Mar 16

Real Writers Live to be Inspired

Writers’ lives are full of pressure. We set goals for ourselves and inch our way toward deadlines. We study our craft, attend conferences, pitch ideas to agents, and network with all sorts of people on social media. We constantly long to write but never have as much time as we would like. Raising the stakes unnecessarily higher, we bravely tell non-writers that we’re writing a book . . . and later realize the magnitude of having released our secret. We’re now accountable when our friends innocently ask, “How’s the book coming?”

Remember this famous line: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”? Repeated over and over, for pages and pages, that single sentence fills the white spaces of a fictitious, yet infamous, character’s work in progress. After days of producing nothing of substance for the book he’s supposed to be writing, Jack appears demented—or worse, possessed by a sinister ghost.

The iconic imagery above is, of course, from The Shining—Steven King’s 1977 bestselling novel later transformed into blockbuster horror film. It’s a dream for many writers to be as prolific and successful as Mr. King. But try as I may, I relate more to poor, ol’ menacing Jack: I could easily isolate myself from society, shore up in a room for days, and drown myself in my writing. I’m equally obsessed as he . . .  luckily not possessed, at least not usually. Still, I know Jack’s frustration all too well. Like him, I’m not making significant progress on the two writing projects I’m most passionate about.

One of my unfinished books is the biography of a female pastor, Janet Noble-Richardson. My inspiration to write about Janet stems from her influence on my spiritual life. I never met anyone who expressed such abundant Christ-like love in their own behavior. Janet taught love by modeling it, and I admired her faith-filled approach. I want people to see the way Janet lived her life and to understand what it looks like to be in close relationship with Christ. I hope her story will inspire people to develop their own connections to Christ and make Him the priority in their lives.

My job to tell Janet’s story is complicated for a variety of reasons. I need to verify facts, but I can’t ask Janet for clarification of personal details. She died in a car accident in 2006. So, I’m piecing the story together through written documents she left and through interviews with people who knew her.

Janet’s father told me stories of raising his family in Pakistan, where he and his wife served as missionaries. The family met people from many different nations. American diplomats and foreign ambassadors regularly attended church services at the Noble’s home in Islamabad.

Pastor Noble recounted one story with great fondness, and I could appreciate how significant the moment was for him and his family. On a vacation into northern India, they met a boy who said he was studying under the Dalai Lama. Ever since encountering the boy, the family has wondered whether he grew up to become the current Dalai Lama.

I started researching Janet’s story over two years ago and quickly realized that in representing facts accurately I would have to expose hard truths like this: It’s improbable that the boy the family met in India in 1961 could be the same man who is the current Dalai Lama. My investigation indicates that His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama, had been living in Dharamsala at the time the Nobles were visiting the area. As I write this article in 2017, however, the 14th Dalai Lama is still alive. Before the next can be chosen, His Holiness must die and reincarnate. Therefore, the 15th Dalai Lama has yet to be born, if at all. That means that the boy the Nobles met may have been a student of some sort, but he couldn’t have been training to be the Tibetan religious leader.

You can see why Janet’s biography is complicated. I hate thinking that I could ruin another really good family story. Regardless, I’m committed to doing my best, even if it takes me a decade to get the book done.

The other book I’m writing is for children. The story is flowery and fanciful—a work of fiction in which flora and fauna talk to one another. It has villains and heroes, conflict, resolution, symbolism, and a heart-warming ending. It is the kind of book that binds grandparents to their grandkids. The elders will want to read it aloud and the youth will cherish the book as their favorite.

I know the premise and I’m developing the cast of characters. One is named Grace—not for a didactic religious purpose, but because I promised my best friend during middle school that one day, I would name one of my children after her, Marjorie Grace.

You may all be thinking: finish one book before you start another. But writers don’t think like that. We can’t stop the ideas that come flooding our way. We do our best to harness them. Sometimes we’re desperate and reach for scraps of paper and napkins to scribble upon. Other times, we trap our story arcs in fancy journals until it’s time to unravel our thoughts and spin them into order with the help of software like Microsoft Word and Scrivener.

