Alex Gulczynski's Blog

I love the band Tool. I know they aren't everyone's cup of tea. What bands are? Well, maybe the Eagles. Except for Jeff Lebowski. Am I right? Anyway, I digress. Let me start over.

I enjoy the music made by the band Tool. I like the dark atmosphere  The unusual beat, rhythms, and drumming. I like the cryptic messaging. Though, not nearly as much as some people. My level of interest is on the line of, "Oh geez, this is an obscure song lyric. I wonder what it's about. Let's go google it." Then I'll look it up for a few minutes before wandering off to watch some random cat video. I don't like their videos though. They scare me.

The reason I bring this up is that I was listening to one of their songs when I realized it has some of the themes of my book, Eustice. At least, I think it does. It talks about angels and free will and things like that. But who really knows what it's about, beside the random obsessive Tool fans out there.

This is the song. Check it out.

Here's a poem. Probably inspired by Shel Silverstein. But to be honest I never read many of his poems. It was trendy and cool as a kid to have his books. That most likely turned them off for me. I've never been one to do what others are doing just so I can say I did it. Which is too bad. I probably missed out on some cool stuff while engaging my inner hipster. 
That's right I was a hipster before being a hipster was hip.
[image error] The thing I must remember from high school physics is holding a blanket with a weight in the middle, watching balls roll toward it and seeing how gravity warps space. Trippy stuff.
WHEN GRAVITY GETS MAD
So Gravity and I had a pretty big fight.I don't recall exactly what it is I said.But it must have been bad because as I went to bed,I put on my PJs, lay down and then just floated.Hovering above my covers, completely unsupported.
I heard a laugh and a voice said "Oh, boo-hoo you!Let's just see how you manage and how you do,Without your trusty good friend Gravity now,To hold and keep your body rooted firmly down!"
Then, in a flash, the voice was gone.And I floated alone in my room for ever so long.But a realization came to me very fast.I was no longer earthbound or downward cast!
With Gravity mad and ignoring me,I could fly and be as free as I wanted to be.So I opened the window and flew right out.I soared high in the sky and began to shout.
I was sailing right through the night air,Going as far and as high as I dare.For hours I flew and flew.Until the night was old and the day was new.
But after a time I grew tired and sleepy.The air was cold and my eyes were soon weepy,Because I thought with a sad, little frown,"Now, how in the heavens will I get down?"
There's no food up here, I think.And I don't want only rainwater to drink.I tried my best to lower my body,But only ended up moving around very oddly
I was stuck and it was plain to see,In order to fall I needed help from Gravity."I'm sorry!" I yelled and I cried."I need your help." I finally sighed.
Then a voice said "So don't be so rash,The next time you fall with a mighty loud crash."And with that simple saying I was forgiven.I started to fall just as earlier, I'd risen.
My feet were placed down, oh so gingerly.As I kissed the ground, I thanked Gravity.I would never curse it out again,For fear I'd end up just where I'd been.
Trapped like a cloud high in the sky,Maybe it's better to be glad I can't fly. [image error] Hawking fights off gravity.

So, I've been in a strange mood these last few weeks. I seem to be stuck in some sort of slightly morose, nostalgic, anxious about the future, amorphous funk. I'm not entirely sure how to describe it, because I'm not entirely sure what it is.

I think the main point is that my wife and I are expecting our first child in just three months. Surprisingly, I'm not too anxious about the actual childcare part. It'll be hard and it'll be trying, I'm sure. Yet, I'm pretty sure both my wife and I will be as prepared as we can be for the actual child rearing. We've both worked with and had a lot of training in dealing with youth of all ages. True, it'll be different with our own, but still that's not bothering me so much.

As I sit and write. I think my main worry is being able to provide for my child. A struggling writer's career is, well, full of struggle. It's tough with just the two of us let alone adding another being completely dependent on us.

Another main worry is that fact that I'm doubting myself as a writer. See, the Insecure Megalomaniac post.

