May 08

The Tolstoy Zone

The name, Leo Tolstoy, carries a bit of an intimidation factor. Tolstoy lived in the 1800s, and the world has changed since then. Many writers have come and gone, yet Tolstoy continues to be relevant.

At the library, I find several nondescript volumes lacking flashy colors, fonts and modern graphics. Recognizable titles include War and Peace (1400 pages), Anna Karenina (750 pages), The Cossacks (160 pages) and The Death of Ivan Ilyich (53 pages). I weigh my decision because quite literally my book bag is an unhealthy amount of heavy, and the winner is The Death of Ivan Ilyich. I load the three audio disks for my next commute to work and prepare for an easy week of listening to some old guy’s story about a different time and place. Instead, I discover “a dimension as vast as space and timeless as infinity . . . [that] lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge.” It is an area called the Tolstoy Zone.1

Within minutes of beginning this novella, I want nothing more than to continue. Often, I stop and marvel at Tolstoy’s timeless words and characters. I bubble the aspects of theme that intrigued me as shown in the photo.

 

The “D” Word

In this novel [spoiler alert] Ivan Ilyich dies. Death is part one of Tolstoy’s two-part story. The author approaches theme like a shark circling its prey. On each pass, the shark takes a closer look at what it will consume. The Death of Ivan Ilyich begins with the outside view of death. How do the living view the dead? By reading the Gazette, Pyotr Ivanovich sees the obituary placed by the widow, Praskovya Fyodorovna Golovin. The shocking news becomes an opportunity for career advance for some and a relief for others. Ivan has died and not me. The friend, Pyotr, is one of only two guests for the funeral.  Uncomfortable realities exist in this time period when the dead remain in the home slowly decomposing for days; when an untimely and early death jeopardizes a family’s finances; and when illness causes long periods of declining health to a miserable end. Tolstoy leads the reader with Pyotr to the next revelation–fear. Next time, it might be me who dies.

Fear and death are universal themes much older than the 1880s. Biblical passages, such as John 11:38-44, have cultural ramifications of Lazarus’ death for Martha and Mary. Also, Ezekiel 37:1-14 symbolizes Israel’s hopelessness with a valley of dry bones. Death is both literal and figurative and represents aloneness, separation, desperation, destruction, loss of relationships and loss of possibilities. Tolstoy’s study of emotion is intimate, realistic and all encompassing. He writes of what modern readers recognize as the stages of grief published roughly a hundred years later by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross in her famous book On Death and Dying.

Life after Death

Ivan is dead, and Pyotr scuttles off to resume his card game and find a permanent replacement for his friend’s vacant seat. The circling shark has swallowed the prey. So what does Tolstoy do? He analyzes how the subject tastes from beginning to end and resets the clock to show how this terrible situation occurred.

The story changes narrators and pivots to be about life instead of death. If this sounds religious, it is no coincidence. According to Richard Pevear’s introduction for Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich & Other Stories, Tolstoy began a personal religious conversion to moral teachings known as “Tolstoyism,” and eventually published What is Art? to receive worldwide recognition.

If I am to read like a writer, I know “what” happens in this story and “why” this novella wrestles with finding meaning in life. The beauty in the story is “how” this message unfolds through Ivan’s thoughts about his life. It feels like a geometric proof written as poetry. Each statement builds upon the next. The narrator wants to live, but, then again, no; he only now considers the lack of meaning and suffering in his life. Although he has tried to be proper and correct, he lived his life wrong and failed to help the people who needed him the most. The transformation of Ivan’s character with only internal monologue is the key to Tolstoy’s mastery. Very clearly, Tolstoy uses Ivan Ilyich as an example of what not to do. Of course, it is an alert to change, but the final message is comforting. If Ivan Ilyich can find peace, so too can everyone else.

Tolstoy is approachable in this timeless novel. All of my earlier fears were wrong. I may never tackle War and Peace, but I appreciate Tolstoy’s writing.

  1. Rod Serling, The Twilight Zone Series 1963.

 

 

May 06

What’s Your Number?

“The beautiful part of writing is that you don’t have to get it right the first time, unlike say a brain surgeon.” – Robert Cormier

Grab your thesaurus! You need a stronger word to convey the anger your protagonist feels.

