Namespotting

JP: Hey, Sean
JP: I'm making a Warrior/Ritualist for the Guild Wars MMORPG.
JP: Warrior is self-explanatory.
Sean: "Zankuro" comes to mind.
JP: A Ritualist is a shaman-like character who summons spirits, including ancestor and dead spirits
Sean: Right, right...
Sean: Male, right?
JP: Does Zankuro have any special meaning?
JP: Yes, male.
Sean: No specific meaning.
Sean: "kuro" means "black" in Japanese, though, or it can alternatively mean "ninth son".
Sean: "Zankuro" just rolls off the tongue pretty easily, and is a fair choice if you want to sound intimidating.
JP: He's not really an intimidator. just a noble but down-to-earth, soldier-minded LG or NG* kind of warrior.
Sean: "Isamu".
JP: A sincerely humble samurai, so to speak
JP: What does that mean?
Sean: "Isamu" = "bravery".
JP: PERFECT!
JP: Hey, thanks a lot!
Sean: If you're looking for other possibilities, though,
Sean: I'd strongly recommend just stealing something from L5R.
JP: okay, shoot
JP: Ha ha!
Sean: Seriously.
JP: I was thinking about that...
JP: Okay, thanks a lot, Sean.
JP: Gonna go and make that character now.
Sean: That's okay. It was fun. :)

* LG ("Lawful Good") and NG ("Neutral Good") are examples of personality alignment, usually referenced by players of Dungeons and Dragons and other similar storytelling games.


Honest, doctor. I really do run into conversations like this. :)

Now, I don't play Guild Wars like many other people do, but it's nice to run into a naming exercise every now and then. I have a tendency of naming characters on the fly, so this one happened to be right up my alley.

The catch, of course, was that JP was looking for a Japanese or Chinese name. While I like to think that I'm fairly good at transposing Western syllables into good names, Asian names are another matter altogether. With all the variances in pronunciation and whatnot, there's no telling what you might inadvertently come up with. You certainly don't want to name your character something embarrassing, or insulting.

So this is where the irony of the situation comes in: It's probably best to steal a name from somewhere, if it comes to that.

Yes, I'm aware that I'm a steadfast anti-plagiarist; My stance hasn't changed on that matter. But in cases like these, you're not looking to use the name for profit or any kind of commercial purpose. You just want a moniker that your fictional character can carry around in a fictional game world. "The Red Warlord Zankuro" certainly sounds better than "The Fair Maiden l33tb@be21", after all.

"Zankuro", for that matter, was the final boss in the Samurai Shodown III arcade game. "Isamu", from what I remember, is both a personality in the Legend of the Five Rings card game and a character from the Macross Plus animé. Both names had a fair bit of baggage associated with them, which made them easier to use -- I ended up having a feel for what their respective personalities looked like, based on this baggage, and I like to think that I was able to pass that on.

It's not stealing, no. But there's quite a fine line there, to tell the truth.

Assuming that we've all played a few RPGs here and there, it might be interesting to look back on the names that we gave our old characters. For my part, I remember using Elemen (Diablo II), Xinet (Neverwinter Nights), Zahn (Breath of Fire), Scythion (Zeus), Stryker (Wing Commander), Alexander (Final Fantasy Tactics) and Ming Xu (Vampire: the Masquerade). When taken as a whole, they'd probably say something about our own personal psyches.

Or they'd just look like a bunch of random character names all rolled together into one great big katamari. It's your call.

Then again, that's probably why I haven't gotten into MMORPGs yet: I have enough trouble keeping my current repertoire of character names straight.

I just hope that Isamu up there lives up to his well-gifted name...

Disclaimer: June 2006

Reiji raised an interesting point in the disclaimer I posted last month: I tend to come off as boastful or arrogant in these posts. I find that to be a very logical observation, for reasons that I'll outline later on.

For now, however, it might be best to take a long hard look at these monthly disclaimers. Why do I continue to write these things up, for example? I mean, I've applied for a Creative Commons License, I hold a Note of Ownership on each page of the blog, and I make it a point to encourage people to find their own voices instead of parroting what others think. On average, a monthly disclaimer post usually lasts less than a month on the front page, so it's actually far less efficient than any of the other alternatives.

All things said, there's really no reason for me to continue writing these.

And yet, here I am.

...

When I first set up this blog back in 2004, I knew that I was going to be writing in it. Not just writing, mind you, but writing writing. I was going to put up whatever happened to be on my mind at the moment, and apart from the serious reflections and the strange vignettes, that meant scribbling down my peculiar brand of fiction for the tastes of an online audience.

The catch with placing all of these things in a blog, however, lies precisely with that online audience. People see the Internet as a convenient resource: they read, they research, and they download. The Internet is a massive repository of searchable information -- it's like your school library's reference collection, in a way. And, like any massive repository of searchable information, it's easy to take for granted.

In a sense, it's not that people steal things. It's that people steal things without realizing that it's wrong to do so, especially when it comes to the Internet. When we can download MP3s, movies, scans and software hacks without giving much thought to ethics, I don't think it's difficult to see how people can copy images, essays and other literary works without regard for their context or use. Some of them even go one step farther and claim them for their own, which isn't that much of a stretch from the fourth-grader who copies an excerpt from the school encyclopedia and gets an A for his "efforts".

So I write disclaimers every month. I've found that it's actually very easy for people to miss an everpresent notice or announcement, mind you. But I figure that if I can hold their attention for a long enough period of time (about a month, in this case), then they'll probably read every post I write in the interim. With any luck, that should include any rants, threats or legal issues I end up putting online.

That only leaves the spectre of emotional impact, I think. It's easy to come off as irritating, paranoid or obnoxious when writing disclaimers like these. But how else could one possibly express oneself? These are one's own babies, after all. Everyone but the most prolific of writers out there probably knows that it's ain't easy thinking up a thousand words, organizing them, and putting them down on virtual paper for the rest of the world to criticize.

The last thing any writer wants is to see his words being claimed by some lazy idiot with too much time on his hands. And it's no picnic seeing those same lazy idiots misquote, distort, or blow those same words out of proportion, either. Is there any wonder why we come off as a bunch of overzealous elitists?

Better to show your fangs than let people know that you've declawed yourself, I say.

...

So now we come to the part of our program that deals with the legal information. If you've been reading this blog for at least a month, then this should sound familiar to you already. If not, then I hope that I've been able to entertain you so far with my mad ramblings and pathetic sob stories. Just remember not to steal my stuff, and we'll do just fine.

thinkobnoxiousthoughtsthinkobnoxiousthoughtsthinkobnoxiousthoughts

Everything that is posted on this blog is an entirely original work, except where noted. Any non-original work, or any entry that makes references to outside sources, should contain the appropriate acknowledgements. In the event that one of these posts does not have the given well-deserved references, you only have to contact me so that I can rectify the error.

Others are welcome to reference anything in this blog as long as they do so with the proper attributions and references. I do not tolerate people who quote me in a manner that is extremely inconsistent with my original point, nor do I have much patience for people who claim that they were the real influence behind my personal works. (Not that any sane person would claim to have written any of the more stupid stuff instead of me, mind you, but still...)

These are my standards, ladies and gentlemen. I have to draw the line somewhere, after all. If you're interested in discussing this further, the Comments link is right down there.

Have a nice day, everyone.

Antaria: Wayward

Arianne closed her eyes. She could hear them from where she sat, and she knew that they were making no effort to hide their approach.

It was obvious that they were not here to talk. She could hear the scraping of metal upon metal as one of them -- the shorter one -- drew his sword.

Arianne opened her eyes, regarding the two men who stood before her. Both were dressed in burnished armor of silver and white, unscuffed and untainted by the rigors of the wood. Although she could not see their faces underneath their helmets, their stance was unmistakably hostile... albeit cautious.

They were almost certainly afraid of her.

Arianne smiled.

The taller of the two removed his helmet, although his companion still held his sword in a threatening manner. The knight was young, perhaps less than twenty years of age. He was handsome, olive-skinned, and almost certainly still a novice. Arianne wondered exactly why they had come here.

The knight cleared his throat. "You are a Druid?" he asked.

"Well met," Arianne answered.

"What?"

"Well met," Arianne said, with uncharacteristic patience. "I had thought that the Galenics were respectful enough to bid a proper greeting, but it seems that I was wrong."

The knight glanced at his helmeted companion, who did not relax from his hostile stance. The second man only nodded slightly at the gesture.

"W... well met," the first knight conceded. "My name is... Ostran, of the Allandrian Galenics. This," he said, gesturing towards his companion, "is Kessler. And you are..."

"Arianne," Arianne said.

"You're a Druid," the second knight said, in a muffled voice.

Arianne gave them a narrow look. "I know," she said.

Ostran cleared his throat again. "I wonder, then, if you could offer us some assistance."

* * *

"What do you think, Silverwood?" Vordan asked.

The old healer stared into his bowl of tea. "There have been more killings of late," he said. "There have been far too many killings as of late."

"Yes," Vordan said, deep in thought.