Regardless, I'm in this slight miasma. Tonight while driving home from the store, with ice cream and trash bags in tow (having a pregnant wife in grad school makes for interesting store visits), I starting thinking about signs that I'm getting older. I say older, mind you, because I am not "old." And anyone who is "old" will probably laugh at this post.

But here they are. Seven signs I'm getting older.

1) I look forward to Cartalk each week and I was sad when they announced they were retiring.

2) Similar to the above, I listen to NPR. A lot of NPR. In fact I'm more partial to talk radio than music in the car now.

3) I really hate the vast majority of pop music. Granted I was never much of a fan, but I find myself saying things like, "Gah, pop music today is horrible. It lacks innuendo and imagination." Where are the classics like "I Want Your Sex" or "Erotic." Alright all pop music lacks innuendo and imagination.


Note: Maybe listening to the radio in a car ride while pondering this blog had a big affect on me.

4) I get hungover. I never got hungover in college. Unless I drank an obscene amount. But now I get hungover after two drinks.

5) I wake up in pain. Not serious pain, but I wake up being sore when I didn't work out or with unidentifiable aches that weren't there when I went to bed.

6) The vast majority of the kids I work with were born after 9/11. Years after in fact.

7) My wife and I like reality competition shows (Survivor, Face Off, Hell's Kitchen, etc) and most of the contestants are younger than me. I look at them winning some huge prize and think to myself, "They're still in their twenties?!!?"

8) Movies are too loud. I love going to the movies. Always have. But now when I go I find myself cringing at the volume and am seriously thinking I should bring some earplugs when I go next.

Ah, shit. I should have wrote 8 things. Oh well, memory goes with age too.

Until September 20th get a copy of my book, Eustice, for FREE. Just go to My book's smashwords.com page and enter this code: UR54Y


and a funny cat video!

I'm finding that being a writer is a lot like being bipolar.


There are days or even hours where I just finished a really awesome chapter (in my view at least), or hammered out a couple of thousand words, where I think to myself, "Self, this is great. You are amazing and the world should hear what you have to say. They will rejoice and be better for it."

This is bipolarThen...there are the other days where I think everything I just wrote is crap. It's all trite, boring, and mediocre at best. This is a foolish endeavor. I'll never make a living off your words. No body cares what I have to say.

Now, I get that everyone has these days. Well, most everybody. There are those that experience much worse lows and those that retain their highs for longer. But for the vast majority of us, you have your ups and you have your downs.

Nothing really ground shattering here. That's life.

But for a writer this takes on a whole new meaning. Because as a writer you are essentially saying, "My words are worth, not only your time and thought, but your money as well. What I have to say is worth spending your hard earned cash on. I have something you can't get anywhere else."

Take that Earth!This takes a certain amount of arrogance. This takes a certain amount of chutzpah. You have to have a certain amount of delusion to begin to even think of selling your writing.

But at the very same time. Existing in the same brain at the same moment in time is this very large cloud of doubt. Even writing this blogpost I feel a huge layer of doubt. I almost didn't even write it. All these nagging question in my brain: Is what I am writing about even worth it? Doesn't everyone feel this way and thus it is useless to write about? I'm not saying anything worthwhile so why say it all?

I started writing my second book a few weeks back but haven't written anything for the last long while because I've been doubting whether it'll be any good. I'm thinking maybe I only had the mojo for one book in me.

But just today I turned all that around. I wrote for the first time in a few weeks and it felt good. Maybe I can conquer the world with my words.

Or maybe I am just bipolar.

So I've definitely reached the what now? stage of finishing a book. I slogged through, put a lot of effort into, and persisted to complete my novel. I'm proud of the outcome and pleased with the end result (it's a good read, you should read it). I decided to publish it on my own. But now it's done. It's finished.

What do I do with it now?