When friends like you ask how my books are coming, I know I overuse the words, “I wish I had more time to write,” and it feels like a horribly weak excuse. But I don’t worry about the time it takes. I know that I’m a work in progress too. While I’m forever thinking, composing, revising, and promoting, God is taking His time refining me—shaping my life through the people and experiences that are unique to me. I’m growing in knowledge and developing new skills. I’m learning to be a better person by juggling the demands of everyday life, experiencing burdens and joys, dealing with complex issues and personalities.

When oppressive thoughts lure me into thinking that it would be quicker and easier to check out from society—like Jack did—to mine my treasures, I know better. Fairy tale endings aren’t discovered in privacy and seclusion. Life among the living is rich with inspiration. I’m savoring my time in the real world with family and friends. I’m at peace knowing that I’ll finish what I need to when the time is perfectly right.

Mar 11

Dancin’ at Shades

Conrad Bastian pulled up and parked at Shade’s, the local gathering place and all he could think about was poppin’ a cap on a cold one. The engine clicked and pinged when he shut it off. He sat takin’ just a second to breathe and relax. Getting out his truck, a layer of dust clung to his skin. Worn and dirtied boots hit the gravel, and he pulled off his straw Stetson wiping his brow, the heat bordering on the doorstep of the devil’s den. Smacking the hat on his knee, he watched the dust of the day scatter on the wind taking with it some of the stress that lingered. A cold one sounded damn good to Conrad.

Blinking neon of Shades Bar greeted him, the closest thing the town of Mariette had for country dancing. If a ten-foot by ten-foot space could be considered a dance floor. Most everyone came for a beer and food, except for days like today, when folks came to mingle, catch-up or hook-up. To let off a little steam.

The menu was decent. Listed were great burgers made from homegrown cattle. Crowded as usual on a Friday night. The taps flowed with the best brews his small town had to offer and all the regular domestic beers that were American staples. He was partial to his friend’s stout. Con sat on a wooden stool, that was just vacated, at the bar and took his first breath of peace.

“Johnny,” he called over the din of Keith Urban and stomping feet. He lifted his hand to get the owner’s attention. Con smiled when Johnny, the owner and his best friend, bumbled a glass almost droppin’ it. “Can I get the Cast Iron Burger and a pint of the stout?”

The chin lift then a nod he got allowed Con to lean on the bar with his elbows and settle in for a while. With his hands on the back of his head and the much-needed time apart from his father, he was finally able to relax since the rooster sounded off that morning. Even with all the noise, the music blaring and the voices laughing or singing to the song on the jukebox he zoned out.

“How’s it going, man?”

Con sat up with a start. He took the beer from his friend taking his first swallow. “It’s going.”

“Bad day?”

“You could say that if every machine thinking it was time to take a break did so by breaking down. Yeah.” He took another swallow. “Of course, Dad thinking each was my fault added to a spectacular time.”

Johnny wiped the bar and then pulled a couple beers.

“Hey, Lydia,” Con said to the waitress when she brushed her hip against him.

“Hey, Con.” She smiled and her gaze ran over him.

He’d taken her to bed a few times. It was good. It scratched an itch as the saying went, but didn’t do much more.

“You dancing later, honey?” she asked.

“I might be.” He didn’t think he’d stay long enough for her to get off her shift. He was tired as hell, but he might consider it.

She smiled, and took the beers from Johnny and quickly delivered the drinks as Con looked on over his shoulder.

Johnny shook his head and smiled at the backside of his waitress with a more familiar glint in his eyes.

“You know that can’t end well. You haven’t seen her crazy like I have,” Johnny said.

Johnny had dated her for a while, but it hadn’t worked out. He didn’t talk about it much and never said what happened, but she was still at Shade’s waiting tables so it couldn’t have ended all that bad for him. He’d never been proprietary over a woman before and that included Lydia. It was the only reason Con had been with her. Otherwise, loyalty trumped having sex with your best friend’s girl.

“Were you able to fix any of them?”

“Huh?” Con said. “Oh yeah. Some. A couple others, I gotta order parts for. I don’t expect to see anything until next week, which brought on a shit storm once again from my dad.”

Johnny shook his head. Con had shared with Johnny most of what had been going on, so he’d heard just about everything when it came to Conrad’s dad.

“Not much I can do about him being an asshole these days.”

“That is a true statement.” Johnny tapped the bar and moved off to help a customer.

