Search Engine Syndrome

I am not sure that getting published, or just plain getting noticed, was any easier in the pre-digital era. Surely the number of books available at book stores and libraries has always been significantly less than the number of books written in hopes of publication. Nowadays, however, it is almost sickening trying to wade through the heaps of useless information to try to get a nugget of truth on exactly what an author should be doing nowadays to get published.

I think my problem is that I love fiction. If I were to produce an ebook full of useless rhetoric and out of date information, and call it something like "10 Explosive Ways to Impress an Editor" I would probably receive much more instant recognition.

One day you read that agents are interested in book proposals; the next you go online to find a plethora of dung heap token "advice", likely written by people who have never been successfully published in the first place. The day after I get published, the last thing I am going to have time to do is write a how to guide for other people. I'll be busy at book signings, or figuring out inventive ways to spend the truckloads of cash pouring in.

I have read websites that essentially say this same thing. Don't publish anything of value. Simply find a topic that people are interested in, and then do some half-brained research and throw a few facts together.

The moral of this story is, people who are successful generally figured out how to do it themselves. The likelihood that you will find any relevant or useful information on the internet by typing, "How to become an overnight youtube sensation" is pathetically low. People who become overnight youtube sensations did not waste their time on search engines. They were busy making videos of old ladies letting one rip during confession, or horses getting hit in the face with cream pies.

There should be wayyyyyy more videos of horses getting hit in the head with cream pies.

Owning the World One Fast Lane Ticket at a Time

I remember when I was younger and the world was a magical place, full of dreams and possibilities and ideas like freedom. I remember when young girls knew what clothes were, and understood that they were supposed to wear them. I remember standing in line for a ride and being part of a group, a small society of fellow people who all shared this wonderful line waiting social custom.

I heard one time that "All good things must come to an end" or something along those lines. I did not know that quote applied to the world as a whole. Freedom seems to have gone out the window, nine year old girls might as well be walking around naked, and now for an additional fee, if you're willing to pay, you can be an A-Class member at your local theme park and not bother with the tradition of line ups at all. For only $30 to $45 at Canada's Wonderland, on top of the regular cost of admission, you can buy yourself a smug expression, a callous air, and walk about the park waving non-chalantly to your fellow comman man as you butt in line. Just a small additional fee, and you can snub your nose at fairness while giving a grand Nazi salute to Capitalism.

I think it is a marvelous idea that deserves to escape the cold metal gates of Canada's Wonderland. Driver's Licenses should definitely start offering premium options. Why should I have to follow the regular speed limit like my fellow pitiful human beings, when for a monthly membership fee I can gain a Fast Lane License that comes with its own increased speeding limits?

Why should I have to prove myself like my fellow students in a math test, when I should be able to just buy a Premium Scholarship Package at my local school, which comes with a gym bag sized nerd who will take those math tests for me?

Why should it be first come first serve at a movie theatre? I want to just pay twice as much for my tickets, arrive as the curtains raise, and kick that family of five out of their front row seats so I can watch the second instalment of Despicable Me.

Way to go Canada's Wonderland. $15 to park your car, but for an extra $5 you can have access to one of the reserved parking spaces closer to the park. $50 for a day pass, but for $90 we'll push little old ladies and small children out of your way so you can go on more rides. Why not implement a premium beverage package? For an additional $25 a day, ride operators will steal water from your fellow peasants and give it to you if you're thirsty.

I wish I could go back to the world of my youth. As is, modern society is like having a 300 pound naked, hairy man walk in to the room while you are covering your eyes during a round of hide and seek. You thought you were just playing a fun game, but then you start to open your eyes, and the more you open your eyes, the more unsightliness and horror you see.

Hibbert Gore

I was inspired to write a story about a sad, lonely man, after reading a twitter feed http://t.co/YYa27COE about two cities in the US that are only listed as having populations of one. Hibbert Gore, Maine, then became the protagonist of this short poem, which I could not get to sleep before finishing.

Hibbert Gore

Hibbert Gore lived on the first floor of a cottage built alongside the shore
He jogged, each morn, one mile to four, then circled around, right back to his door
In the afternoon, with just one oar, he'd paddle his boat 'til his arm was sore
Then fish for tuna, or albacore, and return back home to cook his score
His life was not easy--most times was a bore--and he'd awaken each day, alone on that shore
Alone in that cottage, he would die on that floor; just the waves, and the air, and poor Hibbert Gore.

