by cats themselves. There’s no International Human Day, which makes me think felines are a step ahead.

Takeaway: If you want to be more like a cat, establish your own international holiday. It can’t be that hard, right?

Hot Sauce and the Importance of Humor

March 3, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Hot Sauce

When I was in college, I made a movie for an introductory film course. It was not very good.

It was called 61 Days, and it was about a guy with a terminal illness. He’s been given the cliche timeline: just two months, sixty-one days, and then whappo. He croaks. So he decides to go on a cross-country adventure with his brother.

I must say, I packed an impressive amount of emo voiceover and sappy closeups into those five minutes. The best is the final shot: a slow-motion closeup on the main character’s Hallmark grin, one that seems to say, “It’s all gonna be alright.”

The final cut of 61 Days was screened in a theater in downtown Ithaca, New York, along with about forty others. Most were quite impressive. Most of us showed a lot of promise as filmmakers. But here’s what really struck me about those films: in terms of subject matter, the vast majority of them were like mine. They were depressing, melodramatic, insistently gloomy. Everyone’s movie depicted a bad breakup, substance abuse, mental illness, or, like my film, someone dying. If I had to sum up the afternoon in a single sentence, it would be this: “Look at me, I’m sad.”

Of the forty or so films screened that day, only one sticks in my mind as more than a generality. It was about a guy who travels back in time to feudal Japan in order to steal an ancient hot sauce recipe. The movie featured samurai sword fights, goofy one-liners, and intentionally-poor lip dubs.

Everyone laughed. Everyone thought it was hilarious. But secretly, I’m pretty sure everyone was thinking the same thing: Amusing, but certainly not an A+ film. The unspoken understanding, of course, was that humor is not art. It’s just funny.

But is it? When I watched that samurai movie, I felt a little lighter. I felt happy, at ease, even inspired. But when I watched my film and all those others, I quite frankly don’t even remember how I felt.

The samurai film made me realize something: we all take ourselves too seriously. I took myself too seriously when I made a film that was identical to forty others. I said to myself, “I’m a serious filmmaker, so I’m going to make a serious film.” And sure, I did that. But I also made a film that was pretty forgettable.

Out of everyone in that class, the guy who made the hot sauce film was the only one of us willing to set aside his own ego. And, for that reason, he made a film that was far more memorable than the others.

Does that mean that comedy is superior to drama? No, not necessarily. In truth, in the artistic world, the reverse is far more often true. Adam McKay directed Anchorman, but no one seemed to recognize him as a true artist until he directed The Big Short (and now this year’s Dick Cheney biopic, Vice). To paraphrase Ron Burgundy, that’s kind of a big deal.

Yet we can’t discount the value of humor. If everyone could stop taking themselves so seriously, if everyone learned to just laugh at disagreements rather than fight over them, I think we’d all have a much better time. We all deserve to laugh. And, at times, we all deserve to be laughed at. Good humor is just as valuable as good drama.

I never met the guy who made the samurai hot sauce film, but I wish I had. I imagine he’s a pretty cool dude. If I had asked him why he made his film, I imagine his response wouldn’t have started with, “My inspiration was born of my desire to explore the true nature of what it means to be a condiment…”

Instead, I think he would’ve said something like, “I made it because I wanted to make people laugh.” And that’s all the reason I would need.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now on Amazon Kindle.

Podcasts I’ll Never Make

February 25, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Podcast

I’ve had several ideas for podcasts I’ll never make.

For example, a show called Questions. As the title suggests, it would just be people asking each other questions. But you wouldn’t be able to make statements or exclamations or really anything without a question mark at the end. Some sample questions for Questions:

What is this show about?
Why did we make this show?
Is anyone listening?

Or what about a Magic: The Gathering podcast? These are plentiful. Most involve nerds discussing ways in which to improve at the collectible card game Magic: The Gathering. So, to differentiate mine from others, it would instead be a show about getting worse at Magic. I’d call it The Magic: The Crappening Podcast. For players who’ve done enough winning and now want to try losing for a change.

Another idea: The Cat Podcast. Cat news, cat fashion, hot new cat toys, that kind of stuff. My cats would be my co-hosts. I would cover the topics and they would periodically purr, meow, or maybe hiss if they happen to be fighting.