When reading your completed manuscript, look for apathetic words that don’t show the desire, despair, curiosity, danger, happiness, terror, or excitement you want the reader to feel. You may change a chosen word or phrase after reading aloud what you’ve written because the word just doesn’t fit. Perusing a dictionary or thesaurus helps in finding alternative expressions that work better.

But what about the numbers a writer selects in the titles of his stories. A particular number could hold some connection to the plot or sound better when read aloud. A writer may pick a different number even if it means adding or omitting characters or restructuring the story to fit.

Often a significant number conveys the meaning of a story much better than just words. Ray Bradbury wrote a short, futuristic story titled, The Fireman, where books are burned and reading is prohibited. There’s no spark to that title. However, a longer version published in 1951 with a more provocative title, Fahrenheit 451, worked better. Fahrenheit 451, the temperature of the combustion of paper, sparks more interest in the storyline.

Sometimes a number in an alliteration works. For example, 77 Sunset Strip, was the name of a popular television series from 1958 – 1964. The detectives could have lived anywhere on the Strip, but the address 77, worked better especially in their theme song.

Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai, (an alliterative title) depicts the request from villagers asking for protection from bandits and the response of the seven men. The verbalization of that two-syllable number, seven, sounds much better than any other reasonably small number. Eleven might have been a decent alternate number choice, however, that would make for a more involved storyline. Too many characters get in the way of a good, tight story. The movie was remade in America as The Magnificent Seven (1960), The Return of the Magnificent Seven (1966), Guns of the Magnificent Seven (1969), and The Magnificent Seven (2016).

The comedy, 9 to 5, tells the story of three women who, tired of their boss’s bigoted condescending attitude, take revenge on him. Dolly Parton’s song, “Working 9 to 5,” from the movie was a catchy tune. The title could have been “8 to 4” but that doesn’t sound as impactful. I had a job where I worked from 8:30 to 4:30. Try putting that time frame into a cute song.

I saw the 1985 French comedic movie, Trois hommes et un couffin (translation: Three Men and a Cradle) which needed no translation. The 1987 Hollywood remake, Three Men and a Baby, told a similar story. Having two inept men take care of a baby wouldn’t provide enough comedic material. Four bumbling men would be too much. Three worked best.

In Les Trois Mousquetaires (translation: The Three Musketeers), Alexandre Dumas’s historical novel, there were four musketeers after D’Artagnan joined the powerful Athos, Aramis, and Porthos. Any remakes never altered the number of the original. Again, the number three worked best for this story.

Which movies and books can you recall that have a number in the title? What is the significance of that number?

 

 

 

May 05

First Experience with Dead Rising 4

Note:  There are spoilers in this article.

 

Though Dead Rising 4 was released in December 2016, I was unable to play it until mid-March.  I had to wait until it was made available for my favorite gaming hub, the Steam Network, before I could download it.  Unlike Resident Evil 7, my resolve to stay spoiler-free until I could experience the game for myself was successful.

Like Resident Evil 7, I was certain that Dead Rising 4 would not run on my computer.  I chose to test it anyway and was pleasantly surprised when it booted up – although the load time for the starting screen took a while.  The only nitpicks I initially had were that shadows appear as distorted, blocky shapes, and there was a bit of a lag in the gameplay.  But that’s nothing that ruined the experience for me.  All I care about is that a game runs without crashing.

After the ending of Dead Rising 3 seemed to guarantee that there would be no more zombie outbreaks and that the story was over, the fourth game added another layer to the overall narrative.  In a lot of ways, Dead Rising 4 goes back to the roots of the series – it features photojournalist Frank West as the lead protagonist, takes place in the town of Willamette after a zombie outbreak has started, and has an intriguing mystery at its core.  It even lends some more depth to Dr. Barnaby, one of the antagonists in the original game who was responsible for starting the zombie epidemic in the first place.

One of the things I liked best about Dead Rising 4 is that, unlike its predecessors, there were no time constraints.  Instead of rushing through the game to solve the mystery before the clock ran out, I took my time exploring and killing zombies to my heart’s content.  I also love that the game brought back the option to dress the main character in a variety of wacky outfits, as well as create combo weapons and vehicles.  To take it one step further, Frank has access to a piece of military tech called an Exo-suit that can amplify his speed and strength.  In this outing, he throws cars at zombies to off them if he wants.  So far, I haven’t made much use of the Exo-suits apart when the game makes it a mission objective to put one on.  It is something to explore further.

