Courtney posted this quote on facebook earlier today. I’ve seen it before, but it got me thinking: why aren’t some American Christians more Christ-like? Despite being an atheist, I think I have a fairly decent understanding of the moral teachings of Jesus. Last year I compiled a new version of the Jefferson Bible in updated English, which included a lot of reading of the first four books of the New Testament in the Christian Bible, also known as the Gospels.
Each of the first four books paint a slightly (or vastly, in the case of John) different picture of a man (or God, though in some accounts he makes far fewer references to divinity) named Jesus. I’m not religious and haven’t been for a long time, but if you aren’t familiar with the story you can read it for free online. Start at the beginning of Matthew and keep going to the end of John if that’s your thing. If you are familiar with the story, you should read my re-creation of Jefferson’s work (available for free at NewJeffersonBible.com), because it paints a very rare picture of Jesus as a person.
I’d be interested to see someone take only the words of Jesus and list them in order, Matthew through John. None of the exposition, none of the descriptions, just the words attributed to Jesus in the Christian Bible. I would imagine it’s quite different from modern American Christianity in a number of fundamental ways. So, based on this, I propose a new name for the current batch of American evangelicals loudly proclaiming their own righteousness: Paulists. There are a few Catholic orders that use the same name, but in this case that’s an added bonus because many evangelicals don’t see Catholics as “real” Christians and will hopefully work harder to avoid the distinction.
Who is Paul? Well look, I’m no historian. Wikipedia has an article about the guy. The tl;dr is that Paul was originally Saul. He hated the early Christians and persecuted them fervently. He supposedly had a vision while traveling to Damascus in which a bright light appeared and he heard the voice of Jesus, who said Saul was being a bit of a prick. Jesus then made him blind (because who doesn’t love a major trauma?) and apparently sent another guy to gather up the bumbling blind Saul. When the guy appeared, Saul regained his sight and realized he was wrong, Jesus was the bee’s knees, and he changed his name to Paul and started spreading this story around to everyone who’d listen. That’s a paraphrase of the story, you can read it yourself if you want all the specifics. Acts 9:1-19.
Full stop. I’m about to get a little contentious, but it’s not as if people haven’t provided alternative narratives to established religious doctrine before. Look at how religion is used. It’s used to control people and keep them in line. Saul was already a religious guy, then this new religion comes along. The founder died and isn’t around; they say he went up to Heaven. You can bring a lot of clout to the table as far as your family and connections (Paul was a Roman citizen and had many contacts in Judaism circles, having been born into a family of Pharisees). You get in on the ground floor and get to shape the direction of this burgeoning movement. You had a vision of Jesus, after all! Who will question the things you say?
For a religion called Christianity, an awful lot of it is based on Paul. There are twenty-seven books in the New Testament. The first four deal with Jesus. Thirteen of the books–more than half of the books not directly dealing with Jesus–were purportedly written by Paul. Jesus talked about the poor, Paul talked about a woman not having authority over a man. Jesus spent time with the people at the bottom of society’s ladder, Paul wrote what is the only mention of homosexuality in the New Testament. Jesus turned over the money-changing tables in the temple and fought against the religious leaders in his day, Paul became a top leader in the nascent religion formed in the name of someone who wasn’t around to contradict his teachings. It’s clear that Christianity is a misnomer. Paulism is a much more apt name. If Paulists in this country start acting more like the person they call Jesus Christ, then maybe some day they can earn the label “Christian”.
I wrote this after seeing a prompt on a writing community. Prompt: “You have THE most useless superpower. Write about a day in your failed / hilarious / successful / ludicrous attempts at heroism.” Here is the result.
# # #
“So, you’re telling me you woke up yesterday morning with a new superhuman ability, and your power is that you get sweaty?”
“Yep, but there’s more to it than that. I can do it regardless of my physical state. Lounging in bed, riding in the elevator, standing in line at the grocer, I can sweat during the most mundane tasks you can imagine, even ones requiring no physical effort. I can stand in a walk-in freezer and sweat as if I just completed a triathlon.”
“That is so dumb,” my friend Keith replied, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “What’s the point?”
“The point? Watch this,” I said. I closed my eyes and felt the perspiration manifest on my forehead. I wiped my hand across the expanse of skin, gathering a handful of my salty excretion, and slapped Keith in the face.
“OW!” Keith exclaimed. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his button-up shirt. “Dude, what the fuck?”
I smirked. “That’s right, bitch. Don’t diss the Sweat Nap.”
I was surprised by the volume of Keith’s laughter. After he stopped laughing he said, “Sweat Nap? Is that your superhero name? Wow, man.”
