Live Long and Prosper

This is not a tribute to Leonard Nimoy, who died last week at the age of 83. This blog is a tribute to Spock, Nimoy’s most famous role and the character he brought to life. Spock, not Nimoy, was the persona I gravitated to. I hope I can be forgiven for that, since I was ten years old at the time. What do kids that young know, anyway?

I knew what I liked, I can swear to that. I loved Spock. Who wouldn’t? He was the outsider, the alien, a champion for all us freaks and nerds who felt like we didn’t fit in. He was the science geek decades before that became cool. Yet the militaristic alpha males he worked with still treated him with respect and relied on him to get their asses out of a jam. Which he did, consistently, without breaking a sweat. If the situation called for a multidimentional ion destabilizer, Spock would build a working model from a pile of tin cans and a set of D batteries before the last commercial break, just in time to get Kirk back to the bridge.

A lot of people who thought Kirk was the designated sex symbol are probably shaking their heads right now, but it’s true: Spock was hot. I remember TV Guide running an article called, “Mr. Spock is Sexy.” (I think, but won’t swear, that the article was written by Isaac Asimov. Star Trek was a science fiction show, remember?) What made him so sexy? Gushed the ladies, “He’s so smart.” I suppose to any woman living with men in the real world, someone of Spock’s intellect would provide much-welcome relief.

Did I also mention his honesty, his dignity and his unswerving loyalty to his friends? Compared to Spock, Kirk was an arrogant macho jerk with a hair-trigger temper and the occasional mood swing. Is it any wonder we gals gravitated toward the guy who had all the answers and always kept his head? He didn’t even need to throw a punch. He dropped attackers with the Vulcan Nerve Pinch. How cool was that?

There was also that trait that draws in us chicks like flies: unavailability. Spock was all logic. Spock was aloof. He said he had no emotions. Ah, but we all knew better. The emotions were there, roiling just beneath the unflappable, logical surface. That pesky human half of his made him one of us, even though he did his best to deny it. His best wasn’t good enough. We could see his loyalty, his honesty, his pain, his love for his friends. We were there for you, Spock. We would happily have helped you through any emotional crisis you might have faced. Just tell us when pon farr’s approaching and we’ll line up to save you. (Hands up, everybody who wanted to shove Christine Chapel out an airlock. Bitch thought she was worthy of our Vulcan. Who was she kidding?)

We even got a look at Bad Boy Spock during “Mirror, Mirror.” In a universe marked by violence and barbarism, he was still Spock: dignified, logical, trustworthy. Just with an edge. And a beard. Whooo! I look on that episode as the day I achieved puberty. I’m still drawn to tall, lean, intelligent men. Facial hair and emotional distance optional.

When all is said and done, though, Star Trek was still just a TV show. It and Spock would be forgotten now if not for Leonard Nimoy. Gene Roddenberry may have created him, but Leonard brought him to life. Leonard gave the half-breed alien a dignified demeanor that made him stand out in the crowd. The Vulcan salute and the nerve pinch were Leonard’s inventions. (Leonard felt a logical race like the Vulcans would have developed a less violent means of self-defense than throwing punches.) And, of course, the eyebrow. Leonard could make Spock say more with one lift of an eyebrow than a whole page of dialogue. I can still do the salute with either hand, but I never mastered the eyebrow. Must be a genetic thing.

What this all means to me as a writer is simple: this is how you create a memorable character. Star Trek only lasted three years. Thanks in part to Spock, it’s still remembered fifty years later. Even people who’ve never seen an episode or one of the movies know who Mr. Spock is. Like Batman and Tarzan, Spock has become a part of our cultural heritage. We have Leonard Nimoy to thank for that. Roddenberry built the framework, but Leonard filled it in. Their co-creation has outlived them both.

Now Leonard’s gone, and his talents are no longer available to help us poor writers give such vibrant life to our characters. We’re on our own. Fortunately, Leonard left behind a bountiful legacy as an actor, director and writer that we can study and learn from. A final gift from a multifaceted man.

Leonard Nimoy, rest in peace. Mr. Spock, live long and prosper.

All Too Human

I miss Buffy.