Conrad couldn’t blame his Dad. Ever since Con’s Ma died last year, his Dad had been swallowed up by grief. He blamed everything under the sun for his foul mood except the one thing that he clung to like it was his only source to keep living. He wouldn’t let the grief go. It was chewing him up and taking everyone around him with him.

The other bartender dropped off Con’s burger, and he practically ate it whole. The beer went down good too. He ordered another one and then left enough to cover the bill waving to Johnny. He got another chin lift and went in search of a corner booth where he could watch what progressed to be a very sexually charged night at Shades. Dancing wasn’t on his agenda, just watching. He didn’t have time for a woman. There was enough to do on the farm that kept him busy. His dad needed all the help he could get. As it was now the damn man had alienated almost every one of the hands and half the people in the county. But even though commitment wasn’t on the horizon, he sure as hell could do for a quick how-you-do with a beautiful, willing woman.

Searching Con saw a couple get up that seemed glued to one another, and Con sat down as they exited the bar. They looked like they would have a fine time that night as the man’s hand went to the woman’s ass, his finger’s gliding down close to something indecent as they skimmed just under the edge of her dress. Con smiled and tipped his hat a bit lower so he could watch what was happening on the dance floor without too much attention. Just watching the couple leave had him adjusting himself under the table. Skin to warm skin, making the woman shiver.

Con blew out a slow breath. Maybe he did need to find a willing woman. One for only tonight, though.

Lydia came over and gave him another beer, and he settled in. He saw a couple sweet little innocents go by, but neither captured his attention. He tried not to laugh when they smiled and thrust out their breasts, preening what God gave them for a man to consider.

A slow song came on, and the heat on the dance floor jumped another ten degrees as bodies got closer, hotter, and the liquor started unlocking doors to inhibitions. The scent of sweet feminine musk filled his nostrils as things began to get crazier and more wanton. Writhing hips, swaying arms joined the fray as women and men got closer, their bodies aligning to reach the full potential of what the public dance floor allowed. No line dancin’ at Shades. There wasn’t enough room. They pushed the limits of what was acceptable, and he enjoyed every minute of the show.

Another fast song came on, more women took to struttin’ by his table, but Con kept to himself.

When the front door opened a gust of hot, thick air brushed up against him all the way in back where he sat. When the door slammed shut something shifted inside him. He could feel it, the atmosphere growing more intense like he could feel this invisible wall up against his skin making him come alive, but he was the only one to notice. Searching for the disturbance, he kept his eyes shaded. It wasn’t like he had any super powers, he was an ordinary man. It was something he’d never felt before, and that was why his eyes zeroed in on that direction. He nearly choked on his beer.

Just standing inside the door was what he’d call the closest thing to ethereal. The lights were hitting the small woman in all the right places. And she had a lot of right places. She wasn’t the typical Mariette resident either. The sun had lightened up most people’s hair, the farming community one that was outdoors most days. Not this girl’s hair. It was black as onyx straight as woven silk with what seemed to be a magical sheen that reflected the light that flashed in the room. It was smooth looking and long brushing the cherry brown skin of her breasts, the thin shirt she wore not giving him much use for his imagination. Her bra was a dark silhouette holding her ample breasts in such a way they invited a man to lean in and lick, making her skin tingle until she trembled with need, before going any deeper to pleasin’ her. The skirt that hugged her hips showed off her long legs, or they seemed long since most of them were exposed. And the heels? He wanted to see her in those, and only those. He watched as her head swiveled to take in the room and she found what she was lookin’ for, and then she smiled.

“Sweet Lord,” he whispered. If the package God shaped her into weren’t enough for one man, her smile would kill a man with his eyes closed it was so bright. In awe of this woman the heat crawling up his neck, more to do with wantin’ her than the heat stirring from the dance floor, Con took a deep sip of his beer and shifted in his seat, the pressure behind his zipper gettin’ mighty uncomfortable.

There was no doubt there was something special about this woman. He wasn’t the only one watching her. With hooded eyes, he observed her move with a fluidity somehow more panther-like than human and continued in the direction of a female friend. Thank the stars it wasn’t a guy, or he’d have to kill him. Just the idea of bein’ with her, Con was close to embarrassing himself.

