I have a friend who never complains. Her attitude -- no, her personal religion -- is that no matter what life throws you (and I seriously mean "no matter what") you better just be glad to be alive. You just deal with it and fight on.
She might have this approach for a wide variety of reasons. Her father was murdered when she was five. The first person she seriously dated unexpectedly committed suicide. As a preteen she was abducted by a distant relative and repeatedly raped. As a grown woman and a mother, she struggles with Chronic Fatigue and two amazing but special needs children. She says to all of this: "What does not kill me, makes me stronger." And she says it with this half-smile, this sad/wise/thankful grin that has broken and melted my heart in turns.
I like to call her and ask, "So, what's bothering you today?" I don't think anyone in their right mind would ever ask her this question because, eventually, she'd get so annoyed she'd pop 'em one. But I always dare to ask. On Friday she actually answered me, "We're killing our artists."
And we are.
I'm not going to repeat the polite excuses she offered up for all the parents who quash the creative and the beautiful in their children. I'm not that kind. There is no excuse. There should only be in your face confrontation condoned in the name of saving society from its own soulless unravelling.
Think I'm being dramatic? Of course I'm being dramatic. This is a *blog.* No one reads or writes a blog about grass growing... unless they tie it to the cosmic unravelling of every spark of genius and innovative thought.
You're online right now. You probably love quizs. Here's a quiz:
Is it more socially acceptable for a teen to:
A) watch reality TV with the family
B) sit in his room and write
C) message friends on MySpace
D) use the Internet to research history for a role-playing game he's creating
E) work full-time at a grocery store
F) work part-time at a publishing house
G) go to college at eighteen
H) wait until going to college feels right
How'd you answer? Do you have kids? Were you being honest? Do you have kids for eighteen years or for life? When do you expect/want your kids to move out? When will you shift how you think about them from your little angels to other adults who just up your water and electric bills? When does the "family home" become "my house"?
My buddy Cris says to her kids, "This isn't *my* house. This is our house. Your rooms are not your only spaces. Every room is your room." I seriously doubt that Cris' kids will move out until they marry. Cris' kids have been known to say, "Mama, I really need some down time today." And she makes that happen.
Are *you* your child's patron?
Or are you there to break his will and make him see the error of his ways?
It should go without saying: We each have one life. We can make only our own choices. Our children are not ours to shape (read: manipulate). Our children are ours to guide, to love, and to marvel at.
I cannot *imagine* Cris turning to her son and saying, "You've been silently drawing for six hours! Get off your bum and go outside and play football!" I *can* imagine her praising him endlessly for his creative mind -- even as she is washing floors, making meals, and doing dishes. Why? Because *she* chose to have children.
International bestselling author Jeanette Winterson writes in her book "Weight:"
"Right now, human beings as a mass, have a gruesome appetite for what they call 'real', whether it's Reality TV or the kind of plodding fiction that only works as low-grade documentary, or at the better end, the factual programmes and biographies and 'true life' accounts that occupy the space where imagination used to sit.
"Such a phenomenon points to a terror of the inner life, of the sublime, of the poetic, of the non-material, of the contemplative."
If you don't feel the cold fingers of dread and sudden illumination chill you when you read that, if you're not nodding your head and murmuring, "Dear God, that's it." Then read it again. If you aren't angry, you aren't paying attention. Let me give it to you like this:
We want our kids to grow up, get out, a do what we tell them is valuable because then we, as parents, as human beings, are valuable. We've raised 'em right. We've done good.
We want our children to have jobs in the real world -- the dirty, hard, tangible world. Not jobs that start in dreams. Not jobs that they even enjoy.
We want all of this because that's what *we* did, damn it, and if they don't do what we did (or what we couldn't do) than we are no longer valid. We are no longer current. We are outdated and ridiculous.
"My son is an artist. He lives at home. He paints twelve hours a day. He makes no mess for me. He sits and eats all three meals with me and we talk. We meet at midnight and share a mug of tea. My son is an artist. Sometimes he sells his paintings. Sometimes I just get to hang them on my walls. He lives with me. I am his father. I am so proud of him I could burst. He is gentle and kind. He is loving and funny. I am so glad he didn't do what his mother told him and grow up to be a doctor."
In college, the boy across the hall had that taped to his door. It was a prose-poem written by his dad in blue ballpoint. When we graduated (and he moved back home), I asked if I could have it. "Sure," he shrugged. "I don't need it now. I'll have my dad." I've kept it ever since.
Because creative children are arcane and wonderful. They are unexpected and passionate. They are fiery and hard to live with. They are temperamental. They are be real snits one minute and loving snugglers the next. They are flighty and forgetful. They whine. They will write or paint or draw for fourteen hours and forget to take out the trash. They can have *real* conversations with you about *real* things before they're old enough to drive... heck, before they're old enough to tie their own shoes.
Creative children *scare* mundane parents. They scare mundane society. They *are* the sublime, the poetic, the non-material, the contemplative. They are our darkest fears and our brightest hopes all laid out in the open. They are smarter than us. They are better than us. They have already ascended this dirty and hard world and found their own heaven.
Are you your daughter's patron?
Or are you doing her a favor by handing her a reality check signed with your tough love?
"Immortal Madre, I wanna walk away from a lucrative career. I wanna create an open universe with a trading card game, a role-playing game, and novels, where everyone is welcome to create together. All of this will bring glory to Christ and the gentle, underlying message will touch hearts and change souls. It will take time. But it's God's work. It's good work. I feel it in my heart. I feel it in my everything. And I'm ready."
And she answered, "Let me be your patron."
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Tired in the Morning
I watch her from across the room.
She’s contemplating her interior spaces.
Cathedrals filled with stain glass memories
from five countries and more than fifty years.
Elegant experience. She turns heads then, now.
What are you thinking?
I would never presume to ask.
But if I did I know the ghost of a smile I’d receive.
The sadness in the cinnabar eyes.
The “sweetheart” or “honey”
prefacing the “Don’t worry. Nothing.”
It’s the End Times, Mom. You down with that?
She wouldn’t be rattled.
Tired of me writing about my Immortal Madre?
Yeah, Patrick, maybe you’re ripe for another shower scene, huh?
Brianne is rolling her eyes, “Whatev.”
There’s a man sitting alone across the cluster of small round tables.
He is perfectly framed, the image of reflection,
the backdrop of Starbucks mermaids and sirens.
Dear God, he looks so alone.
He’s Greek or Italian or some other olive-skinned,
rugged Mediterranean locale.
When he ordered his drink, his accent was thick, a rumble,
a sound I want to listen to.
His black curls are shot with silver.
His wide brown eyes close for a moment,
thick black lashes like butterfly kisses.
“Why isn’t he drinking, Mom?” I ask impulsively.
She doesn’t look up from the New York Times.
“Because he isn’t here for the coffee.”
Thirty minutes later he leaves.
The full tall-cup drops into the trash.
$2.75. It makes a solid sound. He makes no sound.
I watch him walk away into a crisp winter world.
Tired of me writing with my contemplative muse on my shoulder?
Rather having a rave? A flash of speed? A lap dance?
Launa laughs. “You’re fine, grrl. Just write.”
Christmas bells, Christmas bells, shopping all the day.
Why do we always finds ourselves at the mall?
“How about Victoria’s Secrets?”
I give her an incredulous look and steal the last bite of Cinnabon.
“How about Wilson’s Suede and Leather?”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
She rolls her eyes at me, “So glad I had a son.”
But we wind up at a kiosk with cheap steel jewelry.
I like the heavy weight of the rings on my fingers.
“I want a blank book.”
“Only if it plugs into a USB,” I tell her.
“Sometimes, sweetheart, I write things
that I have no intention of sharing.”
And she walks into Hallmark. Leaving me standing, staring.
Some yuppie in a business suit with a Blackberry
openly cruises her – short feathered hair, cinnamon skin,
tailored jacket and knee-length skirt.
I consider an elbow to the gut and a growl,
“Hey, bud, that’s my mom.”
Tired of the Freudian, Old World vignettes?
Feeling like my life -- unlike your life -- is stuck in rehash?
Wondering why I don't just:
Grow Up
Get Over It
Get a Life, Baby
Looking for a review of Halo 3 (cr*p) or BioShock (uh...)
to put the “Gamer” with “Grrl”?
Slinky pushes auburn bangs out of her face. Looks at me with cool blue eyes. Hands me a cup of coffee because suddenly I can't breathe. “You know I’m always reading.”
Yeah. Don’t I know.
I know so well who’s out there.
She’s contemplating her interior spaces.
Cathedrals filled with stain glass memories
from five countries and more than fifty years.
Elegant experience. She turns heads then, now.
What are you thinking?
I would never presume to ask.
But if I did I know the ghost of a smile I’d receive.
The sadness in the cinnabar eyes.
The “sweetheart” or “honey”
prefacing the “Don’t worry. Nothing.”
It’s the End Times, Mom. You down with that?
She wouldn’t be rattled.
Tired of me writing about my Immortal Madre?
Yeah, Patrick, maybe you’re ripe for another shower scene, huh?
Brianne is rolling her eyes, “Whatev.”
There’s a man sitting alone across the cluster of small round tables.
He is perfectly framed, the image of reflection,
the backdrop of Starbucks mermaids and sirens.
Dear God, he looks so alone.
He’s Greek or Italian or some other olive-skinned,
rugged Mediterranean locale.
When he ordered his drink, his accent was thick, a rumble,
a sound I want to listen to.
His black curls are shot with silver.
His wide brown eyes close for a moment,
thick black lashes like butterfly kisses.
“Why isn’t he drinking, Mom?” I ask impulsively.
She doesn’t look up from the New York Times.
“Because he isn’t here for the coffee.”
Thirty minutes later he leaves.
The full tall-cup drops into the trash.
$2.75. It makes a solid sound. He makes no sound.
I watch him walk away into a crisp winter world.
Tired of me writing with my contemplative muse on my shoulder?
Rather having a rave? A flash of speed? A lap dance?
Launa laughs. “You’re fine, grrl. Just write.”
Christmas bells, Christmas bells, shopping all the day.
Why do we always finds ourselves at the mall?
“How about Victoria’s Secrets?”