What brings on my spate of nostalgia for kick-assery is the last two books I read (got ‘em from the library, so I had to go through ‘em fast), Daughter of Smoke and Bone and its sequel, Days of Blood and Starlight, by Laini Taylor. They’re Young Adult: the protag is a 17-year-old girl and there’s the requisite ultra-hot guy (literally; he’s a seraph with burning wings) and eternal love story. All Twilight comparisons end there. The books contain beautiful writing by someone who obviously loves language and knows how to wield words for greatest impact. Taylor’s world-building and characterization ain’t too shabby either. Even secondary characters are well-fleshed enough for believability, and the mysteries build to a slow reveal that actually is revealed, rather than drawn out for the sake of another bloated trilogy. The “angels” in this universe would kick the posers from Fallen, Halo and Hush, Hush right out the window and toss ‘em their pinfeathers as a parting shot. In another world—say, the 1980s—this book would have been shelved in the Science Fiction/Fantasy section and college kids would be reading it.

The only downside is that it’s a trilogy and the conclusion won’t be out until next year. I wanna read it right friggin’ now, dammit! Sadly, books of this quality take time, so I’ll just have to suck it up and wait along with everybody else—first for the release date, then for the library to get it, unless I hang out at Barnes and Noble and try to skim it for free. Yes, I liked it. If I were giving a review, both volumes would get 5 stars.

However …

Partway through the second book a nagging thought occurred to me. Although the main character is human by default—they’re trying to sell this to human readers, after all—pretty much the rest of the cast are aliens from another dimension: the beastial chimaera and their sworn enemies, the winged seraphim. They’ve been at war for hundreds of years. Then a chimaera girl meets a seraph boy on the battlefield, and—well, you know what happens. It’s YA.

I can handle that. I just have to remind myself who the target audience is, and it ain’t some old lady who was weaned on the original Star Trek and New Age science fiction. What started to bother me was how much these alien creatures from this alien dimension, with nothing at all in common with Earth history, thought and behaved just like us.

I know, I know, it’s necessary; target audience and all that. They used to do it on Star Trek too, and all the other books and shows supposedly set on alien worlds or in other time periods. For instance, next time you watch one of these shows or movies, note the number of alien societies that independently evolved catsuits and high heels. The characters may be aliens in the far future, but the readers/viewers are modern-day humans, and they want characters they can recognize and identify with. I guess I'll have to live with that.

I just wish the aliens from the other dimension hadn’t evolved sexism.

In far too many of these books, movies, comics, etc., women get short shrift. It happens here. Again. Yes, there are female soldiers, but they’re not exempt if one of the ruling males wants them. The king of the angels has a harem and breeds bastard soldiers for the war effort. The chimera general fixates on the heroine because she’s the most beautiful woman (i.e., human looking) in all the land, and she kind of goes for him in a wishy-washy, spineless, what choice do I have sort of manner, at least until she meets Hot Angel Boy. So General Buttwipe catches her and has her beheaded. Later, when she’s reborn in human form, she ends up working with General BW because, wellll, he’s the hero of the resistance and all and she doesn’t really feel like she has a choice. She also has a skill he desperately needs for the war effort, and he sets up one of his flunkies as her assistant to learn it so he can dispose of her again. I figured that out about ten chapters before she did. He manipulates the holy hell out of her and she just can’t see it, even with two lifetimes of experience.

Jesus Christ, honey. He KILLED YOU. He CUT YOUR FRIGGIN’ HEAD OFF. You were reborn as a human and separated from your one true love, not to mention your homeworld, because THIS GUY IS A SCUZZBAG. How many lives do you have to be hit over the head in? Or have that head cut off? I expect more, or at least different, from someone non-human. The first time around, anyway.

That, to varying degrees, is what we get with the other alien females. No matter how skilled or tough or independent they are, their choices ultimately depend on the whim of some male. The only one who takes direct, decisive action against the evil rulers is Hot Angel Boy. The heroine finally fights back against General Buttwipe, but only when he attempts to rape her. C’mon, sweetie, you’ve known for two lifetimes he was a sleaze of the highest order. You had to see that one coming.

Like I said, I miss Buffy.

It would really be nice if, in one of these books, the alien society held out some hope to impressionable young girls that there’s more to life than pairing up with a scuzzball while waiting for the right hot guy to come along. A female general would have been welcome. I’ll bet if Xena or Red Sonja was commanding that army, the king would think twice before ordering them hauled off to the harem. (One did try that with Red Sonja, with the expected fatal result.) I’ll bet Xena or Sonja wouldn’t hesitate to have some comely young soldier boy brought to her tent, either. (Maybe Xena not so much since she has Gabrielle, but Sonja, definitely.) I’d love to see that in a book just once, boy I tell you what.