“Yeah, it’s like wet nap, but with swea–”
“No, I get it,” he interrupted. “Still stupid.”
“Look, it’s still a work in progress. Think you can come up with anything better?” I demanded.
Keith looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his chin with his hand. “Hmmm,” he said. “Sweat is salty, right? Like sodium chloride? How about ‘The Psycho Sochlo’? Or maybe ‘Lean Mean Saline’?”
“Jesus, Keith,” I said, pounding the countertop of the bar. “I want villains to be scared of me, not seek me out when they need to clean their contacts. Come the fuck on, dude.”
Keith opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak there was a slam from the front of the bar. Both of us turned to see the door resting against the wall, open. In the entryway stood two men dressed entirely in black, wearing balaclavas and long jackets. “Shit,” Keith whispered. “Anarchists.”
“Oy mate, we’re the black blocheads,” the taller of the two said. He swung his arm out from under his coat. He held a sawed off shotgun in his hand. “And we’re here to free you from the bonds of your capitalist oppression.” The shorter man standing next to him grinned lecherously and brandished a knife.
“Uhhh,” I said, unsure of how to respond. “We’re both unemployed, guys, so we’ve pretty much already been freed from our capitalist fat cat overlords.”
Keith laughed. “Yeah, what he said. Plus, we already spent most of our money at the bar.” He motioned across the wood platform that separated us from the rows of bottles. We all looked, but the bartender who’d been standing there was nowhere to be seen.
The taller man stomped over to Keith and slammed the barrel of the shotgun against the back of his head. “Shut the fuck up, cunt, and give us your wallets!” he yelled.
Keith rubbed the back of his head. He glanced at me pleadingly. It was then that I knew I had to make an attempt to save us with my new-found power. I closed my eyes and began to summon the sweat. I could feel it gathering on my forehead, on my upper lip, even under my eyes. It began to run down my face, but I knew I’d have to do something more drastic if Keith and I would make it through this night alive. Focusing all my concentration on the liquid that was sliding toward my chin, I began to imagine it as a stream–no, a mighty river–springing from my forehead.
I opened my eyes and felt my head forcefully jerk back as a stream of sweat with the diameter of my forearm burst from face. It washed over the two men, drenching them with liquid. Thinking quickly, I aimed the stream at the eyes of the taller man, then those of his shorter companion. The two men started screaming and rubbing at their faces.
“It burns!” squealed the shorter man. He dropped his knife with a clatter and hopped around, rubbing his eyes with both hands.
The taller anarchist grunted and started shaking his head wildly. I stood up and smacked the shotgun from his hands, then bent over and grabbed it. The two men rubbed at their faces for another minute, and when they opened their eyes they were staring down the short barrel of the shotgun. They looked at me with shock and I said, “You two are all washed up.”
“You’re so bad at this,” Keith groaned from behind me. “But, uh, thanks for saving me.”
I turned to him and replied, “Of course, man . . . don’t sweat it.”
Stay tuned for the next episode of Sweat Man, wherein our intrepid hero is trapped in a box of silica gel by his newfound arch-enemy.
When discussing the different paths which lead to non-belief it’s interesting to see how much variation there can be, and what so many of us have in common. One thing I have in common with many atheists is that I used to be a christian. Another thing I share with a number of people is that I’ve lost loved ones. My story is not unique in several ways, but my own journey has been strongly tied to death and loss–because they are immutable aspects of life–and I assert that my search to find realistic and reasonable ways to cope with loss led me to my current worldview, and that I am a better person for it.
I could write an entire book (and someday will) about the things that brought me to this point, but my first experience with loss was in the third grade. My friend Nicole died after her father fell asleep while smoking a cigarette and burned the house down. She was afraid and hid under the bed. I remember asking my dad why it happened and he responded, “Daniel, everything happens for a reason.” I don’t recall the rest of the conversation, but I do remember wondering what reason there could be for her death. Even at such a young age I knew there was something fundamentally wrong with that answer.
My dad and I lived in the country, and I’d ride my bike to the baptist church a mile or so away each Sunday to sing in the choir. If one can imagine how warmly I was greeted, coming sometimes without my father and happily singing with abandon, then one might be able to understand how appealing aspects of christianity were to me due to positive feedback and association. They also talked about “God’s Plan” as if that were the answer to any and all questions.
September of 1990 was a bad month for me. At almost ten years old, I came home from school to find my dad with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. To this day I can tell you exactly what I said: “Oh God, please don’t let my father die. Jesus, save my dad.” I said this before even calling anyone. Needless to say, that prayer went unanswered.
