Excerpt: Prodigal

Update 11:03 a.m.: I added a bit more to this so it leaves off somewhere a little more interesting and less ambiguous.

 

I’d been watching the guy all night. I told myself it was the gravitational pull of his enormous mass that kept sucking my eyeballs in that direction, but I was actually wondering if this would be the one to get me killed. If he killed me I wouldn’t have too much to be ashamed about; he looked like what you might get if you threw a Navy Seal and a rhinoceros in a soft serve machine and hit “Twist.”

My phone buzzed violently against the lacquered wood surface of the bar, startling me. I snatched it up, saw it was an unknown number with a hell of a lot of threes, and jabbed the “Ignore” button. I stuffed the phone into my tiny excuse of a pocket—I’d quickly figured out why girls were always complaining about their jeans’ lack of carrying capacity—and watched my gargantuan target a little more surreptitiously.

He was at least six and a half feet, maybe a little more, and all veiny, thick-cut muscle topped by a bald head. I couldn’t see the color of his eyes but I figured they were gray—steely gray, of course—and he had a cinderblock for a chin. I could see two faint scars running from his nose to his ear. Probably from that mutant, two-headed grizzly he wrestled during his time at the School for Tyrannosaurus Tanks. If that mutant grizzly didn’t even make it out, what chance did I have? I wasn’t really a small guy, but I might as well have been an anorexic schoolgirl compared to the elephant-on-steroids sitting a few stools down from me.

I wondered how tall his dad was. I imagined him just a little shorter, still big, but the blood-swollen muscle would have started to wrinkle and sag and the built-out abs would be more like a paunch. Or maybe he was really short and all his son’s height was courtesy of his wife’s side. That’d be a kicker, wouldn’t it? He’d had to put up with the ribbing with his wife’s taller brothers since he married her, and then his own son was taller than him by the time he was twelve. Either way, he would still have to look up when he looked at his son, and either way, he’d hate it.

Steroid Stan held up two bratwurst-fingers at the bartender. “Two beers,” he said in a voice that made Darth Vader sound like a mezzo-soprano. I choked on my shot and rum went searing up my nasal passages. The brunette next to me looked at me doubtfully and dangled a napkin in front of my face by the tips of her gold-lacquered nails.

“Thanks,” I gasped, shamelessly wiping my streaming eyes and nose. I glanced down the bar and saw Mount Muscle was about to walk away. It was now or never. I tugged my beanie tighter over my ears.

When I stumbled into him it felt like walking into a California redwood. He tensed up immediately, but when he turned and saw me I could almost read his brain processes. Very small male/girly V-neck/tight jeans/looks like he’s been crying/no threat detected/continuing scan.

I registered there was a girl on his arm. She was blond and tan, and her eyebrows had such an extreme, over-plucked arch that I wondered if she had taped them there. But the most interesting thing about her was that she couldn’t have been more than an inch over five feet even. It was too easy.

I looked down at her and then up at him incredulously. “Buddy,” I said. “Is your dick not proportional? Or are you trying to kill her?”

That got his attention. He swung his head around like a bull looking for the matador, the tendons of his neck bulging and his eyes narrowing as he tried to decide if I was insulting him. I purposely ignored him, turning instead to his girlfriend and summoning a smile so lascivious I might as well have just waved a red cape in his face.

“Sweetheart,” I said, trying not to stare at her eyebrows. “I don’t think you’re going to have a lot of fun with him tonight. Why don’t you come with me, we’ll find a place that isn’t a total shithole, and then we’ll have a good time, huh?”

Too. Easy.

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It’s so good to be bad

What do all these people have in common?

They all range from mildly attractive to drop-dead gorgeous, depending on your tastes.

And they’re all villains. I love villains. Well-developed, interesting, complex villains, that is.

I know. I’m super original.

Everyone loves well-developed, interesting, complex characters regardless of their status as a hero, villain, or anti-hero. If we learned anything from Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy, it’s that villains are just as important (if not more important) to stories as heroes. In many cases, the villain could have been the hero at one point in his or her life; they had the same talent or power, but they were just a little more flawed. They’re just a little more human and a little less super. To me, a good villain is more real and/or relatable than a hero. I think we should give more villains their own stories.

