Today, the Cold Iron giveaway comes to an end. Ye Olde D6 of Fate has determined the following winners:
Nenad Ristic
M
Raine Barnes
Blair Turberfield
Mia
Congratulations! I will be contacting you individually to find out in what format you’d like your free copy of Cold Iron.
If you missed out on the giveaway, or didn’t realize I was even having one, don’t fret! The good news in the world of urban fantasy detective yarns doesn’t stop there.
For the next week, the price ofCold Ironis dropping to 99 cents.
This sale is happening on all three platforms: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords. It may take a bit for the big boys to catch up, but trust me, the price will stay there all week long. If you haven’t gotten a copy yet, now’s a great time!
Meanwhile this week has been very busy. Between the load at work, trying to maintain something resembling a workout routine, and looking for our next home, I’ve been struggling to carve out the time to work on Cold Streets. It’s like trying to get a cut of beef from a cow that’s still moving. Not that I would try to render an animal that’s still alive, that’s just mean and cruel. Anyway, I’ve been through patches like this before, and I’ll persevere. I have a goal in sight, and I’m going to reach it. Somehow.
I will admit to a measure of envy when it comes to professional gamers. To make a living doing nothing but playing video games, jetting from event to event, knowing my exploits are being televised or streamed for the entertainment of others as I accumulate wins and prize money: these are all appealing thoughts, to me. However, there are several factors outside of time for practice that would take away from things like writing that keep me from pursuing this particular goal.
First of all, professional gamers have to maintain a particularly intense mind set to really achieve success. This intensity, due to the nature of the games, has to come in short, brilliant bursts, as a single session of a video game can completely change things. I’d liken it to pro gamers being like sprinters, while other professionals like writers are more marathon runners. I don’t think there’s anything necessarily wrong with this mindset, and I can’t fault someone for having passion in pursuit of a dream, but it ties into something I’ll get to in a moment, something that holds me back from making the attempt to go pro.
Secondly, you have to stop looking at the game as just a game. You have to examine it from all fronts, determine a strategy for yourself that is tough to beat, and practice it over and over again so that when the time is right, you can execute what you do best as expediently as possible. I like to theorycraft, strategize, and exercise a tactical mindset from time to time, sure – Friday Night Magic and what surrounds it are good examples – but as much as that line of thought may be up my alley, it does mean that the game will cease being something I can just pick up and play, and would instead become part of a daily routine much like commuting to work or carving out time to write.
The third, final, and most important reason I will not ever be a pro gamer is that I don’t want the game to stop being fun.
Competitiveness in the course of a match is great. Theorycrafting to try something new and different engages my mind. Doing both every single day as a means towards making money seems, to me, like it would suck all the fun out of playing the game. Gaming has always been a stress reliever for me, and it’s only become a source of stress when I’ve lost sight of the fact that a game should be fun. It’s designed to be fun. And if I’m not having fun with a game, I should be able to take a break from it, play a different game, relax. I couldn’t do that as a professional gamer.
I could be exaggerating things, and maybe it’s not as bad as it seems from the outside. Some of my favorite people on the Internet make their living commentating and streaming games and gameplay, which seems much more attainable and maintains games as fun for the most part. But I still can’t see myself “going pro” any time soon. As much as one might like the idea of playing games all day long, a job is a job, and a job isn’t always fun.
Gaming isn’t fun when you lose, either, but I’d rather not have my paycheck get tied into whether or not I’m on tilt in League of Legends.
I’ve been trying to puzzle out where, exactly, the ‘little voice’ comes from. You know the one I mean. When we work, when we strain ourselves, when we step outside our comfort zones or make time for something significant, that’s when you hear it. It isn’t intrusive and it isn’t even all that whiny, but it’s always trying to discourage us.
The discouragement isn’t always malicious. At times, it can sound downright helpful. It will remind us of upcoming appointments that will keep us from reaching our projected end point. It will point out how much this set of joints is aching or how deep the burning sensation in our chest is going. It brings up mental images and passages from other works that play in the same fields we do and are already successful where we are still struggling. In the end, though, the message boils down to putting what we’re doing aside, stopping before we hurt ourselves… quitting.
It is, of course, a pack of lies.
Yes, there are only so many hours in the day. Yes, there are limits to what our bodies can do. But those limits only remain as long as they are not pushed. The hours in our day are not fixed; we can move things around to carve out the time we need to do what we want. It really is a case of mind over matter, of responding to the ‘little voice’ saying “Thanks, but no thanks, I got this.”