It's up on Amazon and smashwords.com and any other online vendor I've stumbled across that will take it, but how do I make people buy it? I'm confident that once people start reading it it will catch on (or, at least, has the potential to). But how to make them read it? I'm not a marketer nor do I really know what I'm doing. I just had a lot of fun and desire to write a book. The business side is much harder than the wordsmithing. I've learned most of the ins and outs of how to actually get my work available to lots of people. I just don't know what to do next.

Here is my latest quandary: price.
Adam Smith's invisible hand is slapping me around right now.I've changed the price a few times. Many ebooks I've found from indie authors offer up their book for 99 cents. The cheapest you can go on most retailers. Now I have no problem with the concept of "you have spend some money to make money" or that you have to offer up goods cheaply to build a base. I would gladly give away some free copies or offer deals/coupons to people to drum up some support.

My problem is that I think indie authors are selling themselves short. They have undercut each other to the point it's hard to sell a product for what it's really worth. I don't think anyone's work on a novel is worth $0.99. It's too low for the amount of work you have to invest. I think someone's creative energy is worth more than a bag of potato chips.

It's hard to make a name for yourself already, let alone having to undervalue what you do in order to do it.
These are pennies. I need more of them.So here's the dilemma in my mind right now. Do I stick to my guns and keep my ebook copy at $2.99 (which granted isn't much more than $0.99, but allows for nearly 4x the royalties) or do I follow suit, race to the bottom, go with the lowest common denominator and lower my price?

I think it's worth more, but there are a lot of good books out there. Is it too much of a barrier to charge two bucks more? Am a making a mountain out of a mole hill?

I don't have an answer right now.

Curse you supply and demand!

So I've definitely reached the what now? stage of finishing a book. I slogged through, put a lot of effort into, and persisted to complete my novel. I'm proud of the outcome and pleased with the end result (it's a good read, you should read it). I decided to publish it on my own. But now it's done. It's finished.

What do I do with it now?

It's up on Amazon and smashwords.com and any other online vendor I've stumbled across that will take it, but how do I make people buy it? I'm confident that once people start reading it it will catch on (or, at least, has the potential to). But how to make them read it? I'm not a marketer nor do I really know what I'm doing. I just had a lot of fun and desire to write a book. The business side is much harder than the wordsmithing. I've learned most of the ins and outs of how to actually get my work available to lots of people. I just don't know what to do next.

Here is my latest quandary: price.
Adam Smith's invisible hand is slapping me around right now.I've changed the price a few times. Many ebooks I've found from indie authors offer up their book for 99 cents. The cheapest you can go on most retailers. Now I have no problem with the concept of "you have spend some money to make money" or that you have to offer up goods cheaply to build a base. I would gladly give away some free copies or offer deals/coupons to people to drum up some support.

My problem is that I think indie authors are selling themselves short. They have undercut each other to the point it's hard to sell a product for what it's really worth. I don't think anyone's work on a novel is worth $0.99. It's too low for the amount of work you have to invest. I think someone's creative energy is worth more than a bag of potato chips.

It's hard to make a name for yourself already, let alone having to undervalue what you do in order to do it.
These are pennies. I need more of them.So here's the dilemma in my mind right now. Do I stick to my guns and keep my ebook copy at $2.99 (which granted isn't much more than $0.99, but allows for nearly 4x the royalties) or do I follow suit, race to the bottom, go with the lowest common denominator and lower my price?

I think it's worth more, but there are a lot of good books out there. Is it too much of a barrier to charge two bucks more? Am a making a mountain out of a mole hill?

I don't have an answer right now.

Curse you supply and demand!