I know of a few such stories. The first one that comes to mind is the manga and anime Death Note. If you don’t know anything about it, I’ll just repeat what everyone said to me before I watched it and tell you it’s a total mindfuck. I’ve only seen one episode of the immensely popular Breaking Bad, but everything I’ve seen, heard, and read tells me Walter White is a villain protagonist. I can’t exactly call Anna Karenina a villainess, but I certainly wouldn’t say she’s a heroine. I’m currently reading (or trying to read) Paradise Lost, and even though epic poetry isn’t my favorite thing ever, Milton’s Satan is incredibly likeable.

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but look at the story potential even in that little selection of villains. Chris Hemsworth may be a gorgeous hunk of man, but I’d be way more interested in a movie strictly about Loki than I am in the Thor sequel. Queen Ravenna was a far more compelling character than Snow White in Snow White and the Huntsman, and yes, Charlize Theron is 10 times the actress Kristen Stewart is, but I think the difference was built into the characters. And I would pay SO MUCH THEORETICAL MONEY to see more of Hatsumomo’s story even if I loved Memoirs of a Geisha just the way it was.

Here is where I’d love to get some good, honest-to-God conversation going. Do you like stories whose main characters are a darker shade of gray? If so, how is it done successfully? Do all the characters have to be bad (a hero-less story) and the main character just has to be the most likeable, relatable baddie?

On that note, what do you think makes a villain likeable or relatable enough that readers or viewers can enjoy them or want to spend time with them despite their actions? Which character traits are inexcusable? What was the difference between villains you may have been rooting for just a teensy bit and villains you couldn’t wait to see go down in flames?

I’ve just now realized what’s wrong with Untitled P.O.S. Damn it.

Anyway, I’d like to hear from my readers! I know how I feel about villains, but whether you’re a writer, reader, runner, baker, or candlestick maker, I’d like to hear your opinion on the subject. Even if you don’t have a theory on the subject as a whole, I’m really interested to know who your favorite villain is and what makes them great.

I was on vacation in Spain! Not really.

I have been working on this blog post for weeks. WEEKS. I started some kind of “top 10 characters!” list four times. I tried to find a recently-written excerpt that didn’t make me cringe. There was enough failing going on that one might call it epic failing. I’ve never been a fast writer, but up until this, blog posts have only taken me between two and four hours to put together. I attribute that to a combination of my nit-pickiness and all those distractions I can’t resist, but this is different. If I change tense a few times in this post, it’s because I feel like this is still going on even as I type these very words rather than being a thing of the past.

This has not been a matter of hemming and hawing over my diction or an inability to stay away from Buzzfeed for longer than 30 seconds. It doesn’t even have to do with the fact that it’s been a perfect 70 degrees and sunny lately. This is the utter doldrums. I just have nothing to say.

I think it started when I had one of those paralytic, I-think-this-is-worthless-shit-why-am-I-even-bothering moments regarding Untitled P.O.S. I say “had” like it came and it went but it’s still going on. I should soldier through my doubt and just finish it (it’s only 20K words, for Pete’s sake), right?

Right?

I don’t know.

I’m not one of those people who believe a story is worth something just because someone put time, energy, and love into it. I’ve read plenty of things people have put their best efforts and purest intentions into that have also been complete crap. I’ve never handed anyone back a piece and said, “I think you should go into construction instead,” but I’ve thought it. Cruel? Yeah. But my best friend just sent me a text saying she saw a crow kill a little songbird and start eating it. It’s just a cruel world.

My point is, I don’t want to be taken in by my own fantasies of writing a great story. I don’t want to another person who pours their soul into a book just so a better writer or thinker can tear it to shreds. I’m not afraid of criticism, but I am afraid of writing something that is legitimately, utterly worthless. I’m not afraid to bleed a little in my writing, but it’s hard to make that commitment when you have the sneaking suspicion your characters and themes will do nothing but alienate readers. And even worse, I can’t tell if I’m being the world’s gloomiest, most cynical pessimist, or if I’m just showing good judgment for once.

People are always willing to rush to my defense (against myself) and say, “You’re a good writer! You’re too hard on yourself! You’re overly critical!” I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I already know I can string a sentence together more or less correctly. I can probably put a few of them together and make a paragraph. But that doesn’t mean I have a good story. A grammatically correct story doesn’t equal one worth telling.