That loss is what led me to become stronger in my faith as a christian. My earthly father was gone, and I replaced him with the heavenly father promised by christianity, one who was all-powerful and would never leave. This persisted through my late teens, during which time I studied the bible and helped lead youth groups. I was in the worship band at church and was the president of the christian club at my high school. I wrote christian rock songs. Eventually, I started attending an apostolic church. Though it is embarrassing to admit, I have spoken in tongues and at one point in my life unquestioningly believed it was possible to heal someone by laying hands on them and praying.
Shortly after the end of my junior year, a good friend and fellow church-goer hung himself, but he didn’t die. His mom found him and performed CPR until the paramedics arrived. He ended up in a coma in the ICU. This really got the holy rolling among the faithful. I remember prayer sessions in the church, people standing up to say that god had spoken to them and said he would heal this young man. I remember sitting at my friend’s bedside in the hospital, singing hymns and reading the bible to him. I was convinced god would save him.
Isaac Asimov said, “Properly read, [the bible] is the most potent force for atheism ever conceived.” After my friend died a handful of weeks into June of 1998, I spent the rest of that summer reading the bible. I started at the beginning and read straight through to the end. By the time I finished I no longer believed in god, though many months passed before I was able to admit it to myself or others. Christianity, the very thing that had given me solace in my younger years, became hollow and unfulfilling even as I had yet to emerge from adolescence into adulthood.
One of the most difficult things with which to come to terms was relinquishing the idea that I (my soul, anyway) would live forever. By extension, I had to let go of the hope of seeing those I’d lost and spending eternity with them in paradise. I struggled with this for some time. These and other thoughts brought me to despair. It was a difficult period because there was still a part of me that desired the ability to believe these things, but there was no part of me able to implement those beliefs in any meaningful way. I no longer believed, and no amount of prayer or soul-seeking could change that. It forced me to come to terms with my thoughts on death and loss, and what it really meant to grieve for a time and then move on without the benefit of consoling myself with the promise of a reunion in an afterlife.
Recently a good friend of mine passed away. He had spent the last decade here in Portland, but was originally from South Carolina. His family held a memorial there, which left many of us with no way to mourn the loss of this wonderful person. The night he died I spoke on the phone with people all over the world–Qatar, England, Australia, and other countries–who counted Greg as a friend. As I spoke with those who loved him, I realized they, too, would need to mourn and grieve for their loss.
For me, grieving has always been a social process. I seek out others with whom to share stories and hugs. When my fiancée passed away in 2011, my way of coping was to spend the next day calling her friends and loved ones to let them know what had happened. There were so many who cared for her, and a Facebook message or email just seemed so impersonal, even cruel. It was one of the more difficult things I’ve ever done, but I will never forget the kind words and memories shared that day. I remember wishing at the time that I could do it in person, that I could wrap my arms around them and sob with them, that I could look them in the eyes and tell them that eventually things would be all right.
I did something similar when Greg died last week. I was on the phone with people I had never met or even seen, laughing and crying as we shared stories of our mutual friend. We were brought together by our shared affection and loss. Many of the friends Greg had were from the internet. He was a member of an organization that finds people who post animal torture videos online and turns them over to the authorities, and many of the people who knew and loved him were met through that group. As I talked to these people, I found myself wishing I could speak to them face to face or that we could all get together in a room and share stories of our friend.
We live in an age of unprecedented connectedness. The virtual world of the internet allows us to meet in real-time with people all over the globe, so we decided to do just that. The organization Free Geek was kind enough to allow the use of its facilities, and we had a virtual memorial there on Saturday, July 27. With a combination of a chat room and live-streaming video (special thanks to Steven Olsen for helping me figure out how to live-stream a Google Hangout), people from all over the world gathered and shared stories of our friend, read dirty limericks (he requested this before he died), listened to Greg’s favorite songs, and generally had a great time.
We did not need a church and a minister or even a funeral home and an officiant, all we needed was technology and the shared love of a dearly missed friend. I’ve been to a number of funerals and wakes. As far as memorials go, this one was the most fun I’ve ever had. I want something similar when I die, an event that brings people together regardless of their location and is as geeky as possible. While there’s a part of me that wishes I could believe I’ll see my friend again someday, I am moved by how many people thought him an integral part of their lives and honored to be able to put together a memorial that paid tribute to his memory, personality, and life.
Our remembrance and celebration of one another is the closest we will ever get to immortality. The chat transcript and video from Greg Traylor’s memorial were saved and are available at http://greg.overtgeek.com.
