It rains. A lot.

[Micah is in an undisclosed location, writing and stuff. Little Wolk goes off on owls]

Little Wolk here. Picture this—Zack Snyder, director of “300″ and “Dawn of the Dead,” pitches an idea to Warner Bros.:

Zack:  ”Oh man, you guys are gonna love this.  You’re just gonna love it.  Okay, so there’s this legendary group of warriors who protect civilians.  No one really knows if they exist or are simply mythical, but one day, this heroic guy who truly believes in them decides HE wants to join their ranks.  He practices fighting and protecting, and it turns out that not only do the warriors exist, but there’s some sort of crisis and together they fight off the bad guys and save the day.”

Warner Bros. Exec: “Sure.  Sounds good.”

Zack:  ”Great!  Oh yeah.  There’s just one more thing.”

WB Exec:  ”What is it?”

Zack:  ”They’re all owls.”

Ladies and gentlemen, we are officially scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas.  This is an actual movie.  Granted, it’s based on a series of books [a series that has some readers miffed about a Christian agenda; I confess ignorance], but come on.  Even the name is ridiculous and pretentious for a film about fighting owls, “Legend of the Guardians–The Owls of Ga’Hoole.”

Here’s the trailer. On the 4th viewing, when your brain starts to accept that it’s NOT a joke, be on the lookout for the following:

- An abundance of slow motion scenes with flapping owl wings and feathers

- Owls with evil red eyes

- Owls wearing bronze masks (to protect beaks/disguise their identity)

- The absurdity of talking owls with moving lips who speak with an Australian accent (sidenote, Owl Lips would make a great band name)

- Owls with longer eyelashes than Audrey Hepburn

- That one sagacious owl who is either standing on burning coals or smelling them

- The pivotal “owl holding a teakettle of fire” scene

What adds to my incredulity is that they’ve also chosen a 30 Seconds to Mars song to play in the background of the trailer. As if warrior owls wasn’t enough of a farce, they threw in Jared Leto’s band. And what is with 3D?  Is it really necessary?  I have yet to meet anyone who claims it enhances their movie-watching experience (I’m not counting Avatar here since that’s its own separate entity) [I will, because Avatar is Dances With Wolves set in a future where everyone is forced to recite lines from a bad script].  I’m guessing at the 3D showings of LOTG – TOOG’H [an even better band name than Owl Lips] there will be a lot of viewers swatting owls away from their faces.

[Little Wolk is all growns up and has posted her first...er, post. Before I get back to the shed I'll secretly comment on her self-described inane ramblings. Then I really must go. No, seriously.]

Hi there.  I’m Little Wolk.  I can only assume I’ve earned this epithet by being a gargantuan five feet tall, but it’s catchy (and true) so I’m cool with it.  In fact, here is me looking both Little and Wolk-y.

A bunch of correspondence today. Random, cranky, what have you. Must be the heat.

Hello Sir,

We met briefly at the Comic-Con. You were speaking with someone at the IDW table, I was an artist waiting to pitch you an idea. Unfortunately you had to run, but you were kind enough to give me your email and I though I’d lost it. Two items: 1. Will you be at the Comic-Con this year? 2. Do you have any interest in steampunk? Specifically, Gibson-type storylines.

Respectfully,

G. Patel

Sadly I will not be attending the CC this year. I’ll wait until I have something to sell–not that being an observer wasn’t fun (it was great), but it’s a haul from the right coast, and I spent way too much on original artwork, and I’m saving the trip for next year (if all goes well on the Scudder front). Also, I was so clearly a Boston chap that I cringe a little when remembering my dark suit. Surrounded by costumed superheroes (Snake Eyes, Rorschach, etc.) I wore a Hugo Boss ensemble and sweated my way from table to table, looking like…well, like a guy who just flew in from Boston.

As for the steampunk, I have waning interest in that genre. I find the concept cooler than the execution (shades of Lovecraft), and a bit too Victorian, and Moore does it better than anyone.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m irradiating myself. Hours spent in bed, laptop propped over my crotch. That can’t be healthy, right?

Micah,

Are you going to see the remake of Let the Right One In? I remember you posting something about that movie, and how you thought it was fantastic. What are your thoughts on remakes?

P.S. How goes the Yiddish?

P.P.S. What type of dog is Scout?

P.P.P.S. What’s the deal with fat Elvis?

Best,

Caroline

So I insisted Let the Right One In was one of the best horror films I’ve seen. It still is. It’s remake? I have little interest. Why? Because it’s a remake of a very recent film, and the few snippets I’ve seen look…what’s that phrase…on the nose. Obvious dialogue, obvious acting. The film may end up being good, but the original was excellent, so why bother with a reboot? So I don’t have to read subtitles?

I have no opinion on remakes. If they improve a lousy film, great. If they re-invent a classic (as in Carpenter’s The Thing), even better. If they merely echo a recent movie, however…wait, didn’t I just give an opinion? Several, in fact? Brian Jenkins asked if there’s any topic I don’t have an opinion of. This after my rant on what’s wrong with the color periwinkle (too much violet).