Lo and behold! A taste of the best tale ever told...on this blog:Chapter 1Light pours in from behind my eyelids. Through my eyelids. My head pounds and surges with pain. What good are eyelids when they are so thin they don’t even do their job, I think bitterly. I fling my arm over my face to block out the light.In the darkness, with the reassuring slight pressure of my arm over my eyes, I find a few moments’ solace. Respite from the throbbing pain in my head. I sigh and try not to think of anything at all. I have always held a strong fascination with meditation, with people who could clear their minds and sit for hours in peace. I marveled at that ability to embrace stillness. I marveled at it because it was something I could never do. Having a clear, pristine mind was such an alluring but alien concept to me.My mind works continuously. I don’t want it to, it just does. I always felt like my brain and I were consistently at odds with each other. When I want rest and sleep, my brain constantly makes lists, reorders already existing lists, or looks for patterns in the world around me so it can make more lists. Subject doesn’t matter. It could be encounters with my friends, or a hyper fixation on a chance conversation with some new boy at school, or something altogether trivial, like why people toasted Pop-Tarts when they were so much better straight out of the package.Oftentimes it was my homework mucking up my peacefulness. I have had it drilled into me numerous times from a young age how important education was to my future. I would stress about what paper I should write first. What reading chapter I should save for last. Would it be more efficient to do my math homework before my history? The irony is that, in the end, it didn’t matter much, because I would spend so much time and energy thinking about how to do my homework in the best way possible that I wouldn’t allow ample time to actually do it. I would end up staying up half the night rushing through just those things that were due the next day, not doing my best work on them but still eking out a decent grade.This is how my life had evolved, a neurotic girl with a hyperactive brain. It doesn’t help that the brain is housed atop a short and stocky frame, either.My parents always disapproved of my way of doing things. They told me that I was forming bad habits. College would be much more difficult than high school, and that I couldn’t just skate by like I was doing in high school.I didn’t doubt them, they were probably right, but I argued with them. You see, I am stubborn too.A stubborn, procrastinating, perfectionist. Not the best combination of character traits.I sigh quietly to myself. The light is gone, but now my mind found a new thing to preoccupy my thoughts, killing whatever slight peace of mind I had found in its infancy. All I can focus on now is a quiet but persistent hum of some electrical device.I try thinking of clouds to distract myself, but they soon hum and buzz with lightning. I try thinking of flowers, but soon buzzing bees begin to fly into them.It is no use. I am going to find no rest here.Slowly, I move my arm from away from my face. I push myself up into a sitting position, feeling the hard, coarse fabric of the miserable little couch I was lying on. Eyes still closed, my head bent low almost to my knees, I run my hands through my dark, oily hair. I can’t remember the last time I took a shower. The prickling sensation of my fingertips dragging along my scalp eases some of the tension from my body.I wonder at how long I have been lying on this horrid excuse for a piece of furniture. My back aches. My neck is tight. My legs have nearly gone numb, and still I hear that perpetual hum, now like a high-pitched whine of a belt sander against the temporal lobes of my brain.Carefully, I open my eyes. I keep my head pointed down toward the floor to shield myself from the harsh lights above. My vision is filled with nondescript, pale beige carpet, ugly in its plainness. With my hands half cupped, half pressed against my forehead, I begin to raise my head.A large, green potted plant and a dark, heavy oak desk materialize out of the haze, as my eyes adjust to the sickeningly unsympathetic white fluorescent lights of the room. One flickers just beyond my perception and etches the high-pitched hum into my eardrums. Across the room stands a blank, off-white, sterile wall. The front of the room is frosted glass from ceiling to floor. One door stands in the middle of the glass wall. I can see another bank of fluorescent lights just outside the glass, and vaguely I can make out ghostly shadows moving farther out.I have an intense sense of déjà vu, as well as complete confusion as to where I actually am. This place reminds me of somewhere I’ve been. Somewhere I went to as a small child. Somewhere that must have left an impression, but, frustratingly, somewhere that I can’t seem to recall. My memory is fuzzy, like stale bread with green mold spotted on it. I close my eyes and try to scrap off the green fuzz as best I