When I first met Greg, he was living on the streets a few blocks from my office. I hadn’t been in Portland long, maybe nine months, and he had posted to the Portland subreddit about losing his job, then apartment, and eventually becoming homeless. He seemed like a nice guy, and I get an hour for lunch, so I offered him a meal and conversation. I had just started my job–in fact I was able to afford lunch because I’d just received my first paycheck–so I was still in training and working a 7-4 shift.
Greg was waiting for me outside as Old Town Pizza opened their doors. We sat in a cozy elevator shaft that had been converted to a dining area. He brought his laptop and showed me some of the things he’d been reading. (At this point I don’t even recall what they were, I only remember being impressed that he had a number of interests spanning multiple disciplines.) We talked about technology, politics, and human nature while eating warm pizza as the late February wind rattled the windowpane. After lunch, I returned to the controlled comfort of my office building. Greg went to a coffee shop until it closed, then spent the night on the sidewalk.
Truth be told, Greg could have been one of my coworkers. That’s what I kept thinking after meeting him and talking with him for an hour: he could have been any number of people I’ve worked with over the years. It’s a bit overwhelming to realize that, save for a different set of circumstances and poor decisions, you or someone you consider a colleague could be living on the streets. One of the things Greg kept mentioning was how difficult it was to find social services to help, though he did say there was an abundance of food to be had for those who could not afford it. What a sad thing to be proud of in a first-world country.
We spoke often. I’ve known him for a year and a half, and looking back through my inbox there are over a thousand messages traded back and forth between us. Some of them are short, such as, “Sounds good! See ya soon.” Others are long, rambling paragraphs about teaching crows to collect change that would then be donated to charity, how best to hide your trail online in the new reality of constant electronic surveillance, or funny stories from our pasts. He met my girlfriend and she loved him. He was so charming it was almost impossible not to. Even the dog loved Greg, sometimes seemingly more than me.
He found a few different places to stay for short amounts of time, including with us for a few weeks. We live in a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs, and I think he missed being in the middle of the frenetic energy that flows through downtown Portland. A friend of Greg’s was kind enough to put him up in her basement while he worked to get back on his feet. During that time, he began to volunteer at Free Geek with more regularity, and would come to teach several classes. One of the things so impressing about Greg was how adamantly he desired to help others. In my belief, this desire is what led him to work with the Animal Beta Project and to teach classes at Free Geek. Looking at his reddit history, just a month ago he commented on a post to leave encouraging words to someone dealing with depression. Even while his own life was falling to–no, was in–pieces, he gave of himself.
There’s so much more I could say about him, and I’m sure I will eventually. Right now I simply hurt. I don’t hurt for myself, though there is a degree of pain because I’ll never see my friend again. I hurt for those who will never get to know Greg, for the people who would have walked right by him sleeping on the sidewalk without giving him a second thought, for the people who weren’t there when he needed them the most. I hurt because I am no better than this to others. I walk by people every day who sleep wrapped in newspapers and threadbare blankets. You become desensitized, maybe even to the point you don’t consciously recognize they’re there. But they are there. They are people. Most of them are probably very different from Greg, but they are still worthy of some basic aspect of human dignity.
I’m also angry. So damn angry. Over a month before his death Greg had an accident, followed by another a few weeks later that put him in the hospital. Both of these accidents occurred at least in part due to mental health incidents. I told them as much at the hospital. Since I’m not related to Greg, I had no legal or medical pull while he was in the hospital. He was admitted with a broken arm, broken ribs, and an ankle swollen to the size of my bicep. They wanted to send him home that same night. If you know anything about the American healthcare system you know why. Greg had no insurance. I firmly believe this was a factor in the quality (and quantity) of care he received.
The hospital kept him overnight, but only after I made a big stink about the fact that he lived alone, was in a physical condition that greatly reduced or eliminated his ability to care for himself, and would likely end up dead if he had another mental health incident that resulted in injury. Even talking caused Greg to gasp in pain. They discharged him the next day while I was at work. He wasn’t even able to walk or use his arms, and they tried to send him home with only crutches. He had to beg for a wheelchair. They said those costs are typically paid by insurance or out-of-pocket. Neither was an option for Greg.
I met up with him last Wednesday. We went to Safeway to get a prescription filled. He couldn’t afford the $13 cost. I don’t know if there are social programs out there that could have helped him, but I do know he was not in any shape to take advantage of them without some outside assistance. I am happy I was able to be there for my friend, even though I wish I had done more. How many others have no one? We talk about people falling through the cracks as if they were breadcrumbs in grout or coins dropped down a sewer drain. It’s so much messier, nothing but absolute apathy in the face of the meat-grinder gore of reality. Wednesday was the last day I saw Greg. I think I was the last one to see him alive. I’ll never see him again.