I don’t say any of this to suggest anyone should adopt my mindset. It’s crippling and unproductive and generally no fun whatsoever. I say it as a preview to the following revelation and most excellent advice.

*dramatic pause* *slow-motion blink* *dawn breaks over the mountains*

Wait. I don’t have any.

I’m still in the damn doldrums, and beyond that, I’m still not sure whether to keep on this story or look for a new one. How do writers know when to rewrite and edit and rewrite some more and when to start fresh? When do you admit you’ve bitten off more than you can chew and start over with a simple hero or heroine? When do you abandon ship? Is the fact that I’m unsure if the story is worth writing a sign that it isn’t?

Well, anyway. That’s where I’m at. That’s where I’ve been for this long hiatus from the blog. I don’t plan on taking any more breaks in the near future (then again, I didn’t plan this one), but with school starting up again soon I’m thinking it’ll be one post a week. So if I don’t post anything by next Friday, somebody yell at me!

One last thing: I know this is a grumpy-sounding post that doesn’t contribute any positivity to the world. Here is an absurdly fluffy kitteh to clear the air.

Look at how happy and unburdened by bad storytelling she is!

IT’S LIKE SHE’S WEARING LITTLE FLUFFY PANTALOONS. OH LORD.

The return of the half-assed writer person

I’m baaaaaaack!

This is the longest I’ve been away from the blog since I started it. I don’t have any good reasons for my absence but I have some pretty bad excuses, e.g. “I can’t think of anything worthwhile to write about” or “I just don’t feel like it.”

That pretty much sums up my mood this past week. The things I’ve wanted to write, that have come bustling into my mind saying, “’Scuse me, I need to be written right now, immediately,” have not been blog posts or book chapters. I’ve piddled around with some personal things that I think are well-written but too personal to share, I’ve played with my horse (and other horses), I’ve gone running, and I’ve halfheartedly worked on the Untitled P.O.S. You may have noticed that I added a word count meter for said P.O.S. in the sidebar and that I’m quite behind schedule.

So yes, it has been slow, unproductive, uninspired going. If you believe that the only way to write is to sit down and write as much as you can every day, then I have failed quite miserably. However, I don’t feel like I’ve failed. My word count may not be rocketing up like the temperature has been lately, but I’ve learned quite a bit about myself as a writer.

Plotting: consider me converted

The first thing I’ve realized is that all my plotting has paid off. The plotting is the best thing past me ever did for present me. Without my outline this project would be dead in the water, because when I don’t feel like writing, I really don’t feel like writing on the fly. Nothing is more intimidating to unmotivated me than not knowing what’s going to happen next, let alone figuring out how to write it. It feels like I’m building a bridge as I’m trying to cross it. Or something. Whatever. Anyway, sitting down to an outline rather than a blank page gives me a sense of security and confidence, and I think that improves my writing.

If you put enough snowflakes on a roof, it caves in.

I use “even” way too much. I used “even if,” “even now,” and “even then” in the same paragraph. It seems like a small thing, but small things add up. I notice repetitive diction when I’m reading stuff other people wrote, so I’m glad I caught this one fairly early on. Hopefully it will keep me alert for other noticeably repetitive phrases that may crop up.

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

I struggle with this. I aspire to this. How many words are enough? How many are too many? This paragraph is exposition; is that inherently bad? If I were a better writer, would I say this differently? It’s a nagging insecurity, but I think it’s kept me vigilant and aware of describing things to death. My slow writing pace this time around has allowed me to consider my words more carefully.

Put me in the mood, baby.

Another thing I’ve learned is just how super duper important my playlist of “mood music” is. I chose the songs to help me get in the frame of mind necessary to write my characters, and it has been invaluable when I’m begrudgingly sitting down to write. Some of them are “Adrian songs,” some of them are “Leila songs,” and some of them just capture the general overtones of the story. If you have any interest in listening, it’s over there in the sidebar.

 The puzzle is done, but I still have these pieces.

I’ve realized that I don’t have to put every single detail of back story in the book. I have probably thought out almost every single detail and I do think my characters’ lives leading up to the actual story are pretty interesting, but they’re not necessarily…necessary. The temptation is to shoe-horn them in because I’m so cool for thinking up intriguing back stories and I want everyone to know how cool I am. Because I am extremely cool.