"I've seen a lot of grevious wounds in the last few months, Lord Vordan. We have acquired a certain reputation among most travelers now."

"This is wrong," Vordan said. "We're wardens of nature, not zealous murderers."

"Too many of the younger ones engage in it," Silverwood cautioned. "They claim to protect the sanctity of the land, yet kill interlopers for sport. Some of the teachers even encourage their behavior."

Vordan glanced at the healer once again. "We cannot prevent people from passing through the wood," he finally said. "I don't know how they see it, but the Druids still have to live together with the rest of the world. How can they not understand that?"

"It is the isolation, perhaps," Silverwood said, sipping his tea. "Isolation unhinges the minds of men and forces them to deal with true reality. It is our task to teach them how to live with these new perceptions."

Vordan watched the old Druid, marveling at his composure. "Do remind me why you never became Grandmaster, Silverwood," he said in passing.

"I refused," Silverwood said.

"You know you would command far better respect than I, in this position."

"The fact that you are Grandmaster in the first place, Lord Vordan, implies that the Druids hold much faith in you as it is."

"Then why do they refuse to listen to me?" Vordan snapped. "Am I the only one who sees that their hatred is tearing us to pieces?"

Silverwood remained silent for a while before finally giving his answer. "I am not afraid of the possibility that they do not know, Lord Vordan. What I fear, however, is the possibility that they simply do not care."

* * *

"What sort of assistance?" Arianne asked suspiciously.

"We're looking for a murderer," Kessler said. She could not see the expression beneath his helmet, but she knew the threat for what it was.

Ostran held up a hand. "No, no," he said, "we're... merely looking for... someone."

"A murderer," Arianne said, her eyes narrowing.

Ostran gave a nervous sigh. "A man named Yseth passed by this area about a week ago. He followed the same trail as this one. He was about as tall as I, with black hair and brown eyes, and he wore the robes of a Galenic healer."

"Yes." Arianne said, listening carefully.

"Someone killed him here," Ostran said. "The peasants found his body at the edge of the woods, rent from side to side like a slab of meat."

"You carry weapons," Kessler observed in a flat, unfriendly tone of voice.

Arianne's hand strayed towards the blades tucked into her belt. Kessler tightened the grip on his sword. Ostran tensed noticeably.

"Yes," Arianne finally said. "I carry weapons."

Ostran took a deep breath. "No bandits operate in this area, Lady Arianne," he said. "Every peasant for ten leagues knows that this is the domain of the Druids, and we know that you are very... protective of your home. What I... what we... I mean... what we mean to say is..."

"What we mean to say," Kessler said in a dead voice, "is that one of you did it. You will tell us which of you bastards killed my brother, and you'll do it now."

"The man was your brother, then?" Arianne asked.

"Yes," Kessler said, through clenched teeth.

"I saw him pass by this trail some days ago. It was perhaps a week since then, just as you mentioned."

Ostran leaned back. "So... you know?"

"He reached this same clearing in the gathering twilight, and hunted for food. He caught a baby rabbit for its meat and fur, then killed a grouse with six hatchlings. And he roasted them over a fire made from the roots of an ancient tree."

Ostran's eyes widened slightly. Arianne had to admit that he was far more perceptive than his companion.

"I felt that he would gain a far better perspective on things if he were to experience the same pain he caused the land," she said. "He asked for mercy only once, near the end. But as he showed none, so did I give him none."

The clearing was silent.

Arianne turned to the second knight, who was now breathing heavily. "What do you say, Sir Kessler?" she asked him. "Perhaps I should have let him plead for his life a little longer?"

Kessler roared, charging towards her with sword held high.

* * *

"I have a favor to ask of you, old one."

Silverwood leaned forward, and something in his eyes told Vordan that he already knew what it was. "Name it, Lord Vordan," he said, "and I shall fulfill it to the best of my ability."

"Guide my apprentice," Vordan said.

Silverwood nodded. "Arianne, you mean?"

"Yes," Vordan said, feeling the strange taste of the word across his tongue. "Arianne."

"Surely you do not mean to speak of her in that way."

Vordan closed his eyes in quiet frustration. "The bear is a peaceful animal -- great and majestic, and very protective of its family. But some bears acquire a taste for human blood, Silverwood, and those creatures threaten our way of life to the point where they have to be destroyed. Arianne has tasted the same, and I fear that she has found it to her liking."

Silverwood hesitated. "I may not be the best teacher for her, my lord. The younger ones may commit such atrocities right now as we speak, but I must admit that even I was not sheltered from such beliefs when I was young."

"You learned, Silverwood. It is far better than I can say for many of the others."

"Yes, Lord Vordan."

"She no longer listens to me," Vordan said, sadly. "You may be the only one she would listen to."

Silverwood nodded. "I understand, my lord," he said.

* * *

Arianne sidestepped the blade rather easily. Hatred focused a man, but rage quickly unlearned everything he would have known.

Kessler recovered easily, however, and swung once more. The blade passed mere inches in front of Arianne's face, although she barely noticed. She dropped to the ground, avoided another of the rampaging knight's wild strikes, drew her blades, and rolled away.

"Stand and fight!" Kessler roared at her. Arianne ignored him.

She waited in a defensive stance, watching him carefully. Her eyes flicked to the side only once, to see what Ostran was doing. The olive-skinned knight had taken a few steps back, unsure of how to proceed.

Kessler's war cry brought her attention back. He swung once, then twice from two different sides. Arianne dodged the first blow, and caught the second one on the hafts of her blades. Then Kessler bellowed his displeasure, and smashed one armored knee into her stomach. She staggered back, winded.

Kessler advanced with murder in his eyes. Arianne took two steps back, and waited for the strike.

She didn't have to wait long. The knight was gone, taken by the throes of bloodlust. He swung his blade one final time, cleaving the air where she once stood.

But by that time, Arianne was already in the middle of her leap. She cleared the path of his sword easily, brushing one gauntleted arm as she aimed for the slits in the visor of his helmet. Her weapons struck with a violent, meaty sound, and this time it was she who roared in the face of Kessler's whimpering.

The knight fell back, blood streaming from the openings in his helmet. He pulled the straps open with shuddering hands, and tore the metal gear from his head to expose the terrible wounds to the sunlight.

And in one fluid motion, Arianne buried her blades into the knight's skull. The sound of metal shattering bone filled the clearing.

Then there was nothing but a sodden, forlorn sound as Kesslar's corpse hit the forest floor.

Arianne raised her head to the heavens and howled her victory.

...

And then she remembered the other one.

She smiled.

* * *

"She has blood on her hands, Silverwood."

"We each have blood on our hands, Lord Vordan. It is merely a question of whether or not we choose to wash our hands."

* * *

Ostran moved quickly, running as fast as he dared among the rocks, the trees, and the bushes.

He didn't want to think of what would happen if she caught him. Not after what had happened to Kessler.

There was a rustling in the trees. Was it her? Was it something else? Was it the last thing he would ever see?

He had to get out of the woods. Aran help him, he would never insult another Druid again.

"Aran help me," he said.

"Aran's not here," Arianne said, from right beside him.

Ostran shirked violently, losing his balance and falling into a bramble patch. He thrashed about in confusion for a few seconds before finally locating the scabbard at his belt and drawing his sword.

And she was there, standing right before him, blood drying on the blades she held by her side.

"No," he said, nervously.

"I have no argument with you, Sir Ostran," Arianne said. "My matter, it seems, was only with Sir Kessler, and we did eventually resolve everything."

"What do you want?" Ostran asked in a shrill whisper.

"Nothing beyond what we already have," Arianne said. "This is our home, Sir Ostran. This is our land. This is our life."

Ostran shuddered.

"You only come here as guests, Sir Ostran. While you are here, you follow our rules."

The young knight paused, somehow finding a coherent moment in the face of madness. "But what are the rules?" he asked fearfully.

And to that, Arianne only laughed.

Ostran ran.

Connecting...

The modem's on the fritz again. This is likely to put a damper on my updates, considering that I usually write up my posts late at night on the computer at home. I could almost swear that the infernal device runs and hides every time I even so much as think about blogging.

And for the statisticians out there: This isn't the shortest post on this blog so far. I've written exactly one entry that was far, far shorter.

:)

The Bear in the Bubble

If my memory serves me correctly, Trevor's been sitting in the back of my closet for a couple of years now. In that amount of time, a veritable collection of knickknacks has built up around him, and it would probably have made Trevor the ruler of his own little kingdom if I had only remembered to take him out of his gift-wrapping.

Trevor's a bear, you see. He's around two feet tall, has a pink ribbon tied around his neck, and is most likely stuffed with some combination of cotton and foam. Trevor first came around as a present to one of my female friends from an unwanted suitor, and when she considered disposing of him, I pleaded for her to let the bear live. He's been sitting in the back of my closet ever since.

I'm sure we all know that time has a tendency to wear on stuffed toys. That's why Trevor was still swathed in his original gift-wrapping and hermetically-sealed plastic cover, and that's why Trevor was still in remarkably good condition when we unearthed him a couple of hours ago.

