True to Life

Humanity is individuals as male or female. It is families as races and a species divided into cultures, factions and nations.

Most individuals are insignificant. The nameless many instead identify as male or female by family, race, culture, faction or nation.

I write fiction. I populate imaginary worlds with imaginary people. Like in reality, most of these people are insignificant. They are nameless accordingly, instead recognized by their sex, race, culture, faction and nationality. They have no other identity.

Unlike everyone else, main characters are significant as individuals. Their sex, family, race and nation are incidental. Their personality is more important than their culture and decides their role in a faction.

I realized fiction is true to life in the simplest of terms. The heroes and villains are important. No one else really is, except as nonentities to save or slaughter.

Bad for Now

My circle of friends is broken. I live alone. My finances are dependent on my unskilled labor as a middle-aged man with injuries. My creative endeavors languish in obscurity.

Optimism is wishful thinking. There are no signs of things getting better.

I am blamed for my troubles. I am told I should do this or could have done that, blah, blah, blah. Never mind that I never rob or exploit. I work for my living. I work hard. I literally broke my back acting above and beyond for the very capitalists who fired me for it.

Humanity is a prolific species of lonely creatures. My friends drift away, sooner or later, and usually with little or no warning. I am loved when convenient and disliked at a whim. I am told this is not a problem since it happens with everyone. It is especially a problem because it happens with everyone!

I take care of myself as best I can. I am thrifty and mind my health.

I never sacrifice other people. On the contrary: I am mindful to never gain at their expense. My good deeds are secrets.

I would be blessed to reap what I sow. I am instead cursed by the endless grind of a world going nowhere. I am crushed by the grinding.

Artistic Vanity

I am a nobody who writes books and illustrates the covers. My work languishes in obscurity. It shall most likely fade away, unnoticed into oblivion.

I am frustrated by my inability to achieve fame and fortune. I am disheartened by the disinterest in my work. I do feel as if I am striving in vain.

Do you draw or paint or sculpt? Do you write poems or novels? Do you sing or dance? Do you write music? In other words: ARE YOU AN ARTIST?

I turn my daydreams into words and pictures. It is my art to do so. My thoughts and feelings are clarified by the effort. By bothering to articulate what I imagine, I refine it. By turning it into product, I can share it. I have inspired people, though very few.

Is there a point to my pointless toil? Am I achieving anything by my relentless failure? Do I have anything to show for what remains unnoticed?

I am an artist for better or worse. That I even bother must count for something... otherwise it is best to be feckless.

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Surprisingly Sexy

Young women and manly men are sexy by default. This is why they are the usual sexiness of art and fiction. This is why an adventure story was typically about a warrior rescuing a fair damsel.

Other things are sexy too, and some of them universally. Uniforms are such: Men and women are especially attractive wearing them. People love women cringing and screaming in fear: Such was the damsel in distress at her sexiest. It is her superiority over the “Mary Sue” that was supposed to replace her… and failed to do so.

I write and illustrate fiction. The sexiness of my work is the most important aspect. It energizes everything else.

The sexiest thing to me of all art and fiction is a hairy monster effortlessly breaking the neck of a clueless guard. It was three panels in a comic book I happened upon in 1983.

I have incorporated what is sexiest to me into my own art and fiction. It shall never be as sexy to others as it is to me, however. It is not even sexual, actually. The erotica is exclusive to my imagination.

I write and illustrate what I imagine. People shall read and see from their own perspective. What is sexy to me may be nothing of the sort to them… but they may be aroused by something I did not even consider sexual. Someone may be inspired by a scene or illustration beyond what it was meant to be… and that is a good thing.

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Motion Pictures

Since childhood, I imagined writing, directing and starring in movies. I would compose the soundtrack and design the props and costumes.

I grew up making toys and costumes. I improvised and directed a short play. I wrote stories and illustrated them. I wrote scripts. I have since acted and voice acted. I compose music.

The child is now a middle-aged man. I write books and illustrate the covers. I create the title fonts. I still compose music and voice act.

I still imagine making movies. I think I would have been good at it, one of the best. Alas, reality is what it is, not what I imagine.

My interest in movies is as an artist. The fame and fortune give me influence and resources. The motion picture itself is pictures, prose, fashion and music as one and the same. Movies are the ultimate artistic medium… because it is all of them.

Youngsters tell me video games have replaced movies as the ultimate medium. They argue that games now have every aspect of motion pictures but as something interactive.

It is counterproductive to limit imagination to the unimaginative, which is most people. As a writer of fiction I know it is generally better to deny readers a say. A good story is consistent and meaningful. It has connotations and nuance. The end fulfils the beginning. A video game can only match a movie if it limits the choices of the players, turning the game into a movie.

Wayward Fashion Sense

I finished my c.65,000 word novel The Wayward Monster Girl on April 2, 2025. I started reading it on April 4^th and finished it on April 6^th. It proved better than I thought it was while writing it.

The story is a surreal adventure about a little girl who becomes a monster… yet remains a little girl. She kills people. Most of her victims are other children, little girls conscripted by the villains. She drinks blood… and likes it.

I wrote what was supposed to be a short story for the collection Stories of a Weird World. The setting is the Weird World universe, a dreamlike version of our world. The story became its own book. It was written for no other reason than to give an illustration context.

Since childhood, my favorite thing to imagine is the easy killing of clueless guards. These victims are usually armed and uniformed foot soldiers of villainy. Though the Imperial Stormtroopers of Star Wars are my very favorite in the mainstream, I generally prefer women in alluring costumes.

The Wayward Sentry Girl is the foot soldier of villainy of Weird World. She is not a woman, however. In her universe, most people are either children or elderly. She is a child. She is barefoot. Her uniform is a sleeveless white shirt and skimpy red bottoms. A blue “W” is on the breast of the shirt.

I wondered what the type would look like if I reversed the color scheme. I turned the white black, the red green and the blue orange. I liked what I saw… though not better than the original scheme. I made it the uniform of “elite” troops to explain why it is in use but by fewer girls.

Strangely True

Our dreams are weird, as is our favorite fiction. The strangeness is strangely normal. The nonsense makes sense in context.

The very best non-fiction is actually fiction. It is legends and propaganda taken seriously. Uninspiring reality is dramatized into wonderful stories. We are inspired by what is imagined, even if we are horrified by it. Dreams, even as nightmares, are wonderful.

Truth is what it is, not what we believe or imagine. The best fiction is true. Its realism grounds it. Its weirdness expands our consciousness. The story is a dream we experience while awake. We see reality play out in a fantasy. Everything is summarized and clarified as symbols and scenarios.

Jesus taught in parables! He told the truth as a storyteller.

There is nothing weirder ever written than the Book of Ezekiel and the Book of Revelation.

Fantasy. Science fiction. These are weirdness as genres. They are The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings and Star Trek and Star Wars and The Cthulhu Mythos and Alien. They are the classics, quite literally, as Classical Mythology.

I write fiction. It is weird. The stories are fantasies as truth. They are waking dreams I give to everyone to dream. As of now, they languish in obscurity… as did the Arkham Cycle written by H.P. Lovecraft. It will be a success to fail as he did.

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