Well, that’s that. For now, at least. I’m sure by the end of this project I’ll have learned lots more fun things about my writing and I will bless all of you by sharing all of them in my infinite writerly wisdom and coolness. Aren’t you excited?

For lack of a better title, [insert Latin phrase here]

Things I am good at: talking to cats, annoying my brother, discussing the finer points of Tom Hardy, remembering exact quotes.

Things I am bad at: being sensitive and empathetic, returning texts promptly, cooking, thinking of titles.

Today I’m going to talk about titles, because that’s what’s annoying me right this very second. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m working on a novella this month. I’ve posted an excerpt from it, and as of right now it’s labeled “Untitled P.O.S.” It is so called because I struggle with titles.

At this point in time, I shouldn’t be stressing over the title of this project. I should be fussing over actually writing the thing. While I am most certainly fussing over the writing, its lack of a name is nagging at me. If nothing else I’d like to have a working title; at least that way I could stop calling it “that piece of shit” because how is anyone supposed to differentiate it from the other untitled pieces of shit I’ve written?

This certainly isn’t the first time a title has been a significant distraction to me. Back when I was writing my failed NaNo project (notice that’s become an unofficial title) I called it Inferos. “Inferos” is a Latin word and, according to the ABSOLUTELY INFALLIBLE Google translator, it means “hell.” Before settling on that, I was scrawling title ideas on everything; napkins, sticky notes, other people’s foreheads, wherever. It drove me nuts to open a file named “something_something_Idunno_draft1.” When “inferos” popped up, I thought it fit. Heaven, hell, and lots of other religious themes were present (by “present” I mean “sledge-hammered in the reader’s face”) in the story, so the language and the meaning of the word seemed logical. I also liked the look and sound of the word, as I do many Latin words.

After “winning” NaNo, I had the fantastic opportunity in the form of a free consultation with The Book Doctors (Arielle Eckstut and David Henry Sterry). I had already purchased and read a good portion of their book (I seriously can’t tell you how insanely helpful this is to an unpublished writer hoping to get published), so when it came time for my consultation I thought I had a pretty good handle on the situation. After we talked about my pitch, David kindly told me what I needed to hear: The title was bad. It wouldn’t tell the prospective buyer or reader anything unless they knew Latin, which practically nobody does. Even if they did, it was vague to say the least.

If you think that’s the end of Carly’s adventures in dead languages, think again. When I wrote the short story that spawned my current project, I called it Veritas without a moment’s hesitation. The idea of truth is a strong element, the main family motto is in Latin, and it was 5 a.m. so I didn’t even give a rat’s ass. However, I knew the title wasn’t there to stay. Once I started planning the novella, I mentally unnamed it.

And that brings us to now. I still don’t have a name for it.

Obviously I’m not going to die if I don’t think of a title right now immediately ten minutes ago. If I had really had my priorities straight I would let it go untitled until such time as I actually needed a title or one appeared from the story itself, but nothing I’ve written on this blog suggests I’ve got my priorities straight and I’m certainly not going to start now.

At this point, I’d like to ask something a little more specific than “Hey hey hey, whaddaya guys think about titles?” because we all know titles are important and blah blah, great stuff, Carly. I would like to ask my readers about the title of my book. Something like, “If you saw these three titles on the shelf, which would you choose and why?” I would also like to do a book giveaway.

Hint, hint.

The only problem is, I don’t know how to connect those two yet. Thankfully, I have a team of experts working on it (or something), so with any luck I’ll have some kind of a naming contest/giveaway going on in short order.

In the meantime, do feel free to share your thoughts on titles, fonts, colors, page numbers, dead languages, et all ad nauseam. See what I did there?

Now just give me fifteen minutes to think of a title for this post.

Excerpt: The Snowman

This excerpt is quite old and the larger project it belongs to languishes in a folder along with my other abandoned, unfinished works. I think I probably did an awful job conveying a male perspective but the dynamic could’ve been interesting. I may resurrect Adam for something else.

“I dunno, I guess he’s an albino or something?”

“I really don’t give a damn what color he is, Rich. What do his stats look like? Skill set? Experience? Language? Other potentially useful bits of information?”

The secretary shrugged. “I didn’t get a file.”

“Didn’t get a file? What is this, summer camp? No, actually, even the kiddies at summer camp have a file, even if it only says they’re allergic to nuts. But nothing on the guy who’s supposed to help me catch a war criminal? I’m about to lose my shit.”