My sister was hanging around when I finally pulled Trevor out of his shell of bright-red wrapping paper, and on a whim, I posed him in front of the TV for her opinion.

She only spoke after a long, uncomfortable silence: "He has evil eyes."

I laughed. "It's not as though he's going to come around and kill us in our sleep," I told her. She had just watched an episode of CSI that took place in a creepy-looking doll repair shop, and her reaction did not surprise me in the least.

After a moment of reflection, however, I had to admit that she could have been right. I mean, how would you feel if you were rejected by your potential owner, saddled off with some literary loser, and stuffed in the back of a dark closet for two years?

You'd be homicidal, that's what.

Or you'd have a nasty aversion to bright light, at the very least.

Trevor, the bear with the evil eyes. He's probably plotting his revenge upon the rest of the world even as we speak. It just goes to show that you really can't trust stuffed toys, especially if they happen to big fans of Lillian Jackson Braun.

Ultimately, we did have to ask ourselves what we were supposed to do with the bear. Fortunately, I was still in contact with Trevor's former owner, and we ended up batting around quite a few ideas. There was the prospect of selling him off to a second-hand store (not likely to happen), giving him away to an orphanage (a nice default idea, really), or simply repackaging him as a present to some lucky kid (as opposed to buying them that Nintendo DS they always wanted, I suppose).

Luckily, everything became moot when my sister expressed an interest in adopting him (evil eyes and all). On the other hand, the possibility suddenly lost a lot of its appeal once I realized that her own room was already filled to overflowing with stuffed animals. As nice and cuddly as these things may look, you wouldn't want to be buried under a mountain of them.

That, and there was still the possibility of Trevor going all Charles Manson on us. It's not easy to sweep two wasted years of your life under the rug, after all. The way we saw it, it was only a matter of time before we would find him sitting among the remains of a roomful of stuffed toys with a knife in his hand and a hideous smile on his face.

Yes, we're going to keep him in that hermetically-sealed plastic bag for a little while longer, thankyouverymuch.

...

Hey... would anyone out there be looking for a stuffed bear, by any chance? We could let him go for a fairly low price, I suppose.

Just don't blame me if he does anything funny in the middle of the night.

Look at it this way: If you don't like the way he stares at you, you can always stuff him back into a dark closet for a couple more years.

:)

Leonardo's Cipher

News just came in that The Da Vinci Code was given an R-18 rating by the local Movie and Television Review and Classification Board. For the people out there who aren't well-versed in the nuances of a Filipino-American grading system, that means that the movie's been restricted to adults 18 years or older.

Now, I'm not quite sure what the majority of people are going to say about this. I do think, however, that the rating is correct. At the very least, it's quite an improvement for a governing body that once gave an overblown, undeniably excessive penalty to Schindler's List.

At the moment, it's almost certain that the movie will draw large crowds despite religious leaders' opinion that the story is dirty, blasphemous, and otherwise detrimental to moral health. That won't necessarily mean that it's a good movie, of course. It would only mean that the controversy has succeeded in stirring peoples' curiosity, adults and children alike. We're likely to see a lot of crowds queueing up to see the picture, and they'll all be composed of people in varying stages of mental maturity.

It is precisely the presence of this mental variance that makes me feel that the R-18 rating is correct. It's not a question of how blasphemous the subject matter may be, or the graphic depiction of certain scenes; I think that it's more a question of how we accept the things we see on the big white screen in the middle of the movie theater.

Movies are undoubtedly a major influence on us, if only because it's easier to take their messages to heart. We may bear in mind that we're watching actors who are obviously following an indifferent script, or costumes imagined by the warped minds of studio researchers, or computer-generated special effects that only resemble the real thing, for example. But despite all that, a movie will still stick to the inside of your head. It's more memorable than reading a story because it gives you a clear visual of what the characters and the locations look like, and it's more memorable than looking at artwork because you can actually see them move, talk, and otherwise interact with each other.

We may belittle movies as a form of media alongside other literary forms, but there's no doubting their effectivity. Where everything else merely presents a story, a movie presents a simulated experience that is simply easier to keep in mind.

Is it any wonder, then, that the local clergy fears the influence that The Da Vinci Code may produce?

This is really where mental maturity must come in. The biggest argument against these fears is that the story is clearly advertised as fictitious. The major premise has extremely little in the way of evidence to back it up, the writer has quite a few previous works of fiction to his credit, and the paperback volume tends to be stored in the "Fiction" sections of all major bookstores. It's fictitious, and we know it. It's right there for all to see.

But then again, people do have a strange habit of missing the obvious. When Orson Welles debuted War of the Worlds on radio in 1938, listeners became hysterical with the belief that Martians were actually in the process of invading the Earth. Streets became clogged with people desperately looking to escape the "alien attack", houses of worship became filled with refugees waiting for the "inevitable" end, and there were more than a few panicked attempts at suicide. And all this came about despite the fact that the program was broken at various intervals for the ever-present commercials, and that the station gave regular disclaimers that the narrative was nothing more than a radio show.

When it comes to The Da Vinci Code, then, I believe that the R-18 rating shouldn't be there because of accusations of blasphemy or immorality. I believe that it should be there for reasons of mental maturity: Only those people who are capable of processing it properly should be the ones watching it in the first place. (Of course, we can't assume that all people 18 years or older are capable of such coherent thought, but it's the closest generalization we can work with.)

The problem we're looking at right now is that too many people are taking the movie's content merely by itself. But the fact is that it shouldn't be taken by itself, I think. It's only a movie, after all -- a simulated experience that just tends to sticky itself to our minds.

We need to look at things in a much bigger picture, especially with regards to matters of both religion and personal logic. Is The Da Vinci Code likely to influence our beliefs and faiths simply because it presents a fictitious theory in a fictitious plot using fictitious characters? The answer to that question really depends on how easily you accept the viewing experience, and how well your mind works on its own.

It really shouldn't, though. When all is said and done, and no matter how carefully both sides may argue or step around the real issue, the fact still remains that it's just a movie. So watch it if you want, but bear in mind that it really shouldn't exert that much influence on anyone in the first place.

Just make sure that you're at least 18 years old, though. You wouldn't want to annoy the censors, after all.

-----
If you're interested on reading up on a few of the issues described above (and you probably are, if you've gotten this far without falling asleep), I can offer you some informative links:

- A brief summary of the encounter between Schindler's List and the Philippine MTRCB, as given by The File Room, an archive of recent events regarding the issue of censorship
- An archive of news articles following the wake of the original War of the Worlds broadcast
- The official response of the Prelature of Opus Dei in the United States regarding The Da Vinci Code (which happens to be a good read)
- Dan Brown's take on the novel and the controversy

I'm also interested in reading a logical assessment of the situation from an anti-Da Vinci stance, only it's difficult to find a statement that doesn't automatically assume that the story is nonfiction. Does anyone out there know where I can find some of these?

Booby Traps

I suspect that I may be writing too much in the way of Antaria, and too little in the way of general fiction.

It's not healthy to stay in one universe. I suppose that moving around talking to the characters and experiencing the locales makes for a very nice exercise in world-building, but there's a fine line between developing as a writer and getting stuck in a realm of your own creation.

It's "Fan Fiction Syndrome", if you think about it. Too many writers of fan fiction find themselves enamored of a certain setting, and thus spend their entire literary lives scratching out mediocre works that happen to be based on it. They neither find the inclination nor the effort to move on, and therefore never harness the true potential of their creativity.

While Antaria is an original creation (as opposed to a work created by some distant author), it may pose a similar danger. It is, admittedly, one of the crunchiest settings I've ever conceived (and I've gone through a few), but the last thing I want it to do is to prevent me from writing other pieces of fiction.

As of this post, I've written no less than thirty-one pieces relating to Antaria's story or setting for this blog, yet I've featured only two short stories ("Untitled", "Body Parts") that stand on their own. That's a huge gap.

On the other hand, the reasons for such a discrepancy may be attributed to any number of things. There's the possibility of copyright, for example: Maybe I am writing enough stories, for instance, except that I just don't put them up on this blog because of copyright worries. (In contrast, I don't hold similar concerns for Antaria because any plagiarists will have to copy a massive number of works.)

There's also the fact that a lot of writing contests have cropped up over the last year. No contributing writer is likely to place his submissions online, after all, especially when the better works are selected for publication and the worse ones are best left unread.

And then there's the nature of Antaria. It's clearly not meant to be a short story, for one -- it's a fully-realized setting with characters and places and tense political situations. Its tale is at least series-length, now that I think about it. And you really need to immerse yourself in the universe to understand what's going on.

That's probably why I only expect to come out with an Antaria post around once a month. Writing more often than that would entail a partially serious commitment (or at least an indication that I have nothing better to do), and writing less often than that would risk my losing the story completely. I'm looking at an undesirable situation either way.

It's a fine line, all right. If it were any finer, you'd string it around your knuckles and wrap it around somebody's throat.

So now there's the question of what I plan to do.

