top of page

The Angry Fish

It has been a while since I've posted on my blog. I've decided for mental clarity that I will try to do so more often. I'm unsure if this resolution will stick, however, what with a full graduate schedule and several works in progress clamoring for my attention. This is also the very first personal blog post that I have put up. I am interested to see how people respond to it, or not.

Right now, my biggest concern is finishing up the massive work 'Volver', which is my newest Downton Abbey work revolving around the concept of time travel and the consequences of altering fate. Right now we're just on the verge of 400k, and only on chapter 18. Spare the Rod was by far the longest work I've done at 560k. It will be interesting to see whether or not Volver breaks that record. I'm just on the verge of the story taking it's second biggest turn, and it's been coming along nicely. Thomas is on the cusp of getting something he's always sorely wanted and it will be interesting to see what happens when he does. Is the grass always greener on the other side? Our favorite sulky idiot's about to find out, bless him.

My next, largest concern comes from wanting to make progress of the Cry of the South.

This is by far one of the hardest works I've ever undertaken. She's now over ten years old, though it's hard to believe. I'm heavily re-writing her for the third time; maybe that's the charm? It's wild to imagine she once was held in space. That Captain Dialiam used to be some white chick with a nose piercing and curly red hair. Then Dialiam was horribly deformed and blue. Now, Dialiam looks like a regular ass person. After heavily studying the effects of the nuclear fallout in Chernobyl, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki, it seems to me that most of Dialiam's physical ailments would occur immediately after the blast. Now, Dialiam's only tip off is that often gets tumors that have to be removed. Likewise, she is infertile. This aligns with what most women suffered, particularly the ones that weren't too close to the bomb blast to be physically burned. This is still a work in progress though; it could be that Dialiam's physical appearance has to change again in order to be more realistic to her circumstances.

The real question for me, as I continue working on the plot of the first book, is how on earth I'm going to have the main hero tackle a smaller bad guy while likewise setting up the works for him to tackle the bigger bad guy(s). By a mile and a half, Tralyhta is no where near as dangerous as some that Vero will face, but she's still incredibly volatile. How am I going to help Vero grow through this, particularly when he starts off the story being suicidal? Is him tackling Trahlyta the answer, or is he just going to watch as someone else does it? I have so many options open to me, I don't really know which one to pursue. I'm afraid by eliminating an option, I'll devoid myself and my readers of an even better story. That, in the world of a writer, is an unforgivable offense.

The Ivy Hall Review is going well. The theme is still incredibly bare and makes my teeth ache, but I can't get the department to change it. Everyone is regulated within SCAD to the point of being hyper marginalized. Everything that I want to do needs to be approved. That's not always as easy as you'd think. Still, I look forward to the March Debute. I'll be posting pictures once it's over. I'm wondering if I might have a reading at the end of every quarter? This is something I'll speak to Ramsdell about in our meeting this afternoon.

And then there is the thing which weighs most heavily on my mind. The thing which I find the most difficult to reckon with.

There is very little in the way of explanation, to describe the death of someone who technically was your father. In the past month, I have been assaulted with memories, apologies, and explanations, none of which I appreciate or want. I find it funny that now the man is dead, everyone wants to assure me that he loved me. That he spoke of me 'most highly'. So many people have come forward to speak about Joe Dostal's humility and charity. They talk of how he'd always been so kind with his money. They say these things, so assured by their own kindness. They feel as if by telling me these things they will somehow give me clarity or peace of mind.

They give me neither.

Joe Dostal was not charitable, nor was he humble. He was an actor, who refused to drop his mask out of cowardice. The face beneath the pant and the wig was too much for him to bear, too real for him to explain or reason with. I feel as if I was born from the ocean, and have spent my whole life trying to find its God in human form. I feel as if I am wrestling with the surging, tempestuous swell, which warns me that it cannot be held nor reasoned with. That it is not human. That it does not understand compassion or love. That at most, it understands the lunar rhythm on which it works. It waxes, it wanes. It rages, it quiets. It chews up the body of a surfer, spitting him back out on the rocky shore like the wishbone in a sumptuous feast. Robert Plinsky spoke of the 'Want Bone'. Of all the things which make our mouths ache and our hearts groan. And in that same frame of mind, I speak of the angry fish.

It is difficult to put into words what the angry fish actually is. It is not a real fish, and it yet it swims in the saltiest of oceans with ease. It's not angry, not truly, but any father which attempts to claim it is slashed at the wrists by razor pectoral fins. The angry fish is that most tempting of all prizes, which every fisherman longs for. She is the recognition of every woman who did not stay for the lies, of every child who was not swayed by the paternal bond.

bottom of page