The temporal matter of ongoing series

 

Bakuman, a Japanese manga from the group that did the deeply influential Death Note has finished. Now, if you’re not familiar with what I’m talking about, please refer to the notes listed below.

If you don’t know what a manga is, start at note 1.

If you don’t know what Death Note is, start at note 2.

If you don’t know what Bakuman us, start at note 3.

If you know all of the above, skip the notes.

Note 1

Manga is the Japanese term for ‘comic book’. Only in Western cultures are manga considered a genre into and of themselves. Manga are an integral part of Japanese society, much the way reality television and compromising one’s morals for money is an integral part of Western culture anymore. Manga cover just about every aspect of Japanese life: there are manga aimed at kids, young men and women, and adults. Topics cover everything – every genre is represented, and it is not uncommon to read a manga about sports, or school, or even something as mundane as going to the store. The majority of manga that is imported is translated into English, but the original format of the book is maintained (it reads from right to left, as opposed to the Western format – left to right), and it does take a little getting used to.

Note 2

Death Note was a series that was originally published in weekly  format from 2003 to 2006. Death Note told the story of a Shingami (a Japanese Death Spirit) who leaves his book of reaping (the Death Note) in the land of humans. A young man by the name of Light Yagami finds the book and discovers that by writing a name in the book and visualizing the person who is named in the book will cause them to die. Filled with a sense of purpose, Light, who contacts the media under the nickname ‘Kira’ (Japanese for ‘killer’) sets out to recreate society by killing off all of the criminal elements in the world. As the police are completely baffled by Kira’s crimes, they call in a world famous detective only known as ‘L’. As the story progresses, it is revealed that L is a young man, around Light’s age, who is intent on catching Kira, and asks Light to help apprehend the villain. What happens from there is one of the most insane games of cat and mouse I have ever personally read. It’s a fantastic series, but definitely for older audiences. Death Note has spawned two live action movies, several video games, and two novels. All twelve books (collecting individual issues) have been released in America, along with a thirteenth book that acts as a reader’s guide. Both novels have been translated into English and can often be found next to the tankōbons (collected arcs – the equivalent of a trade paper back).

Note 3

Bakuman was the second series that Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata worked on together. In it, they chose to tell the story of two kids who made it their life’s desire to become famous mangaka (comics creators). Moritaka Mashiro and fellow classmate Akito Takagi set out to do manga together. Early on, Mashiro reveals that he has a crush on another classmate, a young girl by the name of Miho Azuki. Takagi talks Mashiro into confessing his love for her, and the two agree that they will marry once he is a famous mangaka whose story has been made into an anime (television adaptation) and she is the voice of the female protagonist. The most fascinating thing I found about this series (at least early on) was the amount of focus that was placed on the technical aspect of publishing a weekly manga (and the fact that even though these guys put in close to 80 hours a week, they barely make anything). Bakuman just recently finished its final story arc. However, it has not been completely released in America yet.

 

Now that we’re up to speed, I just wanted to say that I was very thankful and relived that Bakuman ended when it did. The story line had come to it’s natural conclusion (both in the fictional story Mashiro and Takagi had written) and in the series itself – there was no last minute rush to insert a new wrinkle in the story, nor was there any need to. The story had run its course, the protagonists had faced their obstacles and come out the better for it, and everyone was happy.

Unfortunately, not all stories work that way – both in Japan and America. In Japan, two of the most popular series of all time are Naruto and One Piece. Both are action based manga with male protagonists who are constantly facing impossible odds. Both have the attitude of “I’ll become the best (insert career) the world has ever seen”, and both have a cast of supporting characters that are beloved by fans the world over. The other thing they have in common is the fact that both series are formulaic, and have been running continually for over ten years straight.

That’s right – the same basic premise running from story arc to story arc, for ten. years. Ten freakin’ years! It gets a little old after a while.

Now America is not innocent of this fact either – Superman, Batman, X-men, Captain America, all of these titles have been running for many decades (Superman started in the 40s!), and without fail for the majority of that time, it’s the same formula over and over again. Sure, Marvel and DC try to shake things up by occasionally killing off the character, or having the mantle shift to another player for a while, but in the end, it’s still the same damn story.