“Well maybe you better lose it after you meet with Dr. Pearce. She’s been waiting.”

“Yeah, well that’s the least she can do.”

Rich only shrugged again, and Brad stormed down the hallway to the doctor’s dark, wooden door. He rapped three times, heard her lilting, sing-song, “Come in!” and twisted the door knob so hard that the metal squeaked in protest.

“Dr. Pearce, I am fully aware that you are in charge of this agency and you have the right to do whatever you want, but as a member of this team I just have to say I’m incredibly insulted at how—”

Brad very nearly bit through his tongue as the door slammed behind him and his eyes registered the figure slouched in the chair in the far corner of the room.

He was white all right, but he was not albino. He was all white. Whiter than the average line of coke. Whiter than Brad’s grandma’s porcelain tea set. Whiter than the core of a lightning bolt. From his lips to his ears to the roots of his cropped hair there was not the barest hint of color; not a single touch of human pink, not one blue vein, not a solitary dark hair. His snowy eyelashes framed eyes that were as blank as paper except for the dark, inky slits of the pupils.

Brad was aware that he had allowed a choked gasp of horror to escape him and now the sound seemed to be echoing around the room. He knew he was staring but he couldn’t stop his eyes from darting back and forth and up and down over the white face as they tried to make sense of the picture before him. He realized he was backed up against the door, his hands behind him and clutching the door knob, but he couldn’t bring himself to step away.

If the white man was offended he didn’t show it. The glance he gave Brad showed no curiosity or anger or any other discernible human emotion, and after a few seconds he looked down at his hands.  His long fingers and china-white fingernails looked absurdly bright against the deep red fabric of his shirt.

Dr. Pearce, hair as blond and lipstick as pink as ever, was scribbling something down and didn’t appear to have looked up at all. “Mr. Ortega, while I realize Mr. Varrow’s first impression is somewhat startling, I had hoped you would have the decency not to act like a schoolgirl.”

Brad opened and closed his mouth. Opened it, closed it. He saw the white man looking between Dr. Pearce and himself, only the flickering movement of the pupils betraying him. Brad sorted through the questions pin-balling through his brain and realized that, since Dr. Pearce had referred to the white man as “Mr. Varrow” and not “it” or “the robot” or “the alien ambassador,” none of them could safely be considered appropriate. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Dr. Pearce raised her head from her scribbling and gave him a look that suggested he drown himself in the nearest toilet. The white man waited.

“Varrow?” Brad finally said. “As in, Varrow Enterprises? I wasn’t aware Mr. Arnold Varrow had a, um…a…” Dr. Pearce’s pink fingernails were tapping impatiently on her desk. “…any living relatives.”

“He hasn’t,” Dr. Pearce said, rising from her desk. “But this is his company’s project. Mr. Varrow, this is Mr. Ortega, who is far more competent than he presents himself.”

Brad felt something like panic rising in his throat as the white man stood. What did she expect them to do, shake hands?

But the white man clasped his hands behind his back and simply stood, his shirt stretching tight over his muscular shoulders and chest. He knew Brad didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want to move an inch closer to him, and Brad imagined he saw pity in the impassive white face.

He marched across the room, hand outstretched like a jousting lance, and stopped a few feet from the stranger. Even at Brad’s six feet the white man had a couple inches on him, but he was close enough now to see the barely discernible looping pattern of the eyes’ colorless irises.

“Brad,” he said brusquely. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The white man took the proffered hand; Brad couldn’t stop himself from blinking when he made contact, but the white hand felt like any other human hand.

“Adam,” he said. His voice was deeper than Brad expected but otherwise unmemorable. What stuck was the flash of chalk-white tongue behind his teeth.

To write or not to write? Thoughts on the Beautiful Game

Sometimes it seems like athletes and writers were meant to be enemies. There are positive and negative stereotypes attached to both kinds of people and they all seem to work toward defining athletes and writers—maybe I should just say “creative types”—as opposites. We’re all about the reading and they’re all about the running and if we believe the clichés, there is no middle at which we can meet.