I give her an incredulous look and steal the last bite of Cinnabon.
“How about Wilson’s Suede and Leather?”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
She rolls her eyes at me, “So glad I had a son.”
But we wind up at a kiosk with cheap steel jewelry.
I like the heavy weight of the rings on my fingers.
“I want a blank book.”
“Only if it plugs into a USB,” I tell her.
“Sometimes, sweetheart, I write things
that I have no intention of sharing.”
And she walks into Hallmark. Leaving me standing, staring.
Some yuppie in a business suit with a Blackberry
openly cruises her – short feathered hair, cinnamon skin,
tailored jacket and knee-length skirt.
I consider an elbow to the gut and a growl,
“Hey, bud, that’s my mom.”
Tired of the Freudian, Old World vignettes?
Feeling like my life -- unlike your life -- is stuck in rehash?
Wondering why I don't just:
Grow Up
Get Over It
Get a Life, Baby
Looking for a review of Halo 3 (cr*p) or BioShock (uh...)
to put the “Gamer” with “Grrl”?
Slinky pushes auburn bangs out of her face. Looks at me with cool blue eyes. Hands me a cup of coffee because suddenly I can't breathe. “You know I’m always reading.”
Yeah. Don’t I know.
I know so well who’s out there.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Minister2Me, Baby
A man stopped me on the street today. Downtown Seattle. Cold day. Silver sky. Got in my space. Spoke too loudly. Held a black Bible at chest level. Just under his fully buttoned, very white shirt. He spied me crossing the street. In my riding chaps and leather jacket buttoned up against the cold. My dark hair streaked with neon red because I'm off work 'til January.
He said (it wasn't asked), "Have you been saved?" He knew what he thought the answer was. He was already opening his mouth to continue when I said, "How many have you saved today?"
There was an awkward moment. I suppose it was awkward, I mean. He looked kind of uncomfortable. And I know my Immortal Madre (that's mom's nickname) squeezed my elbow really hard. I just kept talking.
"I can't imagine that you reach many young people with this approach. Teens. Twentysomethings. They're so wary of the authority figures that this culture shoves down their throats. Plus so many aren't blessed with great parents in the first place. I mean, Christ really bucked the system, didn't He? Just like every teenager boarding in the no loiter zones. Bet they never think much about how Christ would have sat down on the edge of the half-pipe with them and talked about what to do the next time their dad got drunk and starting busting heads. Bet Christ would talk about survival and addiction and places to go for help. Not just some turn the other cheek and pray stuff.
"Is that your Bible? Your own Bible? And of course it would be too easy to ask, Have you read it? Sure you have. My Bible is pretty dog-eared and marked up and stuff. It also fits in my back pocket and all the best parts fit in my head, already translated into pop speak. New Testament Christians have got it easy, I guess.
"I have a friend who recruits without a Bible. She's brought the Light into more people's lives than anyone else I know. She's just chill. She's just got it all going on in here, you know? In her heart. She talks about Christ and you have to listen. She smiles at everyone and has this gentle wit. She's tough as nails but she speaks the language of the people. Whatever people. She can just talk to anyone. Never cops an attitude. She just *moves* people. I wanna do that. I wanna bring people to Christ without ever saying, Have you been saved? Because you know what? Saying stuff like that conjures images of this right now, right here, for every punk, raver, raw, wild person without the Spirit. I say, Jesus Christ is your personal Lord, and they think: Here's some stuffed shift, up in my face, in the street, when I just wanna Christmas shop with my mom. That's what they think."
And because it's Seattle, and because I've been taught to project, and because I'm not too short, and Immortal Madre is just darn tall, and because Jesus likes it when people talk about Him, it happens to be that when I stop talking there are a bunch of people standing around and looking at me. They kind of look like they recognize me. They kind of look like they recognize the situation. Or maybe they just wanna catch their bus, get their newspaper, or cross the street.
Some young guy in a blue and green knit hat mutters, "Amen." And Mom and I walk on. I open the door of the bookstore for her, my helmet under my other arm, and Mom walks in and a few other people too. I'm standing there, feeling kinda mad. Feeling kind of like there isn't too many people willing to do this right. Feeling like spreading the Word isn't about pretentious, pious Scripture-spouting... Feeling like I wanna shout, "Build a house! Plant a garden! Design a game!! Do something *real* for them. Give a nonbeliever something to Believe in!"
Then I turn inside the store, and I look up for Mom. There she is, by the stairs going down into the cafe. Around her are strangers. Three or four. She is smiling at me in her elegant, composed way, and she beckons to me. "Let's all go downstairs for coffee," she says. "Come on, darling."
Come on, E.J. Come minister.
He said (it wasn't asked), "Have you been saved?" He knew what he thought the answer was. He was already opening his mouth to continue when I said, "How many have you saved today?"
There was an awkward moment. I suppose it was awkward, I mean. He looked kind of uncomfortable. And I know my Immortal Madre (that's mom's nickname) squeezed my elbow really hard. I just kept talking.
"I can't imagine that you reach many young people with this approach. Teens. Twentysomethings. They're so wary of the authority figures that this culture shoves down their throats. Plus so many aren't blessed with great parents in the first place. I mean, Christ really bucked the system, didn't He? Just like every teenager boarding in the no loiter zones. Bet they never think much about how Christ would have sat down on the edge of the half-pipe with them and talked about what to do the next time their dad got drunk and starting busting heads. Bet Christ would talk about survival and addiction and places to go for help. Not just some turn the other cheek and pray stuff.
"Is that your Bible? Your own Bible? And of course it would be too easy to ask, Have you read it? Sure you have. My Bible is pretty dog-eared and marked up and stuff. It also fits in my back pocket and all the best parts fit in my head, already translated into pop speak. New Testament Christians have got it easy, I guess.
"I have a friend who recruits without a Bible. She's brought the Light into more people's lives than anyone else I know. She's just chill. She's just got it all going on in here, you know? In her heart. She talks about Christ and you have to listen. She smiles at everyone and has this gentle wit. She's tough as nails but she speaks the language of the people. Whatever people. She can just talk to anyone. Never cops an attitude. She just *moves* people. I wanna do that. I wanna bring people to Christ without ever saying, Have you been saved? Because you know what? Saying stuff like that conjures images of this right now, right here, for every punk, raver, raw, wild person without the Spirit. I say, Jesus Christ is your personal Lord, and they think: Here's some stuffed shift, up in my face, in the street, when I just wanna Christmas shop with my mom. That's what they think."
And because it's Seattle, and because I've been taught to project, and because I'm not too short, and Immortal Madre is just darn tall, and because Jesus likes it when people talk about Him, it happens to be that when I stop talking there are a bunch of people standing around and looking at me. They kind of look like they recognize me. They kind of look like they recognize the situation. Or maybe they just wanna catch their bus, get their newspaper, or cross the street.
Some young guy in a blue and green knit hat mutters, "Amen." And Mom and I walk on. I open the door of the bookstore for her, my helmet under my other arm, and Mom walks in and a few other people too. I'm standing there, feeling kinda mad. Feeling kind of like there isn't too many people willing to do this right. Feeling like spreading the Word isn't about pretentious, pious Scripture-spouting... Feeling like I wanna shout, "Build a house! Plant a garden! Design a game!! Do something *real* for them. Give a nonbeliever something to Believe in!"
Then I turn inside the store, and I look up for Mom. There she is, by the stairs going down into the cafe. Around her are strangers. Three or four. She is smiling at me in her elegant, composed way, and she beckons to me. "Let's all go downstairs for coffee," she says. "Come on, darling."
Come on, E.J. Come minister.
Monday, May 21, 2007
I Am Not Alone
This idea, Mardi Gras 3000, has taken over my life. But I don't mean that every spare moment is utilized by MG3K (okay, I do) but that at any moment, at pretty much every moment, I can just start talking about the MG3K world and people... like... stare at me. No, seriously! I ordered a tall, single latte. And the next thing I knew I was telling the cashier about a deep, smooth, frothed milk drink was such a good idea, and the coffee flavor was such an earthy goodness flavor... but too bad about that whole it really is as addictive as nicotine and the fact the drinks have gotten bigger and bigger, and the number of shots per customer increases as time wears on, and, for a while in the 2004 at least, the coffee chain staff (you know which one) were being encouraged to ask customers if they wanted an extra shot in their drink to, you know, bring up the cost of the average sale... and feed those stupid addicts more of what they crave.
Should coffee come with warning labels like cigarettes? What would they say:
WARNING: Addictive stimulant. Cardiovascular effects: increased heart rate; increased blood pressure, and irregular heartbeat.
Of course, if this law were put into effect, just to be fair, several people I know would have to have these labels stuck to their shirts. LOL
Coming full circle: So, in a recent piece of MG3K fiction, the author announces that alcohol, nicotine, chocolate and caffeine are all controlled substances in the year 2056. What do you think? Interesting, huh? Crazy? Maybe not. But my point is...
THERE ARE MG3K AUTHORS NOW!!!!
Yes, I am screaming. With happiness and excitement. Because I love the players. They play the game with a dedication and an obsessive passion. They create moves. They make strategies. They are making the card game powerful. But the setting of the card game--the atmosphere, the universe--has to be rich for me to continue to live in this place. To be okay with how obsessive my own thoughts have become. A friend actually said, "Bonkers, E.J., are you speaking in tongues now?" When he asked if I wanted to go club hopping (to dance) and I answered him by reading 400 words out of a new MG3K story set in a night club. *Everything* ties into MG3K lately.
For a while, everyone (and, my gosh, I do mean everyone) seemed to have a MG3K idea. But, well, I didn't really get excited because I've worked at a publishing house. I've done the wanna-be author convention circuit thing. Yes, *everyone* always has an *idea* for a novel. But only .05% of them ever actually write it. And, heh, I'm not putting them down. You don't see me whipping out a novel either. My excitement came when authors actually started to ask for *contracts* and send in finished *stories*!! Suddenly, it was real. And it was really good.
The fact that the authors see the world and the characters in the same way that I do--even when the authors are miles or half a world away--is incredible and powerful. It inspires me to write very, very, very long posts on the forum. Where does that stuff all come from?