Ironically, there doesn't seem to be much that I have at the moment. If I'm inclined to write something about Antaria, then I might as well sit down and write something about Antaria. If some majestic plot for an independent short story comes to mind, then I can write that instead. There doesn't seem to be a whole lot of choices involved in an effort that depends so much on inspiration, after all.

I suppose that, while I'm languishing in this train of thought, there's only one thing that I can do: Write. The topic shouldn't matter, really.

All I ask for is this: If I seem to be leaning one way or the other, do let me know. It's probably the only way I can learn to right myself in a sea of uncertainties.

And if that somehow helps improve the pace at which I write -- Antaria or otherwise -- then I'm all for it.

Bloggled

Kat had an interesting little exercise on her blog the other day, and it involved the bright glowing sign in front of Big Red Hen, a food concessionaire in one of the local malls. It's a backlighted sign, you see, and it resembles a three-by-three square of nine different colors, each square holding a single letter. Taken all at once, it easily reads:

b i g
r e d
h e n

If you still can't quite imagine what it looks like, follow the link above and have a look at Kat's photograph. It's a nice sign.

The challenge here is simple: Make as many words as possible using only the letters in "big red hen". The letters don't have to be adjacent to each other, but you're looking to get as many words as you can.

It kind of reminds you of Boggle, doesn't it? You know, that weird game that requires you to search for words in a random four-by-four grid of letters? I remember actually saving up to buy a copy of the game more than ten years ago...

One of my observations about the random word grid, if I recall correctly, was a strange little formula that worked an uncanny number of times: If you can find multiple words of (n) letters in the grid, then the chances are good that there's at least one word of (n+1) letters in there.

Let's take a sample grid, for the sake of argument: (Generated via Braggle)

E S E J
A G E U
U A T Y
A P I P

Now, you know that you don't have a good grid when over half the letters are vowels. In fact, there's even a whole column of them running down the left side of the square.

Careful examination, however, shows that we can find a number of five-letter words regardless: geese, pages, gates, patés. The formula implies that there's at least one six-letter word in there, however, and I can see agates.

Maybe I can make my point a little clearer with a second example:

H E S K
P C R B
A A I N
E T G I

This one looks odd... there's an entire row of consonants in the middle of the grid.

With that said, I can spot races, bring, brain, parch, perch, crate, birch, aches, pairs, parks, tapes and tears. Those imply the presence of some six-letter words: pacing, scrape, arches, arcing, riches, rating, paring.

That's still a lot of six-letter words, so some seven-letter words are bound to be in there. While parches and birches might be contested as words, I'm sure potential opponents will accept teaches, tearing, bracing, and scaring.

Then the formula comes in, and tells us that there must be an eight-letter word in there: teachers. (I could make an argument for teachering as well, but that's usually when the potential opponents would probably start beating me up.)

Contrary to popular opinion, an expansive vocabulary doesn't help you all that much with most word games, especially when other players are involved. In fact, an expansive vocabulary will usually get you more arguments as opposed to scoring you more points. I couldn't even begin to describe my experiences with words like rove, sot and fez, for example.

What does work, however, is an approach that emphasizes prefixes and suffixes. Everybody probably knows, for instance, that having an "S" in the letter grid will virtually double the number of available words as you invest in plurals. Similarly, it's easy to hinge on endings like "ing", "ate" and "er".

Verbiage aside, however, one of the stranger things I've found about Boggle is that writing speed might just be a factor. The person who can scribble their words on paper at a faster rate usually ends up covering a few more words than the other players, which invariably translates into more points. I've actually known a couple of people who write their Boggle responses in script, due to this minor observation. :)

Ironically, I'm not actually playing Boggle at the moment. It's been about ten years since my last game, I think, and it'll probably take me a few days to look for it in my landfill of a room. And even if I do find it, I suppose, it'll be hard to shake off the stigma of being "that writer guy who plays a lot of games". I lose a lot of potential opponents that way.

But then, that's why I write stuff like this. I get to see my notes down on paper, you get to see what you can try to do during a game, and maybe someday we can get together and have at it.

And for that matter, the longest word you can probably make out of the letters in "Big Red Hen" is the eight-letter breeding.

There's no sense being boggled about that, I suppose.

...

Faces in the Crowd

What was your face before you were born?

- Zen koan

Every person holds many faces.

We wake up every morning and put on a face. We say hello to our families and friends, and show them a different face. We put on brave and reasonable fronts for our teachers, clients and superiors, and we show them yet another, even more different face. We walk by complete strangers in the middle of the street, and we make sure they see another totally different face. And when we finally go to bed late in the evening with the stars as our only witnesses, we take off the masks we wear all day to reveal a final face underneath the layers of pale skin.

These faces can change by the second. If we become happy, they tend to curl upwards in a sort of sheepish smile. If we become angry, they crease and wrinkle with the kinetic movement of emotion beneath the surface. They wither and soften in the throes of human sadness, and they stretch far and thin with the prospect of naked fear.

But they also change with age: They get heavier, dirtier, more burdened with the weight of years. The eyes and the voices beneath them almost never change, but the faces we own right now are quite different from the faces we wore when we were children. Those faces, for their part, will be long forgotten twenty years from now, when we regard ourselves in the mirror once again.

We place such a strange premium on these faces. Sometimes we're paid to put them on and parade them in front of people, stage or no stage. Sometimes we refuse to emerge from our solitary lives without finding the right face for the occasion. And sometimes we find ourselves slighted or persecuted, merely for wearing faces of our own personal choice.

Underneath, we're all afraid. We're afraid that everyone around us will see us for what we are, all skin and muscle and blood and bone. We know that truth holds little when placed against perception, and that perception will always win. And that is why we have such a collection of faces on our mantelpiece, all waiting for us to put them on.

What pitiful people we all are, to hide behind such facades of white lead and black eyeliner.

We have hidden behind such faces for so long that we no longer know the people underneath. We know nothing of soul or spirit anymore; Such things have been lost to the mysteries simply because they did not register on a human mask. We know only the basest of emotions now, and we're forced to guess at what lies beneath through all the empathic tricks in our arsenal.

If only we could sit at the table one day with a sharp knife in hand and carve all these faces off, one by one. But we cannot, because we are afraid of drawing blood and exposing muscle to the world. We are afraid that others will judge us for who we are, instead of the beautiful faces that we constantly show them.

Every person holds many faces, yes. If we are not careful, then eventually we shall become mere faces ourselves, with no evidence of the person that lies within.

And when that happens, only a solitary existence shall remain for us, punctuated every so often by the rolling, shifting appearances that hide what can no longer be drawn out.

No Connection Whatsoever

Saturday

Internet access starts getting unruly somewhere around the late evening, spontaneously shutting itself off for no good reason at all. We chalk it up to the fact that a lot of users are surfing their favorite hardcore sites, and fire up some Starcraft to compensate.


Sunday

On a cursory check, nothing seems to be wrong with the connection. My brother checks his e-mail, my sister fools around with some file-sharing software, and I check out some por... er, online literary dissertations. Except for a bit of lag every now and then, everything seems fine.


Monday

Internet access suddenly gets cut off in the late morning, while I'm working on this blog. The good news is that I manage to finish one post before it gives way; The bad news is that the article happens to be one of my monthly disclaimers. (While I try to make them relatively interesting, let's just say that none of them is likely to win a Palanca Award anytime soon.)

Repeated attempts to reconnect meet with no results. Finally, I run into an error message that tells me there's something wrong with the connection on our ISP's side, and I leave it at that. It's a hot day, and it gives me an excuse to head to the mall for some badly-needed air-conditioning. I don't complain.


Tuesday

I go back to work after the three-day weekend, and I start putting together a user manual for one of our more demanding clients (among other things). Between the tedium of methodical business writing and the unlimited DSL connection at the office, I remain occupied for the whole day.

Around late afternoon, my sister calls me at work and tells me that the internet access still hasn't kicked in yet. I check our ISP's web site, jot down their Customer Support numbers, and send them over. When she asks me why I don't call them myself, I tell her that I can't walk through our home setup while I'm at the office. She agrees to talk to them herself, but she doesn't get anywhere with her inquiries.


Wednesday

My sister calls the office again, telling me that we still don't have internet access. I tell her to give our ISP's Customer Support another try.

She calls me a couple of hours later, and tells me that the support guy on the other end mentioned a bunch of stuff she couldn't understand. He did advise her, however, that the problem was most likely on our side. I snap at her, pointing out the error messages we earlier encountered and the troublesome yet letter-perfect technical setup we currently use. She tells me that she doesn't understand a thing I'm saying, either, and I promise to have a look at the system when I get home.


Thursday

Past midnight, I confirm that everything looks okay. The setup is running fine (apart from the inability to connect), the various components are perfectly compatible, and the correct cords are plugged into the right places. I'm covered in dust, and I'm not looking forward to the possibility of washing myself in ice-cold water before heading to bed.

As I move the modem back into place, I pull on the cord a little. Surprisingly, it turns off.