When she reached her friend, she brightened the room with another smile. Whoever she granted one must be someone special because it was so genuine and pleased, that there was no question that she would pay that person the attention they deserved. He needed something like that in his life.

Con needed to fill the ache that sat deep in his chest, the memory of his mother haunting him everywhere on the farm. He missed her. This woman would be a good distraction. Or was she the type to settle in for the long haul? No one-nighters?

He wanted to be near her, so he abandoned his table and made his way over trying to make it look like he was going to order a drink. Con took in every detail he could of the woman. He’d wait to make his move. Let her settle in before he took a turn at lady luck.

As Conrad watched her with her friends, she touched as often as she could, laughed with an exuberance that made him smile into his beer. She swayed with the music when it was a song she seemed to like.

A few guys approached, but she shook her head and focused back on her girls, while he tried to keep in a snarl.

He picked at his beer label confused by his possessiveness and steered his thoughts toward his mom and dad and what they had with each other. There were always smiles and small touches they shared. The heated looks that his father would give his mother were uncomfortable for him, but something special to both of his parents, he knew, because his mother shared little things with him about her relationship. Con could see it in his parent’s eyes when they didn’t know he was looking. He just wished his dad could get past his grief and hold onto the good memories. They would always be special.

She could be his something special, he thought. Now what made him think that? He looked down at the scarred bar confused by his thoughts. Was he ready to settle down? Make a home? Have children? He shivered. Those kinds of thoughts were a little too deep for a Friday night. Tonight, was supposed to be a good time, maybe a dance, and some kissin’. And if he was lucky a good time, that ended in a quick kiss and a quicker exit the next morning.

His eyes took him back up to her face to get some semblance of control. He sucked in a breath when her eyes glanced over and held locked onto his own. He stopped breathing. Lydia forgotten, this woman was indescribable up close and he wanted her. Con had to have her.

Not taking his eyes off her—which she didn’t do either—the song changed to Heatwave by Florida Georgia Line.

“Perfect.”

“I’m sorry, what?” She said a little louder since someone chose that instant to laugh so loud it covered up his words. Her friends giggled which it made even worse. Conrad chuckled himself. She lowered her eyes to his lips, and he tried not to groan. He didn’t want to scare her away since she turned down all the men that had already approached her.

Con didn’t repeat himself just said, “Dance with me,” without givin’ her time to think about it, he took her hand, from her other hand he took her drink and set it down, and moved onto the crowded dance floor. It forced their bodies together, closer than a first dance would allow. Conrad was good with that. He slid his hand to her lower back, her shirt riding up, so he was lucky enough to touch skin. It was soft against his rough, worn hands. Con took her small hand in his own, hugging her until the absence of space made him lean in more. Her eyes flared with heat, and he took that as a good sign. When his nose brushed her ear, he inhaled the scent of jasmine that lingered in her hair. He couldn’t hold back a groan. God, what was happening to him? Why was his reaction to her so thrilling? He felt desperate to keep her close.

Looking down at the petite woman in his arms, her brown eyes dilated and the flecks of amber caught by the light flared. He blinked and pinched his lips together worrying what she thought of him. Did the dirty layers of farming on his skin bother her? Her fingers went up and gently rubbed the crease between his eyebrows. Then she smiled again, and his heart fell into her eyes. The song ended, and there was a slight lull between songs.

“My name’s Conrad.” His arms tightened around her.

Her lashes flickered down and then back up as Conrad’s heart started racing double time. Would she pull away and leave him? If so, he would have to follow.

When she looked back up at him with another brilliant smile and licked her lips, he almost whimpered, his need for this woman was so great. But then she spoke, and it was like magic had come down to touch his soul.

“I’m, Willow,” She said, and then took his hand and pulled him along toward her friends gripping him so, their fingers entwined, making certain that they wouldn’t be separated.

Conrad wanted to laugh, and was glad he came in for a beer.

Mar 08

To See or Not To See – That Is the Question

Purist might believe a true literary experience occurs with the left hand holding book and the right dutifully turning thick pages of print. Generally, I agree except for Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita read by Jeremy Irons. I vote this one better to be heard by the gifted actor’s deep resonating voice and not seen. Here are a few things when considering the choice of print or sound.