I understand the driving force behind it – the company has to make money. If something works, why try and fix it? New fans are always coming into the fold, and if the stories got too far-fetched, these new readers would be completely alienated. But seriously – this is why I don’t follow the monthlies anymore. In the majority of stories, the main character faces off against a bad guy, flexes his (or her) muscles, throws down, suffers a set-back of some sort, and ultimately defeats the villain. Yes, this is a gross oversimplification, and I’m well aware of Joseph Campbell’s ‘Hero’s Journey’ aspect of these stories, but far too often, it feels as though the characters are being cut and pasted from one situation to the next, while the villains are being introduced through a revolving door of issues.

Disembodied voice: “Now serving number 78, number 78.”

Villain of the week: "Oh goodie! It’s only been six issues since I last faced off against Captain Amazing Pants! Thank god my insurance covered my jaw being reconstructed!”

Perhaps I’m just cynical, maybe I’m too hung up on the 80s and 90s aspects of storytelling. I don’t know, but this is one of the main reasons I stick with self-contained graphic novels. The possibility of the same damn thing happening over and over again is kept to a minimum.

Am I wrong about recycled story lines? Has this become just a Eastern issue? Let me know in the comments.

From Aside to Soliloquy in Geek Minor

 

So tonight, I managed to freak out my children by whooping and hollering in the car while we were sitting outside the drive-up window of a local restaurant chain. I had just gotten an email stating that my paper proposal had been accepted for a literary conference this summer.

Now, several hours later, the giddiness has worn off, and in it’s place, a profound sense of  “holy shit, what the hell did I just get myself into” has managed to settle itself (rather uncomfortably, I might add) on my chest, much like the incubi of old were said to sit upon a sleeping man’s chest and steal his life away.

“But why?” You may be asking, “Why must you feel this way? Are you not versed in the literary arts?” Well, yes, for the most part, I am, but this is an entirely new situation. And as such, throws my entire sense of self into turmoil. Once again I feel as if I am trapped within the confines of High School, doubting my abilities to communicate, to fit in, to be accepted as one who belongs. I’m wracked with doubts. I fear my ability to write, much less engage in coherent behavior. Questions burble to the surface “what if my presentation falls flat?, what if I set fire to the stage?, what if I accidentally insult Scott McCloud?, what if I can’t afford to go?” And then, after working myself into a frenzied panic of hyperventilation and bad “what if…” scenarios that would put Marvel to shame, I take a few deep breaths, slap myself a few times, and realize the most important thing.

There’s no point in giving up now. I’ve always prided myself on doing things on a large scale. Either I succeed soundly, or I fail – spectacularly. So, gentle reader, I will attend this conference this summer. I will present my paper, and the cosmic forces who pull the strings will flip a coin and decide how everything will turn out.

And in the aftermath, I will sit there, in the flaming wreckage that resulted from either my success or my failure, probably drinking from an ice-cold Blue Moon, and I’ll realize that the true force in the universe is actually a DC Villain by the name of Harvey ‘Two-Face’ Dent.

 

I apologize for the theater references in the title… been reading Hamlet again. 

Limerick For Greg

 

So, in the town of Limerick, they have an annual contest for the best limerick. For five years straight, a man by the name of Seamus McMillian won.

The contest was held in the city hall, where only the contestant and the three judges were privy to the limerick itself. This way, no one would be able to figure out what the limerick was (I’m not sure why, that’s just the way the rules are).

After each contestant would recite their limerick, they would go across the street to the local pub, and when a winner was announced, everyone would celebrate and drink like crazy.

Anyways, McMillian recited his limerick and then went over to the pub to wait for the announcement that he had won for the sixth year. Several pints later, the judges came over and announced that Sister Mary McIntosh, the local nun had won the contest.

Now McMillian was completely floored by this – he was sure he had a clinch on the contest. As he was already full of Guinness and bravado, he marched over to the judges and demanded to know why he lost.

The judges looked at him and reiterated the rules. Protesting, he demanded to know what the winning limerick was. The Judges told him that they couldn’t reveal that. Finally, McMillan demanded to know where Sister Mary was. Against their better judgment, they directed him to the convent down the road.

McMillian stormed down to the convent, fully intent on discovering what the winning limerick was. Shoving open the door, McMillan yelled out for Sister Mary McIntosh. A few moments later, Sister Mary appeared.

“Yes my child. What is troubling you?” Sister Mary asked the inebriated man.

“Sister, I won the limerick contest five years in a row. I’ve always had the best limerick, no one’s been able to beat me. I’ve got to know what your limerick was.” McMillian demanded.