There’s some hope for the third volume, maybe. There’s a group of outcast angels out there, ruled by a queen. Please let her be a T’Pau. That's her in the picture up there. She ruled Vulcan on Star Trek. The whole planet decided she was the logical choice to lead them. Who’s going to argue with Vulcan logic? Just pointing out that it can be done, and young girls can be exposed to the concept without it corrupting their lives.

Some day I’ll rant about how superheroines can chase after the bad guys while wearing stiletto heels. Except Wonder Woman, who can fly. And why isn’t she wearing boots or sandals like the other Amazonian warriors? But that’s another blog.

Diversification

I’ve been a reader all my life, across a wide range of genres. (And media; I’ve been a fan of comic books for decades). When I started writing, I gravitated toward my favorite genres, science fiction and fantasy. I’ve since branched out into other favorites, in particular paranormal romance. Maybe it’s the comic book influence, but I like playing genre mix and match in my plots. Over the course of my romance career I’ve written comedy, mysteries and suspense. I haven’t done a Western yet, but I’m a big fan of Louis L’Amour. Who knows what the future will bring?

However, that’s not the diversity I’m talking about. Spreading your byline among too many genres or even subgenres can actually hurt your sales, as I’ve personally discovered. If you’re going to switch genres, I strongly recommend you consider creating a pen name for the new one, especially if it’s a radical switch, like from SF to romance or romance to horror or M/F romances to M/M. Confused readers won’t come back to buy your next book. They’ll buy someone else’s book. If the someone else is still you but under another name, so much the better.

The diversity I’m talking about is with the characters—different races, cultures, backgrounds, sexuality, degree of physical ability. Groups formerly labeled as “minorities” are demanding their faces and forms be shown and their voices heard. This includes within forms of entertainment, like TV and movies and books.

(My favorite example of this is the “twofer.” Next time you watch a cop or lawyer show, count how many times the judge in the courtroom scene is both black and a woman. Kids’ commercials are great. There’s always three: a white boy, a white girl, and either a black or an Asian kid. If Kid #3 is a girl, you’ve got your twofer.)

(I did this myself at Shapeshifter Seductions, with my character Lamar. Lamar is both gay and Hispanic. That wasn’t intentional. Boa constrictors are native to Central America. Making him Hispanic seemed logical.)

I’m not saying you’re required to write a diversity of characters into your story. It’s your story. Write it whichever way makes you comfortable, and follow your muse’s demands. I’m just saying the world is changing, and a mix of characters from different backgrounds is a more realistic picture. If you find your story demands a paraplegic gay Pakistani, go for it.

Speaking for myself, I’m a white woman who was raised middle class. That’s my background and my comfort zone. I was born in a Jersey shore community, population white. I think the first African-American I ever saw was Uhura on Star Trek. (Hadji on Jonny Quest was Indian, so he doesn’t count.) I live in a part of Pennsylvania where the predominant ethnic group stems from German descent, but that’s changing. I’m seeing more variety in my neighbors’ faces lately. And more Russians in New Holland. Not quite sure why that is.

I also find myself adding more diverse characters to my casts, simply because that’s the way life is these days. If you set your story in Philadelphia or New York, you’re going to see a wide range of people, Friends notwithstanding. If you set your tale in San Francisco and don’t even mention the gay community, something is seriously wrong. I cited Disney’s Tarzan a couple posts back, set in an Africa with, apparently, no native human population. One white woman on the entire continent, and Tarzan finds her. He really is Lord of the Jungle. (To be fair, he does encounter natives in the book, but not women. By the time he ran into Jane, he must have been horny as all get out. Unless he and the she-apes—no. Not gonna go there.)

Over at Shapeshifter Seductions, we’ve got quite the mix going. Personally, I work on the theory that the animal form’s continent of origin determines the human form’s ethnicity. Therefore, horses are white (European or Arabian), wolves are white European or Native American, pandas are Chinese, and so forth. That’s how Lamar ended up a Latino, as well as jaguar-shifter Leona Sanchez (who’s also a twofer, with Native American ancestry). Had Leona been a leopard, her human form would be African-American. We’ve got gay couple Lamar and Jamie, Solara’s polyamorous family units, and Serena’s Mistress Penelope, who’s in a class by herself. Bighorn Mary Ewing is a deaf-mute, which is fine with her boyfriend, who has a severe stutter and doesn’t like to talk anyway. Fortunately, Lamar knows sign language. Being snakes, a lot of his family members are either deaf or hearing impaired. I’m guessing somewhere on his family tree is a Lou Ferrigno-ish bodybuilder/pro wrestler whose finishing move is the Big Squeeze. Ralph the bear would probably wet himself if he ever got to meet him in person.