The Structure of Black and White

In every list of the best books, Nabokov’s Lolita is present. This book published over fifty years ago presents a forbidden topic wrapped in beautiful prose which is shocking and endearing at the same time. The opening sentences are pure power – “Lolita, light of life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.”

The reader knows of tragedy to come and embraces the journey to discover why the narrator says, “You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.” Humbert Humbert’s obsessions are repulsive and disgusting to readers, yet he suffers a growing paranoia for his premeditations, actions and results. However, HH somehow manages to be sympathetic, even pitiful, in the skilled hands of Nabokov. The character, neither villain nor hero, fills a new space as the anti-hero, anguishing and lamenting for the beauty and loss of his young love, his captive, Dolores Haze.

If you do read the words, the black and white sentences jig and jag spilling over to the next line and the next with semi-colons inserted as the author’s favorite punctuation mark. I appreciate well placed clauses as much as the next writer and find Nabokov full of surprise and tantalizing sentence structure. Masterful combinations are only fully absorbed by the eyes – otherwise melting into an auditory symphony of words. Now that I have finished the novel, I am ruined for anything less than prose perfection.

Beyond the Book

One invaluable thing in the book is a chronology of Nabokov’s life from birth to death with a column for literary context and historical events. I confirm Nabokov’s birth in St. Petersburg and the brief overlap of his life with Russian greats Tolstoy and Chekhov. He was almost a teenager during the Russian Revolution and published his first book of poems during World War I at the age of seventeen. The family fled and went into exile while Vladimir studied at Cambridge. When Joyce published Ulysses and Eliot published The Waste Land in 1922, Nabokov’s father was assassinated in Berlin.

So, it is odd to me that Nabokov lived or continued to live in Berlin from 1925-1937. He published nine novels in Russian, moved to Paris and then the United States in 1940, the same year Hemingway published For Whom the Bell Tolls. As my son now considers colleges for study, it catches my attention that Nabokov taught at Wellesley and then Cornell. During this time, he published his next novel in English. His spectacular writing in English must rival his native Russian language.

Shortly after the year of Stalin’s death, Lolita was published in 1955 by a Parisian publisher of explicit material because the established major publishers feared the public’s reaction to this novel’s subject matter. In 1958, Pasternak published Doctor Zhivago, one of my mother-in-law’s favorites (on my list to read or watch the 1965 film). One year later, Nabokov resigned from Cornell and moved to Switzerland. In the final decade of Nabokov’s life, Bulgakov published The Master and Margarita.

Hearing is Believing

Better than attending a three hour play or watching a film, I lived this novel for precisely eleven and a half hours – over two weeks commuting to work. The deep baritone voice of the British actor disrupted my usual car audio listening vibe. As Jeremy Irons raced through the Forward at a clip faster than I usually listen, talk or think, I weaved in my highway lane, resetting the base to low and going back to tweak the treble eventually to high before I could comfortably listen to the recording. I had just achieved the perfect balance when I heard “. . . a classic in psychiatric circles . . . the wayward child, the egotistic mother, the panting maniac – these are not only vivid characters in a unique story; they warn us of dangerous trends; they point out potent evils.” The warning added an extra writer-ly chill to my January morning. I debated whether to turn back and stop, but I trusted a gifted actor with an-oh-so-marvelous voice.  Jeremy Irons became Humbert Humbert, transforming mere words on a page, unfolding the story and revealing the depth of depravity and desperation – hence the panting maniac..

National Public Radio, in a fiftieth year anniversary of Lolita, interviewed Cornell staff about Nabokov. The author traveled the United States and used the travel experiences for Lolita. He also frequently rode the public transit and listened to the communication style of Lolita-aged girls taking notes on index cards. It is said Nabokov wrote the entire novel on index cards and pieced the story together. The car ride after HH picks up Dolores Haze from summer camp shows his research with perfectly timed teenage sarcasm, irreverence and awkward interactions.

This audio book delivers bursts of humor such as the first overnight hotel stay. HH misinterprets the questions of a drunk on the front porch. Irons is brilliant in reading this little exchange in Chapter 28 which highlights the beginning of HH’s well-deserved paranoia.

‘Where the devil did you get her?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said: the weather is getting better.’

‘Seems so.’

‘Who’s the lassie?’