But what’s the point of doing a podcast if you’re not making money from it? The trick is duping advertisers into sponsoring your show. This would be a challenge since, as I’m sure you’ve already gathered, all my show ideas are terrible. Therefore, a few ploys come to mind.

First off, I might fib about the show’s subject. “Is this really a show about cats?” they’d ask. And I’d answer, “Well, ‘cat’ is actually an acronym for ‘Cabbage and Tomatoes.'” At which point I’d collect a sizeable novelty sponsorship check from Farmers of America. (They had a five-minute Super Bowl ad a while back, so they must have deep pockets.)

Then again, when the farmers listen to the show and hear nothing about cabbage or tomatoes, the jig would be up. I guess I’d be better off attracting sponsors honestly. I could see Meow Mix or the abominable 2019 film Cats sponsoring The Cat Podcast, for instance.

There’s also the matter of theme music. Full disclosure: I play music in a band, so I suppose I could ask my bandmates to do a song with me. However, another full disclosure: I am not a particularly skilled musician. The rest of the members of the band are, but I pretty much just play three-finger chords and occasionally sing like a karaoke drunkard.

That leaves us with two options: stock music or a hired rando. Stock music is boring and my parents always warned me about the danger of strangers, so we’re back to the drawing board.

Finally, for all you know, my voice could sound like Fozzie Bear’s. Not exactly podcast friendly.

So I think it’s safe to say I won’t be starting a podcast anytime soon. And since I won’t be using these podcast ideas, feel free to use them yourself.

Except the cat one. That one might actually work.

Staying Shameless When Self Promoting

November 5, 2018 / Kyle A. Massa

For writers, self promotion is like visiting the doctor: necessary, but often uncomfortable.

Whether online or in person, self promotion can feel a little icky sometimes. So, when it comes down to tooting our own horns, here are some tips on how to toot without feeling guilty.

For starters, remember that everyone, even non-writers, must promote themselves now and then. Take the job interview, for instance. We show up with a piece of paper listing our GPA, accomplishments, and past employment. Then we talk about ourselves for an hour. Promoting our writing is no different, and no less essential.

Even if we don’t like promoting ourselves, I’m sure we all like the work we promote. Why else would we spend so much time on it? We write because we love what we write, plain and simple. We should never feel bad about sharing that love with others.

A great way to overcome the initial discomfort of self promotion is to pretend you’re a publicist for another writer. Pretend that your favorite author wrote your book and that you’re telling a friend why you love it. What makes it special? What makes it unlike other books? I’m sure you’ve done this before with someone else’s book, so try it with your own.

A truism of writing applies to self promotion as well: show, don’t tell. In the above picture, my cat Luna orders you to buy her book. This form of self promotion is a tad aggressive. I’ve seen a lot of writers do it, both online and in person. I’ve done it myself a few times. Trust me—it doesn’t fly. Luna might instead share her published work on her website (see how shameless I was there?). If visitors like what they see, they’ll be far more likely to do as she says and buy her book.

Yes, self promotion feels weird. But we need to do it. So instead of feeling weird about it, let’s embrace it. Let’s have fun with it. It’s called shameless self promotion for a reason.

Ignoring the Internal Critic

September 24, 2018 / Kyle A. Massa

My Internal Critic is a jerk. So is is yours.

Everyone’s Internal Critic says the same things in different ways. It tells us we’re not good enough, that we shouldn’t publish our work, that other writers are better. Internal Critics are those voices in our heads that remark, “I don’t think I would’ve used that adverb.” I’m going to date myself here, but I imagine the Internal Critic as a mini Simon Cowell.

Yes, the Internal Critic can be a jerk. And the truth is, you’ll never quite silence it. However, I believe you can learn to listen to it less. Here are several ways to do it.

Take a Break

Internal Critics love criticizing current projects. Nostalgia usually prevents them from lambasting older projects; anticipation does the same for future projects.

Therefore, guard your current project by making it a past project. Take a break. Let your Internal Critic forget about the mistakes of the past. The Internal Critic is usually an opportunist—it likes going after whatever’s closest. Put down your project, then come back to it.