From the collective mind of the audience, my friends. Remember that post way back in the day? ;) The collective mind is proving itself. I believed. Now, let the good times roll.
E.J.
Should coffee come with warning labels like cigarettes? What would they say:
WARNING: Addictive stimulant. Cardiovascular effects: increased heart rate; increased blood pressure, and irregular heartbeat.
Of course, if this law were put into effect, just to be fair, several people I know would have to have these labels stuck to their shirts. LOL
Coming full circle: So, in a recent piece of MG3K fiction, the author announces that alcohol, nicotine, chocolate and caffeine are all controlled substances in the year 2056. What do you think? Interesting, huh? Crazy? Maybe not. But my point is...
THERE ARE MG3K AUTHORS NOW!!!!
Yes, I am screaming. With happiness and excitement. Because I love the players. They play the game with a dedication and an obsessive passion. They create moves. They make strategies. They are making the card game powerful. But the setting of the card game--the atmosphere, the universe--has to be rich for me to continue to live in this place. To be okay with how obsessive my own thoughts have become. A friend actually said, "Bonkers, E.J., are you speaking in tongues now?" When he asked if I wanted to go club hopping (to dance) and I answered him by reading 400 words out of a new MG3K story set in a night club. *Everything* ties into MG3K lately.
For a while, everyone (and, my gosh, I do mean everyone) seemed to have a MG3K idea. But, well, I didn't really get excited because I've worked at a publishing house. I've done the wanna-be author convention circuit thing. Yes, *everyone* always has an *idea* for a novel. But only .05% of them ever actually write it. And, heh, I'm not putting them down. You don't see me whipping out a novel either. My excitement came when authors actually started to ask for *contracts* and send in finished *stories*!! Suddenly, it was real. And it was really good.
The fact that the authors see the world and the characters in the same way that I do--even when the authors are miles or half a world away--is incredible and powerful. It inspires me to write very, very, very long posts on the forum. Where does that stuff all come from?
From the collective mind of the audience, my friends. Remember that post way back in the day? ;) The collective mind is proving itself. I believed. Now, let the good times roll.
E.J.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Flint Makes Sparks
I’m getting a lot of email lately and you guys all know how I really do love to hear from players. My favorite emails fall into three categories:
1. Emails from hardcore CCG players telling me how they thought Basic MG3K play was fun but that Advanced MG3K play rocks their worlds and they’ve now sold all their MTG cards to pay for Instants (which right now you can get in boosters or as singles... the new redesign coming this summer will have all Instants and most characters randomly sold in 12 card booster packs).
2. Emails from young authors who have discovered the MG3K sourcebook (which is being reorganized and updated by MG3K universe expert and published fantasy author Launa Sorensen) and are intrigued by the ideas of immortals, mythology, culture, kick-butt Christians and awesome 4D aliens.
3. Emails from individuals who are (fill in any organized religion OR absolutely no religion at all) and who feel it is of vital importance that they tell me how very delusion I am :)
I promised my friend Gille (who is the OM—Online Manager—for MG3K) that I would write a blog that wasn’t at all about religion, and I’m going to do that right after I say:
The deal is this: No man (or tabloid) knows when the Second Coming will be. Period. The Scripture says so. Look it up. Also, no man knows the truth of God because man is flawed and interpretations are flawed and God is not flawed. Period. If any man lives according to the Word as he knows it and to the best of his heart, striving to be a better person, one that does not harm others or preach a personal doctrine of hatred, then that person is living in a Holy manner. I *personally* may believe in and accept more than that, but for me to accept someone as a fellow Christian, that is all I look for. Respect. Compassion. Self-control. I don’t look at their sexuality. I don’t look at their skin color. I don’t look at whether or not they believe in prophets after Christ. I don’t look at whether or not they attend daily, weekly or monthly organized services. Likewise, just because a person might wear a cross, preach a sermon, teach Sunday school, or not drink, swear, or do drugs, doesn’t mean, to me, that they’re a Christian.
Jennifer told me about a bumper sticker she saw: If going to church makes you a Christian, does standing in a garage make me a car?
I remind her of our favorite tee-shirt: What Would Jesus Do? He’d Kick Your Hypocritical Butt
END
Hey, folks! How about we kick it with a blog that has nothing to do with religion? I mean, come on, guys, cut me some slack, right? My mind can linger on matters of the soul for a while!
Hm... I think I just mentioned religion. Let me try again.
END
Yo, my loyal blog readers. What is *up* with the crazy weather in the Pacific North*wet*? What is going on with these chilly nights? I like to paint at night with the windows open. I tried. The paint congealed and froze on the pallet. I like to paint in my tank top and cut offs. By brown skin turned blue. I found myself sketching on the canvas instead. I sketched several very cold scenes. Punk rock polar bears. Blizzards. Burly, handsome men dressed in fuzzy parkas. You know. That kinda thing.
So, uh, anyway... LOL... I can’t keep this up! :D
The MG3K Fiction Forum is hopping right now. Really amazing stuff is happening. It’s worth it to logon and check out the awesome back stories for all those characters you’re playing with. There’s a lot happening all of sudden with MG3K. A whole team working on the RPG (oh, yes, you knew it was going to happen) and in-character blogs, as well as the deck and online game redesign. I’ve been named a “character expert” for Elijah, with rocks my world, and I would love some help. Any other folks out there who feel like they have a firm grip on the punky cool Elijah grrl? Or any other character, for that matter!
Come on over to the forum and share your ideas. We love new creative spark :)
E.J.
1. Emails from hardcore CCG players telling me how they thought Basic MG3K play was fun but that Advanced MG3K play rocks their worlds and they’ve now sold all their MTG cards to pay for Instants (which right now you can get in boosters or as singles... the new redesign coming this summer will have all Instants and most characters randomly sold in 12 card booster packs).
2. Emails from young authors who have discovered the MG3K sourcebook (which is being reorganized and updated by MG3K universe expert and published fantasy author Launa Sorensen) and are intrigued by the ideas of immortals, mythology, culture, kick-butt Christians and awesome 4D aliens.
3. Emails from individuals who are (fill in any organized religion OR absolutely no religion at all) and who feel it is of vital importance that they tell me how very delusion I am :)
I promised my friend Gille (who is the OM—Online Manager—for MG3K) that I would write a blog that wasn’t at all about religion, and I’m going to do that right after I say:
The deal is this: No man (or tabloid) knows when the Second Coming will be. Period. The Scripture says so. Look it up. Also, no man knows the truth of God because man is flawed and interpretations are flawed and God is not flawed. Period. If any man lives according to the Word as he knows it and to the best of his heart, striving to be a better person, one that does not harm others or preach a personal doctrine of hatred, then that person is living in a Holy manner. I *personally* may believe in and accept more than that, but for me to accept someone as a fellow Christian, that is all I look for. Respect. Compassion. Self-control. I don’t look at their sexuality. I don’t look at their skin color. I don’t look at whether or not they believe in prophets after Christ. I don’t look at whether or not they attend daily, weekly or monthly organized services. Likewise, just because a person might wear a cross, preach a sermon, teach Sunday school, or not drink, swear, or do drugs, doesn’t mean, to me, that they’re a Christian.
Jennifer told me about a bumper sticker she saw: If going to church makes you a Christian, does standing in a garage make me a car?
I remind her of our favorite tee-shirt: What Would Jesus Do? He’d Kick Your Hypocritical Butt
END
Hey, folks! How about we kick it with a blog that has nothing to do with religion? I mean, come on, guys, cut me some slack, right? My mind can linger on matters of the soul for a while!
Hm... I think I just mentioned religion. Let me try again.
END
Yo, my loyal blog readers. What is *up* with the crazy weather in the Pacific North*wet*? What is going on with these chilly nights? I like to paint at night with the windows open. I tried. The paint congealed and froze on the pallet. I like to paint in my tank top and cut offs. By brown skin turned blue. I found myself sketching on the canvas instead. I sketched several very cold scenes. Punk rock polar bears. Blizzards. Burly, handsome men dressed in fuzzy parkas. You know. That kinda thing.
So, uh, anyway... LOL... I can’t keep this up! :D
The MG3K Fiction Forum is hopping right now. Really amazing stuff is happening. It’s worth it to logon and check out the awesome back stories for all those characters you’re playing with. There’s a lot happening all of sudden with MG3K. A whole team working on the RPG (oh, yes, you knew it was going to happen) and in-character blogs, as well as the deck and online game redesign. I’ve been named a “character expert” for Elijah, with rocks my world, and I would love some help. Any other folks out there who feel like they have a firm grip on the punky cool Elijah grrl? Or any other character, for that matter!
Come on over to the forum and share your ideas. We love new creative spark :)
E.J.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
In a Christian Chat Room: Part One
**EJ has entered the room.**
Matthew: That’s why I think it’s real.
Mark: But you aren’t taking the historical context of the verse into account.
Luke: Hi, EJ. Welcome back!
Matthew: I’m not talking about history. Don’t start altering the scripture to fit your own needs.
EJ: Hey, Luke. What’s tonight’s topic?
Mark: Hardly. But context is of utmost importance here. I don’t think those references are meant to be taken literally.
Matthew: And it probably wasn’t a real virgin birth then either. Or he didn’t really rise again. In historical context, it was all figurative and politically motivated.
John: And what would be wrong with that if it accomplished the ministry of Christ?
Matthew: Hello! He wouldn’t be the son of God!
Mark: He wouldn’t be our savoir!
Luke: EJ, tonight’s topic is the begots and whether or not several Old Testament individuals lived hundreds of years.
John: Christ’s message was one of self-control and respect. Who cares how we get that message spread.
EJ: Seriously, Luke?
Mark: OMGosh, John! The end does not justify the means. What are you saying, man?!
Matthew: Lie, cheat, kill as long as it makes Christians?!!
John: No! But if metaphor were spoken as truth, that his words would indeed live forever and he could not be slain because his teachings are immortal.
Mark: You can’t just create a savior from stories and parables passed man to man. If there is no truth it wouldn’t carry to modern times.
John: And Christianity is just thriving right now? We need an infusion of the living word. I don’t care if Christ appears on YouTube, if it coverts nonbelievers I’m for it!