‘My daughter.’

‘You lie – she’s not.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said: July was hot.’

The audio book succeeds where the 1962 Stanley Kubrick film did not. The film, however, unites Jeremy Irons with the work, the actor cast for HH in the film and a natural for the recording. His reading is acting and makes this one of the best audio book recordings I’ve heard to date.

Mar 06

This Is Us

 

“Do the one thing they always tell writers not to do. Watch T.V.”  From 99 Ways to Get Inspired to Write by Smart Blogger

You may discover interesting plot ideas in television shows; however, some programs may teach you about good quality writing.

Watching the television show, “This Is Us,” may help you learn to use flashbacks as well as flash-forwards effectively in your writing. If you’re not familiar with this show, please view it starting from the first episode. There was a jaw-dropping revelation in the last scene that set the pace for future episodes. When I viewed that episode and others a second time several weeks later, I picked up on the foreshadowing I missed the first time around.

This drama weaves the past and present seamlessly in every hour-long episode while portraying humor, diversity, obesity, career crises, abandonment, family dynamics, panic attacks, and death with an abundance of love, emotion, and passion.

Writers for this program are superb. They create surprising moments in every episode. A clue to the heart of the series is found on a lamp table in a seemingly insignificant photo of three apparent friends. This well-placed clue reminds me of a child’s shoe tossed aside and ignored in Mary Higgins Clark’s novel, Where Are the Children?

Without giving away the plot of “This Is Us,” I ask you to take notice of what a fireman did, now illegal, while standing in a hospital waiting room. I later realized that scene was a flashback. The superb writers returned later to that character, revealed his backstory and his significant connection to the main characters.

The appearance of a family friend in a different role, surprised me and generated extensive, detailed discussions the next day with avid fans of the show.

When you view the show, take note of the way the writers interweave the past with the present. You can learn good writing from them.

 

Mar 05

First Experience with Resident Evil 7: Biohazard

Note:  There are spoilers in this article.

As far as immersing myself in a brand-new game goes, Resident Evil 7 proved to be an interesting experience.  In the weeks leading up to its release, every new bit of information got me eager to begin playing.  Though it would not feature any of the established characters in the series – with one possible exception – I thought it would be refreshing to play as newcomer Ethan Winters, a non-combatant in search of his wife, Mia, who was believed to be dead for three years.

As soon as I downloaded the game on the more advanced of my two computers, I booted it up eager to start playing.  I was highly disappointed when the game crashed each time I tried to start it.  After three unsuccessful attempts, I determined that I would likely have to wait until I got a newer and more state-of-the-art computer before I could delve into the world of Resident Evil 7.

Despite my determination to stay spoiler-free, I couldn’t resist watching YouTube videos detailing the game and all its secrets.  While not the same as experiencing it first-hand, I still enjoyed the story, spooky atmosphere, and a few twists and turns along the way.  And I began to imagine ways in which this new installment ties in with previous games in the series.

I was resigned to writing a critical essay about Resident Evil 7 without actually playing the game.  But I was surprised when I found out on February 7th that the game would run on my more substandard computer.  I would liken it to trying to play a DVD with a VCR, but the game still ran all the way through without crashing.  I’m not sure what inspired me to try and start it, but I’m glad I did.

There were however several glitches present that made it interesting, such as a porch swing that looked like it was having an epileptic fit or seeing Mia’s hair literally flapping all over the place during a speedboat ride.  Perhaps the most disturbing glitch was seeing Ethan’s hands completely coated in blood before he’d even wandered into the dangerous house where much of the action takes place.

Examples of the game glitches encountered, and the perfect piece of toast in the bottom left.

In spite of the bugs, I still found the game enjoyable.  I’m glad to have gotten a chance to play it myself.  Since I’m someone who prefers to take their time and look around in detail, I observed quite a lot about the environment and what it tells about the characters.  One thing that I found humorous during my exploration was a perfectly-preserved piece of toast that seemed quite out of place in the decayed, moldy plantation where the game is set.

The villains, like the hero, are also new to the Resident Evil series.  In this outing, you must square off against the deranged Baker family – Jack, Marguerite, and their son, Lucas – and an evil genetically-engineered girl named Eveline who is capable of controlling people after she infects them with a mold-like virus.  There are moments where the Bakers seem to act of their own accord, so I’m inclined to think that Eveline’s victims come around to her way of thinking after a lengthy exposure.