A Day in the Life of an Aspiring

Being an Aspiring is not easy. Right now I am an aspiring author. I might even be an aspiring musician. I have an idea to create a youtube video, a concept song (at least one) that will go along with Hexington. I have some old material that I was working on as a concept album to a novel I will probably never release, and it might work.

An Aspirings life can be daunting. I wonder whether my time might be better spent doing something else. The world outside my head isn't as forgiving, and the bills keep piling up. Aspirings do not make much money. We are an investment for the people around us with not much hope of a healthy return. What a whopping return it would be though--you know, if it paid off! That is why we become Aspirings in the first place.

I am still young, though hardly as young as I used to be. I imagine that, just like gold miners, there have been a frightening number of Aspirings that wasted their lives away and never struck paydirt. The trick, I think, is to be an Aspiring for the right reasons. Of course, for many of us, the overriding reason is that we have no choice. Hopefully someone takes notice: someone with an important signature that looks good on cheques. Hopefully we gather at least a small cult following of fellow human beings who enjoy our work. At the end of the day, I am an Aspiring because I love wasting my hours away writing music and stories, drawing pictures, or just plain being an immature goofball.

If you are a fellow Aspiring, have faith. Everyone should be good at something, even if that something is simply having big dreams!

Figment

Figment

It was 7:05 am when the message began. Regardless of what they had been doing, people now sat, or stood silently and listened. Some smiled as the music began; most wore blank expressions. In this city it was the same each morning. As always, Figment had the full attention of the crowds.

“Good morning, fellow travelers. I have walked this city and seen such sadness. The sun shines but no one pays it heed. To all those concerned, who have been rewarded or burned, you may benefit from the following advice. 

“The day is beginning, but the work is all done;

“To the parks and the piers we should seek out what's fun.

“Do not wear a frown, not a soul should wear blue; 

“Do not follow others; Do not be a fool. 

“In a child's eye is wisdom, in wildness is peace; 

“Happy thoughts, fellow travelers, til the next time we meet.”

Soft elevator music now issued through the same speakers that had played Figment's message. The streets overflowed with the denizens of the city. No one headed for the office or the coffee shop or the newspaper stand. No one wore blue. People rarely spoke or made eye contact with their neighbours, yet everyone wore a smile. The human tide meandered en masse to the parks and benches, or to the docks and piers. Once there they would sit and stare at pigeons and squirrels, or watch the bay water in idle fascination. They would have fun today. They would smile today. Most importantly they would blend in today. Behind the human hive, the ground was littered with blue clothing. 

It had started as a social experiment. A wave of unprecedented terrorist attacks crippled the city. The Marshall law, supposed to be the city's saviour, crippled it even further. Security became like a noose that was quickly suffocating the people. Uprisings were commonplace; violence would spread like a raging forest fire, and would be just as impossible to extinguish. A new breed of demagogues claimed to have the answers. The new solutions simply bred new problems. Life hardly improved. Confusion, mistrust, and hatred grew along with social unrest. 

Figment seemed to arrive out of nowhere.

Be part of the crowd, his message said. Find peace in numbers. 

The message was blanketing. It was repetitive. It was the miracle people were looking for. Everything that Figment touched seemed to improve. He was a wizard: with his magic wand, he was returning the city to prosperity. His words became gospel. People conformed. There were some who spoke up or called out warnings. Their voices went silent after a time. No one noticed. Figment brought peace. The results spoke for themselves. 

 

In Princess Park the crowds had come. It had been fifteen years since the social experiment began. Things had changed. The park should have been bustling. It seemed likely that there had never been this many people crowding its benches, sitting on its grasses, or lying under its trees. There was no bustling. An empty park may very well have been more lively. The people sat. The people stared. The people waited. 

An elderly woman was by herself under a large oak tree. Her posture was rigid, the lines on her face broken by an internal struggle. The woman's daughter had been killed in a car accident three days ago. The park was the last place that she wanted to be. She struggled to keep her emotions hidden. Failing that, she tried to hide her face. She buried her head in the crook of her elbow to deafen the sound of her breaking sobs, panicking as tears burst upon her cheeks. Her body trembled from fear.

Around her in the park, people turned. For long moments those closest merely stared at the old woman. Their expressions gave nothing away. Slowly those expressions turned to distrust. One man rose from his seat and began to walk toward the old woman. Others soon followed.

“Figment said happy thoughts, old woman,” began the man who had first stood from his seat. His voice feigned compassion, yet beneath the words he intended as kindness there was something dark and menacing. “Figment said do not wear a frown.”

Another woman stepped forward. She poked the old woman sharply. 