I’m ashamed of my country–the richest one in the entire fucking world–for not having it together enough to catch people before they are broken, sometimes irreparably, by hitting bottom. I’m ashamed of the society that demonizes those with mental illness. While I admit a bias against organized religion, I believe that it is an actual demonization, a holdover of the archaic belief that ill minds are caused by evil spirits rather than chemical imbalances that helps to propagate this attitude. Those with mental illnesses don’t need to be ostracized. That’s the opposite of what’s necessary. They need help without judgment. They need us to give a damn. We are failing this group of people in innumerable ways, and the consequences of it are immeasurable, the losses staggering. I’m ashamed of my fellow humans. I am ashamed of myself.
My friend also struggled with addiction. Some who deal with mental illness self-medicate. This tendency can be exacerbated when suffering from other medical conditions that bring chronic pain. As a non-believer, Greg expressed to me a number of times how uncomfortable he felt in most recovery programs, almost all of which demand an acknowledgement of a higher power and are steeped in other religious language. Overcoming addiction requires peace and support. He did not feel he had either.
It’s so hard to see what drugs can do to people. I love Greg dearly and do not wish to tarnish his memory, but I also think it’s important that people know what it does to not only the drug user but to the people who care about him or her. It got to the point where I wouldn’t give Greg money, but would instead go with him to buy things. Courtney and I would take him to the grocery store for food. He and I took the MAX to Pioneer Square to buy him a Trimet pass. My friend Greg would have never lied to me; the junkie in him would have said whatever was necessary.
I remember telling Courtney at one point that I didn’t feel qualified to help Greg, that I am just a geek, not a doctor or a psychiatrist or a social worker. He likely needed all those things, but he also needed a friend. I’m glad I could provide that to him for a time.
Illegitimi non carborundum. Don’t let the bastards wear you down. I love you, Greg, and I’m really going to miss you.
So it goes.
If you or someone you know is battling addiction or mental health issues, please seek assistance. (If you’re a non-believer, contact the Secular Organization for Sobriety.) If you’re feeling depressed or having thoughts of taking your own life, please call 1-800-273-TALK or 1-800-SUICIDE. If you believe someone you care about is contemplating ending their life, please talk to them. Show them you are there. Their lives may depend on it.
I released my first novel about three weeks ago (as if any of you who know me don’t already know that). Holy cow. I feel as though I’ve given birth. There’s a weakness in the core of my being, a memory of exhaustion that has seeped into every moment of the past eight months since I first began the book with, “First days were always the worst.”
Turns out the days after aren’t much easier. It’s funny, I actually wrote that line because I was dreading beginning a novel. What if I failed to finish? This was an especially embarrassing thought since I told almost everyone I knew of my plan to write a novel in a month’s time for NaNoWriMo. Even worse, what if I succeeded and everyone hated the finished product? But I had already committed: Updates posted and discussed on Facebook and Twitter, the news already shared with family and coworkers. I could not back down. I had to write a book, even if it was terrible. For inspiration, I purchased No Plot? No Problem!, a book by NaNoWriMo founder Chris Baty. Even though I had a (semblance of a) plot, I figured it couldn’t hurt to see what wisdom I could glean from the guy who came up with the idea of knocking out 50k words in 30 days. Imagine my surprise when I found this quote near the beginning of the book:
“Even if you’re the worst writer in the world, at least you’ll have the evidence.” —Padgett Powell
Inspiration? Hell, I had found my mantra! I set out to write a book, and now had discovered a short phrase to repeat to myself when I was hating the words on the screen, to drive myself to continue even as I wanted to throw my work-in-progress–maybe even the whole computer–into the trash. Am I the worst writer in the world? I don’t think so. I’m not the best either. But I have a finished book, and that’s an accomplishment in itself. Now I’ve had to switch gears from author to salesman. I’ve never been a fan of sales. Too political, too amoral. To make matters worse, there’s a lot of conflicting data out there about how best to proceed as a newly self-published author, such as whether or not KDP select is worth giving Amazon exclusive rights to your ebook for 90 days, where and how to advertise your book, even arguments about different methods of ebook formatting. I’m far from an expert on any of this stuff, and I’m still figuring out more each day, but here are 5 lessons I’ve learned the hard way while finishing my first novel.
- Finish the book! Absolutely none of these tips matters if you don’t actually finish the book. Don’t let yourself get hung up on the details. Need to research something? Put in a placeholder. Stay consistent for easy searching at a later date. I use brackets, so I would leave notes such as “[research how often the subways run in NYC]“. One of the biggest challenges is completing the first draft.