Intrigued, I follow the modem's cord all the way up to its power strip. I try the plug, and find that it's a little loose. So I tighten it and switch on the computer again, all the while getting this funny feeling about how technology enriches our lives.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I happen to be writing a blog post tonight.

...

I knew I should have moved out to a solitary life in the wilderness when I had the chance.

...

Of Cat-Girls and Dragons

When it comes to literary creation, the roads less traveled hold plenty of advantages over the main highway. You don't get bogged down by the weight of past endeavors, for one. You also run into far less competition than you would in the mainstream, and whatever you produce tends to be more original and far less derivative.

That's not to say that the literary roads-less-traveled are easy, of course. With the sheer number of writers trying to make a name for themselves nowadays, even finding the roads less traveled is a chore in and of itself.

The local writing scene has run into a lot of competitions lately. In less than a year, we've had a speculative fiction anthology, a fiction-writing contest sponsored by a major bookstore, and the annual national writing awards. It feels as though the forces of nature are giving us incentive to write, although their reasons are probably unfathomable at this time.

Three months after his deadline, Vin Simbulan has released the final selections for his Dragon anthology (now titled "A Time for Dragons"). While it's probably interesting enough to leaf through the book's eventual table of contents, I find Mr. Simbulan's selection notes to be far more insightful. For that matter, I find one of his observations to be of particular personal interest: While his anthology received a lot of different, stellar approaches to dragons and draconian aspects, no author wrote about the concept of dragons in a science fiction setting.

What truly gets my attention about Mr. Simbulan's remark is that I've observed something similar during my attempts at writing. I put together six or seven drafts for his anthology, and half of the rejects tried to marry those two aspects. Up until Mr. Simbulan posted his comments on the subject, I was scratching my head on why I hadn't been successful. After all, it turns out that if I were, then I would have had an entry that was unique among all of the submissions.

The sentiment is most definitely not a new one. Months ago, Dean Alfar also released a similar set of notes regarding the creation of his Speculative Fiction Anthology. While Mr. Alfar did not bewail the lack of submissions in a specific field, he did mention something interesting in his attempt at classification:

4. Manga/Anime fantasy. Thinly disguised variations on Japanese manga/anime, with cute girls with cat ears.

That roused my curiosity back then, and it still raises my curiosity now. Is there a specific category of manga/anime that deals exclusively with cat-girls? Is it well-known among enthusiasts? What specific qualities do these works have? And most importantly, is it possible to write a piece of fiction and that can be unmistakably recognized as being of "the cat-girl genre"?

Yes, it's a very narrow and extremely specific point of thought. Not everybody goes around wondering how to write cat-girl literature, after all. But now Mr. Simbulan's posts have raised the question of why nobody handed in a marriage of dragons and science fiction, and it's apparent that the issue is far more open than we originally thought.

Again, it's a question of the road less traveled. These are obviously avenues that few people walk, much less notice past the weeds and the brambles and the disused road signs. We don't know why few people choose to walk them, but we do stand around and wonder where they lead. We wonder if they really go anywhere, and regardless of whether or not they do so, we wonder if the experience is worth the time.

Now, it's not merely a question of getting one's work published just because it stands out from the rest with regards to genre issues. It's a question of writing something that is truly unique simply because it follows a path that nobody else seems to bother with. Readers of Philippine literature will realize that there are a lot of overly popular subjects out there: Social realism. Political commentary. Cultural discussion. Even traditional fantasy starts to feel a little old when you take in the sheer number of people writing it nowadays.

Cat-girl literature and draconic sci-fi are probably more important than we realize in this manner: They're fringe topics -- fields that are so narrow that you wonder if it's really possible to write about them. But then that's probably the best part, I think. If we can actually pull them off and produce a work that can be accepted by the reading public, then we'll have a unique piece that is incomparable to anything in sight. We won't necessarily win any awards or get any royalties from them, but they'll be unique and incomparable regardless.

For my part, I'm going to take a closer look at Mr. Simbulan's remarks and see if I can make something out of them. Dragons and science fiction aren't the most elementary of topics, and I already know that it's difficult to build a logical story out of the combination. It was difficult enough to shut out an entire circle of potential ideas, after all.

But then, that's probably part of its charm in the first place. Better to say that you tried something difficult and untested than to say that you just stuck with something that was familiar and comfortable, I suppose.

Disclaimer: May 2006

It has come to my attention that nobody (as far as I know) has stolen anything from this blog yet.

That means that either these disclaimers have been more effective than I have ever dreamed, or that my writing just isn't worth stealing in the first place. I strongly suspect that it's the latter, although that may have more to do with my sense of self-improvement than anything else.

Whatever the case, I still put up these monthly disclaimers on a regular basis. It gives me something to do, I suppose, and it provides me a way by which I can arrest my feelings of insufficiency and morbid neurosis. Hopefully, these internal conflicts will mutate into a full-blown case of criminal psychosis within the next few years, so that I'll feel a lot less remorse when somebody finally plagiarizes something from this blog, the thieving scoundrel.

For now, however, I'm content to play the mild-mannered man. I make sure that almost everything written in this blog is clean and original (even the derivative, hackneyed posts), for one. In addition to that, I make constant references to various works outside my writing, and I make certain that each mention of these items notes the rightful author and title in some way. In the event that I forget to reference an owner in this regard, or in the event that I mention the wrong source for this purpose, the members of the audience are welcome to correct me. I monitor and make these changes as often as possible.

Of course, others are welcome to reference anything in this blog as long as they fulfill three requests of mine: First, that they directly request permission from me or place a reference to my name somewhere in the quotation; Second, that they do not quote me out of context; and Third, that they attempt to take the authorship of the quoted work away from me. That latter point includes those who place their names in the byline as well as those who argue that they were the direct influence of my work. If I write something based on somebody else's writings, you can be sure that I'll mention exactly who I'm talking about except in the most sensitive and criminal of revelations.

Now, let's see... does that cover everything? I suppose that, if anything's unclear to any of the potential plagiarists out there, the main Disclaimer on the right-hand column of this blog should explain things in far better detail.

That just leaves the threats, then. So I'll say this: If you steal any of my writings from this blog, then I'll track you down, corner you in a dark corner of your apartment, and rip your limbs off.

Okay, maybe not. I'm not strong enough to rip anybody's limbs off, much less win a one-on-one fight. For that matter, if I arrive at your apartment, I'm more likely to introduce myself in a low, whining voice and wait for you to slam the door in my face.

But I suppose that it's easy enough to hire a huge, hulking biker-type dude to do the job for me, in which case I'll just sit back and hold the alcohol. Because you just can't torture a human being without the alcohol. It's just wrong, man.

As always, it's the thought that counts.

Antaria: Late Research

Gharen walked among the shelves, passing rows upon rows of books, scrolls and other scholarly treasures deposited by the Metrian Guild. The main library held many secrets -- many powerful secrets, Gharen was sure -- but there was often a price that came with them. That, or a certain mastery of the Metrian mindset, whichever came first.

On the other hand, it was not as though Gharen himself had no such secrets to hide.

Gharen slid past some of the more ancient sections of the library, his eyes resting on the occasional worn title. Arcane Fundamentals, Theories on the Nature of Lightning, Transdimensional Teleportation... they were all there. But they were not what he sought. They were, in fact, quite far from what he sought.

He found the volume sitting on a low shelf in one of the far corners of the hall. It was in an anonymous section of the library, its companions casually tossed or stacked in the immediate vicinity simply because they could not be classified anywhere else. Apprentices called it "the Heap", if only because that was what the resulting mess was.

Most of the references in the Heap defied categorization: A History of Unorthodox Knitting Techniques. Efficient Thaumaturgical Disposal. Common Allergies of the Modern Metrian. Their titles were stenciled across leather spines and wooden staves. Some of the letters were embossed in silver; Others were scribed in faded, spidery handwriting.

Gharen's volume, however, was unique among the pile of books and discarded works. It had no title at all, or at least none that stared out from its black-green cover.

He gave the book a quick pull, and then waited.

It took almost a full minute before the wall opened up in front of him.

* * *

Cerise pushed her way through the shelves. It was dark, but not too dark; she knew that she was among the more ancient books, and they were quite a distance away from the glare of the closed lanterns.

She wondered why she was here in the first place. Then again, she already knew why she was here to begin with. It was all his fault, really. It was all Gharen's fault, and she wished that she could tell that to his face right then and there.

But she had to find him first, of course. Not that she would actually tell him that when she actually found him... but she had to find him first. It was a question of priorities, or at least that was what she told herself. It was indeed a question of priorities.

Cerise sighed. She was making absolutely no sense at all.

She found it quite strange, however. For all the access he had to the Guild libraries, Gharen had been visiting them farther and farther into the evening. Zerah, the crotchety old librarian everybody knew and loved, even sent him a letter of complaint the other day. And now, well... there was just no excuse for getting up out of bed in the wee hours of the morning just to do whatever research he fancied.

There was also the question of just how Cerise knew that he wasn't in bed in the wee hours of the morning, but she preferred not to think about that. It was all Gharen's fault, anyway. It was all Gharen's fault.