In my own writing, I find myself slipping out of my Caucasian comfort zone from time to time and adding different characters because that’s what the story wants. Years ago I wrote an (unpublished) SF story with a black major character. That was deliberate; I based him on James Earl Jones because I wanted that voice and that presence for my character. The one in the M/M/M story I was fiddling with was an accident. I’d conceived of my three leads as all white guys. Then another character made an observation and I suddenly realized one of the men had brown skin. I have no idea how that happened, but that’s how it is now and that’s what I’m going with. If I ever get back to the story, it’ll be the blond guy, the brown-skinned guy, and the alien. My God, I’ve written a kid’s commercial.

My current WIP also includes some accidental diversity. I knew from the start my character Burne was a dragon. What I gradually discovered as I wrote was that he’s half Chinese. His dragon form is Asian, which gives him no end of trouble with the winged and fiery European variety who rule dragon society. In addition he’s dating Jase, a whitetail deer shifter, which I suppose makes Jase Native American, though I’m picturing him as white. So instead of a simple gay romance, I’m now writing a gay interracial romance. What have I gotten myself into?

Diversity, that’s what. Stepping out of my comfort zone and growing as a writer. Which, in my opinion, counts as a Good Thing. Here’s hoping I can do it right.

The Worst Job There Is

When it comes to jobs, what could possibly be bad about writing? You work from home. You set your own hours. You can put in your eight hours or whatever on the back porch or in front of the TV or in bed in your jammies. Sure, the pay might not always be the best and it’s kind of hit or miss. Weigh that against having to deal with bad bosses and back-stabbing, gossipy co-workers and money pales in comparison. You get to do what you love in your own time and in a place of your choosing and not have to work for or with jerks. If you work hard and luck runs your way, you can even make a living at it. That’s a better deal than WalMart offers.

Sometimes.

Along with all the genre fiction I’ve read over the years, media tie-in books have found their way into my to-be-read stack on more than one occasion. You know the ones I mean; you’ve seen them on the shelves. Star Trek and Star Wars predominate, and even have whole sections of their own. A lot of popular (or at least cult favorite) TV shows have tie-in novels available. (In the case of Castle, the books are supposedly produced by the show’s writer protagonist.) Some cancelled shows, like Buffy and Smallville, have continued their storylines in comic books. No more dealing with actors demanding raises, and the budget’s limited only by the artist’s imagination.

Now that would be the job to have, if you’ve got a favorite show. No world building, no creating characters. All the heavy lifting’s been done. It would be like writing fan fiction, except you get paid for it. Somebody’s gotta produce these things, right? Why not you and me?

It can turn out to be a lucrative gig. Some publishers consider these books work for hire and only pay a flat fee, but others offer standard advances and royalties. With a built-in fan base and guaranteed sales, even mediocre writers can come out ahead. Your books will reach the shelves and readers’ hands, and money will reach your bank account.

And the books don’t have to be routine, by-the-numbers crap. I can name several Trek novels that are just as well-written and exciting as an original universe book. Timothy Zahn’s initial Star Wars trilogy stands out in this regard. For comic book readers and Buffy fans, I recommend the Angel and Faith series. I was never that big a fan of either of those characters, but I’m enjoying this run even more than the current Buffy comic series. (Summary: Giles is dead. Angel’s trying to resurrect him. Hijinks ensue.) As with any form of fiction, it’s all in the execution.

Then you have the downsides. A lot of these tie-in novels are routine, by-the-numbers crap. That’s not necessarily the writer’s fault. Remember, when you’re playing in somebody else’s sandbox for pay, you have to abide by the homeowner’s rules. That means no slash, you Destiel shippers. No Spock or Data suddenly developing emotions, unless they return to normal by the end of the story. No introducing permanent love interests, or killing main characters, or doing anything that can’t be reversed before the final page. You need to leave the status at quo for the next writer. This can lead to a lot of bland books. I know; I’ve read them.