Matthew: John, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior? Do you believe that he is the son of God, our eternal father?
Mark: That he was crucified for our sins, washing them away, and then rose again?
John: You are both missing the point.
Luke: Most seriously, EJ.
Mark: There is no point, John, only Jesus Christ.
Matthew: Amen, Brother. Amen.
EJ: Looks like they’ve got it handled, Luke. I’ll check you later.
Luke: God bless, EJ. Surf safely.
**EJ has left the room.**
Matthew: That’s why I think it’s real.
Mark: But you aren’t taking the historical context of the verse into account.
Luke: Hi, EJ. Welcome back!
Matthew: I’m not talking about history. Don’t start altering the scripture to fit your own needs.
EJ: Hey, Luke. What’s tonight’s topic?
Mark: Hardly. But context is of utmost importance here. I don’t think those references are meant to be taken literally.
Matthew: And it probably wasn’t a real virgin birth then either. Or he didn’t really rise again. In historical context, it was all figurative and politically motivated.
John: And what would be wrong with that if it accomplished the ministry of Christ?
Matthew: Hello! He wouldn’t be the son of God!
Mark: He wouldn’t be our savoir!
Luke: EJ, tonight’s topic is the begots and whether or not several Old Testament individuals lived hundreds of years.
John: Christ’s message was one of self-control and respect. Who cares how we get that message spread.
EJ: Seriously, Luke?
Mark: OMGosh, John! The end does not justify the means. What are you saying, man?!
Matthew: Lie, cheat, kill as long as it makes Christians?!!
John: No! But if metaphor were spoken as truth, that his words would indeed live forever and he could not be slain because his teachings are immortal.
Mark: You can’t just create a savior from stories and parables passed man to man. If there is no truth it wouldn’t carry to modern times.
John: And Christianity is just thriving right now? We need an infusion of the living word. I don’t care if Christ appears on YouTube, if it coverts nonbelievers I’m for it!
Matthew: John, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior? Do you believe that he is the son of God, our eternal father?
Mark: That he was crucified for our sins, washing them away, and then rose again?
John: You are both missing the point.
Luke: Most seriously, EJ.
Mark: There is no point, John, only Jesus Christ.
Matthew: Amen, Brother. Amen.
EJ: Looks like they’ve got it handled, Luke. I’ll check you later.
Luke: God bless, EJ. Surf safely.
**EJ has left the room.**
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The Simple Day
You had guests tonight so I parked at the gate. I really came to see BeetleHat so don't get a swelled head. I thought we might talk about the Project Pupae. Maybe call Lunah and get her opines on the character pics. You know, toss around names, sketch out some skills. The Project will be my first real game as a designer. A game for my career, from my imagination. Not ministry like MG3K. Not so real it seems like truth.
"You are so flawed," a total stranger emailed me today. Two days after I removed the moderating feature on my account. Wow. Am I now? Thou shalt not judge except on Tuesdays, I guess. I suppose the next message will continue to try to shake me down until I repent and turn to the covenant of stupidity and ignorance. Whose way leads to more death and hatred? Big question. Try it on for size. Hard question.
After laying back on the bike for an hour, I started to think maybe you had an overnight visitor. I'd left my cellphone at home. The stars are incredible above your dark circle of land. I think I could rise forever. How melodramatic is that? But so true. Lay on your back and tell me I lie. Tell me that under that sky of gems and inky night you don't feel yourself rise. You are part of that marvel. That great wheel.
Laying back, I was a bit above the holly leaves you've woven through the wrought iron gate. I love that. You've stretched the deep green and pale green of the leaves and twined the stems that whole fifteen foot length. A living thing that stretches across the drive.
"You are so flawed," I said to myself. I'm talking to myself more and more now. With dad gone, maybe I'm talking to him. A friend, not a stranger, Jared said with a gentle smile, "You're getting too emo. Come for dinner. Jay will make miso steak." I don't want miso steak, Jared. I don't want to see you and Jay so happy. I don't want to hear about the GLBT-friendly Mormon scripture study group you formed. I'm not ready to be happy. Not today.
We're made with a gorgeous range of emotion. But when we're honest about our feelings, because they are all cliche and documented in textbooks, by Hollywood and on YouTube, we're seen as broken, lesser, immature. "Oh, look at that teen angst!" we all laugh and point. Funny, but I don't remember my teen years being laughable. "Oh, look at her doing the stages of grief thing." Please. Shut your mouth, Fiend.
Or better yet, buddy, instead of sending me an email, why don't you come on over and let me kick your ***. I need a good anger release.
Keeping on, keeping creative.
Love you. You know it.
E.J.
"You are so flawed," a total stranger emailed me today. Two days after I removed the moderating feature on my account. Wow. Am I now? Thou shalt not judge except on Tuesdays, I guess. I suppose the next message will continue to try to shake me down until I repent and turn to the covenant of stupidity and ignorance. Whose way leads to more death and hatred? Big question. Try it on for size. Hard question.
After laying back on the bike for an hour, I started to think maybe you had an overnight visitor. I'd left my cellphone at home. The stars are incredible above your dark circle of land. I think I could rise forever. How melodramatic is that? But so true. Lay on your back and tell me I lie. Tell me that under that sky of gems and inky night you don't feel yourself rise. You are part of that marvel. That great wheel.
Laying back, I was a bit above the holly leaves you've woven through the wrought iron gate. I love that. You've stretched the deep green and pale green of the leaves and twined the stems that whole fifteen foot length. A living thing that stretches across the drive.
"You are so flawed," I said to myself. I'm talking to myself more and more now. With dad gone, maybe I'm talking to him. A friend, not a stranger, Jared said with a gentle smile, "You're getting too emo. Come for dinner. Jay will make miso steak." I don't want miso steak, Jared. I don't want to see you and Jay so happy. I don't want to hear about the GLBT-friendly Mormon scripture study group you formed. I'm not ready to be happy. Not today.
We're made with a gorgeous range of emotion. But when we're honest about our feelings, because they are all cliche and documented in textbooks, by Hollywood and on YouTube, we're seen as broken, lesser, immature. "Oh, look at that teen angst!" we all laugh and point. Funny, but I don't remember my teen years being laughable. "Oh, look at her doing the stages of grief thing." Please. Shut your mouth, Fiend.
Or better yet, buddy, instead of sending me an email, why don't you come on over and let me kick your ***. I need a good anger release.
Keeping on, keeping creative.
Love you. You know it.
E.J.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Your Secret Ingredient
There is some part of you that will forever be hidden from me. I think it lies somewhere beyond the scent of your perfume (subtle cherry blossoms) and before the waves in your thick, black hair. It is something that I thought, as a child, I would grow to have. That it slept within me but the first time I fell in love or saw the face of God in the ocean’s tide, it would awaken and I would know it instantly as my inheritance from you.
It has been, as you say, “too many years to count” since you’ve stood in your native homeland, yet your accent is rich and smooth. Why didn’t I learn to speak as you do? I suppose my father’s great love of everything American insured that my annunciations would all be just so. Not the liquid warmth of your cadence or the rumbling laughter that will always say to me, “elegant woman.”
I was twenty-five before I woke and stepped to the mirror. I was living alone in Los Angeles. I stood, in my boy’s sleepware, my dark brown hair messed from sleep, my mouth full, my cheeks creased from the too-new pillow case. I looked into my eyes. They are brown, like yours, but nothing like yours. In that moment, for the first time in all my life, I realized that I would never grow up to me you. You had a secret ingredient that I lacked. A secret ingredient that my genes could not or would not replicate. You are the diamond blade and I am steel.
That realization was not a welcome one. Time passed. The feelings sank into me but the thread of sorrow running through my nervous system never entirely left.
Today I felt wild. I wanted something I could not have. I prayed. I broke a paint brush. A broke a coffee mug. I went riding even though you told me not to drive upset.
I wasn’t upset. I was on fire.
The speed swept the flames away but did not still my mind. I want to show you I am intelligent and mature. Instead I manage “witty” and “thoughtful.” I want to show you that I do not desire what I cannot have. That I know patience. I have mastered control. Instead, you look at me with still, deep, quiet eyes and whisper, “I love you.”
I want to accept you—the embodiment of the elegance and eloquence that a woman can have—into my heart but I feel unworthy. I have not made a place for you that is lined in silk and edged in gold. I am a small flame, quick to burn, and you are flint, able to create anything. Light a candle. Start an inferno.
In the shower, after five hours on the road, crisscrossing the State as well as my state of mind, I allowed the cold water to strip everything away. To leave me, bones alone, beneath the spray. “Remake me, Lord,” I whispered into the spray. “Remake me.”
But He does not remake. To remake would be to admit mistakes. He does not make mistakes. We are each beautifully, terribly made. Utterly alone. Forever with one another. All of us.
I accept you into my heart. But it may take some time for me to join you there.
E.J.
It has been, as you say, “too many years to count” since you’ve stood in your native homeland, yet your accent is rich and smooth. Why didn’t I learn to speak as you do? I suppose my father’s great love of everything American insured that my annunciations would all be just so. Not the liquid warmth of your cadence or the rumbling laughter that will always say to me, “elegant woman.”
I was twenty-five before I woke and stepped to the mirror. I was living alone in Los Angeles. I stood, in my boy’s sleepware, my dark brown hair messed from sleep, my mouth full, my cheeks creased from the too-new pillow case. I looked into my eyes. They are brown, like yours, but nothing like yours. In that moment, for the first time in all my life, I realized that I would never grow up to me you. You had a secret ingredient that I lacked. A secret ingredient that my genes could not or would not replicate. You are the diamond blade and I am steel.
That realization was not a welcome one. Time passed. The feelings sank into me but the thread of sorrow running through my nervous system never entirely left.
Today I felt wild. I wanted something I could not have. I prayed. I broke a paint brush. A broke a coffee mug. I went riding even though you told me not to drive upset.
I wasn’t upset. I was on fire.
The speed swept the flames away but did not still my mind. I want to show you I am intelligent and mature. Instead I manage “witty” and “thoughtful.” I want to show you that I do not desire what I cannot have. That I know patience. I have mastered control. Instead, you look at me with still, deep, quiet eyes and whisper, “I love you.”