Sister Mary smiled and said “but my son, is that not against the rules?” McMillian nodded, but replied “Sister, I’ve got to know.”

After several minutes of browbeating and haranguing, McMillian broke Sister Mary down. “Alright my son, I’ll tell you my limerick, but we must go outside, as some of the language is not appropriate for this location.”

Walking outside, Sister Mary continued “we must cross the street, before I can tell you my limerick.” McMillian charged across the street, waiting for the nun to catch up.

Once she reached the other side of the street, McMillian started in on her, “Sister, we’ve crossed the street – what’s the limerick?”

Sister Mary held up a hand. “Now, my son, this limerick has some dirty words in it, so I must substitute the word ‘duh-duh’ for the foul language.”

Nodding his head impatiently, McMillian spun his hands, signaling her to get on with it.

Clearing her throat, Sister Mary recited her limerick:

“duh-duh duh-duh duh-duh,

duh-diddy duh-diddy duh-duh,

duh-duh duh-duh, duh-duh duh-duh,

as they fucked in a pile of shite.” 

Writing exercise results

So I went with @genrelibrarian to a writer’s workshop tonight at the local library. The workshop was being run by the extremely talented Laura Resau (Her website here), who discussed character and setting. It was a great night, and I had a lot of fun.

One of the things that Laura discussed was a part that she excised from her book What the Moon Saw, about slug sex (don’t ask – it’ll take more time to explain than required, and by then, you’ll be fed up with it and not want anything else to do with it). Anyways, It stuck with me for some reason, and when we got to the writing exercise for the night, we had to write a scene where we described a scene using all the senses.

Now, before you guys go getting all up in arms – this is not about slug sex. I promise! As for it being tasteful, well, I never said it was going to be good, just no slug sex.

With that out of the way, I present my writing exercise.

 

Returning to the apartment, I unlocked the door, and put my shoulder to it. The oppressive mugginess had swelled the door, and it required me to throw my bulk against it twice. The wood squeaked and squealed in protest, before popping open with a damp thock!

Stepping inside, the heat was worse. All the curtains were pulled, dimming the room substantially, making it almost impossible to see. My foot collided with a mess of empty aluminum while I swung the door shut. Wedging itself at the edge of the jamb, I sighed and trudged down the trash strewn hall, the odor of stale beer and week-old pizza assaulting my nose.

As I stepped into the living room, I was mildly shocked to see the debris had only multiplied marginally. The stench, however, seemed to fill the room, much like a fat man in an elevator after a chili cook-off. My eyes drifted over the carnage of the room to settle on the source of such olfactory offense.

Kyle was sprawled along the length of the couch, reading something. His feet wiggled obscenely, flashing grotesque bits of dirt and fungus, While his shorts, once a nice pair of bermudas I had loaned him, were crumpled and stained, wadding up near his crotch. His gut lolled out from under his grey-ish shirt like molasses waiting for the signal to drip lazily onto the floor.

I had hoped to slip past him, but a pizza box caught my foot halfway across the room.

Tipping the magazine slightly, his gaze met mine. I felt a slight tickle of fear in the back of my throat. A small smile played threateningly at the edges of his food crusted mouth. I knew if I looked at the title of whatever he was reading, I would be treated to a verbal recounting of his literature.

I couldn’t help myself.

To my horror, I saw The Best Arthropod Erotica of the Year, Vol. 6.

Looking back up, Kyle opened his mouth.

“Oi! Listen ta dis!” He was off and running. “Slowly, we slid across each other, the slime trail I had laid across her back glistening wetly in the moonlight. She was a magnificent specimen, and I could feel the pressure building in my abdomen. Before I knew it, I-“

“WHOA! ENOUGH!” I shouted him down. I was feeling nauseated, and not just from his reading. A subtle crosswind had managed to blow the air from his mouth in my direction and the stench of apparent raw sewage was killing my resolve to stay in the room. Stomping off to my room, I could feel his greasy smile boring into my back.

‘If I could just get him off the lease’ I thought to myself as I slammed the door to my room.

Alright, I apologize. I guess some slug sex managed to sneak in. However, this scene actually started out with the magazine itself. For some reason, I thought of the title of the magazine, and started thinking backwards. Namely, who the hell would read something like this in the first place? What sort of demeanor would this person have? Is there really enough arthropod erotica to justify a book, much less six volumes? After laying that out, I just had to figure out who would be interacting with this type of character.