Back in my SF writing days I briefly had an agent. It didn’t work out in the end, but that’s another blog. While it was working out, I asked him about the possibility of writing a Star Trek novel. I was really into NextGen at the time and had some plot ideas.

His professional advice: okay, if that’s what I really wanted. However, I should make the plot as generic as possible because there was only one market, and if they turned it down I’d have spent a lot of time and effort for nothing. Therefore, I should write a book that could easily be converted to an original-universe novel in case I had to recycle.

That would explain the general suckage of the Trek tie-ins of that period. Also the introduction of so many original characters interacting with the Trek casts. Somebody needed to grow and change and learn by the end of the book, since that was off-limits for the regulars.

You think that’s bad, try writing a book, or a comic series, while the TV show is still on. Months of writing and dramatic buildup can be negated by next week’s episode. I saw this happen a couple of times in DC’s Star Trek comic series. The early Marvel Star Wars comics had it even worse. No Luke vs. Darth confrontations or exploring the Luke-Leia-Han triangle or any good stuff like that. No anything until after the next movie came out. Somehow Marvel and DC managed to put out entertaining comics under creativity-smothering circumstances. I sure wouldn’t want to be that writer, though.

And that’s why I feel being a tie-in writer tying in to a still-running series has to be the worst job out there. You can’t do anything to shake up the world or the characters, which is the heart of fiction. Every idea you come up with has to be approved by the copyright holders, the studio, the lawyers, and who knows who else. You could see your whole plot air on the CW the night you type The End, or have your book rendered obsolete by the next episode’s plot twist. Or one of the main actors leaves the show (I see a lot of X-Files fan heads nodding out there). Depending on the deal you get with the publisher, the money might not even be that good. That’s assuming you even get a deal. If you don’t, you’re stuck with an unsellable novel. Writing in your favorite TV world may be fun, but you have to ask yourself: is it really worth it?

Luckily for us media fans, there is a way to have our cake and eat it too. That’s fan fiction writing. It’s unsanctioned because no money’s involved, so you can do anything you want. If you make it AU enough, you can even rewrite it as an original book, self-publish, build a huge following, and get picked up by a major publisher. Hasn’t happened to me yet, but I hear it can be done.

Freak Love

Romance novels fall under the category of fantasy. Impossibly handsome, successful, alpha men sweep us off our feet and bring us to unbelievable orgasms using techniques we’d slap any real guy silly for even suggesting. Naturally, if you’re writing these books, you want to create a hero who fulfills the readers’ every fantasy. Physically beautiful, rich as hell but still cooks you dinner, IQ in the 200s but never makes you feel like an idiot, who loves your cat even though he’s allergic, and could have any woman in the world but wants you and you alone. Not to mention he has a schlong bigger than Tommy Lee’s, and he knows tricks in the bedroom even Ron Jeremy never heard of. We as writers use all the tropes with abandon, and throw in our own personal preferences to help make our fantasy men stand out.

Which is wherein my problem lies. It’s a darn good thing I was drawn to paranormal, because my character crushes over the years have been consistent and all point in the same direction. Namely, I dig the freaks.

# # #

My first big-time crush on a TV character grew out of my favorite show, Star Trek. I realize Captain Kirk was the designated sex symbol, but he never did much for me. I fell for Spock. Pointy-eared, alien Spock, with the astronomical IQ and emotionless demeanor. No throwing punches for this action hero: he had the Vulcan nerve pinch, which was cooler than cool. Spock himself was cooler than cool. Yeah, okay, Shatner was easy on the eyes in those days, and artfully ripped his shirt in quite a few episodes. But put Kirk in a scene with Spock and my attention switched allegiance. Spock set the tone for my fictional hero crushes: tall, slender, intelligent, cool, loyal, with a dry sense of humor and just a hair off the norm. Sorry, Captain. Bring on the aliens!

# # #

If watching big, overdeveloped males in combat is your thing, I recommend professional wrestling. I was a big fan for quite a few years. All those muscle men in spandex engaging in soap opera plots! Of course it’s all choreographed. That’s half the fun. I got more laughs out of wrestling matches than I did from sitcoms. And you can’t fake those physiques. Those guys work out, and it shows.

