Wipeout!

From a young age we're told not to do it. It's rude. It's mean. It's hurtful. Yet there's nothing better than laughing at other people getting hurt. Look at the brilliant TV show Wipeout! for example. Each week brings another round of slightly insane contestants whose bodies contort into shapes I never even knew existed. Whether it is a rib-cracking collision into one of the sweeping arms or a face-plant into the classic big red balls, the show doesn’t disappoint when it comes to wince-inducing entertainment at another person’s expense. Despite the evident agony expressed by the contestants, I can’t keep from wanting to apply to be on the show. When I stop to ask myself why I would want to set myself up for certain suffering, no answer comes to mind. Sure, some of the obstacles look fun, but I can think of about a dozen easier ways to get physically assaulted. Yet every single person that appears on Wipeout! does so willingly.

This conundrum leaves me wondering if this is all part of the human condition. Consider it for a second. People have walked the earth for thousands of years, yet wars are still waged, mistakes are still made, and mankind still meddles in messy situations. In fact, much of our day-to-day distress is self-inflicted. I know that if I don’t wake up early and finish my work early, the rest of the day will be wasted. Yet I consistently hit the snooze button for an hour and a half, making life harder than it has to be. A person chooses to use a drug that leads to addiction, a thief steals knowing the cost of being caught, a swimmer ignores warning signs and takes a dip in dangerous waters. Self-inflicted pain is everywhere. Why haven’t we figured this out yet? Shouldn’t it be simple? Can’t we look at past experience and recognize the fundamental formula I like to call logic?

Pain = Bad

My guess is our world won’t figure it out any time soon. But don’t worry, until everyone finally gets it, the rest of us will be thoroughly entertained. Now, back to watching Wipeout!

Writing is like High School

A year after finishing the one-billionth draft of Aqua Veneficus, I am finally pitching it to agents. More than any novel I have written, I worked ceaselessly to make this book as perfect as I could. In many ways, I view it as containing my best writing, most complex characters, and most exciting plot. It is intense, fun, and difficult to put down. I have received positive feedback from about a dozen friends, family, and beta readers who took on the task of reading, editing, and reviewing it. Even my sister, the most honest person I know and one who despises reading fiction, finished it in just a few sittings and loved it. Add this to the positive results I have had in the past with querying agents on my previous two novels, I expected to receive a fair amount of interest in Aqua Veneficus. Yet fifteen agents into the process, and I have nothing to show for it except the standard form rejection and one request to read the full manuscript (which resulted in a rejection). Needless to say, these are by far the worst results I have had in querying agents.

To put it simply, I'm stumped, and I can't help feeling like I'm back in high school.

Standard form rejection from an agent: "Thank you for contacting me. Though I appreciate you taking the time to share your work with me, I don't feel your novel is right for my list at this time. I wish you the best of luck in finding an agent elsewhere."

Standard rejection from a girl:
"Thank you for contacting me. Though I appreciate you taking the time to ask me on a date, I don't feel you're right for me at this time. I wish you the best of luck in finding a girlfriend elsewhere."

The similarities are terrifying, and the regularity of both is depressing. Then again, I did trick someone into marrying me, so perhaps there's still hope.

Literary Constipation

After months of useless ideas falling flat on the screen, I think I have the early makings of my next novel. Of course, I thought the same four months ago when I spent five weeks writing half of a novel before ditching the effort. Needless to say, I hope this one is a keeper, and if it isn't, it better not take such a long time for me to realize it this time!

For a while I've been wanting to write a romance. I've also toyed with the idea of writing a literary story rather than fantasy, which all of my novels have been. One reason I sought out an idea for these stories was to provide more substance to my writing than simple entertainment. And though I am still taking into consideration any plot ideas that come to mind, I decided to stick with fantasy. Ultimately it came down to my goal. My goal is to write novels that encourage reluctant readers, especially teenage males, to pick up a book. I know very few teenage males who would want to read a romance or a literary novel. Thus, I decided to go with something creepy. And funny. And downright entertaining.

Or at least that's the plan!

Comedy is All Around Us

One reason I began this blog was to share the laughter being a 7th grade teacher brings me. Each day provides another slip of the tongue, embarrassing situation, or perfectly timed joke. Though I could bombard this blog with a hundred tales, I would like to share them sporadically, intermixed with other rants and raves and details on whatever writing brings.

The first story I would like to tell you is my signature story, my favorite tale of all. I share this one with my students when I know they need a good laugh, because to be frank, they love to laugh, especially when it involves laughing at me.

By about December of each year, my students figure out where I live. Sadly, it is anything but a mystery. And last year, it was downright blatant. One of last year’s students’ parents manages the apartment complex we live in. Creepy, right? To make matters worse: they live cattycorner to us. We’re upstairs, they’re downstairs.

Again, by winter of last year, the majority of my students knew this vital piece of information. In fact, I heard “Hi, Mr. Jacobs’ apartment!” on a frequent basis while watching TV. Well, one fine day in Academic Lab, one of my students decided to ask the question, “Have any of your students ever ding-dong ditched you?” Of course, my immediate thought was “we don’t have a doorbell.” Unfortunately, this is not how it came out. Instead, I said, quite proudly, “I don’t have a ding-dong!”

Needless to say, I backtracked faster than you can say “where’s the cream filling,” but it was too late. The damage was done. To this day, I still get, “Mr. Jacobs, I hear you don’t have a ding-dong!”

There’s a lesson to be learned in all of this. Several actually. First: think before you speak. Second: in order to survive as a teacher, you must be able to laugh at yourself. And finally: it’s time to invest in a doorbell.

A Man's First Blog Post

In many ways, a man's first blog post is like his first kiss.

#1 There is an unwarranted need for it to be perfect. I once spent a week planning my first kiss with a girl in high school. I spent over an hour making her lasagna and chocolate dipped strawberries. We sat out on the patio, listened to romantic music, and shared our first kiss beneath the stars. Romantic. A night that would not soon be forgotten. This made us soulmates, right? We broke up a couple of weeks later. She was too clingy. Oh, and she talked during movies. Nonstop. Star Wars had never been so annoying until that moment. And it wasn't even the one with Jar Jar Binks. I mean, really, does it matter if the first kiss is "everything you dreamed it would be?" Honestly, if you're setting yourself up for that, you're going to be let down. Besides, which of my zero blog followers is going to care if I drool a little?

#2 It's a mystery as to what others will think. Maybe it's just guys (or maybe just me!) but I used to try to read the girls' facial expression right after our first kiss. The post-kiss facial expression is vital to the relationship. It determines whether or not there will be a second kiss, tells you if you need a breath mint, or confirms your hope of becomming the god of kisses. Is her smile real or forced? Did she lick her lips or rub them on her sleeve? Is she gagging? The facial expression tells all.It's like a crystal ball, except you have to kiss it to discover the truth. And most of the time, you try again hoping for a better response, but it never comes. You can wipe the forced smile off your face now. Thanks.

#3 It's over as soon as it began. I'll call. Really. I will.