can.I finally decide that this place reminds me of my father’s office, designed to be plain and boring, yet suitable for everyone’s tastes. Not taking any chances at picking a color or shape that might offend someone’s aesthetic palate, but simultaneously not appealing to anyone’s liking. Or at least, I think it reminds me of my father’s office. For some reason, I’m having a hard time bringing up an exact image of the office. The mold is still there blocking any recollections.But it doesn’t matter, I suppose. I hate this place from the moment I see it.I sit there for I don’t know how long analyzing the bland pattern in the floor below me, not knowing what to do or where I am. This place is eerily familiar, but I know I have never been here before. I try to force myself to remember how I got here, but, frustratingly, I can’t. I have odd sensations of a cold room, an orange light, and a sticky feeling oozing all over my skin. It doesn’t make any sense to me. So I just sit there in a dazed state.Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me. Ignoring the aches in my muscles and the throbbing in my head, I brave the intense buzzing lights of the room and scan over the desk as best I can. It is immaculate. A small singular stack of paper lies on the far end, neatly ordered with all the papers aligned. A white coffee mug stands near me with a handful of pens and pencils standing at attention in it. A nameplate stands absolutely centered near the front lip of the desk, but I can’t read what it says from my sideways angle. Dominating the desk is an old and heavy-looking black typewriter.It occurs to me that I have not seen a typewriter before. I mean, I know what they are, and I’ve seen them in movies or TV shows. But I realize just then that I have never actually seen a real one. It looks intimidating and sturdy enough to survive a bomb blast. I have a strong desire to touch it, press one of the keys and hear the clack as the letter block slams some ink into the fresh, white sheet of paper rolled into it.I don’t even know where I am, but I decide to give in to my urge. I figured, what the hell. It is only one letter on one sheet of paper. Plus, I want to get up anyway to read the name on the nameplate. I might as well know whose office I am in.I move to stand up, but as soon as I push myself off the couch, the muscles in my legs protest, freezing in place, and a large rush of blood to my head makes me feel dizzy and nauseated. Carefully, I gently lower myself back down and hang my head between my knees, breathing deeply, trying not to throw up. I note with some dry humor that my vomit would probably blend in with the carpet. Maybe no one could even tell it was there. The thought of puking fills my mouth with copious amounts of salvia, and I can feel the tightening of my lower jaw as my stomach prepares to launch whatever was in my stomach out of my body. This is not good. I fight with every inch of my being not to vomit right then and there. Furiously I try to think of something else, and immediately I can hear that insidious buzzing again. Thankfully, my mind is distracted and annoyed enough that my stomach is quelled.Sitting there, taking long, labored breathes, and gritting my teeth in frustration, I hear a latch turn, and I look up to see the door opening. And I think to myself, “God, what now?”Chapter 2My mouth is dry, my back is frozen in place as I whip my head around to stare at the opening door. Nervousness floods my body and my belly fills with ice. I don’t know where I am or how I got here. I have no idea what type of person is walking through the door. I feel vulnerable and exposed. My breath stops.Quickly, a small woman enters the room. Her posture is prim and straight, like she is dangling from strings. She wears black subdued heels but only to increase her size and stature. A long, dark skirt covers most of her legs, and a black, angular coat covers the rest. Her nose is long and hooked with slim wire-frame glasses propped up on the bridge. Her lips are blood red and her dark black hair is pulled back into a bun so tightly I think the skin on her forehead might tear apart from the strain.She moves fast and briskly closes the door behind her. I feel naked as she fixes an intense stare at me.“You are awake.” She speaks like she looks: efficient and proper.I don’t say anything in response. Partly because I don’t know what to say and partly because I am not so sure my tongue is still working. So I just give a slight, stupid nod.The lady stands by the door for a moment, scanning me with a penetrating look. She is sizing me up, making judgments and evaluations about my character. I feel the need to make a better impression, so I struggle to sit up a little more straight, bring my knees together and lay my hands flat on my thighs.She gives a curt “hmmpf,” which I can barely hear and walks with long, precise strides around the far side of the desk, giving me a wide berth, and sits down. I feel like I should say something, but the lady speaks first.