Am I going to follow up on this? turn it into a story?

Probably not.

But, you never know.

A Teaser...

So, in light of Melissa's discovery, I thought I would post some of the articles we had worked up for subsequent articles of The Devil's Advocate. Keep in mind these were rough drafts, and the political climate was much different at the time (not to mention we were a bunch of rabid, anti-republican college kids).

Soooooo..... without further ado.... some articles from the now defunct Devil's Advocate



New Virus Causing Havoc
By: Ed "Eddie" Tor

HAWAII - A new virus has apparently surfaced here of the coast of the big island. Security officials at the Hawaiian Outer-islands Anti-viral eXamination center, have discovered a new virus that they have tentatively named "E.626".

"It is actually a very strange type of viral infection". Stated Dr. L. ilo Wakawakawaka. "From what we have seen, upon infection, is that the virus releases the first part of its payload, destroying file structures, attacking the boot sector, melting wiring structures in the CPU unit itself, and stealing everyone's left shoe." Dr. Wakawakawaka pointed to her bare left foot at this time.

"Within several hours of infection, the virus managed to spread to other computers on the closed network we had set up to test for propagation. The results were just as devastating on those networks also. The virus seemed to be impervious to everything we threw at it. It literally broke our state of the art virus program in half. Our secretary had to go home early due to the fact that she had lost the left shoe of her new pair of Guiccis that she had spent two paychecks on."

Dr. Wakawakawaka pointed to another computer, sitting alone. "Now this was rather interesting. We installed the program on this computer, which is not connected to any other computer in any way. The E.626 virus actually rebult the folders and has optimized the entire system."

Dr. Wakawakawaka later stated that the virus E.626 has also been know to be bundled with several other computer compromisers, the two most common files being the J.U.M.ba trojan horse, and/or the pL.eak.L.y worm.

Apparently several researchers at the center have affectionately nicknames the virus "Stitch".

Something different tonight

Alright guys,

Normally, I'll just spew something out and let you all look at it to your heart's content, but tonight, I come to you hat in hand, to ask you a question.

I have in my possession, a story that I have written. Not that this is anything strange, I normally have stuff I have written, but I have never felt that anything is worth trying to sell. This has changed, and I would like some input from my readers (all five of ya!).

I went through and started looking at submission guidelines for several "pro" markets, and since none of them do not allow simultaneous submissions, I need to figure out which one to submit to first. Let me know what you think:

Analog
- 6 to 8¢ per word
- Response time: ~5 weeks
- Esubs only
- counts towards membership with SFWA

Asimov's
- 6¢ per word
- Response time: ~5 weeks
- Esubs only
- counts towards membership with SFWA

Clarkesworld
- 10¢ per word (up to 4000), then 5¢ per word after
- Response time: ~2 days
- Esubs only
- counts towards membership with SFWA

Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
- 6 to 9¢ per word
- Response time: ~8 weeks
- Must snailmail manuscript (no esubs)

Orson Scott Card's InterGalactic Medicine Show
- 6¢ per word
- Cannot republish for one year after acceptance
- Response time: ~3 months
- Esubs only
- counts towards membership with SFWA

Lightspeed
- 5¢ per word
- Response time: ~2 days for rejection, ~2 weeks for acceptance
- Esubs only

Strange Horizons
- 7¢ per word
- Response time: 70 days
- Closed to subs until early June
- Esubs only
- counts towards membership with SFWA

Tor Online
- 25¢ per first 5000 words, 15¢ next 5000, 10¢ after that
- Response time: slow (nothing more specific)
- looking for "Highly Professional Level[s]" of work
- counts towards membership with SFWA

look it over, let me know what you think.

Thanks folks.

A little light writing

So, I apparently got an excellent review on an entry I posted over at writing.com for the "It's So Bad, It's Good" contest, where the object was to write the most overwrought, one-dimensional, stereotypical, obnoxious story possible. Here's my entry.