So, with literally dozens of fine physical specimens to crush on, who did I fall for? Kane. The silent, seven-foot guy in the mask. They built a whole

mythology around him. He was Undertaker’s younger brother, hideously scarred in a fire and bent on revenge. He never spoke. He was insane. He had long, stringy hair and a beautiful butt spandex was just made to mold to. The mask just added to the mystery. What was under there? What horrible secrets was he hiding? (Other than the fact he’d been wrestling for the WWE for years as other characters before he hit it big as Kane.) He was the perfect gothic hero, big and brooding and damaged, waiting for the right woman to save him with her love. Eventually he lost the mask (and that hair! NOOOOOOOOOOO!) and became just another big-muscled dude. That was the point I lost interest in wrestling. I notice he’s back in the mask now. Don’t mess with success.

# # #

About two-three years back I discovered Supernatural. I came late to the party; fortunately, the library had seasons 1, 2, and 4, so I was able to catch up in a relatively short time. The heavy marathons probably contributed to my obsession with the show. And who did I fixate on? Castiel, angel of the Lord. Cute, cool, powerful, emotionless, dry sense of

humor, total badass, doesn’t quite get us humans. His only drawback is that Misha Collins isn’t as tall as Leonard Nimoy. Fortunately Jared Padalecki is. I can get my tall, slender guy fix watching Sam. Between the

two of them, I’ve got my perfect fantasy man. Dean? Nope. Sorry, Jensen, you’re too Captain Kirk for my taste. Try artfully ripping your shirt.

# # #

My pattern of crushes continues. I started watching Grimm last season. The lead, Nick, is your standard TV paranormal hero: cute, competent, boring. Yawn. Right off the bat I was drawn to Monroe the werewolf. He’s funny and loyal and looks out for his friends, and he’s not

all that hard on the eyes. I’d date him in a second. As for Nick, I don’t think even ripping his shirt would make up for the lack of personality. Better luck on your next show, buddy.

# # #

No wonder I don’t date much. I look for the weirdoes, the oddballs, the freaks, the folks on the edge of normalcy. My kind of people. With nice butts. Looks like it’s back to cruising SF conventions. In the meantime, I’d better write another book. My hero will be tall, intelligent, and inhuman. That’s the way I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.

A Day in the Life

So you want to be a writer? In God’s name, why?

Here’s how my day went yesterday. I’m on my last draft of a book and I’m typing it onto my laptop for emailing. I could have just written it on the laptop to start with but Mr. Lappy doesn’t have a printer so I type on the old system, which does have a printer but isn’t compatible with any system created after 1995. “Working with stone knives and bearskins,” is how Mr. Spock put it in a Star Trek episode once. It’s a lot of extra work, I know, but I need the print draft because scribbling notes in the margins gets messy on a screen. And when I get bored I can play computer games, which isn’t productive but sure is fun.

So I’m typing my final draft, making changes as I go. Extensive changes, as it turned out. I’d type a couple hundred words, re-think the previous paragraphs, then go back and delete about half of what I typed. Then restructure the remaining sentences. Then go play computer Solitaire for awhile.

This is my third draft. I should be able to just type the thing into the system without all this reworking. It should be polished at this point. Why didn’t I just write it correctly the first time?

Well, it’ll all be over soon. The book should be on its way to the publisher by some time next week. Unless I rewrite the ending again. I’ll probably do a final pass on the sex scenes. You can never have too many sensory details, but you can have too many adverbs. Many games of Solitaire later, it will finally be finished and out of my hands.

After that … I’ll probably just dive into the next one and sweat buckets of blood all over again.

Why do I do this to myself? It can’t be for the money. At this point in my career, I could probably make a lot more panhandling, and my income would be tax-free to boot. I do this because, painful as it gets sometimes, it would be even more painful to stop. I need to tell stories, and I’m egotistical enough to want to share. It’s a compulsion, like banging your head against a wall.

Sounds like a fun life, doesn’t it?

Then there are the perks: you make your own hours, you can work in bed with a cup of hot tea, and you can type in your ratty pajamas or even in your undies if you feel like it (or nekkid if nobody’s looking). You don’t have to look busy when the boss stalks by or put up with coworkers stealing your lunch from the fridge. You stare at a screen and make up stuff and, if the planets correctly align, you get paid for it. Does that sound like the coolest job in the world or what? Except for the rewriting part.

I should just scrap this whole thing and write a whole other post. And you want to be a writer? Good luck.