She thought she heard something along a row of shelves to her right, and started moving in that direction.

Walking around in the empty libraries late at night, she concluded, was not an experience she would care to repeat. It was an environment where sound persisted regardless of the fact that there should not have been any sound to speak of. What she heard could have been Gharen shuffling around in his nightclothes, but it could just as easily have been wood settling in the shelves, a bunch of books falling over, or some otherworldly thing nesting in the shadows waiting to drag her off into a mouthful of sharp teeth.

"Cerise," a voice said.

She reacted immediately, almost knocking over an entire row of shelves.

* * *

Gharen brushed aside a few cobwebs. Now he was getting somewhere.

The room before him was octagonal in shape. Shelves, cabinets and vaults littered the walls, and empty alcoves indicated that no one had lighted any torches in the room for some time. That, and the inch-thick layer of dust on the floor suggested that no one had even so much as set foot in the place for a while.

Gharen whispered a few arcane words, and watched as the room illuminated slightly. If his references were correct, then the thing he sought was somewhere nearby. He guessed that it was in a locked or trapped container as well, if he knew the Guild well enough.

Gharen ran one finger along the lid of a particularly large wooden case, studying the faded text inscribed on top. War Research 41-90, it said. The one immediately below it read War Research 91-140, and Gharen decided to leave them alone. He had little use for extensive property destruction at this time.

He fumbled around a little more, inspecting long-faded tags on worn volumes and checking labels on rusted strongboxes. Some shelves contained the sensitive works of long-dead scholars; Some cabinets contained collections of moth-eaten scrolls that were long past the level of indecipherability.

Fifteen minutes into his search, Gharen decided that the item was unlikely to have been kept out in the open. He began scrutinizing the walls one brick at a time, looking for anything that seemed out of place.

"The cabinet with Horann's journals holds a false bottom," a familiar voice said. "It shouldn't have been opened in the last few years, but you should still be able to shift it a little bit."

Gharen shook his head. "Thanks," he said, before realizing that he should have been alone in the room.

He turned in time to see the owner of the voice.

After a while, Gharen nodded his greetings.

* * *

Zerah approached cautiously, holding up a covered light. "Cerise?" he asked in his usual raspy voice.

Cerise picked herself up from the jumble of books on the floor, and straightened her robes. "I'm... I'm all right," she said, and sighed in relief.

Zerah squinted at her. "What are you doing here so late at night?" he asked. There was a certain edge in his voice this time, and Cerise felt as though it were best for her to tread carefully.

"I'm... looking for something," she said.

"What are you looking for, then?"

"Ah," she said, her mind settling on the first thing that came to mind, "something on elementary sleep techniques."

Zerah gave her a strange look, and for a moment Cerise thought that she had said something wrong. Then the librarian grunted in dissatisfaction, and nodded slightly.

"You're in the wrong section of the library," he said. "What you need is in the central area, near the apprentices' sections."

Cerise knew where it was, of course, but held absolutely no interest in it at the moment. "I, er... see," she said. "I'll... have a look right now."

Zerah glared at her. "Surely what you need can wait until tomorrow. The books will not move from their rightful places tonight."

"Er... ah... right, right," Cerise said.

"In the meantime, I will bring you back to your room," Zerah said.

The alarms went off in Cerise's head. "That, er... won't be necessary," she answered weakly.

"I insist."

Cerise cursed inwardly. "A...are you sure, Zerah? I might be distracting you from..."

"Shall we go, Cerise?" Zerah asked.

If there was a time to risk everything, then that time was now. "But Gharen's in there somewhere," Cerise said desperately.

"Gharen?" Zerah asked, raising an eyebrow.

Cerise nodded.

"Yes," Zerah said. "I know."

Suddenly, Cerise couldn't think of anything to say.

* * *

Atharus stepped from the shadows, his staff rapping sharply against the old wooden floor. Somehow, Gharen was not surprised. Atharus had a tendency to be everywhere at any given time. It was as though the old man wanted to make sure that everything was in its correct place.

"Well?" Atharus asked.

Gharen looked surprised. "Well what?"

"Aren't you going to have a look?"

Gharen glanced at the cabinet in question, and then gave a little laugh. He wasn't expecting to be in such a situation, and the best he could do at the moment was to give the grandmaster the most innocent face he could think of.

"Stop that, Gharen. You're getting to be as bad as Cerise."

Gharen dutifully recovered from the vapid expression.

Atharus took a few steps around him, as though inspecting every inch of his clothes. "As the Masquers would say," he said, "Curiosity kills. Curiosity kills, Gharen."

"I thought that we Metrians are supposed to be curious," Gharen answered.

Atharus stopped and glared at him with cold eyes. "You're the one who's at a disadvantage here, Gharen. Don't answer back."

"Yes, sir," Gharen said.

"What do you want with the Codex?"

Gharen blinked. "What?"

Atharus gave him an expression of unimaginable patience. "The Codex, Gharen. It's what you came for, isn't it?"

Gharen took a deep breath, and then decided to come clean. "Yes," he said.

"What for?" Atharus asked.

"Call it... morbid curiosity."

Atharus glared at him even more. "It's not some children's book, Gharen. It's the Obsidian Codex. Why would you wish to find out what happened to an Empire that was lost centuries ago?"

"Well," Gharen began, "there's..."

"There's the possibility that the Obsidian Empire knew the principles of True Magic?" Atharus interrupted. "Or perhaps there's the lure of lost knowledge undreamed of by human minds? Or the rumors that the book contains smatterings of future events?"

Gharen considered this for a moment. "Perhaps," he said.

Atharus stalked forward, reaching the point where he and Gharen were easily face-to-face. "Go back to your room, Gharen. I can already tell you that it's not worth it."

Gharen wavered only slightly under his gaze. "I'm certain of that, Atharus. That's why you keep it in a false-bottomed chest, in a secret room at the farthest corners of the Guild library."

Atharus was scowling now. "I don't keep it away from everyone because I'm selfish about the contents, Gharen. I keep it here because I know that whatever is in that book is not worth risking your sanity for."

Gharen smiled. "Sure," he said.

Atharus drew back a little. "You don't believe me," he said flatly.

"No, I don't."

Atharus drew himself up to his full height, changing the grip on his staff so that it seemed more a weapon than anything else.

"If you truly refuse to believe me so far, Gharen Miredrake," he said, "then you're welcome to have a look. You have my blessings to open that damned tome and listen to your mind scream at the sight of the words."

Atharus's robe dragged a thin trail of dust across the floor as he exited through the false shelf.

"Just remember this, Gharen, and remember it well:

"You wouldn't be the first one to do so."

* * *

Cerise spent about ten minutes lying in bed, swearing sulphurously to herself.

It was all Gharen's fault, getting out of bed in the wee hours of the morning just to go hunting in the libraries. It was all Gharen's fault, getting her all worried and curious and, well, just compelling her to go looking for him. It was all Gharen's fault, getting her caught by Zerah at the worst possible time.

She wondered if Zerah was going to tell Atharus about the incident. After a while, she decided that, if Atharus did call her into his presence, then she would just have to blame Gharen. Blaming Gharen would inevitably make it all better.

At least, she hoped that it would make it all better.

She wrapped the blanket a little more tightly around herself.

After a few more minutes, she had to admit that, despite everything that had happened tonight, she was still worried about him.

What did Zerah mean when he said that he knew Gharen was fooling around the shelves? How long had he known that he was there? Why didn't he do anything about it yet?

Maybe Zerah was ticked off. She didn't like the idea of Zerah being ticked off. He was probably planning to do something to Gharen, or anything along the same lines.

Cerise slid off her bed, her blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. She decided that a quick look in the corridor probably wouldn't have hurt.

She reached for the door latch, and felt the rough metal in the grip of her fingers. She steeled herself, wondering exactly what she would do if anyone else turned out to be in the hallway. She opened the door in a single smooth motion, and walked... right... into...

...Gharen.

"Ow," he said, taking a step back.

A million thoughts suddenly went through Cerise's mind. What's he doing here? was in there somewhere, and so was, Why does he look as though Atharus just put him through the wringer?

She also couldn't help thinking, Did he just go rolling around a pile of dirt?, and a little voice inside her had to point out, What's he doing outside my room?

Then cold rationality kicked in, and Cerise suddenly realized that she was wearing nothing but her nightclothes and a blanket.

"Sorry about that," Gharen said.

"Er..." Cerise managed despite the million questions burning in her mind.

"Just some late research," Gharen shrugged. "Good thing Zerah didn't catch me, eh?"

"Y... yes," Cerise said.

"I'll, er... go back to my room now. It's been a long night."

"Yes," Cerise repeated.

Gharen gave her a strange look, and began padding down the hallway towards his room at the end. Cerise suddenly thought of something at the last second.

"Gharen?" she called after him.

Gharen turned around slowly. There was a strangely sheepish look on his face.

"Yes?" he asked.

Cerise steeled herself again, and weighed her options. There were so many things that she could say to him at the moment, but there was one particular thing that warranted mention. She had to say it. She had to tell him.