While I encountered more than a few game glitches – my PC is old – nothing ruined the overall experience.  The one that really got annoying was when I undertook a mission to take out all the zombies present inside a pool hall.  Toward the end of the fight, the camera panned up to show a shot of some second story windows before a handful of the more aggressive zombies crashed through them; the camera angle remained fixed on the windows all through the ensuing fight and its aftermath.  While I worked out a way to kill the remaining creatures regardless, I was unable to exit the building since I couldn’t face the door.  Fortunately, this problem was corrected by loading the checkpoint given to me at the conclusion of the fight.

Apart from that glitch and the general lag in the gameplay, the other bugs I encountered regularly were seeing one or two zombies embedded inside a wall or walking into a room that is completely black.  I couldn’t see anything even with night vision enabled inside these black rooms.  While I enjoyed the game even with these glitches, I hope a newer, better computer will help eliminate them.

Overall, I liked the story developed for Dead Rising 4, but I also feel there are ways in which it could be better.  For starters, the character of Vick, one of Frank’s journalism students, didn’t live up to her potential.  In the opening chapter, I got the sense that she had a personal stake against the military group called Obscuris that was secretly creating and experimenting on zombies.  Had Obscuris taken someone Vick cared about for their experiments?  I was disappointed when this idea didn’t play out; Vick was simply a budding journalist out to write a prize-winning story.

I was also a bit disappointed with Calder, the “uber-zombie” hinted at during the first half of the game.  I remember feeling a sense of dread as I chased him through a train yard filled with mangled, heavily dented cars and then into the sewers.  I didn’t know what kind of monster to expect, but a highly intelligent former soldier decked out in an Exo-suit wasn’t quite it.  What made it weirder was when Frank caught up with Calder, the latter was, for some unknown reason, hell-bent on destroying the research that created him.

I felt that Calder and his motives could have been fleshed out better.  And if I had written the story, I would have had it so Vick and Calder were blood-related.  That would have made for quite the dramatic climax.

The ending to the main game still had its share of drama.  The final scene had Frank pulled from the rescue chopper by a horde of zombies and supposedly killed.  However, there has been news of an expansion pack called Frank Rising that will continue the story and have Frank striving to find a cure for zombie-ism before he fully joins the ranks of the undead.

I don’t know if there are any revelations that would allow for another game in the series.  Unless the company behind the Dead Rising franchise can come up with an intriguing, believable story for a fifth game, this may truly be the end of the road.  Whatever the future holds, I’ve definitely enjoyed the ride so far!

Despite my enthusiasm for Dead Rising 4, the game got pushed to the side for about a week in favor of Mass Effect: Andromeda – more on that in my next blog.

 

Apr 28

Let’s Talk Books

Trust Me, I'm Lying: Confessions of a Media ManipulatorTrust Me, I’m Lying: Confessions of a Media Manipulator by Ryan Holiday

Ryan Holiday is pretty well known in the Marketing and Media communities. He dropped out of college at nineteen to apprentice with Robert Green, the author of The 48 Laws of Power, he was previously the Director of Marketing for American Apparel, and he’s helped with marketing for authors and musicians (probably most notably he played a pretty important role in promoting the book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell for his good friend Tucker Max). This guy knows his stuff.

I mention all of this because I want to talk about a book he wrote. This book talks about a very important problem that exists in media today. A problem he admits to being a big part of.

In the book Trust Me, I’m Lying Ryan talks about how being a media manipulator works. There are stories of him creating fake email accounts and using those accounts to be quoted in blog posts and news stories as an “expert”. There are also stories of how he promoted a book by vandalizing billboards in the middle of the night and stirred up conflict at a Planned Parenthood clinic.

In fact, the billboard he vandalized to manipulate the media/public was one he bought to promote his friends movie. When he was helping his friend Tucker Max promote the movie I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell Ryan paid for several billboards to go up. Nothing unusual about that. What was unusual was that later on, in the middle of the night, he vandalized one of the very billboards he paid for, took photos of it, then emailed it to a blogger using a fake email address in order to make people believe that there was an uproar about the movie when there wasn’t. And it worked. People started talking about it. They argued with each other on social media about it. It got a lot of attention and sales for the book that the movie was based on went way up. Which was the plan all along.