But make sure you come back to it! Don’t let your Internal Critic talk you out of your work. When you return, you’ll probably be more objective than you were before. There will likely still be problems, yes, but you’ll also spot delightful bits you hadn’t noticed before. That sharp line of dialogue will jump off the page. That sick description will spark your imagination. It will impress even the Internal Critic. So don’t miss this opportunity!

Remind Yourself of the Next Draft

Hey, Internal Critic. There is such a thing as a second draft. In fact, the first draft is always bad. So don’t criticize it so harshly.

Reiterate this to yourself (and your Internal Critic). The first draft is bad, yes, but it’s also just the beginning. Criticizing a first draft is like criticizing a team at their first practice. Of course it’s going to be bad. Of course there will be mistakes. Expecting immediate perfection isn’t just unfair—it’s downright unrealistic!

Improvement is an iterative process. If your Internal Critic forgets that, remind it.

Listen (A Little)

It might sound odd, but sometimes it’s beneficial to take the Internal Critic’s advice—at least at the beginning. For example, imagine you’re writing a novel with multiple point of view characters. Four of them work great, but the fifth feels increasingly unnecessary to the plot. Cue the Internal Critic.

“Hey buddy. IC here. Listen, I’ve been wondering. That fifth POV character. Umm…why?”

Despite the obnoxious tone, you might try considering the Internal Critic’s critique. Treat it like you would any member of your writer’s group. If it’s helpful advice, use it. If it’s just the Critic being critical, discard it.

A Few Exercises to Try Against Your Inner Critic

When you feel your Inner Critic pushing you, push back. Evaluate all the reasons your Inner Critic is wrong.
Hey Internal Critics! Just because you aren’t the best doesn’t mean you’re not good. That would be like saying Scottie Pippen is bad at basketball because Michael Jordan’s better. Pippen’s still one of the all-time greats, even if he’s not the greatest. So, even if you aren’t as good a writer as Margaret Atwood or Kurt Vonnegut, that doesn’t mean you aren’t a good writer. And if you work hard enough, maybe someday you’ll become better than both.
If your Inner Critic constantly reminds you how hard writing is, say, “Yeah. You’re right!” Writing is hard. Writing is very hard. But that doesn’t mean you can’t do it. In truth, it’s a good thing. Because most of the best things in life require dedication. Easy tasks are forgettable. Difficult ones are meaningful.
Remind yourself that everyone has an Inner Critic, and that everyone’s Inner Critic is hardest on themselves.

Let’s ignore those Internal Critics as much as possible. Who needs ’em, anyway?

Originality is Overrated

March 26, 2018 / Kyle A. Massa

There, I said it. This is a thought I’ve had for a while now, though it’s been difficult to find the right words to express it. I hope I’ve found them here.

As writers, the works of other writers are equal parts inspiration and limitation. Stephen King might inspire you to become a horror writer, yet you might avoid writing a novel set in a haunted hotel. That would be too much like The Shining, right? It wouldn’t be original.

You know what? Screw originality. Write what you want!

So many writers decide not to pursue ideas simply because they believe it’s already been done. But so what? If your idea’s been done before, do it differently. Do it better. Do it with that personal touch only you can provide.

I’ll give you an example. One of my best friends told me he always had this idea for a story. You know the theory that humans only use a small percentage of their brain power? In my friend’s story, he imagined a character who takes experimental drugs which grant him access to the rest of his brain. This character develops hyper intelligence and extrasensory perception.

However, my friend told me he’d never write this story. Why? Because of the film Limitless. If you haven’t seen it, it’s almost exactly the same idea my friend had.

Hearing this really bummed me out. My friend was so excited about this story, yet the film killed his dream of writing it. I’m sure you’ve observed (or even personally experienced) a similar phenomenon.

Want my opinion (even though it’s not entirely original)? A similar existing work should never, ever stop you from working on a great idea.

The film Limitless, by the way, is based on a novel called The Dark Fields by Alan Glynn. But did you know that Ted Chiang published a similar story a decade earlier entitled Understand? His was also about a normal guy who took a drug that granted supernatural intelligence. And if we go back even further to 1959, we’ll find Daniel Keyes’s Flowers for Algernon, yet another story about a scientifically sharpened intellect.