"It's all your fault, Gharen Miredrake," she declared, and then marched back into her room and shut the door.

* * *

Gharen never did figure out exactly what she was talking about.



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Scratch Paper

Ah, yes... one more thing about the second iBlog conference.

The above artwork was generously given to me by a young volunteer named Jasmin, after I expressed an interest in her work. She was manning a table at the conference, you see, and while the attendees were off at various talks, she passed the time by making a bunch of nice drawings on some scratch paper.

The scan up there doesn't show it too well, but the artwork I claimed from her was done entirely using a run-of-the-mill black ballpen. It's not fully polished, but then again, it wasn't meant to be fully polished. If the detail around the character's face is any indication, though, then a full-blown pin-up would probably knock peoples' socks off.

So why would I feature her work here? Well, I spend quite a bit of spare time looking at artwork, especially at the office (where I need all the breaks I can get). I hold a lot of links to comic and graphic design blogs in my Favorites list, and I've got a few DeviantArt addresses memorized besides those.

All of that culminates in my predicament, really. I asked Jasmin for her DeviantArt address, which she was quite happy to provide. Unfortunately, I lost the resulting scrap of paper sometime during the conference, and that left me with this single piece of art and nothing more to show for it. (I actually left this piece behind as well, but Jonas Diego was nice enough to retrieve and scan it for me.)

So there it is, ladies and gentlemen. Does anyone know this artist, and can anyone give me a link to her DeviantArt gallery? It'll make a good addition to my list of links. (And hey, more exposure for her is always good.) :)

Postcards from the iBlog

Sean's note: I gathered all this from the recently-concluded 2nd Philippine Blogging Summit, although I've placed everything in Zen-like proverbs because I just happen to feel infinitely tired tonight. Some people out there may recognize stuff that they've quoted or implied during that fateful Tuesday; you'll have to excuse me if I leave your names out of this one. :)

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When given the choice between asking for directions and using a map, take the map. You can always ask for directions later.

Authority is relative. One man's king is another man's blind hobo.

Take down what information you need, but don't leave the paper behind.

When faced with a choice between two things, go for the unfamiliar and unheralded. Its success inevitably feels all the more sweeter.

Laughter is the great equalizer.

Don't laugh at the person. Laugh at the situation.

There are two ways to get an audience's immediate attention: laughter, and crude sexual references. One of them is more preferable than the other.

When given a choice between food and oratory, most people will take the food.

Men are all too good at destroying themselves. If you wish to destroy a man, you can usually afford to wait.

An intermittent connection is just as bad as having no connection at all.

You will find some measure of good in every man, although some souls will take a lot more digging than others. Some searchers, on the other hand, will grow impatient with a lot less digging.

How strange it is, that we put on so many faces that are not our own.

You cannot expect to teach birds to swim, or fish to fly. But you will always encounter birds who wonder what it is like to float beneath the waves, and fish who wonder what it is like to soar through the air.

No matter how much we hate to admit it, we all crave attention.

It is all too easy to let time slip through your fingers. Gripping it too tightly, however, will burn your hands.

A man is defined by how he deals with his circumstances, whether he escapes to more favorable realms, or stands fast in the face of the storm.

Questions are not merely asked to satisfy your own curiosity. Questions can just as easily raise the most salient of arguments.

An audience will see you either as an expert or as a peer. You must realize the difference every time you look into their eyes.

Being a good writer does not automatically make you a good speaker. Being a good speaker does not automatically make you a good writer. Being both does not automatically make you a good person.

Give any man a time limit and he will eventually find a way to break it.

What sense does it make to arrive too early for the party and then leave long before the celebration starts? What sense does it make to arrive late to the party and then leave long after everyone is gone?

One can never have too many pandas.

I Blog, You Blog, We All Blog

I've just arrived home from the 2nd Philippine Blogging Summit. Sadly, I wasn't able to stay long enough to catch all the talks -- I missed Charo's session, in particular -- because I had to bring the car home for my sister's use.

Still, most of the sessions went well. Anton performed admirably, Jonas pointed out quite a few things, and Dean was his usual charming self. With the example of last year's iBlog conference and a higher number of speakers this year (as well as a slightly larger blogging community), it was easier to find an interesting topic, a nice presentation, or a good laugh.

Granted, I think they've still got a few folds to iron out. I'm not the only person who wondered why the conference was taking place on a Tuesday, and a few more sponsors wouldn't have been amiss. There's also a problem inherent in holding multiple talks at once, and that's the fact that you can't listen to more than one speaker at the same time. But these should be resolved after we have a few more conferences, I think.

On a more personal note, it was a good experience, and the whole thing gave me quite a few more insights on human nature. If there's anything that's slowly bringing together a strung-out network of internet writers, then iBlog is probably it.

Now, to collect my thoughts. Hopefully I'll be able to write something up on whatever lessons I've gained from the conference, and hopefully I'll be able to do it soon.

Not Tonight, Honey

It's Easter Sunday, and I have a headache.

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I really shouldn't be writing right now. I have a headache.

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I said, I have a headache!

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Ah, well. Guess I'll have to grin and bear it.

My headaches have been coming around every now and then, perhaps once every three or four weeks. I haven't yet been able to identify the event or events that trigger them, but I suspect that they involve occasions where I give matters a comprehensive deal of thought. Not just a passing or a detailed analysis, mind you, but a comprehensive one. The big picture. The entire kit and kaboodle. The whole shebang.

Heh. That would probably explain why I seem to get them during budget forecasts, at least.

Someone once mentioned the possibility that I was suffering from migraines. It's not far-fetched, really... migraines are a relatively common malady, and they're certainly not unknown in the medical community. But I've heard that migraines usually come with blurry vision and the occasional hallucination, and I know that I don't get that whenever my cerebral cortex starts acting up.

I'll probably regret saying this, but I have to admit that I'd like to find out how it feels to suffer from migraines. It's the only way by which I can describe the feeling, after all. Right now my headache feels as though someone's pounding on the inside of my temples with a twelve-inch hammer, but I can't help figuring that having a migraine would somehow feel... different. It's as though it would involve having a headache without actually having a headache (even if we all know otherwise).

That, and I'd like to experience the hallucinations. Hallucinations are always cool, and it's difficult enough to encounter them without delving into illegal substances.

I've read somewhere that Lewis Carroll suffered from migraines, and it sounds as though he had them pretty bad. His condition was so far advanced that he would literally start conjuring up hallucinations from nothing at all... although he would later gather some of the most notable ones in his writings and build a reputation entirely on these imaginings. Every mention of his Alice in Wonderland reminds me of headaches as a result.

You could think of it as turning a sow's ear into a silk purse, I suppose. Or you could think of it as simply writing what you know. L. Frank Baum turned his experience with carnival attractions and freakshows into the marvelously twisted Wizard of Oz universe. Mozart occasionally composed music while playing billiards. Edgar Allan Poe wrote a few of his works while drunk.

And in the meantime I've got a hammer pounding away at the insides of my head, eroding what's left of my skull in thin, plaster-like beatings.

The headaches usually only last for an evening or so. For that matter, I find myself playing host to them for exactly one night more often than not. I usually end up with something that feels like a bad hangover the next morning, as though all the thoughts decided to leak out of my ears sometime during my fitful sleep.

It's funny, really. I know that I get these headaches every now and then. I know that the throbbing usually subsides once I lie down for a few minutes. I know that thinking about a bunch of complicated stuff will get the monstrous migraine roaring again. I know that squeezing my skull between two pillows will force the voice in my head to calm down for a bit, and I know that any sensation of pleasure or inspiration will start it back up.

The trouble is, I don't know why. Is there a doctor in the house?

It's as though the brain is some huge machine that we don't completely understand. (Not that there are actually any machines in this world that we fully understand in the first place.) Someone should really make a bumper sticker with the same sentiment: The mind is a wonderful piece of equipment, but sometimes it will blow a fuse. When that happens, all that we poor, unknowing mortals can do is the equivalent of hitting the TV to improve the reception.

We think, analyze, cogitate, process, opine, estimate, guess, research, remember, reach, recall, comprehend, analogize, meditate, will, compel, assume, coordinate, counter and learn anything and everything these days, but we don't know how the brain does it.

And so we get headaches. Like the one that's bothering me at this very moment.

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I mean, really bothering me at this very moment.

I get irritable during headaches. I only snap at select instances, though, like people or situations who force me to think at a time when thinking just tightens the mental vise. It really has to be understandable there -- after all, I can choose not to think too deeply about a particular issue, but I can't choose when I'm going to have a headache. It happens.

Of course, this begs the question: Does the fact that I'm writing this in the middle of a headache mean that I'm not actually putting much thought into these words? That would be worthy of further analysis, I think.

Not now, though. If I go into it any further, then my head's probably going to explode.

And that's why I'm only touching on more than a few aspects of a personal headache that few people out there should really care about, much less read about in this blog. If you somehow get a headache while reading this on a Monday morning, you'll know that it's a special present from me, and you'll probably treasure it for the rest of your life.