I want to accept you—the embodiment of the elegance and eloquence that a woman can have—into my heart but I feel unworthy. I have not made a place for you that is lined in silk and edged in gold. I am a small flame, quick to burn, and you are flint, able to create anything. Light a candle. Start an inferno.
In the shower, after five hours on the road, crisscrossing the State as well as my state of mind, I allowed the cold water to strip everything away. To leave me, bones alone, beneath the spray. “Remake me, Lord,” I whispered into the spray. “Remake me.”
But He does not remake. To remake would be to admit mistakes. He does not make mistakes. We are each beautifully, terribly made. Utterly alone. Forever with one another. All of us.
I accept you into my heart. But it may take some time for me to join you there.
E.J.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Begin the Begin
Tonight, from 8 pm PST until 11:30 pm PST, five managers--General Manager, Votary Manager, CCG Manager, Production Manager and Online Manager--met online and discussed my future and the future of Mardi Gras 3000. No, not live or die type of future, but the fine details that make life worth living: the how, why, when and what. The nitty gritty. The chewy center of the Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop.
That's right my sweet friends. There have been changes large and small. I've added a fast and speedy link to subscribe to my blog (see the bottom of the sidebar) and my publisher has hired the Fab Five--the coveted manager positions have been filled.
Here's a link to Jennifer's post where she tells the interesting and even snarky and hilarious stories of the applicants:
http://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=140
The MG3K Forum is becoming a fiction hub and the announcements, player registration, rankings, tournament announcements, and all the other great stuff--including places to suggest/request new Instants--is shifting over to the official website to launch at the end of May. Actually, it looks like everything is happening in May! Go, May!
The Starter Deck (retail edition)... In-character fiction... A new sourcebook... A trade paperback sourcebook... The website with chat rooms, characters, free online play... It's all coming in May.
While the managers were doing what they do so well (which is organize and collaborate to incredible ends), Jennifer (publisher) and I were chatting. She reminded me of the evil truth: The Fab Five have sixty days to blow her mind. She's not a big woman. She's barely out of her twenties. But darn if folks are set to shivering by her. At Windstorm, she can veto anything. There's no Board telling her what her to do or taking risk by vote. It rests on her shoulders. All of it. And now, here's five people who really, really, really want these jobs and who have to fight to keep them.
Sound mean? It isn't. The approach is: No free lunch. You want it, you fight for it. Yes, you were better than the other applicants but now show your stuff. Are you all talk or can you innovate? I *love* this part.
Now is when miracles happen.
E.J.
That's right my sweet friends. There have been changes large and small. I've added a fast and speedy link to subscribe to my blog (see the bottom of the sidebar) and my publisher has hired the Fab Five--the coveted manager positions have been filled.
Here's a link to Jennifer's post where she tells the interesting and even snarky and hilarious stories of the applicants:
http://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=140
The MG3K Forum is becoming a fiction hub and the announcements, player registration, rankings, tournament announcements, and all the other great stuff--including places to suggest/request new Instants--is shifting over to the official website to launch at the end of May. Actually, it looks like everything is happening in May! Go, May!
The Starter Deck (retail edition)... In-character fiction... A new sourcebook... A trade paperback sourcebook... The website with chat rooms, characters, free online play... It's all coming in May.
While the managers were doing what they do so well (which is organize and collaborate to incredible ends), Jennifer (publisher) and I were chatting. She reminded me of the evil truth: The Fab Five have sixty days to blow her mind. She's not a big woman. She's barely out of her twenties. But darn if folks are set to shivering by her. At Windstorm, she can veto anything. There's no Board telling her what her to do or taking risk by vote. It rests on her shoulders. All of it. And now, here's five people who really, really, really want these jobs and who have to fight to keep them.
Sound mean? It isn't. The approach is: No free lunch. You want it, you fight for it. Yes, you were better than the other applicants but now show your stuff. Are you all talk or can you innovate? I *love* this part.
Now is when miracles happen.
E.J.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Once Again, From On High
Hey, Blog Readers (is there a hip name for that? Peeps who peep?), here's the word from my over-worked, under-paid, really-mean, seriously strict, incredibly freaking brilliant, still-in-business-and-thriving-when-nineteen-other-small-presses-have-folded-in-the-last-five-years, publisher (also known, I guess, as Jennifer) on the process of selecting five managers to handle all things Mardi Gras 3000.
And now, those words from our sponsor... ah, publisher:
Thank you, everyone, for the amazing response to these five positions. Between the interest from forum members and subscribers to E.J.’s blog, we received a total of fifty-five applications that included more than two hundred pages of intent to succeed.
The shortest application was two pages of dense, market-supported analysis and conclusions for the General Manager position, followed with a single page, full-color design of an “Angel Games” display. The longest application, for the Online Manager position, was forty-nine pages of code, diagrams, network connections, screen captures, and URLs to existing mock ups.
The application breakdown was:
4 General Manager
3 Production Manager
26 CCG Manager
13 Online Manager
9 Votary Manager
In honesty, I am running a day behind with all of this incredible reading. I won’t have my final decision until tomorrow. However, if your proposal isn’t one of the final three I’m considering in each category, I will be contacting you today before 6 pm PST.
There were so many qualified applicants! There were so many applicants that I had no qualms about, no hesitations, and such amazing ideas, that I wish I had twice as many positions. My final decisions will be posted tomorrow, along with contact information for each new manager, and a short description of their background and their plans.
Thank you again, everyone, for all the time and energy you invested in this process. I am certain that the Mardi Gras 3000 universe will be richer because of this reorganization.
Jennifer
Now, back to our show... E.J.!
Personally, I was surprised there were so few applicants. I've heard from many more than fifty players who has asked how they can get in on the "ground floor" of this start-up venture. I always told people the same things:
Be a team player. Be funny. Be witty. Be loyal. Call and chat with Jennifer or Cris. Send fan fiction. Play. Play. Play.
I'm not disappointed, exactly, because Jennifer mentions that the applications looked really good. And I guess, when the time comes to really get down, dirty and work, the crowds do thin out. I think a lot of players think that working for a gaming company is all play testing... but even playing testing can be grueling!
Another interesting fact was that only three or four (I can't remember exactly what she told me--our talk was no names just a lot of numbers) forum members applied. I think the other applicants came from players who are blog readers. I suppose I understand this, though. The forum, without an empowered and paid VM (who doesn't have to check in with me all the time and stuff like that), can really, understandably, hit long, slow periods. I'm the first to admit that I don't really know how to keep members posting. The blog, on the other hand, is pretty constant (at least, it's easier for me to maintain a pace) so the fact that players "gather" around the blog makes sense.
Everyone who applied knew the game really well and a couple people mentioned playing in unofficial tournaments at stores who have taken product from cold calls! (That will be followed up on for sure.)
I like the idea of the managers maybe all being players first and foremost. There's something cool about that. Not business types but real gaming types. Except the Votary Manager position! That one should be an author, I think. Oh. And the General Manager position. That should be a suit. Oh... uh... hm.
Of course, my opinion isn't needed this time, and I am *so* okay with that. This whole organizing of the universe was, in a small part, to allow me to concentrate on
And now, those words from our sponsor... ah, publisher:
Thank you, everyone, for the amazing response to these five positions. Between the interest from forum members and subscribers to E.J.’s blog, we received a total of fifty-five applications that included more than two hundred pages of intent to succeed.
The shortest application was two pages of dense, market-supported analysis and conclusions for the General Manager position, followed with a single page, full-color design of an “Angel Games” display. The longest application, for the Online Manager position, was forty-nine pages of code, diagrams, network connections, screen captures, and URLs to existing mock ups.
The application breakdown was:
4 General Manager
3 Production Manager
26 CCG Manager
13 Online Manager
9 Votary Manager
In honesty, I am running a day behind with all of this incredible reading. I won’t have my final decision until tomorrow. However, if your proposal isn’t one of the final three I’m considering in each category, I will be contacting you today before 6 pm PST.
There were so many qualified applicants! There were so many applicants that I had no qualms about, no hesitations, and such amazing ideas, that I wish I had twice as many positions. My final decisions will be posted tomorrow, along with contact information for each new manager, and a short description of their background and their plans.
Thank you again, everyone, for all the time and energy you invested in this process. I am certain that the Mardi Gras 3000 universe will be richer because of this reorganization.
Jennifer
Now, back to our show... E.J.!
Personally, I was surprised there were so few applicants. I've heard from many more than fifty players who has asked how they can get in on the "ground floor" of this start-up venture. I always told people the same things:
Be a team player. Be funny. Be witty. Be loyal. Call and chat with Jennifer or Cris. Send fan fiction. Play. Play. Play.
I'm not disappointed, exactly, because Jennifer mentions that the applications looked really good. And I guess, when the time comes to really get down, dirty and work, the crowds do thin out. I think a lot of players think that working for a gaming company is all play testing... but even playing testing can be grueling!
Another interesting fact was that only three or four (I can't remember exactly what she told me--our talk was no names just a lot of numbers) forum members applied. I think the other applicants came from players who are blog readers. I suppose I understand this, though. The forum, without an empowered and paid VM (who doesn't have to check in with me all the time and stuff like that), can really, understandably, hit long, slow periods. I'm the first to admit that I don't really know how to keep members posting. The blog, on the other hand, is pretty constant (at least, it's easier for me to maintain a pace) so the fact that players "gather" around the blog makes sense.
Everyone who applied knew the game really well and a couple people mentioned playing in unofficial tournaments at stores who have taken product from cold calls! (That will be followed up on for sure.)
I like the idea of the managers maybe all being players first and foremost. There's something cool about that. Not business types but real gaming types. Except the Votary Manager position! That one should be an author, I think. Oh. And the General Manager position. That should be a suit. Oh... uh... hm.
Of course, my opinion isn't needed this time, and I am *so* okay with that. This whole organizing of the universe was, in a small part, to allow me to concentrate on
game design. No more hosting, organizing, cajoling, etc. Just game design. Of course, I'll still post and blog but hopefully my inbox won't be so packed and everyone will get their answers faster... and the universe will grow at the speed of light!
I eagerly await the opening of the five golden envelopes...
E.J.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
How Cool is That?