One-eyed Bart swaggered into the bar, his hips swiveling like a diseased prostitute with an ill-fitting peg-leg three inches too short for her body, which was rather funny, as his peg-leg was three inches too short for his body.
Wobbling his way to the bar, there was much speculation about why he was called ‘One-Eyed Bart’ since he had two perfectly functioning eyes. Actually wasn’t all that fair to say he had two ‘perfect’ eyes, as one was a bit lazy. When the left eye looked straight ahead, the right was often examining the nuances to the bridge of his nose – not that it was something he always wanted to stare at, but given the circumstances, it was probably better than staring at the inside of his skull.
Bellying up to the bar, he waved the bartender over. The bartender, a grizzled old one dimensional type schlepped over, wiping out a glass with a towel that would have been considered clean five to seven years previous.
“Well, what’ll it be?” He asked, spitting into the glass and then wiping the inside some more.
“Vermouth... leave the bottle” Bart replied. He knew that when you bellied up to a bar, you always ordered whiskey. Bart wasn’t a whiskey drinker, but he felt that he needed to present a strong, dangerous veneer. He shuddered to think that anyone might discover his deep, dark secret. A secret he was willing to kill for. Not that he had, but he was pretty sure he would to kill to make sure nobody knew what it was.
As the bartender shuffled back over, he sized Bart up. “You look like a man who has a deep, dark secret that you would probably be willing to kill for.” Bart’s eyebrows transported themselves from their usual place above his eyes to somewhere in his hairline. Shocked by this relocation, Bart grunted an affirmative to the bartender’s question. Realizing he just revealed that he had a deep, dark secret, Bart fumed.
“Listen, I’ll let you fume in silence. I have to fade into the background like a poorly conceived character that the author threw in just to move the story along.” Bart watched the bartender blend into the background, taking on a sort of muted quality like the backgrounds of those old Looney Tunes cartoons.
Blowing the dust off the bottle, Bart drank deeply. He could tell it was old vermouth – the taste of stale spices mixed with the vinegar flavor of super old wine, because that’s what vermouth basically is – mulled wine. From what I’ve read, vermouth is great – when it’s fresh, which this stuff most definitely was not.
Gagging on the nasty liquor, Bart turned around to survey the bar. Across the way was a piano player with a pencil thin mustache that would have put Salvador Dali’s to shame, had Dali the foresight to wander into an authentic Hollywood rendering of an authentic western bar. On the stage, several painted women, who bore a passing resemblance to the now dead ex-wife of a disgraced preacher who was famous for defrauding his flock and boinking his secretary, who in turn did a tasty spread in Playboy that did nothing to keep pubescent boys focused on what they were supposed to be doing.
Looking annoyed at the narrator, Bart continued his examination of the bar, noticing several other groups that missed his gaze the first time he studied the room, even though the room only measured fifteen feet on a side. At one table was the local doctor, passed out and snoring loudly into the tabletop. Bart wasn’t totally sure he was the doctor, but judging from previous experience, if someone was passed out at a table, more than likely, the minute a doctor was needed, not only would he be a first class doctor, but a surgeon of the first class with hands of steel who could remove a bullet two centimeters from the human heart.
Another table had a group of rough customers, all playing poker. Each card player was uglier, meaner, and more dangerous than the last. Bart found it rather amazing as they were all sitting in a circle. As he watched, he saw one of the card players accuse another player of cheating, which was rather funny, as they were all cheating. Bart distinctly saw aces sticking out of jacket sleeves, hat brims, boots, and waistbands. The brawl quickly spread across the room, as people squared off against each other. One of the dancing floozies broke a bottle over top of an anonymous brawler that had apparently appeared solely for the purpose of the battle.
Shaking his head, Bart ducked, allowing a thrown combatant to sail over the top of the bar, only to crash into the mirror, shattering it into a million little pieces. Bart reveled at the fact that each sliver, each facet glittered and shone like the stars in a distant galaxy, only to slowly descend downward in a slivery rain of imminent injury and possible death. Bart had seen a man’s carotid artery get sliced once that way. The alcoholic doc was too slow to save the man, but the image of a bright crimson stream fountaining up and over the bar had stuck with him ever since.
Deciding that he had seen enough, Bart hobbled back out of the drinking/brawlhouse establishment. In the street, he turned to examine the sign overhead – “The Double Duce” he read out loud to himself, sounding like Sam Neil in Roadhouse. Slapping himself on the forehead, he realized that not only was he was at the wrong bar, but it was actually Sam Elliot that was in Roadhouse. Looking over, he saw the one he was supposed to be at.
Setting out, he trudge/hobbled his way next door to “The Cantina”, passing a sign stating “Welcome to Mos Eisley, a nice port town.” As he continued on, he passed a couple of deputies muttering “Those aren’t the Floyd boys we’re looking for.”