- Edit. Then edit some more. Done editing? No, you’re not. Edit it again, slacker! One of the biggest criticisms of self-published works is that they tend to be poorly edited. This goes beyond simply checking for typos. While a small number of typos and errors will be overlooked by many readers, especially if you have a compelling story, you need to make sure your finished manuscript is as error-free as possible. If you’re a first-time author, your readers are much less likely to buy your future works if your first release is lackluster.
- Put your best foot forward. You know the saying, “Don’t judge a book by its cover”? It’s a saying because people judge books by their covers. Whether it’s on a bookstore shelf or in search results on a website, the book cover is the first impression many people will get of you and your book. It’s not necessarily a matter of cost, either. I’ve seen $1000 book covers that look terrible, and some of the budget covers I’ve seen have been anywhere between acceptable and amazing. For decent budget covers, check out Fiverr. There are other options out there as well, which leads to the next point. Mine was done by MW Messina.
- Google, as always, is your friend. I know research can be overwhelming, especially in subjects such as these where there is so much data out there to consider. That said, a LOT of smart people have done this before. Some of them have even written about what worked for them. Don’t reinvent the wheel; use their success (and their failure) as a blueprint for your own method. Try to take the best parts of what has worked for other people and make their tactics yours. There is nothing wrong with standing on the shoulders of giants (or even people who are just slightly taller than you). There are a number of author forums on the internet that are full of people willing to help. Find one you like. I try to spend some time each day reading posts on the kboards writer forum. William Hertling’s Indie & Small Press Book Marketing is a great primer and contains a lot of useful information.
- Don’t rely too much on friends. I love my friends. They’re wonderful folks. I’m honored to know many people with a variety of talents. The thing about talented people is that they’re often busy with their own projects. Talented people are also not known for their consistent follow-through. I’m a musician. I’ve been the flaky artist-type person before, so I can’t fault people too much for this. Even if money is involved, there’s a chance your friend may not give your project the priority you feel it deserves. If you have a good working history with your friend this may not apply, but ultimately you may find it less frustrating to go with a stranger whose portfolio includes work that speaks to your vision. It’s also easier to be demanding of a stranger than a friend, at least for me.
Again, I have barely scratched the surface of the self-publishing world, but these are the five most important lessons I’ve learned after releasing my first book. It’s not gospel, just things that worked for me. I hope they work for you, too. Another great resource is Reddit. Here’s a bookmark I use for several different writing related subreddits. If you have other suggestions you’ve picked up along the way, please leave a comment!
It has been a crazy couple of weeks. I’ve been going non-stop since I released The Lightcap, but that’s a good thing. It’s taken a lot of work, but I’ve got my book on the shelves at four bookstores in Portland, one in Vancouver, and at my local library. I’ve got three book readings scheduled for July and hope to record an audiobook version within the next month or two. In addition to all this, I’m still rocking the full time job and a couple other side projects.
One of those side projects is a book review site. It’s interesting . . . I spent $12 to register the domain, slapped the page together in about a day, and now I’m getting free books! I have so many free books to read that I’ve been forced to turn a few people down. I started the review site because I’ve had a lot of difficulty finding places that are willing to even consider reviewing self-published books, and many of the reviewers who list themselves as willing to accept solicitations from independent authors never wrote me back. I don’t fault them for it–after less than a week I’m already swamped with submissions from self-published authors–but it’s still a bit of a bruise to the ego.
So as an homage to my hometown (Columbus, OH . . . 614 area code represent!) I’m offering the ebook version of The Lightcap for free all day today. I’m also kicking off a month-long giveaway on Goodreads. I’ll be giving away three paperback copies of the book. The giveaway ends on July 13. If you wish to enter, you can use the form below.
I almost hesitate to link to these ridiculous losers, but I’ve recently stumbled across a group of people who call themselves wolves, real men, and refer to to their reality distortion bubble as “the manosphere”.
What is the manosphere, you ask? It’s like the blogosphere, but full of dicks.
This article, “The Manosphere For Dummies”, is an excellent primer. (I suggest they add “Is” to the middle of the title, just to clarify for newcomers.) The manosphere is populated by all sorts of acronyms: MRAs, MGTOWs, and PUAs, most of whom seem united in their belief that there is a repressed class in our society, and that repressed class is the heterosexual white male. And who, you may ask, is doing the oppressing? Why, females and minorities of course! Their proof? They point to things like affirmative action, feminism, and child support laws with shrill shouts of “MISANDRY!” In their narrative, heterosexual white males are majestic and mighty animals akin to wolves, and the rest of society (that is, anyone who doesn’t fall into lockstep with their positions and views) are nothing more than rabbits who hate them for their alleged power and success.