“Eustice P. Jennings.” She says plainly and neatly.I flinch at my name being called out. I have never liked my name, but have never liked my nicknames either. My name is stuck to me and I am stuck to it.Reflexively, I respond with a meager, “Present.” And halfheartedly raise my hand. I am just trying to lighten the mood, but the woman does not seem to notice.“You have caused me quite the bit of trouble.” Great. Already I have pissed this woman off and I don’t even know who she is or how I’ve done it. She motions to a chair across from her on the other side of her desk.Meekly, I get up. Fortunately, my legs and head both seem to function much better now. Walking over to the chair, I am unsteady and my knees threaten to buckle once or twice, but I sit down again without incident. I take the opportunity to check out the nameplate now that I am sitting right in front of it.Beatrice A. Krugmen is etched in the bronze plate.“Beatrice A. Krugmen,” I think, rolling the name around in my head. Looking at the prim and proper woman with the hooked nose, blood red lips, and wire frame glasses, I quickly think, “fitting name.”Smaller letters beneath her name on the plate read: Division of Lost Souls, Lead Admin.Division of Lost Souls? The strangeness of the title hits me like a slap to the face, but before I can give it much more thought, Beatrice clears her throat and speaks.“For some reason, the powers that be saw fit to not follow the proper channels. To not follow protocol and …” She eyes me as if this is all my fault, when I have no idea what she was talking about, “to not inform me of all this beforehand.” I get the feeling that being in the dark is not something Beatrice takes kindly to.Beatrice pauses and brings her hands up to her face, index fingers pointed, she makes a rigid triangle under her chin. I think I can make out a few dark whiskers here and there dangling discreetly from her chin and upper lip. My attention snaps back to Beatrice’s eyes when she speaks.“I do not like surprises. Indeed, I make it my job to eliminate them. You are a surprise. One I plan to get rid of quickly.” I don’t know why she tells me this other than to make me feel bad at what I’ve done to her. But I don’t even know what I’ve done!I feel a surge of blood flush my cheeks. I don’t understand what is going on, but I know enough not to like the way this woman is talking to me, “Look,” I say more curtly than I probably should have, “I’m sorry for whatever has happened, but I don’t even know where I am right now, or how I got here.”Beatrice lowers her hands, angling her body forward, and stares closely into my eyes. Immediately, I feel meek and at a disadvantage, but that just makes me dig in my heels and hold my ground. I try to be nice to people when I can, yet I also don’t appreciate this lady’s tone. I meet her gaze and stare back.After several long seconds, Beatrice leans back. A small smirk briefly appears on one side of her mouth before it dies just as quickly, “No, I suppose you don’t,” is all she says.Another handful of seconds pass and I feel the need to speak, but again Beatrice cuts me off before I can even start. She looks at a watch on her left wrist and then abruptly rises out of her chair. “The ceremony is almost over, but we can catch the end of it if we hurry.” She briskly walks around the desk and toward the door as she speaks. I can almost hear the carpet groan with pain as she thrusts her heels into it.Pausing with one hand on the door, she leans over and grabs a large, black piece of clothing off a coat rack I didn’t even noticed before. As she opens the door, she throws the garment at me. It hits me square in the face. My nose is filled with the smell of dust and boiled cabbage.“Put that on and hurry up.”I stand up from my chair and fumble with the huge piece of cloth. I can’t even tell what it is yet. It looks like an old, thick, black bedsheet. I struggle to find any holes or discernible way to wear the damned thing.Beatrice rolls her eyes and a sound of frustration escapes her lips. She walks over to me, grabs the fabric and throws it over my head. Blackness fills my vision, and I almost gag on the musty smell pervading this horrid garment. The next thing I feel is Beatrice’s hand painfully grabbing my arm, “Are you always this slow?” she asks, annoyed, as she drags me out the door.With only one arm, I fight my way through the darkness and desperately try to find a hole for my head to fit through. All the while, Beatrice pulls me along through a maze of what I assume are cubicles and other desks. I am vaguely aware of other people moving out of our way or doing work at their desks as we storm past them.Beatrice stops to open another door, and I finally manage to find an armhole. After some more struggling, I figure out this black garment draped over my head is a robe of some sort. Huge and ungainly though. I am still having trouble finding the collar for my head to go through when Beatrice walks through the open door. The soft plop of her heels on the carpet turns into a hard echoing clip-clop as