I’m still not entirely sure why we lie to ourselves in this way. We try to talk ourselves into not giving our all, not striving for our goals. We succeed in not straining ourselves, and in doing so, we set ourselves up for failure. Why any rational, sane human being would willingly do this is a mystery to me.
The best I can come up with (being a total amateur at this sort of thing) is that it’s a defense mechanism. The body and our perception of time and exterior influences generate reactions, and at times these reactions happen more quickly than our minds can fully process them. Think about it; I’m sure many a time you’ve looked back on yesterday and said, “Oh, I actually would have had time to do X if I had held off on doing Y.” We opt for the comfort and ease rather than delaying our satisfaction in order to move closer towards achieving a goal.
It’s the same sort of reaction that tries to get us to back off from physical exertion. If you’re ‘feeling the burn’ and trying to push yourself towards a goal – five more minutes, five more pounds, reaching the end of the block at a jogging pace rather than a walking one – your body will try and tell you that it’s more trouble than it’s worth. That it’s time to ratchet back a bit. Take a break. Go easier on yourself.
Since it’s inside your head, it isn’t impolite to tell that voice to fuck directly off.
Unless you’re in real danger of hurting yourself, unless you’re taking time away from truly important things like family or you’re in jeopardy if missing a deadline that could cost you a lucrative job, kick that little voice’s ass. Test your limits, to see if you can break them. Carve out the time you need, in bloody chunks if you have to. The envelope is there to be pushed – push the hell out of it.
It’s easier said than done, I know. But when you’re in the moment, when you’re on the cusp of achieving something or reaching a goal, and you start to feel that little voice tickling your mental ear, that’s when you engage your mind and simply say, “No. I will not lie to myself. I will get this done. I can rest after it’s over.”
And no matter what the cost is, you’ll feel better in the long run.
We’re not entirely sure why director Tony Scott took his own life. There was a rumor involving inoperable brain cancer, but his family has said he did not have that condition, nor any other major medical problems they knew of. Still, a great light has gone out in the world of cinematic storytelling. While some filmmakers play it safe, Tony Scott wasn’t afraid to go odd places and do interesting things.
Take True Romance, for example. An ambling and pulpy tale of drugs, sleaze, the road, and (yes) romance, he presents the quirks of the characters and the odd circumstances of the story as baldly as possible. While it’s clearly a Tarantino script, Scott’s direction actually reigns in that manic energy and channels it in such a way that it mounts towards the climax, rather than spewing all over the place (e.g. Kill Bill). With a great cast, interesting score, and a whip-fast pace, it’s a fun little movie sure to be enjoyed.
Crimson Tide, along with Hunt for Red October, actually made me consider a career as a submariner. What could have been a military hardware wankfest in the hands of Michael Bay becomes a tense, character-driven thriller on the specter of nuclear war in the modern age. Despite being made in 1995, the story is set up so that the villain in a foreign land with weapons of mass destruction is ultimately superfluous. The film focuses on the isolated nature of these sailors, and the tension between Gene Hackman and Denzel Washington virtually crackles through the air. It’s a fantastic film, one of my favorites, and it really cemented in my mind a deep-seated loathing for James Gandolfini. I’m sure he’s a decent guy in person, I’ve just hated every single character he’s ever played.
Speaking of Denzel, Scott directed him in two other films I’ve seen and enjoyed: Man on Fire and Deja Vu. You don’t often see movies set in Mexico City, but that setting is perfect for Man on Fire. Instead of tension, this time we see a rapport building between Denzel’s character and Dakota Fanning, who is shockingly good in this film. Once the second act begins after the slow-burn build of the first, it’s an edge-of-your-seat ride. The things Denzel’s character does to get what he wants are fairly brutal and thorough. Before Taken, Man on Fire was the go-to template for films of honorable if flawed men doing whatever it takes for the sake of an innocent child.
Finally, there’s Deja Vu. It may not be Scott’s strongest film, but it’s still compelling in its storytelling and fascinating in its premise. A detective drama that becomes a treatise on time travel is certainly not something you see every day. While it has its flaws and hiccups, the concept is sold incredibly well, between Denzel’s straightforward approach to the problem to Adam Goldberg’s flippant and funny remarks on the super-science to Paula Patton’s performance, which is mostly just a presence for the first half of the film. I think it’s a bit underrated, and while it’s not perfect, it’s still a good film.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Top Gun so I can’t really comment on that. I also need to watch Domino, Enemy of the State, Unstoppable, and The Hunger. I know, I know, my vampire cred is going to suffer because I haven’t yet seen The Hunger front to back, but trust me, I’m definitely going to correct that. I can’t think of a better way of remembering Tony Scott than enjoying his films as much as I can, now and for the rest of my life.