I am amused by this the most, as I’m almost certain that many of these guys would be considered mediocre at best by any reasonable metric of success. On their blogs and in their forums they shill their books to other “alphas”, create manifestos that enforce traditional gender roles (nine listed for men without a single mention of family, three listed for women that all include some mention of family), and write stories promising imminent success and exposure for their “movement”.
All of this ended up on my radar after a big bad wolf named Matt Forney wrote an absurd article about why Portland sucks for single men (hint: it doesn’t, unless you’re a whiny putz with a chip on his shoulder who thinks women owe him attention and sex). After the backlash, he wrote another article about how Alpha Males™ like him are wolves, and the beta misandrist feminist communist [insert other strawmen here] throng are haters and pathetic rabbits. Even ignoring Forney’s junk science regarding the amygdalae, the rest of his metaphor falls apart in a number of ways.
Rabbits breed like crazy, have no loyalty to their in-group (their relatives), and respond to danger by running away… just like leftists.
And like rabbits, leftists are herd creatures who think and act in lockstep.
Leftists breed like crazy? Let’s be honest: people breed like crazy, but at least those on the left tend to be strong advocates for birth control and family planning. Contrast this with people like the Duggars, religious conservatives who have popped out so many kids that family vacations must consist of a caravan of a half dozen cars, or the backwards conservative legislators who attempt to do away with funding for STI prevention and sex education. While I can’t speak for all “leftists”, I personally do not run away from danger. Sometimes life is difficult and painful. I know this at least as well as, if not better than, most. Running away does nothing to solve problems. Lastly, every movement or ideology has “me too” people in its ranks, it is not something unique to the left.
The entire article, along with Forney’s post whining about being single in Portland, reads like the bitter screed of a person who struggles to fit into society, and instead of using that as an opportunity for reflection and self-improvement has doubled down on his stupidity, beating his chest and declaring aloud how awesome he finds himself, and asserts that the blame rests with us– the rabbits to his wolf– rather than with his own childish attitude and unreasonable expectation that people treat him like a rockstar.
One of the complaints in his article about Portland dating was that no women he “cold approached” (a pick-up artist term meaning to strike up unbidden conversation with a woman in the hopes of getting laid) cared about his stories of ditch-digging and hitch-hiking across the country. What did he expect? “Oh, Matt, listening to your stories of manly shovel-handling and mooching rides from strangers makes me need your dick. Let’s go back to my place right now.” The reason people don’t think you’re interesting is because you’re not very interesting. I’ve done all kinds of awesome things, but I don’t use that as a blunt instrument with which to beat people over the head and demand they acknowledge my special snowflake-ness.
What’s funny is that I agree with some of Forney’s points. I’ve lived in Portland for almost two years. While it’s true that some people are nice on the surface but resistant to deeper connections, I’ve also met some great people here who have become close friends. It seems Matt’s problem is that his negativity, bitter outlook on women and society, and his over-inflated sense of self-importance are the primary things he brings to the table. As with most things in life, you get out what you put in.
Ultimately, the manosphere is a shamosphere. These people aren’t warriors, heroes, or wolves, they’re bloggers whining about whiners on the internet (sort of like me, except that I’m honest about it). They care about their ethos insomuch as it results in book sales and blog views, writing reviews for books written by other “manospherians” as a way to share the wealth– in a totally capitalistic way, of course!– offered by those who need to read a book to learn how to be the Alphaiest of Alpha Males™. Despite their loud protestations that they are independent, real men, they seem to swarm in defense of one another, shill books written by other manospherians, and all have the same bald head and goateed look of petulant, powerless Lex Luthor. But, hey, he must be cool, why else would he have his youtube videos start by fading in to show him with a glass of scotch and lighting a cigarette while sitting in a plush chair?
Been busy as hell lately. Last week, thanks to a worldwide coordinated attack on WordPress sites (which is what I use for this here blog and many of my other webpages), all of my sites went down for multiple hours over a two day period. Since I’m getting ready to self-publish a book (tired of me talking about it yet?) it’s sort of important to have a functioning website, so I switched to a new host! If you’ve never had to do this on a whim before, it’s kind of nerve-wracking, and the switch took about three days out of my week.
On the plus side, I used the opportunity to flesh out some side projects I’ve had on the backburner for far too long. One of them is an anti-gay marriage parody site, Stop Gray Marriage. I’d like to get some guest submissions, so if you have content to add please email me!
So, that’s all the new stuff on the Dan front. Book is coming along and should be out soon. Websites are all back up. Spring is coming.
Inspired by this article and its comments.