I met the coolest guy today. Stop laughing! I’m serious! (Pip, you’re a punk, and I everything your little mind is thinking. Everything!)
So I ran into this... problem... with my top secret project. I’ve been trying to find this... component... and it has been eluding me. I was starting to feel a little bit hopeless, I must admit. It didn’t help when I sent an image (without the component) to my publisher and held the phone up to her daughter. Sweetie Faith said, “I like your picture very much. It’s quite good.” Thank you, I told her with a big smile. Then she added, “I especially like the hat!”
There was no hat.
A few days later (once I’d stopped crying), I called Cris (Remember her? My editor?) and begged for her help. She didn’t miss a beat: “Email Kevin Radthorne.”
Okay. If you are an epic-fantasy fan and you don’t know who I’m talking about then you need to sell your signed, first edition of “The Hobbit” to someone who deserves it. Kevin writes rich fantasy set in a world that has a decidedly Asian flavor. The books (there are two, divided into four thick parts) are so engaging you’d forget that it all isn’t real if it weren’t for the gorgeous magick. They are worthy reads, by far.
Oh, but that’s not all, no, that’s not all!
Kevin also did all four of his book covers. I know, I know. How do I know all this cool insidery stuff? Well, I’m just kick-butt that way. And Kevin says he does his covers on the Biography page of his website (www.kevinradthorne.com). Actually, I know about Kevin because, as an intern at Windstorm back in the day, I unpacked boxes of his books as one of my first duties. I feel in love with his artwork then and have been thrilled (and often breathless!) with his growing collection of artwork at his website.
I *could* have emailed Kevin ages ago, of course. I mean, I’m allowed to be a fangrrl because that only proves that I’m human (which you already know so well). But I never have because... I don’t know... I just never have. But now I not only had permission to write Kevin but a REASON!
Yeah, “Hey, you’re so cool, I love your books and artwork,” is a reason but he probably gets, like someone else I know, forty million fan messages and even though I *love* hearing from folks, I also sometimes feel overwhelmed. I want to answer everyone but, if I do, I will seriously run out of time to design anything new... let alone more MG3K expansions. I hate even saying that because I truly *do* love hearing from all the players. I haven’t heard a complaint in forever and there have been no more proposals of marriage (see what reprinting emails in my blog does?) and so I do feel a little thrill when my inbox fills up... but I also feel bad that folks have to wait so long to just get a little “Hey, thanks!” from pokey me.
Where was I?
Got it. So now I had a reason to write to Kevin and... I... did! Yay, me! Now here’s for the shocker: Kevin wrote back. Yes! I proposed a solution to my missing component problems and he graciously and gracefully told me, uh, that my solution sucked, basically. No, seriously, he actually just told me about this other way of getting what I needed—and tons of them in a handful of variants! It was so awesome.
Have you ever had a deal where you write to a stranger and they’re an ass? I mean, like they’re rude, brusk and heartless? Goodness knows, I’ve had this happen. Heck, I’ve had this happen with people I know! LOL! Writing Kevin was the exact OPPOSITE of that. He was helpful, patient, and articulate. But now for the kicker:
Kevin might (just might!) work with me on the new, top secret, super cool, totally amazing, international team project! OMG!
...
...
...
Wow. I just fainted. Hey, he might be too busy for a CCG (which can be draining and overwhelming in itself) but just the *idea* of working with him is amazing.
I must go to sleep now and dream of kick-butt characters all rendered in Radthorne style.
Hii-yahh! ;)
E.J.
So I ran into this... problem... with my top secret project. I’ve been trying to find this... component... and it has been eluding me. I was starting to feel a little bit hopeless, I must admit. It didn’t help when I sent an image (without the component) to my publisher and held the phone up to her daughter. Sweetie Faith said, “I like your picture very much. It’s quite good.” Thank you, I told her with a big smile. Then she added, “I especially like the hat!”
There was no hat.
A few days later (once I’d stopped crying), I called Cris (Remember her? My editor?) and begged for her help. She didn’t miss a beat: “Email Kevin Radthorne.”
Okay. If you are an epic-fantasy fan and you don’t know who I’m talking about then you need to sell your signed, first edition of “The Hobbit” to someone who deserves it. Kevin writes rich fantasy set in a world that has a decidedly Asian flavor. The books (there are two, divided into four thick parts) are so engaging you’d forget that it all isn’t real if it weren’t for the gorgeous magick. They are worthy reads, by far.
Oh, but that’s not all, no, that’s not all!
Kevin also did all four of his book covers. I know, I know. How do I know all this cool insidery stuff? Well, I’m just kick-butt that way. And Kevin says he does his covers on the Biography page of his website (www.kevinradthorne.com). Actually, I know about Kevin because, as an intern at Windstorm back in the day, I unpacked boxes of his books as one of my first duties. I feel in love with his artwork then and have been thrilled (and often breathless!) with his growing collection of artwork at his website.
I *could* have emailed Kevin ages ago, of course. I mean, I’m allowed to be a fangrrl because that only proves that I’m human (which you already know so well). But I never have because... I don’t know... I just never have. But now I not only had permission to write Kevin but a REASON!
Yeah, “Hey, you’re so cool, I love your books and artwork,” is a reason but he probably gets, like someone else I know, forty million fan messages and even though I *love* hearing from folks, I also sometimes feel overwhelmed. I want to answer everyone but, if I do, I will seriously run out of time to design anything new... let alone more MG3K expansions. I hate even saying that because I truly *do* love hearing from all the players. I haven’t heard a complaint in forever and there have been no more proposals of marriage (see what reprinting emails in my blog does?) and so I do feel a little thrill when my inbox fills up... but I also feel bad that folks have to wait so long to just get a little “Hey, thanks!” from pokey me.
Where was I?
Got it. So now I had a reason to write to Kevin and... I... did! Yay, me! Now here’s for the shocker: Kevin wrote back. Yes! I proposed a solution to my missing component problems and he graciously and gracefully told me, uh, that my solution sucked, basically. No, seriously, he actually just told me about this other way of getting what I needed—and tons of them in a handful of variants! It was so awesome.
Have you ever had a deal where you write to a stranger and they’re an ass? I mean, like they’re rude, brusk and heartless? Goodness knows, I’ve had this happen. Heck, I’ve had this happen with people I know! LOL! Writing Kevin was the exact OPPOSITE of that. He was helpful, patient, and articulate. But now for the kicker:
Kevin might (just might!) work with me on the new, top secret, super cool, totally amazing, international team project! OMG!
...
...
...
Wow. I just fainted. Hey, he might be too busy for a CCG (which can be draining and overwhelming in itself) but just the *idea* of working with him is amazing.
I must go to sleep now and dream of kick-butt characters all rendered in Radthorne style.
Hii-yahh! ;)
E.J.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Designing in My Sleep
I’ve been trying to regulate my work/sleep schedule to be more present for my mom and to be more available to my publisher when Mardi Gras 3000 is released for the retail market. But this new project—Project Pupae, my “time away from MG3K while everything reorganizes” game—is kicking my butt.
I’ve secured three of the eight researchers we need. All hard science experts. One is in the Czech Republic, one is in Cameroon, and the third is in Bangladesh. GMT is -8 for me. I set my tablet to pull messages 24/7 every ten minutes. You do *not* make scientists wait.
I get up with Mom and do breakfast and morning coffee chat. We’ve been using the Journal as a jumping off point, talking about articles and opinions. Then I work on the artwork for the game—I’m doing a lot of it this time—until lunch. We lunch together then I do my fifth of the research divided between the collaborators. Break for dinner and coffee then back to research until 9. Until midnight I playtest and trouble shoot with Mom or over the Internet with the virtual mock ups we set up.
Midnight to 2, I answer email, blog online or on paper for upload later, post on my regular forums, and play a game of MG3K HSOL (the “old school system” that’s being replaced with Gille Hawkin’s system).
Then I make phone calls for about an hour because in the middle of the night (2 AM PST) is when everyone I need right now is wide awake. By 3, I usually notice that my publisher’s AIM account has signed off and I take them closing as a sign that I can too.
In bed, I read the March issue of “Fast Company,” a business magazine that’s so insanely precocious and self-reverential that they actually seem to believe the fluff they pass off as news-worthy. This is “business” for the “bizness” set. A magazine all about mind share... which is to say a magazine all about a whole lot of nothing. I am pleased to have one and only one issue of this magazine because it is mind-numbing prattle. Which is exactly why I read it.
After thirty minutes of reading about... nothing of importance in the real world... my mind is totally blank and I drop the drivel and pick up my tablet. I work on game mechanics for an hour and half, timed, and not a moment more. The pressure and focus is good for me. It won’t allow me to get bogged down in my own what ifs. I don’t open any other windows. Just me and my Microsoft Journal for sketches and hand writing recognition. I pose questions to myself across the screen and answer in a different color. I save frequently.
More than once I’ve woken up with my forehead on the screen, the tablet long since hibernating.
By morning, around 9, over coffee and gatah, I scroll through my notes. I rarely remember any of it but, so far, its all been good.
Feels right to be working. Reminds me why I fell in love with this.
E.J.
I’ve secured three of the eight researchers we need. All hard science experts. One is in the Czech Republic, one is in Cameroon, and the third is in Bangladesh. GMT is -8 for me. I set my tablet to pull messages 24/7 every ten minutes. You do *not* make scientists wait.
I get up with Mom and do breakfast and morning coffee chat. We’ve been using the Journal as a jumping off point, talking about articles and opinions. Then I work on the artwork for the game—I’m doing a lot of it this time—until lunch. We lunch together then I do my fifth of the research divided between the collaborators. Break for dinner and coffee then back to research until 9. Until midnight I playtest and trouble shoot with Mom or over the Internet with the virtual mock ups we set up.
Midnight to 2, I answer email, blog online or on paper for upload later, post on my regular forums, and play a game of MG3K HSOL (the “old school system” that’s being replaced with Gille Hawkin’s system).
Then I make phone calls for about an hour because in the middle of the night (2 AM PST) is when everyone I need right now is wide awake. By 3, I usually notice that my publisher’s AIM account has signed off and I take them closing as a sign that I can too.