It’s amazing how much anonymity one gains in a prison when there’s a riot in progress.
It didn’t take much to set it off. Even from the inside, Don Forli still had a lot of pull, and a lot of guys wanted a piece of his action. When he ended up in the infirmary, the lines got drawn between camps pretty quickly. But youon’t subscribe to either one. You’re done with this squabbling and scheming long ago.
Five years you’ve been waiting. You didn’t act against Don Forli directly. That wouldn’t have worked out. It was just a matter of time before somebody else got this started. Besides, you’d always been cut from a different cloth. You’re not a gangster, and being a murderer was never an aspiration of yours.
What should have been a clear-cut case of self-defense became something else when your wife revealed she’d been having an affair with the man you found in your home. Suddenly, the jury saw jealous rage. Next thing you knew, the judge was slamming his gavel after handing down a 15-20 year sentence, parole possible in ten. As soon as you got here, and heard about Don Forli’s dodgy health and spoke with some of the other inmates, the plan began to take shape.
When Don Forli got laid up, you still waited. Waited until your rotation through the infirmary, changing bed sheets and bed pans and any of the other shit work the actual medical professionals didn’t want to deal with. Those same professionals weren’t present in the room when you found the syringe. Some Windex was kept in the supply closet to keep the windows clean. You did the math.
One faction accused another and now, here you are, in the middle of a riot. Sirens are blaring. Guards are calling for reinforcements. Hardened criminals are going at it with shivs, broken chair legs, teeth, and bare fists. You are trying to avoid most of the fighting. Your focus is not on who becomes the next Don or whatever. Your focus is on the plan. Stick to the plan.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Guard Baldwin, right on time. He’s about your size, patrols your cell block, and has a nasty disposition. He loves to call you and your fellow inmates ‘abominations’ when rape happens in here. He also talks about how he can’t wait for ‘that gay black Muslim’ to not be President anymore. You’re his favorite captive audience, and probably the only one that will listen to him because you’re locked up.
“Away. From you, specifically.”
“Easy there, fag, I don’t want to take you away from your boyfriend-”
You wait for him to get close before you take his club and smash his throat with it.
He drops and you drag him to one side of the corridor. The rioting isn’t as bad here, and you’re left relatively alone. Good thing, too, because if your ‘buddies’ saw you stripping Baldwin, they might think you were after some revenge. But you’ll leave that for others.
In moments, you have his uniform on, and have left him bound, hands behind his back, with a rope made from bedsheets. His ass is in the air, and you put a sign in his hands for all to see: HAVE FUN.
Just in time, too: here comes the tear gas.
Baldwin had a handkerchief in his pocket. You cover your mouth and nose, pull your hat down low, and try to head towards the incoming cops in riot gear. You push, shove, and occasionally beat your way through the crowd, which is now going berserk as inmates either try to find shelter from the gas or take the opportunity for some cheap shots on someone they really don’t like. Finally, you feel strong hands on your shoulders, and for a very brief, very frightening moment, you fear the jig is up.
The hands pull you behind the mask-wearing cops, a mask is shoved on you, and you’re helped back towards the entrance. Someone tells you there’s a medic that will check you out. You struggle to remain standing, grab onto your new friend, mutter something about an injury. When you collapse, you don’t pass out, but you keep your eyes closed and your breathing steady as they haul you out to the ambulance.
They put you on the gurney and start checking you out. Opening one eye, you see a cop standing by you as the EMTs take basic readings and ready an IV. Before they can get it in, you sit up, grab the cop’s gun, and smack the guy with it. The EMTs have their hands up immediately. They’re professionals, so they don’t panic at the sight of a loaded gun being pointed at them.
“Drive. We’re leaving.”
They get a few blocks from the prison before you take money from one of their wallets, tell them to look after the cop, and hoof it. You’re in half a guard uniform (meaning itchy slacks and uncomfortable shoes), it’s cold as balls out here, but you’re out.
You walk out of a thrift store with a new shirt before anybody can stop you, and the bus takes you towards home. You think you have maybe two hours before roadblocks go up and they catch up with you.
They’ll be able to put it together, too. Every week, you’ve been getting the letters. Every week, you receive a new drawing, mostly crayon etchings of the house, or a new pet, or some other event. But now and again, you see an angry face, a male face that isn’t yours. Every once in a while, when she thinks he won’t see it before her mother mails it, she writes in the jagged letters of an eight year old, “He’s hurting us.”
You know you have no right to go there. You may be just as bad as whomever this man is.
But if he’s hurting your girls, you’re gonna hurt him right back.