So what does this have to do with the media and the problem the media currently has? Probably the fact that none of the writers and “reporters” who quoted the fake personas he created bothered to do even a cursory background check. Probably the fact that writers and “reporters” are publishing stories without fact checking and don’t even talk to the subjects of their stories until after they publish. Probably the fact that most blog, newspaper, and TV news reporters care more about getting clicks on their websites than telling the truth.  When Ryan sent those photos on the vandalized billboard to a blogger he used a fake name and the blogger who wrote about didn’t bother to find out if he was who he said he was…which he wasn’t.

These are problems within the media that have actually existed for longer than the Internet has even been around.  They have existed since the first newspaper was created. And these problems make it very easy for people like Ryan Holiday – media manipulators – to twist the narrative to suit their needs.

In Trust Me, I’m Lying Ryan pulls back the curtain and shows just how bad it really is. Because it’s one thing to manipulate for something as small as selling books, but it’s another when people start manipulating the media in ways that ruin people’s careers and risks their lives.

For example, Ryan talks about the time in 2011 when a Pastor named Terry Jones manipulated the media into covering his staged burning of the Koran, which lead to protests in the Middle East that killed almost thirty people. And the media let it happen.

If you’ve ever wondered just how much of what you read on the Internet, in newspapers, or see on TV is true and how much is probably definitely completely made up then you should really pick up this book from a guy who knows first hand how easy it is to get the media to say what you want them to say.

The only real criticism I have of this book is that he has a tendency to repeat stories and some of the concepts he talks about to go on a little longer than they probably should. He also tends to complain about the same few blog sites repeatedly (Gawker and Huffington Post) which can feel like he has some kind of personal vendetta sometimes and can make it a slow read in some places.

All in all, I’d give Trust Me, I’m Lying: Confessions of a Media Manipulator a solid 4 out 5 stars.

 

 

Apr 23

Leave It

What a beautiful spring morning. The sun shines brightly through my home-office windows as it burns off the morning dew from the deck, the lawn and the trees. A dozen or more birds are taking turns at the birdfeeder just off the deck. The weather report says Detroit might hit seventy-degrees for the first time this year, so I open the office windows and let in some long overdue fresh air.

The smell of spring invites me outdoors, but I must get this work done. I turn my attention back to the computer with a new resolve; finish, then get outside and enjoy this day. Both dogs, Gracie and Joker, are resting upstairs, as is their custom after we get back from the park in the morning. The television and radio are silent and the only sound is the morning rush hour chirping at the birdfeeder, until even that seems to go quiet.

Fully engrossed in my work, I lose all track of time.

‘Leave it.’

Startled, I look up. What?

I look out the window, convinced I just heard an unfamiliar, high-pitched voice, say leave it. It is dead quiet. There is no one in my yard or either of the neighbors’ yards, that I can see, but the birdfeeder has been commandeered by one of largest crows I’ve ever seen. Easily twice the size of a normal crow, its shimmering, azure-blue on midnight-black wings envelop its unusually rotund body. It stands on the peak of the little roof that covers the birdfeeder and just stares at me, first with one big, brown eye and then the other. It does not eat the feed, just bobs its head up and down as it switches its focus from one eye to the other. I’ve never seen such a fat crow. I turn to get my cellphone to take a picture.

‘Leave it.’

I get a chill in my spine, and slowly turn back to the window. The voice sounds like it is coming from my deck. I stand, put my nose on the screen and look along the house half expecting to see someone. There is no one there. I look down under the windowsill, then question if it wasn’t all in my head.

The crow is staring at me. It hasn’t moved in over a minute.

I’m home alone. No one is going to hear me talking to a crow, so I say half-jokingly, ‘Leave what?’

The crow spreads its wings and bobs its head, then caws three times. And then flies off.

I watch it circle over my neighbor’s house before it lands on the peak of that roof. It caws again, three more shrills. Though more distant, these caws sound even louder. It sits there and stares at my window. Feeling a little creeped out, I go back to what I was working on and try to forget that I just asked a crow a question. And that it seemed to almost respond. I wonder what three shrills means in crow-talk?