Of course, some of the clichés are true and some are not. Some writers might be even more arrogant than some athletes and some athletes may actually be better at writing than some people who call themselves writers. And of course, you’ll find different kinds of people at different levels of quality; professional athletes in Europe are different than high school players in America and Chuck Palahniuk (← spelled that right on the first try. Congratulate me.) is different than E.L. James. There isn’t time or space to talk about all these variations, so I won’t discuss my feelings about some college athletes or the NFL or the NBA (I abhor them), but rather focus on the positive (I will not make a habit of this).

My immediate family members are all football fans, and when I say football, I mean what EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD calls football and the U.S. insists on calling soccer because NO GOOD REASON. My dad has been a Liverpool F.C. supporter since 1974 and I think his happiest Christmas was when we bought him everything Liverpool since he would never buy it for himself. What my younger brother lacks in years he makes up for in enthusiasm; he could tell you the life story of every single one of the current Liverpool players and I’m fairly certain he cried after Jamie Carragher’s final game this year. My mother and sister are supporters by default and I broke the mold by being a Chelsea fan (talk about family tension).

Before anyone gets the idea that I’m trying to pass myself off as a legitimate enthusiast, let me say my piece. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t have a thorough understanding of the game; sure, I understand the rules and I can recognize when something was brilliant or awful, but rarely can I pick out what would’ve been the best pass or the best run. I don’t have the most knowledge of the players; I can keep track of my team and my favorites and the big names, but that’s about it. I obviously don’t have a “real” connection to any particular European team; I live in the middle of nowhere in New York, so there is no home team. As far as playing the game myself, I have zero skills.

But I love it. I love it with the unadulterated, awestruck kind of love that comes not from knowing the most or being the best but from appreciating something on the purest, most instinctual level and feeling it resonate with millions of other souls. It’s the best sport in the world.

Now is probably the part where some people would like to put forth a defense for American football or even baseball and that’s fine, but I’ve been on this rollercoaster a few times before, kids. The argument usually boils down to “You’re American so you should like the NFL you’re stupid and I hate you go live in Europe.” I know my readers are smarter than this and if any of you would like to offer your own sports experiences, I will read and consider them thoughtfully. I just won’t be convinced.

Because what sport has what football has? What other sport has such a deep root in so many cultures and peoples around the world? What sport better combines strength with grace, dazzling, delicate touches of skill with intense physicality? What other sport has such a long, rich, and diverse history?

Yes, football has its sordid moments. There are cocky players and crooked presidents. There’s diving and awful dirty tackles and sometimes the refs are just the worst things ever, but these moments only add to the mystique. How could a writer not love football? Where else in real life will you find such a cast of heroes and villains, masters and underdogs, battle-scarred legends and raw, creative newcomers? Only in football have I watched a complete stranger’s excruciating fall from grace play out right before my eyes. Only in football have I seen a tall, dark, achingly handsome hunk of Portuguese slamma-jamma sex appeal considered second-best to a scampering little Argentinean with a funny haircut and questionable fashion sense. Only in football have I seen the real agony and heartbreak of defeat in the unabashed tears of grown men. Only in football have I seen absurd, arrogant brilliance juxtaposed with the quiet, steady strength of selflessness.

The irony of all this is that I’m too scared to write about it. Other than this clumsy mess of a post, I’m too intimidated by football to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.

“I don’t really see the point,” I say to myself. “What can I possibly say with words? How can I possibly do more justice to the sport than those crystal-clear, extra-super-mega-high definition slo-mo shots that capture every rippling muscle and bulging tendon and bead of sweat clinging to eyelashes? What can I say that can compare to being there in that stadium and feeling 50,000 people surge up in delight or rock back in horror?”

I suppose at this point I could pretend I know the answer and come up with some bullshit that sounds, I dunno, wise. I won’t, though. Part of me thinks I need to get it out of my system, that I need to research and write and work and craft until I come up with something I would be proud to hand somebody. “That’s what football’s all about,” I could say. But part of me thinks I need to do the exact opposite, to let it go and stay undefined in my own head rather than confined by the shape of the letters and the sound of the words.

What about you? Is there something you’d like to write about but haven’t, either out of fear or respect? Is there a sport or an art or anything else that’s captured your imagination? Is there a genre you’ve wanted to tackle but is so far outside your knowledge base that the sheer amount of research you’d have to do is overwhelming? I’d love to hear about it.

Picture courtesy of 9gag.com Have you ever seen anything so wonderful?

Photo courtesy of 9gag.com.