In bed, I read the March issue of “Fast Company,” a business magazine that’s so insanely precocious and self-reverential that they actually seem to believe the fluff they pass off as news-worthy. This is “business” for the “bizness” set. A magazine all about mind share... which is to say a magazine all about a whole lot of nothing. I am pleased to have one and only one issue of this magazine because it is mind-numbing prattle. Which is exactly why I read it.
After thirty minutes of reading about... nothing of importance in the real world... my mind is totally blank and I drop the drivel and pick up my tablet. I work on game mechanics for an hour and half, timed, and not a moment more. The pressure and focus is good for me. It won’t allow me to get bogged down in my own what ifs. I don’t open any other windows. Just me and my Microsoft Journal for sketches and hand writing recognition. I pose questions to myself across the screen and answer in a different color. I save frequently.
More than once I’ve woken up with my forehead on the screen, the tablet long since hibernating.
By morning, around 9, over coffee and gatah, I scroll through my notes. I rarely remember any of it but, so far, its all been good.
Feels right to be working. Reminds me why I fell in love with this.
E.J.
Monday, April 16, 2007
When Minds Collide
Six things I love this week:
1. Full of Pigs.com
A clean, safe website where you can anonymously rant about *anything* that’s bothering you. Debate is forbidden and support is aplenty.
2. Staples brand, Xeno model, 1.0 ballpoint pens with neon metal casings and eighteen, quarter inch, oval, raised rubber grips. The blue one.
3. Paprika.
4. Java script.
5. Tech-head forums where everyone speaks in binary and you get smarter just by lurking and forwarding posts to your friends with subject heads like: “Did you know??” or “Wow! Check this out!!”
6. Clandestine meetings of the minds where apparent strangers come together around an innovative idea and, eight hours later, are committed to the core and perfectly synchronized.
Every time a door closes...
I chose four. Surface details: forty-four years in age difference; four different ethnicities; three different religions; three orientations; three professional careers; twenty-nine published novels or games; fourteen published research papers; two patents; sixteen emails to me that proved: undeniable intelligence, critical thinking skills, stability, drive, passion, focus, reliability (a big one), and creativity. In truth, I knew *one* of them well, but knew none of them like I know them now. Who are they? My collaborators.
“Take some time away from Mardi Gras 3000 while the production team is doing their thing. But don’t take time away from game design.”
AIM provided a perfect private chatroom with fast access to FTP to share zipped folders of documents, images, sketches, maps, and, at one point, a Latin root dictionary. I took an hour to describe the new game: object, method, size, shape, scope. “Project Pupae” became the codename and everyone LOL’ed.
Questions tumbled and answered rolled free form for everyone. We quickly realized that our united knowledge was the perfect group mind. We each brought something different to the virtual table. No query was answered twice—none of us knew what the others knew. The puzzle was complete. Yes, we were all gamers but what kind? CCG, console, rpg, board game, real world hardcore sports, etc. I’m not sure there was ever a group of boxers, geeks and footballers who ever got along so well. We played devil’s advocate with problems until we had Googled and Wikied ourselves to every solution.
But chat is cheap and after a second hour had passed we decided to jump right in. Meetings where nothing happens but talk are just so ’90s. The work—from conception to completion—was charted out and divided up. Clap those hands and scatter! To the far flung corners of the Internet we queried, back-doored and took down notations. We LimeWired legally. We cruised Gutenberg. We checked copyrights, ISBNs, and patents. Everyone held their own and kept the pace.
Every fifteen minutes or so a chime and twenty lines of text would flash in the chatroom. A discovery! Then cheers. A question? Then answers. A problem?! Solution.
Just one idea is all it takes.
Mix with trust.
Add desire.
Repeat.
Begin.
E.J.
1. Full of Pigs.com
A clean, safe website where you can anonymously rant about *anything* that’s bothering you. Debate is forbidden and support is aplenty.
2. Staples brand, Xeno model, 1.0 ballpoint pens with neon metal casings and eighteen, quarter inch, oval, raised rubber grips. The blue one.
3. Paprika.
4. Java script.
5. Tech-head forums where everyone speaks in binary and you get smarter just by lurking and forwarding posts to your friends with subject heads like: “Did you know??” or “Wow! Check this out!!”
6. Clandestine meetings of the minds where apparent strangers come together around an innovative idea and, eight hours later, are committed to the core and perfectly synchronized.
Every time a door closes...
I chose four. Surface details: forty-four years in age difference; four different ethnicities; three different religions; three orientations; three professional careers; twenty-nine published novels or games; fourteen published research papers; two patents; sixteen emails to me that proved: undeniable intelligence, critical thinking skills, stability, drive, passion, focus, reliability (a big one), and creativity. In truth, I knew *one* of them well, but knew none of them like I know them now. Who are they? My collaborators.
“Take some time away from Mardi Gras 3000 while the production team is doing their thing. But don’t take time away from game design.”
AIM provided a perfect private chatroom with fast access to FTP to share zipped folders of documents, images, sketches, maps, and, at one point, a Latin root dictionary. I took an hour to describe the new game: object, method, size, shape, scope. “Project Pupae” became the codename and everyone LOL’ed.
Questions tumbled and answered rolled free form for everyone. We quickly realized that our united knowledge was the perfect group mind. We each brought something different to the virtual table. No query was answered twice—none of us knew what the others knew. The puzzle was complete. Yes, we were all gamers but what kind? CCG, console, rpg, board game, real world hardcore sports, etc. I’m not sure there was ever a group of boxers, geeks and footballers who ever got along so well. We played devil’s advocate with problems until we had Googled and Wikied ourselves to every solution.
But chat is cheap and after a second hour had passed we decided to jump right in. Meetings where nothing happens but talk are just so ’90s. The work—from conception to completion—was charted out and divided up. Clap those hands and scatter! To the far flung corners of the Internet we queried, back-doored and took down notations. We LimeWired legally. We cruised Gutenberg. We checked copyrights, ISBNs, and patents. Everyone held their own and kept the pace.
Every fifteen minutes or so a chime and twenty lines of text would flash in the chatroom. A discovery! Then cheers. A question? Then answers. A problem?! Solution.
Just one idea is all it takes.
Mix with trust.
Add desire.
Repeat.
Begin.
E.J.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Five, Five, Five Blogs in One!
I wrote this blog four times today. I knew for certain what I wanted to write and then I knew for certain that something else was more important / interesting / blog-worthy. Then I started filing blogs – save those for another day when I *should* blog but have nothing useful to say. How wrong is that? Like, how “worthy” are the blogs you read regularly? How “useful” are they? Aren’t blogs just supposed to be random, stream of conscious joy rides with a person you find mildly intriguing and/or bizarre?
So, instead of squirreling away my musings, here are four blogs summarized and condensed into fifty words or less and then a fifth blog, full length and blotted, about Marcia (hi, M!) my college roommate. Can’t wait to see what’s up with the M-Girl? Oh, baby, have I got a chip for you ;)
Holy Moly, Batgrrl! We’ve Got Prepped Decks
My publisher emailed. She wheeled and dealed. She threatened and charmed. She landed us a printer that will prep the decks. Watch out MTG. Here comes Mardi Gras!
Why Doesn’t “Gay Gamer” Mean Happy?
Why is it that when I post on a glbt forum I get pornographic PMs when all the glbt people I know are so freaking NOT like that? Why can’t one of my straight-laced, level-headed glbt friends run a glbt forum?
Flowers from Julie and Diane
“I don’t know how you feel, E.J., because I only have my mom and she’s never died. But I guess you’re feeling really bad and flowers won’t help. But my mom says we should send them anyway. I’m sorry your dad died.” Thank you, Julie.
Coffee with You
You drove twenty miles and pretended to need creamer. What I needed was your arms around me. To stand in silence. Rest my cheek against your hair. Thank you for always being exactly what you seem.
And now for the main attraction….
When Your College Roommate Comes Calling
Word is getting out. Friends of friends of friends are calling to offer their condolences. This is wearing on my mom. She says, “This is a never ending cycle. I am walking in to find him, still, again and again, over and over.” She cries silently, tears on her face unacknowledged, and unplugs the phone. She walks out of the kitchen and I know where she is going.
My father’s voice in my ear, “Take care of her.”
God, I love my mom.
She is so fierce. She is so lost. Her whole life was imagined in her mind before she was a teen ager. And then it went in a completely different direction. Sometimes, in the very early morning, I see her and she is still that girl. Not even quite a teen. Wondering. Wondering what happened.
My father said once to me, “I was your mother’s consolation prize.” I never knew what he meant really and I never asked. He loved her with every ounce of who he was. He never spoke a word against her. “She tries so hard,” he told me more than once when she and I butted heads.
I plugged the phone back in. I decided to take all the calls.
And they came.
And I said the same things, and told the same story, and it became me who walked in that morning with my father’s coffee. It was me who knew just by looking. It was me who set down the mug. Sat on the bed. And cried silently, endlessly. An hour going by. The silence thick in the room even as the house woke up with the sounds of breakfast and guests and family.
The mug sits on the dresser. The coffee is cold. I can’t take it away.
“I know what you’re feeling, E. I really do. Wow. I mean, my parents are still alive. Both of them. My dad is the one who called and told me. But I totally know what you must be going through right now.”
No, you don’t. You’re not even trying.
“So, are you still acting?”
Only right now. On the phone with you.
“It’s been so long. I can’t remember the last time we spoke.”
The day I found out you were ******* our drama professor.
“I always felt like you were so controlled. Like you had a secret. I wondered if maybe… you know?”
I don’t have any secrets, Marcia, because I’d be afraid some college roommate would blab them all over her pink MySpace blog.
“I’ve been following your blog when you write it. ‘Girl Geek.’ It’s really punky. You must have fun just going on like that.”
No comment. No, wait, I have one: When we were on the phone, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to tell you you’re an idiot.
“You must feel so betrayed. That’s what it’s like. But just because your dad died, he didn’t betray you, E.”
I know betrayal and I know Psychology 101. I took the same classes, Marcia. I wrote your damn paper on the stages of grief, which you seem to have forgotten. I know betrayal—intimately, socially, recently—and my father has nothing to do with it.