I finish my work in time to make lunch for me and the dogs, who by now are awake and hungry. They anxiously watch me prepare their bowls with a mixture of last night’s leftovers with dry and canned dog food. Gracie stands by the deck door and starts one of her deep-throated growls, and I know there’s a squirrel in the yard. But I also know food-in-a-bowl takes precedence.

Squirrels are endless entertainment for my dogs, both here at home and at the park. At ages eight and nine, both dogs are now too old and too slow to catch the squirrels over a short distance. My mutts never were smart enough to hunt in a coordinated attack. The critters always hightail it as fast as they can for the trees then climb to an unreachable branch and wait out the dogs. Sometimes, they chastise the dogs with their squeaky, little chatter, and rattle their tails like sabers.

I take my lunch to the deck table, but the dogs’ bowls remain inside. I leave the screen door open so they can join me when they finish. There are squirrels in the yard, as usual, but they don’t pay me any mind, so long as the dogs don’t come out. They go back to foraging for their lunch and I go about forking mine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see that fat crow perched on top of my neighbor’s roof. It looks again to be staring right at me. I point my fork at it and say in an admonishing tone, ‘Have you been up there all this time?’  My dogs think I’m calling them and come running.

As soon as the dogs’ paws hit the porch, the two squirrels under the birdfeeder bolt. They take their usual escape route and beeline-it for the nearest tree, about forty feet away. Suddenly, the crow swoops off the roof and heads straight for the base of that same tree. It arrives before the squirrels with its wings spread as big as an umbrella. Shocked, the squirrels turn back, right into Joker’s and Gracie’s charge. The crow flies off, but the squirrels are left with only one alternative and that is to try and jump, springboard-style, over the dogs. The squirrels jump, Gracie jumps, too, and head-butts one of them out of midair. Before that squirrel can find its feet, Gracie has her teeth around its neck and starts shaking her head from side to side.

‘Gracie, no!’ I yelled from the deck. ‘Stop it!’

Gracie tosses it, and the now-limp critter thuds back to earth twenty feet away. Joker chases it down and bites into its belly, and gets blood all over her white snout.

My appetite is spoiled.

I get the dogs back in the house and scold them, not for killing a squirrel; they don’t understand my words, just my infliction — they thought they were killing it for me. I’m mad because now I must clean off Joker! And now I gotta pick up a dead critter! Yesterday was trash day, so that means I’ll have to bag it and drive out to the park to trash it. Otherwise, it’ll be growing maggots before my next trash day.

I aggressively wash off Joker with Dove soap and get myself sloppy wet in the process. Even more pissed off now, I fill a brown shopping bag half way with crumbled newspaper to absorb the dead critter’s blood, then get a plastic garbage bag to put it all in. I grab my garden gloves, a shovel and a bucket and step around the garage to the back yard.

I stop cold.

That big, fat crow is tearing apart the squirrel and has half of its innards already on the ground.

It looks up at me, first with one eye, then the other, back and forth. I don’t move. It goes back to ripping out entrails. It isn’t taking time to eat, just tearing it apart with its beak and claws.

Another crow flies in, but instead of attacking Fatso, it lands a few feet away and walks up, picks up one of the pieces that’s already been removed and flies off. Soon, another crow lands, takes a piece of squirrel and flies off. I back-step into the garage. When I get back in my office, Gracie and Joker are watching out the window as the crows descend in their yard. My dogs don’t growl or bark or even perk their ears. They just watch, and so do I. Sortie after sortie, this repeats for nearly an hour.

All the other crows look just like crows, not bulbous like this first one. They all seem to come and go in the same direction and I wonder if there is a colony of them, or a flock, or whatever a bunch of crows are called, living in the patch of woods behind my neighbor’s house. I want to go exploring. I suddenly want to know everything I can find out about crows. Fatso flies off last with the remains of the squirrel clutched in its talons. It caws three times.

I never did take a picture. Caught up in watching that brilliant bird, it was easy to forget. What I cannot forget is how it cut off the squirrels’ only escape, how it got my dogs to kill its dinner, how Fatso played chef for an entire family of crows, and how it got me to leave it.

End, Part One.