Though the methods and general mechanics might vary from story to story, each bears a core similarity to the others. I don’t necessarily agree with those who claim there are no original ideas. I just think writers can always find ways to take existing ideas and make them their own.

We see this all the time in fiction. People say dragons are overdone in fantasy, yet George R.R. Martin writes A Song of Ice and Fire and suddenly they’re resurrected. People say you can’t do anything original with zombies anymore, and then The Girl with All the Gifts becomes a hit.

Don’t let an existing story preclude you from writing something amazing. If your idea is similar to another, make it your own. Put your personal spin on it. Most important of all, write it.

Originality is overrated. But individual creativity—now that’s something to strive for.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his fiancee and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. To stay current with Kyle’s work, subscribe to his email newsletter. He promises not to spam you.

Why the Divide Between Speculative Fiction and Literature?

November 27, 2017 / Kyle A. Massa

Literature | ˈlit(ə)rəCHər | noun | Written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit. – New Oxford American Dictionary

According to a certain stuffy pocket of the literary community, science fiction, fantasy, and horror, collectively known as speculative fiction, don’t qualify as literature. Decent stories? Maybe. Cool ideas? Sure. But in the eyes of this snobbish literary elite, speculative fiction just doesn’t measure up to stuff like The Grapes of Wrath and Moby Dick.

Would you ever read Moby Dick willingly? Yeah, neither would I.

Take the 2003 National Book Awards as an example. That year’s winner was none other than Stephen King, who of course mainly writes horror. The literary elite wasted no time in attacking him, no doubt because he’s just a lowly genre writer. Here’s a quite from critic Harold Bloom.

“The decision to give the National Book Foundation’s annual award for ‘distinguished contribution’ to Stephen King is extraordinary, another low in the shocking process of dumbing down our cultural life. I’ve described King in the past as a writer of penny dreadfuls, but perhaps even that is too kind. He shares nothing with Edgar Allan Poe. What he is is an immensely inadequate writer on a sentence-by-sentence, paragraph-by-paragraph, book-by-book basis.”

You forgot chapter-by-chapter, Harry, but whatever. I disagree with you.

In an episode of my favorite podcast, The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy, host David Barr Kirtley led a panel on this very debate. Recorded to promote Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2015, edited by John Joseph Adams and Joe Hill, the panel featured such influential SF figures as Adams, Hill, Carmen Maria Machado, Seanan McGuire, and Jess Row.

It’s interesting; Adams and Hill have starkly different opinions on the purpose of the volume. On the one hand, John Joseph Adams thinks of Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy as a vehicle for speculative fiction to prove its worth to the literary mainstream. In his own words:

“I and other science fiction fans believe that the best science fiction and fantasy is on par with or better than any other genre. My goal with The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy was to prove that.”

Joe Hill, however, argues that speculative fiction has already merged with literature, and that it did so a long time ago.

“The instruments of science fiction and fantasy—the tools in that genre toolbox—have been out there in the literary world and being explored for at least a decade now, in work by people like Jonathan Lethem, Michael Chabon, Margaret Atwood, and Cormac McCarthy. Science fiction and fantasy is part of the literary mainstream, and has been for a while now.”

At first glance, Hill’s argument resonated more with me. There are so many novels out there—The Road, Fahrenheit 451, Cloud Atlas, and 1984, just to name a few—that are generally considered literary, non-genre works, yet are so clearly speculative fiction that it’s difficult to argue otherwise.

The more I’ve thought about this debate, the more I’ve started to like a decidedly different answer.

Why doesn’t the literary mainstream accept speculative fiction?

Why does it matter?

Let’s refer back to our definition of literature for a second. In the grand scheme of things, does The Lord of the Rings have “superior or lasting merit”? I’d say so. Since the trilogy’s publication in 1954, it’s been an enduring classic for generation upon generation. It’s been translated into 38 different languages (not sure if Tengwar counts there). Furthermore, it’s a story about enduring human ideas: friendship, tyranny, power, greed, love.

Does The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy have lasting merit? Does Dracula? Does Slaughterhouse Five?

If you’ve ever read any of those books, you already know the answer.

Truth is, we don’t need to speak up for speculative fiction. Speculative fiction speaks for itself.

Are you a fan of speculative fiction? Me too. Check out some of my speculative work here.