It is absolutely terrifying to read an article about an American citizen being arrested for refusing to answer questions of dubious legality at a border patrol checkpoint that is not even at the border, and see responses that say things like, “Stop making such a fuss, just answer them the next time.”
Who the fuck are these people? These pathetic excuses for human beings that are so spineless and milquetoast that the idea of standing up for their rights is as foreign to them as an asteroid from the Oort cloud. You are not obligated to follow an unlawful command just because it comes from a law enforcement officer. You are not obligated to answer questions that have no legal standing. Grow a god damn backbone, you fucking invertebrates.
Record. Refuse. Resist.
And if you’re not capable of gaining guts, at the very least quit demanding that the rest of us act as meek and useless as you.
I subscribe to /r/WritingPrompts. I don’t usually write anything based on the prompts, but I really liked the one today so I decided to write a short story. Warning: It’s a little dark.
Write a short piece using delusion to accelerate something very every day until it breaks down to absurdity. Use illness, or drugs, or sleep deprivation as your device, any stress that will degrade your narrator’s sanity until ordinary events assume profound weight and drama. Enter the story quickly like a punk rock song. Establish your authority by keeping every detail specific. Keep your secondary characters vague-make them serve their purpose and make their exit. Build to the absurd, quickly, and get out fast. -Writing prompt from Chuck Palahniuk.
The sixth hit of acid punches more intensely than the five before. I remember placing it in my mouth, bittersweet tang mixed with the taste of chlorine after it has sat out for several days. Is this shit mixed with something? I wondered. The half dozenth hit rests against my tongue, soaking in saliva, as my hand pulls away. Is this my hand, or is someone dosing me, plying me with drugs to reach some nefarious end?
Fuck it, I think. At least I’ve got entertainment. My wall, usually stippled and off-white stucco, becomes a movie screen, The Big Lebowski playing where a blank canvas normally lives. The Dude is drinking a white Russian. The Dude always drinks white Russians, and it puts me at ease as I shrink into the warm embrace of my easy chair. The padded arms provide support as I sink into the crease where the back cushion meets the seat.
Shut the fuck up, Donny! No, wait, Donny’s dead. Shit. I watch as The Dude and Walter tip over the coffee can. A fucking coffee can, Jesus Christ. What an end. A god damn roasted human coffee bean ground up and tossed to the wind. The breeze turns and carries Donny across my face and into my already dry mouth. His acrid taste sticks in the back of my throat, making me sputter and choke.
My roommate appears to my right, seemingly from nowhere. “You aight, bruh?” he asks.
Frat boy piece of shit. ”I’m fine,” I groan in response. It comes out as a throaty warble that would convince no one. I’m still shrinking, ever smaller against the fluffy folds of the chair. I know that this is somehow my roommate’s fault. He gave me bad drugs, that fuck. I try to escape through the dark crevice where the back cushion meets the seat as the roommate’s eyes are carving through my skull.
I flick my eyes back to the wall. No more Lebowski, no more Walter, Donny’s still dead. In their place I see the woodchipper scene from Fargo and I know that this is my judgment. There’s a feeling of free-fall, a sickening moment when my stomach starts its ascent into my throat, and then the crease of the chair pulls me in. It has become my death, and I feel the blades of the woodchipper cutting and whirring at my back. Flesh ripped from bone, sinew exposed.
As I explode against the wall behind the chair, a gory sneeze of blood and guts spread evenly in a fine mist, there comes a loud pounding from the front door. My roommate bounds across the room and throws the door violently against the adjacent wall. He pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to a dark man standing in shadows, trading it for a mysterious box. The roommate closes the door and places the box on the seat of my comfy chair. I feel an incredible heat where my legs had been just moments before. From my vantage point as a stain on the wall I see steam begin to rise, and I know that this box is melting through my lap. How is this happening? I wonder. I don’t even have a lap. I’m nothing more than a stain on the wall.
The pizza–ordered decades before, maybe even in another life–is finally here. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
Thirty-something writer, geek, musician and photographer based in Portland, OR.
Current projects: Working on recording an audiobook version of my debut novel The Lightcap. I'm also writing a zombie novel that I hope to have available by the end of 2013.
Status of Work in Progress
40000 / 90000 words. 44.4% done.
Paradeix: The Last Pope
10000 / 9000 words. 111% done.
- A better name for christianity
- Sweat Man (the worst superhero ever) [flash fiction]
- What grief means to me as an atheist
- In memory of my friend Greg
- Five lessons I learned while self-publishing my first novel
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- Skepchick Events | What Grief Means to Me as an Atheist, by Dan Marshall on What happened to Katy
- Dan on In memory of my friend Greg
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- Dan on In memory of my friend Greg
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