On the other hand, Mia seems capable of fighting Eveline’s control, though she was the first to be infected.  This seems to suggest that Mia – and Jack and Marguerite’s daughter, Zoe – is more strong-willed or somewhat immune to the effects.  To clarify, Mia was part of a team in charge of transporting Eveline from one science facility to another when the latter somehow escaped containment.  This resulted in the destruction of the tanker they were aboard, which subsequently drifted into the bayou bordering the Baker’s home.

Not much is known about the Baker family and what their lives were like before Eveline entered the picture, but there are little things about their house or mannerisms that tell something of their respective backgrounds.  For instance, Lucas is quite skilled at engineering according to the trophies in his bedroom, though his journal entries tell that he was a psychotic killer even before Eveline got to him.  In addition, Marguerite’s biggest passion is cooking, but she gets offended because her meals, repulsive to normal people, are refused.  It’s hard to guess at Jack’s background, but it is known he is a former Marine.  Some of his hobbies may have included hunting or taxidermy.

You might ask what this story has to do with any of the previous games in the series, but I feel there are some interesting connections.  Perhaps the biggest setup for this scenario is tied into what Derek Simmons, the high-ranking NSA agent and main antagonist of Resident Evil 6, proclaimed in his final hours: “You have no idea what would happen if I die!”  As villainous as Simmons was – he did assassinate the U.S. President, after all – it is possible that he was holding a greater threat in check.  Just maybe, his demise paved the way for the organization that created Eveline.

Another interesting connection between Resident Evil 7 and its predecessors is how closely the Baker plantation resembles the Spencer mansion from the very first game.  A work order found in one of the plantation’s rooms reveals that the Bakers had hired an architecture firm named after the ill-fated George Trevor, the builder of the mansion.  It’s curious why the Bakers chose George’s style and inclination to create puzzle-based rooms meant to hide secret passageways for their own house, but there may be a simple explanation for this.  I think it’s possible the Bakers might somehow be related to the Trevor family; maybe they wanted to honor George’s vision.

There are also some oddities about this game that hint at a much larger picture.  For one thing, it’s curious how or why such a large ship went unnoticed for three years.  However, Ethan discovers some documentation inside a mine late in the game that indicates Lucas was somehow “freed” from Eveline’s control and was secretly monitoring her for the benefit of an unknown party.  It would be quite the twist if Lucas were one of the good guys despite the insane death traps he stages for some of the characters taken hostage by his family.

Even more puzzling is the military team who comes to the aid of Ethan (and Mia if she survived) at the very end of the game.  This team is aboard a helicopter that has an updated logo of the Umbrella Corporation, the corrupt pharmaceutical company responsible for starting the bioterrorism war.  What’s weirder is that one of the soldiers introduces himself to Ethan as Redfield, and the closing credits show Redfield’s first name to be Chris.

I am unsure what to make of this ending, but my imagination is in overdrive and my mind is filled with countless questions.  Is the Umbrella Corporation somehow back in play?  Are they the good guys now?  Is Chris Redfield, one of their long-standing opponents, really working for them, or is it just an imposter using his name?  I am certain these questions will be answered once Resident Evil 7’s expansion pack titled Not a Hero comes out in the spring, but I will be anxiously awaiting some resolution until then.

What I like most about Resident Evil 7 is how it uses the formula made popular by the early games.  There are puzzles you need to solve to advance through the house/game, limited inventory space that forces you to decide what to carry with you or store for later, and the requirement to save your ammo for when you really need it.  I failed a bit at the last one and was down to only one Magnum bullet and a limited amount of flamethrower fuel for the final fight; as if that wasn’t bad enough, I got eaten whole by the last monster when I stupidly stopped firing for a couple seconds.

All things considered, I didn’t do too shabby for my first playthrough, but I was really struggling to survive my third fight with a mutated Jack Baker.  Though I was sure I was going to get killed, I somehow managed to make it through in one piece.  In the end, I only died twice in the whole game.  And that was just on the easiest difficulty setting.  I shudder to think what the hardest difficulty will be like, but I’m not one to shy away from a challenge.