"Didn't you hear Figment, ma'am?" she asked, her voice filled with accusation. There was a growing excitement in the small crowd. It was palpable. Already other heads turned toward the scene and soon more people stood from their seats. The old woman was wide eyed with fear.  

"She doesn't look like she's smiling, does she?  Why so sad, old woman?" 

The question was rhetorical. Whether the frightened old woman managed to stumble out a reply or not, the results would have been the same. Another member of the crowd jabbed the woman with outstretched fingers. 

“Do you see anyone else crying?” The speaker looked around at the jeering faces of his peers. Their looks of approval were all he needed, his voice became more confident and more threatening.

“In the whole park, old woman, do you see anyone else crying?” 

When the terrified woman did not respond, the man slapped her. When she cried out he slapped her again. Behind him the chant began.

“Those who are not part of the crowd are not part of the crowd,” someone said. All around them it was repeated.   

“Those who do not join in are not joining in,” a figure spoke up, and this started to be repeated, replacing the first chant. Figment had many similar statements. They were all the same. To the old woman they meant one thing. The mob had found their target. 

A teenage girl punched the old woman in the face. An adolescent boy joined in and kicked her hard in the ribs. The old woman was now beginning to bleed profusely. The crowd closed in, the excitement of the mob escalating along with the violence. The mob circled. The mob kicked. The mob punched, and spit, and clawed. Finally the mob dispersed. On the ground lay a crippled and broken body. Dead eyes stared up at the city dwellers. Someone had forced a smile upon the lifeless lips. No one paid another look to the old woman. The crowd returned to their seats to enjoy their day of fun, not a frown among them. 

Alan Games had watched the treatment of the old woman from his seat on a bench not far away. There was nothing he could have done to save the poor lady, however much the event disgusted him. The whole city disgusted him. Figment had said not to wear a frown, so they all smiled. Figment had said not to wear blue and each and every one of them had shed their blue clothing. They did not stop to wonder whether Figment might be talking in metaphors. Alan saw a woman by the duck pond who was naked except for her undergarments. She must have been wearing the banned colour this morning, probably a dress. Alan could picture her casting off the suddenly offensive items in a frenzy. He knew that regardless of the temperature outside she would rather die of exposure than put her blue clothing back on. 

Do not follow others. Do not be a fool. 

Alan was bothered by Figment's words. Contradictory phrases were included in  his speeches regularly. This morning the city had heard another. Figment's message was to be part of the crowd. Why suddenly tell the masses not to follow others? Figment's words hardly seemed to matter any more. Was Figment trying to tell people to be more independent? In this city that was hardly a message that was going to be heeded. Alan's “fellow travelers” were well beyond independent thought. No one wanted to stand out, they were terrified to do so. If someone were to stop following others they would be beaten; as surely as day follows night the outcome was predictable. Alan had seen similar confrontations in the past. He could picture the scene in his mind. The old woman had not been the first person beaten to death by the angry mob, and she would hardly be the last. 

“Why are you just standing there?” the crowd would say.

“Figment said not to be a fool and follow others.”

“We are not others,” the crowd would reply. “Those who are not part of the crowd are not part of the crowd.”

Alan knew the chants by heart. Others were the people who stood out, that is what the mob believed. Nothing escaped the mob, their grammar was law. No argument held up against them, their gavel was death. Alan could not, therefore, understand why Figment included such ambiguous and contradictory statements at all. He had fantasized that the messages were like a code meant for people like himself, all of the individuals still hiding among the masses. Over time the messages would awaken this stifled army. They would gather, spread, and change the world.

Alan knew it was a fantasy. At heart he believed that Figment was no more real than Santa Claus. If he had ever been real he was now a well-oiled machine. Of course to even mention such theories in public was tantamount to suicide. Whatever the reality was, in this city, Figment was a king, perhaps even a god. That was why Alan knew that his hopes for a brighter future were simply dreams best kept to himself. What reason did a king or a god have to wish for a revolution?

Alan watched his fellow travelers return to their routines. His mouth wore a smile but his eyes were full of anger. He often thought of leaving the city but was left with the sickening horror that he was trapped. The city had been sealed off years ago, quarantined from the rest of the world. Who knew whether there really was a rest of the world any more? Perhaps everyone else was dead. Perhaps Figment owned the rest of the planet as securely as he owned this city. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Alan thought of suicide but neither had the courage nor the real desire to end his life. He dreamed of a day when Figment's voice would not come over the loud speakers. The message would be gone, the mob would disperse and the world could be sane again. Alan had never thought about what would happen if his dream came true and Figment's message ever stopped. He could never have imagined what would happen. If he could have imagined, he would have ran. 