she walks out into a hallway.Short of breath, I yank my arm from out of Beatrice’s grasp. The clip-clopping of her heels stops. Now I can hear the steady tap of one foot as she waits impatiently for me. With both my hands, I am able to find the hole for my head. I breathe deeply as my head emerges from its dank prison. Beatrice’s hands are firmly planted on her hips, “Are you finished?” She asks before turning and continuing her fast-paced walk. I have to half jog just to keep up with her.We walk down blandly decorated, harshly lit corridors. The walls are some reddish dark wood panels, the floor a polished checkerboard of black and white. The reflected glare from the fluorescent lights above renews my headache with a vengeance. I try to take in the names and numbers etched on the doors that we pass, but we are moving too quickly. For whatever reason, I am already on thin ice with this icy woman and don’t want to dillydally any longer. My curiosity will have to wait.We make a few turns down similar-looking hallways until we come to two large double doors. Beatrice pauses and smooths her tightly wound hair of nonexistent strands that might have escaped the stranglehold her bun has on them. She also brushes her shoulders and wipes her palms on her hips. Then she looks at me and frowns.I look down at myself. I hardly recognize anything. My body is hidden in a voluminous black robe that drags on the floor and hangs loose over my hands. I can’t imagine I look good in it, but she gave me this damn robe and made me put it on. Why is she frowning?I give a halfhearted shrug and try to pull the sleeves over my hands but with no luck. They just slide back down after a few moments.Beatrice motions with her hands and mouths “put the hood up.” I don’t know why she is being so quiet, but not knowing is a common theme of the night.Slowly, I feel around the back for a hood. The robe was so large with somany folds it is difficult to find. Eventually, with Beatrice still frowning, I manage to find it and pull it over my head. Immediately everything changes. I can feel the waist of the robe cinch up and hug me just above my hips. It is tight but comfortable. My hands are freed as the sleeves shrink down to a normal length, and I have no fear of tripping anymore as the lower hem hangs just above my toes now, no longer dragging a mile behind me on the floor.I am just about to remark how strange this all feels and how it works, when Beatrice opens the large double doors.I step through and find myself in the middle of a large theater. There are rows of seats to my left sloping upward and rows of seats sloping down to my right. The room is hardly lit, making it difficult to properly see anything. A single light is illuminating the stage, and a single person stands in the center of the light. He is wearing a robe just like I am.Straightaway, I sense something odd about his appearance. Though I can’t place what. He seems of average build. Not too big and not too small. He stands with his hands at his sides and seems comfortable in the lone spotlight. His hood is raised just like mine. Since the light is above him, his face is mostly covered in shadow, giving him a ominous look. Even worse is the little of his face I can see. It’s gaunt and too angular, too white.As I continue to look, something else peculiar jumps out at me that I didn’t notice at first. I can see his teeth. Why can I see his teeth? Then I notice with shock. He has no lips. He has no skin at all. My jaw drops and my stomach flips over inside my belly. His chin is pure bone and his white teeth glare at me from across the stage with a sinister smile. I raise my hand to cover my open mouth and to preemptively fight off a deepening sickness in the pit of my stomach. The room is silent and I can only continue to stare, frozen in place. Many awkward seconds pass, until Beatrice clears her throat.“We have a late comer.” Is all she says. When nothing happens, she quickly adds with a note of distain, “Pardon the interrupt.”The man without skin speaks. A gravelly baritone rumbles over the chairs and hits me in the face, “Well now. This is surprising.” He raises a hand and I have to stop myself from retching. His fingers are long, thin, and tapered to a point. They are also pure white. Pure bone.“But where are our manners,” the bone man spreads out both his hands in a wide arc, “Class. Let us welcome our new guest.”I hadn’t seen them before, but now a dozen or so other hooded and robed figures seated in the front rows stand and materialize out of the darkness. They all turn to look at me. In the darkness I can’t see their faces. Their hoods reveal only more darkness inside. Images of skulls leering at me through the shadows fill my mind. For a moment, I fear my knees will give way and I will collapse to the ground. Through sheer force of will, I hold firm even after what happens next.One by one, the robed figures stare at me and give a nice, polite round of applause.
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It's been a long time...