Yiddish is going slowly. So slowly. Reading it aloud, I find it impossible to not add that lilting uptick to every last word, as if forever asking questions. Fat Elvis? Are you asking what is the deal with Elvis becoming fat? Or is this a question about the cover? As to the former, he was raised in near-poverty, constantly beset by hunger. So when the man became rich, food became comfort.

I cannot believe how much heat a tiny laptop generates. It might also be the 90 degree temp, creating a perfect firestorm over my crotch. Must move to kitchen table…must stop irradiating genetic material…

Ahh. Better. Last email. A weird one.

Nathan,

I hope finds you well. Please answer this debate with my girlfriend: Which is better, to be scared or to be angry?

Want to know!

This has such a spam syntax to it that I was searching for Cialis ads along the bottom. Non-native English speaker? Perhaps. Bored troll having a laugh? Maybe. But there’s something authentic about the question. It’s both inane and terrific; I mean, scared of what? and angry at what? Do specifics even matter? I’ll bite: I think being scared is better.

Two young boys were sledding one wintry afternoon. After screaming down the hill, flying off their sleds, and crashing into a shrub, the first boy looked to the second and asked: “Were you scared?”

“No,” the second boy said.

“Then you must not have been having fun,” the first boy said. “Because I was really scared.”

How very true.

P.S. Almost forgot—Scout is a German Shorthaired Pointer.

So I managed to get something out of all this academic writing: an essay on David Mamet’s Speed The Plough. It’s not going to win any awards or be cited in future critiques of his work, but at least it’s found some online permanence. The massive theater database Total Theater added my piece to their archives. Now, there are some formatting issues, some missing footnotes, etc., but you can find the full version on my site. Or visit Total Theater. Or do neither.

I find myself missing school these days. The fickle bastard does not disappoint—I complained about how it took time away from writing, now I long for the structure. Did you see this coming? I did. The year is past. I have a desk filled with short fiction and an unwillingness to do anything with it. I had lunch with a (former) classmate and while sitting across from her, watching her pick away at a slice of pizza, I realized how quickly eras become dream-like.  The pretext for our meeting was gone; hours earlier I’d been sitting alone in the student union, munching on a bag of almonds, visiting campus for no good (or bad) reason. None of it seemed real. By “real” I mean a part of any grand, linear narrative—school remained separate from my personal life, thus occupying its own timeline. There was class, and there was my home. There was school writing, and my own writing. There were my school friends, and my “real life” friends.

False distinctions? Perhaps. Common among older students? Perhaps. Whatever the case, it all seems like a dream. Now I sit in my living room once more, gazing out the window at the sprinkler on my neighbor’s lawn. Nostalgia doesn’t feel accurate. It’s more like…malinconia.

Tibor Nemeth said photo shoots are weird. He’s right.

Yesterday I sat for my author photo, courtesy of the aforementioned Tibor. It wasn’t a terrible time—thanks to Tibor, he of the Lance Armstrong/Michael Jordan/Tiger Woods photo shoots—but still. I kept reminding myself to relax and breathe and think about something other than the camera. A Buddhist monk said to try not thinking about an elephant, and see where that gets you; I should’ve thought about an elephant.

So it continues to rain, good for the thirsty veggies in our garden but bad for tomatoes. We found a rotting mouse in the basement, jaw agape, fur scattered—Gothic undertones are in abundance these days. Holliston is soaked, the skies are a pewter wash, and Scout lies in his bed, gazing at the backyard.

“How’s summer school?” goes a few of your emails, and I’m happy to report summer school is nearly finished. I have two books in the pipeline: JTB, in need of edits and restructuring, and book #4, in need of another 200 pages. The Matt Scudder graphic novel project—there, I’ve spilled the beans; yes, that Matt Scudder, from Lawrence Block’s long-running series—is in the hands of a publisher. Larry and I await word.

Thirty-six is turning out to be a strange year. I feel ageless in some sense, and told Rachel that my loyalties are slipping away. By that I mean anything hinting of favoritism—to country, religion, ideology—seems wrong, and repulsive, and deserves to be shed like an old skin. I suspect this is the result of my existential un-mooring a few months back. A quest to slice away bias, perhaps, as much as one can do without getting ridiculous. Of course I’d take a bullet for family and not some stranger—let Kant judge—but that’s favoritism I can accept (especially since the odds of having to take said bullet are extremely low).

But as I stare out the window of my shed, rain pattering on the roof, I realize perhaps the only place I feel truly comfortable is in my own head. This isn’t any revelation—how many other writers say the same thing?—nor is it a requirement for the writing life. It is, however, a requirement for a life of mostly solitude. And writers face that life. Most days it’s welcome, and easy, and better than pretending the most recent invitation will be fun. But when it rains, and the shed is too quiet, and I’ve abandoned Rachel to the creak and crack of our home…those days the writing reveals itself to be one thing: a push against loneliness.

Of course this always helps.