It was 7:00 am and there were already many people walking the streets. Some preferred to hear Figment's messages outdoors. They waited expectantly, their heads tilted toward the loud speakers. Figment's message had never been late. It was given at 7:05 in the morning, and 7:05 at night. In fifteen years there had been no deviation.  

Except this morning.

No message came at 7:05 am. The loud speakers remained silent. The streets were still, as if time had stopped. The mob was anxious.

By 7:08 there was still no message. Rustlings could be heard among the crowds. The mob was restless.

For fifteen years, Figment had been the guiding voice of the city. By 7:10, the restless mob began to become frightened. No one knew what had happened. Alan Games surely had no idea that Figment would not speak again. Alan's heart was just as panicked as everybody else when the loud speakers remained silent. Alan was just as immobile as his neighbors. Alan had just as little idea what to do now. In this city, where Figment was a king or a god, the mob was suddenly terrified that god had abandoned them.

A man stepped forward. His movement captured the attention of those around him. Heads turned and attentive ears waited for the man to speak. 

"Figment told us that the message is peace.”

Behind him another man nodded understanding.

“The message is peace and we are dead without peace.”

There was a slight murmur among the crowd. 

“Figment said if we heard the message, the peace would not cease.”

Something was happening across the city. From mouth to mouth the words were spoken, first in a whisper and then with increasing volume. The words were repeated over and over again. Most people smiled understanding. Some held hands. 

“Figment said that the message is peace. 

“If we hear the message, the peace won't cease. 

“The message has stopped, and the peace has ceased. 

“Figment said we are dead without peace.” 

Alan Games was not alone as he watched the mob with dawning realization.

Figment said that the message is peace.

He had never been alone in Figment's city. There were those who had secretly prayed that some day Figment's message might stop. 

If we hear the message, the peace won't cease.

 Just like with the old woman in the park, Alan knew that it was hopeless to try and stop what he saw happening to the mob around him.

 The message has stopped and the peace has ceased.

 The chant grew louder and already bodies began to drop. Some killed themselves, others welcomed death at the hands of their neighbours. Some were strangled, some were beaten to death, some shot themselves, others were shot. In droves the bodies began to fall to the ground. 

Figment said we are dead without peace. 

Alan Games turned in horror, startled by the voice from beside him. His hands rose in front of him, a useless act of defense against the gun barrel pointing at his face. His mouth opened to cry alarm but the trigger had already been pulled. The body of Alan Games toppled to the ground by the time the gunshot registered.

Figment's message spoke no more. Had it sounded through the now silent loud speakers, there would have been no one to hear it. The mob was dead. It had happened fast. In Princess Park bodies littered the ground. Blood flowed in to the waters of the pond. The rest of the city was the same, the streets red with death. It was quiet now. Animals poked among the remains. In a few years the cement would be reclaimed by nature. Figment was dead, so was his mob. The pigeons and squirrels did not seem to mind one bit.



Welcome, and Hello

You will have to imagine the inaugural shaking of hands. My name is John Thomas Bennett. I grew up in Ingersoll, Ontario, a town known for words like small, and cheese, and "not far from London". I am thirty one years old somehow. Not long ago I was younger, and not long before that, I was younger still.

I enjoy many things: apples, bananas... I should avoid making it sound like I eat healthily. Butter and garlic make everything (except perhaps apples and bananas) taste better. The two things I enjoy the most are writing stories and playing music. I have a modicum of skill with the guitar , and while I do not play the keyboard, I can type fairly proficiently on one. These attributes have resulted in a multitude of projects, and I hope that you will get some enjoyment out of my various eccentricities.

Recently, I have self-published a short story called Hexington. It is an adventure/horror story about a man who loses his daughter and is forced to travel a strange land in order to find her, and perhaps himself. If you can picture Richard Burton reading the audiobook, you'll get a good idea of the voice I had in mind while writing this story. It is my impression of the works of Edgar Allen Poe, and H.G. Wells, and similar contemporaries.

Until the end of July, 2012, you can use the coupon code RD68S to download the ebook for free.

Check out https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/160598 to get a copy of Hexington.

It is also available at Amazon, but I'm pretty sure you can't get it free there.

http://www.amazon.com/Hexington-ebook/dp/B0082CG8VI/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1336830772&sr=1-1

I hope that over the coming days, weeks, months, or however long I keep adding new posts to this blog, you will find items of interest. I plan on publishing many of my short stories in future posts, so check back often.

It was nice to meet you. Come again soon.