Okay, maybe not that last part. Headaches are a pack of horrible little gremlins inside your head, and sooner or later they're going to find a way around that bit of aspirin that you gulp down to alleviate the pain.

Having a headache at others is obviously not a very nice thing to do. But hey, I'm doing it anyway. Right now. Right here. Right at you.

If you suddenly get this pounding sound coming from within your head, then you at least know who to blame...

Maybe it's nothing and I'm under the weather
Maybe it's just one of those bugs going round
Maybe I'm under a spell and it's magic
Maybe there's a witch doctor with an office in town

- Meatloaf, "It Just Won't Quit"

Help Wanted (Part 2)

Whoa. It's been exactly one month since the first part of this article.

A number of developments have occurred in the intervening weeks. My company's set another search for qualified applicants (particularly in the field of web programming), I've discovered a massive demand for people in the Information Technology sector, and one of my mailing lists started bewailing the "rampant discrimination" in certain want ads.

If you're concerned about the last of those points, I can give you a brief explanation of the issue. A company representative, you see, posted a job ad in one of my mailing lists. The job ad specified, among other things, that applicants had to be at least 25 years of age. An irate subscriber implied that the company was discriminating against younger people by posting such a requirement, and that touched off a succession of debates that lasted for three days.

In the end, I don't think anyone resolved the issue properly or successfully. So I leave you a good question in that regard: At what point do job qualification requirements become less person-specific and more discriminatory?

I'm not sure if anyone has tackled such a topic yet, but it would make for a good discussion as long as we could stay away from the name-calling. A lot of companies put up certain specifications, from the simple "Must be Female" to "Must Have Graduated From a Reputable University" to "Must Have Curly Black Hair, a Willingness to Experiment, and a Fetish for South American Spider Monkeys". These companies could probably make an argument for how important each and every one of these requirements are, but the radical job-hunters can easily argue that anybody can do any job if we all get right down to it.

You might as well put up a national writing contest, for example. You'll have winning writers who obviously fit what you want to see in a fine piece of original literature, but you'll also have millions of others who argue that their stuff is just as good under the right circumstances. This is probably one of those situations where none of us can ever win.

One of the specific issues has always been the question of age. Suppose that you have two applicants for an important position in your company: You could hire a 22-year-old young man with little experience but with much capacity for the long-term haul, or you could hire a 56-year-old veteran who's looking at retirement yet knows everything that there is to know about the business. Which would you prefer?

I suspect that such answers would be more personal in nature -- they'd depend on orientation, priorities, and/or immediate need. Or they'd be more businesslike in nature, for the exact same reasons. It's another debate all over again, in that case.

Fortunately, for the purposes of this article, we only have to point out those hints for the general jobseekers. What's interesting to note is that I can split up my last remaining guidelines among applicants of both categories.

If you're no stranger to the job market, for example, then you might want to consider the following:

1. Do NOT include outdated credentials in your resumé.
This should be obvious, I think, but a lot of people will put anything on a resumé if it means a greater chance of landing the job. I've met with the winner of a 1971 spelling contest and the most well-behaved student in a 1986 student assembly, for example, and I can already tell you that both situations will test your skill at keeping a straight face.

Outdated credentials are a terrible experience. They're extremely difficult to ignore, yet really beg the question as to why they made it to the resumé in the first place. Such achievements no longer have an inch of relevance, and should really be left out of consideration. Otherwise the interviewer will simply be tempted to make fun of you, and no one ever takes that lightly.

2. Watch those gaps in your resumé.
Sure, you were employed by a massive conglomerate that really appreciated what you were doing. Sure, your former boss wept openly on the day you submitted your resignation letter. Sure, you spent a loyal six years with your previous employer, regardless of how turbulent their work was.

But what I want to know is, what were you doing in the significant span of time since you left them?

Don't get me wrong here; Despite my earlier point about knowing what to leave out of a resumé, there are some things that really shouldn't be left out of one. If you have a gap in your employment history, then you have to expect that somebody will call you on it. And then you'll have to explain exactly what you did for the full year or two that you found so convenient not to mention. Watch those gaps.

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Not all of us are experienced with the job market, though. This is especially true, considering that the products of the local universities should now be checking the want ads and packing the waiting rooms this time of year.

Having been a new graduate once, I offer former students a very valuable piece of advice: Don't bother. It's probably better for you to stay home and leech off your parents till you're forty. The world out there has some razor-sharp teeth, and only the most suicidal of oiks would possibly walk into such a deathtrap.

The problem, of course, is that most graduates are too constructive to listen to me. So, having disposed of my first piece of advice for them, I have to offer them the following fringe cases:

1. We don't really look at your grades.
Surprised? It's true, at least in my case. If you have the skills to do the job, then you can do the job regardless of whether or not you got that D in Socio-Anthropology class. It stands to reason, really -- you can be the worst Physics student in the history of mankind, but we'll still hire you if you happen to be an excellent graphic designer.

That's not to say that grades aren't important, of course. In fact, grades are a pretty good indicator of how much study and dedication you give to a certain field. That's how we're able to trust in the integrities of college valedictorians, for example. But if you constantly worry about how your grades are good on one end and bad on the other, don't sweat it too much.

2. What you do in your off time is important.
Do you have any outside activities? Were you a member of any school organizations or civic groups? What obligations are you likely to have outside the company?

The answers to these questions are just as good as grades: They imply attention and dedication, even if they are for endeavors outside the traditional academic requirements. If you tell us that you're a member of at least one organization, then we figure that you're at least a normal human being. If you tell us that you're an officer in at that one organization, then we can see that you're willing to put in time and effort in a certain general direction.

A word to the wise, though: Don't give us a long shopping list of organizations you've supposedly "joined", and then claim to be active in all of them. In that case, we're more likely to think that you either have a really short attention span, or that you're just plain making fun of our sensibilities.

3. Know what you're applying for.
We all have certain expectations of applicants. It's not a surprise, particularly when you consider that a lot of businesses aim for specific audiences or provide distinct services. Shipping companies, for example, tend to expect that you know how to swim. Statistical offices expect that you know how to count. Web development companies expect that you know how to type, how to use a computer, and how to send e-mail.

Occasionally, however, some random applicant doesn't get the point and ends up going for a job that he absolutely does not understand. This is worse than applying for something that you have no business applying for -- this involves trying to get into something that is way out of your league. If you don't know how to start a car, then that auto repair shop is more likely to fire you than teach you. Despite what some people may think, there are never any situations where a corporate entity will be so desperate.

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And now this is the part where I post my disclaimers.

I'm not an HR person. I haven't been trained as an HR person. All that I happen to have is five-and-a-half years of experience dealing with the web development industry and its people, as well as the occasional command from my boss to Get Out There and Deal With Those Yahoos.

The job-hunters out there, of course, have license to ignore or criticize the items I've posted here. But I've gleaned these points from years of speaking with applicants, and this is probably as close as I can get at this point without being an applicant myself.

Besides, it wouldn't be much fun if we didn't kick up a bit of discussion on this. The above items are what I've got, ladies and gentlemen. You can take 'em, leave 'em, or wait a couple of years while I run into more unorthodox situations.

After all, there's no end to the weirdness you can encounter when it comes to dealing with people, I suppose. :)

Disclaimer: April 2006

One: I lied. Nothing in this blog is original. I steal it from the most unsuspecting of sources, and they're all so obscure that you never have a chance of tracking them down.

Two: I lied. I don't make any mention of references at all. The names and titles you see at the bottom of each blockquoted item are nothing more than a fabrication, meant to hide the fact that I'm screwing over the actual sources.

Three: I lied. There is no such thing as international copyright law, and this 'plagiarism' thing is actually pretty good. I won't run after you and perform unspeakable acts on your corpse if you take anything from this blog and put it under your name. Hey, it's a free country, right?

Four: I lied. You don't have to ask permission from me in order to use any of my writings. Who cares about them, anyway? I can always come up with more of them at short notice.

Five: I lied. Talking politics is one of the healthiest activities I've ever come across. In fact, I'll probably make it a recurring feature starting next week.

Six: I lied. The moon landings were a hoax. There are albino crocodiles that roam the sewers. The government really is putting flouride in the water supply so that they can track our every move.

Seven: I lied. I'm not actually Sean; I'm an alien from the Proxima Centuari system, sent to inspect your world for possible colonization purposes. Now that I've seen that you Terrans are a bunch of lying, backstabbing, unsuspecting idiots, I can send for the preliminary invasion force.

Eight: I lied. I'm actually pretty darn good at this writing thing. I'm just holding back so that you can all believe that your worthless words can stand up to the power of my prose. In truth, ladies and gentlemen: My kung fu is better than yours.

Nine: I lied. I'm not busy at work in the first place. I just want to see you all squirm at the fact that you're not getting your regular fix from this blog. Involuntary rehab sucks, don't it?

Ten: I lied. It's not April Fools' Day at all. Everything in this article is abso-frickin-lutely not a lie. Nuh-uh. No how. No way.