Too long...

Much too long...

You know what? Screw it. It's been so long since I've posted in this blog that I have decided to reformat it, rename, and use it as more of an informational tool to...uh...inform people about my writings.

Yes, my writings.

I've become sort of a novelist. I say sort of a novelist because while I have written a novel I have yet to get anyone to buy it that does not either share part of my genetic code or have some sort of mutual emotional investment in me and my doings. (this could be untrue, as while I can see the number of sales I've had I don't know exactly who has purchased them).

I am doing everything I can think of to move on to more people I don't know and part of that is this blog. So then I can drop of the sort of before novelist.

I like my cover image. It makes me giddy.
Though, I did have a cool interaction with a 4th grade girl I was teaching a week or two back. Out of the blue she asked me if this was my only job (I was teaching a science summer camp at the time). I was about to answer yes, but I hesitated. Instead I said no, I also recently wrote a book. She looked confused and then stated plainly, "Oh so, you're like a novelist or something." I didn't bother to ask her why she used the word novelist which seemed weird to me. Instead my ego just simply made me nod and respond, "Yes. yes, I guess I am."

Check out me on facebook: My author page

And on Amazon.com: Printed book and Kindle copy

Also on Smashwords.com: smashwords.com

For those that don't know smashwords.com is an indie book publishing site and the service I'm using to get my novel available on the Nook and iBooks. Though that's a topic for another blogpost.

I was just listening to a npr show called Radiolab. Every week or so they have a new show focusing on some theme. They then talk to scientists and people that have had strange/profound experiences with this theme. Usually the show chooses themes that are not usually associated with science, such as love or heroism or falling. It's a good show and I would suggest it to anyone.

This latest show I was listening to was from one of their achieves and was about memory. Brain functions and memory have always fascinated me. Even as a child I would sit and think about things like "what is an idea? How is it stored in me? Is it purely ethereal and intangible. If it is then how can my tangible brain access it?" I would usually do this while playing a video game and when no solutions came to mind I'd just go back to the game.
He's got he whole world in His hands
Anyway back to the show. Apparently back in the early 2000's some scientist discovered a drug that prevented memories from forming. The didn't explain exactly how it worked but it had something to do with destroying certain proteins in the brain.

They tested this by making rats associate certain tones with an electric shock, like Pavlov's dogs. When they played the tone the rats would arc their backs and brace for a small shock. They made sure that rats reacted the same way (they did), then they gave new rats this drug right as the tone was played and the shock given. These rats had no association of tone with shock unlike the other rats. Other tests where done with multiple tones and the rats only did not form the connection when the drug was given.

Moreover, even more strange they then gave the drug to rats that had already formed this memory of music and pain (scientists are so cruel) and if they gave the drug right at the time that the rat must be remembering, ie right as the rat heard the tone and braced for impact, the rat forgot the association. They can selectively, if somewhat imprecisely, destroy memories in the brain.

They have even moved on to human trials, People with PTSD. The case given in the show was a young woman who had been raped by a doctor as a child. She was so ashamed of this that she only ever dressed in the dark. She never told anyone. Tried to lie to herself about it. Really bad stuff here. But when she remembered this incident and was given the drug, she was less ashamed, less pained by it. She was very please by this, because it helped her heal and move on.

Philip K. Dick approves of this...or does he?

Now this strikes me all as just plain creepy. At the simplest level our memories are us. They are our personalities I think. If I lose my memories what am I? Are people suffering from Alzheimer's really still themselves?

Even if this woman says she is the better for not remembering as clearly, what do you all think?