“And you’re angry. Of course. I mean, you’re hiding it, but you have anger in there.”
You’re right. I am angry. How’s this for showing it?
Do me a favor? Lose my number.
Grrr.
E.J.
So, instead of squirreling away my musings, here are four blogs summarized and condensed into fifty words or less and then a fifth blog, full length and blotted, about Marcia (hi, M!) my college roommate. Can’t wait to see what’s up with the M-Girl? Oh, baby, have I got a chip for you ;)
Holy Moly, Batgrrl! We’ve Got Prepped Decks
My publisher emailed. She wheeled and dealed. She threatened and charmed. She landed us a printer that will prep the decks. Watch out MTG. Here comes Mardi Gras!
Why Doesn’t “Gay Gamer” Mean Happy?
Why is it that when I post on a glbt forum I get pornographic PMs when all the glbt people I know are so freaking NOT like that? Why can’t one of my straight-laced, level-headed glbt friends run a glbt forum?
Flowers from Julie and Diane
“I don’t know how you feel, E.J., because I only have my mom and she’s never died. But I guess you’re feeling really bad and flowers won’t help. But my mom says we should send them anyway. I’m sorry your dad died.” Thank you, Julie.
Coffee with You
You drove twenty miles and pretended to need creamer. What I needed was your arms around me. To stand in silence. Rest my cheek against your hair. Thank you for always being exactly what you seem.
And now for the main attraction….
When Your College Roommate Comes Calling
Word is getting out. Friends of friends of friends are calling to offer their condolences. This is wearing on my mom. She says, “This is a never ending cycle. I am walking in to find him, still, again and again, over and over.” She cries silently, tears on her face unacknowledged, and unplugs the phone. She walks out of the kitchen and I know where she is going.
My father’s voice in my ear, “Take care of her.”
God, I love my mom.
She is so fierce. She is so lost. Her whole life was imagined in her mind before she was a teen ager. And then it went in a completely different direction. Sometimes, in the very early morning, I see her and she is still that girl. Not even quite a teen. Wondering. Wondering what happened.
My father said once to me, “I was your mother’s consolation prize.” I never knew what he meant really and I never asked. He loved her with every ounce of who he was. He never spoke a word against her. “She tries so hard,” he told me more than once when she and I butted heads.
I plugged the phone back in. I decided to take all the calls.
And they came.
And I said the same things, and told the same story, and it became me who walked in that morning with my father’s coffee. It was me who knew just by looking. It was me who set down the mug. Sat on the bed. And cried silently, endlessly. An hour going by. The silence thick in the room even as the house woke up with the sounds of breakfast and guests and family.
The mug sits on the dresser. The coffee is cold. I can’t take it away.
“I know what you’re feeling, E. I really do. Wow. I mean, my parents are still alive. Both of them. My dad is the one who called and told me. But I totally know what you must be going through right now.”
No, you don’t. You’re not even trying.
“So, are you still acting?”
Only right now. On the phone with you.
“It’s been so long. I can’t remember the last time we spoke.”
The day I found out you were ******* our drama professor.
“I always felt like you were so controlled. Like you had a secret. I wondered if maybe… you know?”
I don’t have any secrets, Marcia, because I’d be afraid some college roommate would blab them all over her pink MySpace blog.
“I’ve been following your blog when you write it. ‘Girl Geek.’ It’s really punky. You must have fun just going on like that.”
No comment. No, wait, I have one: When we were on the phone, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to tell you you’re an idiot.
“You must feel so betrayed. That’s what it’s like. But just because your dad died, he didn’t betray you, E.”
I know betrayal and I know Psychology 101. I took the same classes, Marcia. I wrote your damn paper on the stages of grief, which you seem to have forgotten. I know betrayal—intimately, socially, recently—and my father has nothing to do with it.
“And you’re angry. Of course. I mean, you’re hiding it, but you have anger in there.”
You’re right. I am angry. How’s this for showing it?
Do me a favor? Lose my number.
Grrr.
E.J.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Gaming for a Living
Posted on the Mardi Gras 3000 Forum athttp://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=311#311
by my publisher Jennifer DiMarcoon
Thu Apr 12, 2007 12:31 am
>>Mardi Gras 3000 Employment
As Mardi Gras 3000 prepares for its national retail launch, we are organizing the project (and, by extension, E.J.’s career) and assigning managers. Managers will be hired from within our existing staff and from within the MG3K community. I’ve chosen to open this opportunity to the community here because it is of utmost importance to me that all managers be personally passionate about this first of E.J.’s games. I will not hire individuals driven by profit. We are an Equal Opportunity employer and I am blind to age and location as well. None of the positions need to be full-time and all of them can be handled remotely (you do not need to move to Washington State).
I’ll be accepting resumes and letters of intent through April 20, 2007. My decisions will be announced on April 23, 2007. Your resume should be tailored to why you are qualified for the position you desire. Your email should tell me specifically why you want the position, why you’ll be good at it, and how you will achieve the position’s goals. Some of the positions pay a set monthly stipend (marked #). Other positions pay a royalty based on sales (marked *).
The positions are:
*General Manager
All Angel games. Creation and implementation of marketing campaigns. Growth of the MG3K brand as well as introduction of supporting Angel brands.
#Production Manager
MG3K only. Design and layout of editions, packaging, displays, and all other support materials. Creation of materials required by other managers.
*CCG Manager
MG3K only. Creation and/organization of rules systems for Basic, Advanced and tournament play both online and offline. Creation and/organization of rules systems for boosters and other forthcoming products. Organization of tournament circuit. Officiating of rules and play variants. Creation of Player’s Handbook. Growth of player base.
*Online Manager
MG3K only. Design and implementation of an online versions of the game both Basic and Advanced. Design and implementation of mardigras3000.com and its subpages including but not limited to the On Tab Instant Store, Dance Floor, Gossip Booth, Expert’s Corner, Player Pages, and Rumble Room. Managing alliances with SecondLife and Kaneva. Funneling online orders to the correct channels. Management of subscriber database. Growth of subscriber base.
#Votary Manager
MG3K only. Admin to the forum and upkeep. Manage moderators. Design and implement campaigns to increase awareness of brand among teen and adult authors online and offline. Design and implement campaigns that specifically produce MG3K fiction. Manage authors of in-character blogs on Blogger and MySpace. Growth of forum membership and active author pool.
Any manager can envision and request materials from the Production Manager. The PM will clear all projects through me. I will supervise all managers. Managers will work directly with each other and E.J., as needed. Positions will be granted for a two month probation period and then reviewed. If progress has been successful, an annual employment contract will be issued.
Some of these positions are currently held by staff members. But these appointments are not official appointments. Staff should apply officially now. I will not roll positions over automatically. Open market hiring gives everyone the opportunity to really think about what they have to offer and what they want. As Gille Hawkins once send to me: “Security breeds complicacy.” I want only the best for MG3K and this is where it begins.
Thank you all for your time, your dedication and your interest.
Jennifer<<
Thank *you,* Jennifer, for being completely unwilling to give up. You march into the unknown with incredible courage and inspiration and I value that.
E.J.
by my publisher Jennifer DiMarcoon
Thu Apr 12, 2007 12:31 am
>>Mardi Gras 3000 Employment
As Mardi Gras 3000 prepares for its national retail launch, we are organizing the project (and, by extension, E.J.’s career) and assigning managers. Managers will be hired from within our existing staff and from within the MG3K community. I’ve chosen to open this opportunity to the community here because it is of utmost importance to me that all managers be personally passionate about this first of E.J.’s games. I will not hire individuals driven by profit. We are an Equal Opportunity employer and I am blind to age and location as well. None of the positions need to be full-time and all of them can be handled remotely (you do not need to move to Washington State).
I’ll be accepting resumes and letters of intent through April 20, 2007. My decisions will be announced on April 23, 2007. Your resume should be tailored to why you are qualified for the position you desire. Your email should tell me specifically why you want the position, why you’ll be good at it, and how you will achieve the position’s goals. Some of the positions pay a set monthly stipend (marked #). Other positions pay a royalty based on sales (marked *).
The positions are:
*General Manager
All Angel games. Creation and implementation of marketing campaigns. Growth of the MG3K brand as well as introduction of supporting Angel brands.
#Production Manager
MG3K only. Design and layout of editions, packaging, displays, and all other support materials. Creation of materials required by other managers.
*CCG Manager
MG3K only. Creation and/organization of rules systems for Basic, Advanced and tournament play both online and offline. Creation and/organization of rules systems for boosters and other forthcoming products. Organization of tournament circuit. Officiating of rules and play variants. Creation of Player’s Handbook. Growth of player base.
*Online Manager
MG3K only. Design and implementation of an online versions of the game both Basic and Advanced. Design and implementation of mardigras3000.com and its subpages including but not limited to the On Tab Instant Store, Dance Floor, Gossip Booth, Expert’s Corner, Player Pages, and Rumble Room. Managing alliances with SecondLife and Kaneva. Funneling online orders to the correct channels. Management of subscriber database. Growth of subscriber base.
#Votary Manager
MG3K only. Admin to the forum and upkeep. Manage moderators. Design and implement campaigns to increase awareness of brand among teen and adult authors online and offline. Design and implement campaigns that specifically produce MG3K fiction. Manage authors of in-character blogs on Blogger and MySpace. Growth of forum membership and active author pool.
Any manager can envision and request materials from the Production Manager. The PM will clear all projects through me. I will supervise all managers. Managers will work directly with each other and E.J., as needed. Positions will be granted for a two month probation period and then reviewed. If progress has been successful, an annual employment contract will be issued.
Some of these positions are currently held by staff members. But these appointments are not official appointments. Staff should apply officially now. I will not roll positions over automatically. Open market hiring gives everyone the opportunity to really think about what they have to offer and what they want. As Gille Hawkins once send to me: “Security breeds complicacy.” I want only the best for MG3K and this is where it begins.
Thank you all for your time, your dedication and your interest.
Jennifer<<
Thank *you,* Jennifer, for being completely unwilling to give up. You march into the unknown with incredible courage and inspiration and I value that.
E.J.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Life and Death
My father, Poulon Angel, died on Easter morning. He was fifty-six.
There really aren't any words to describe how I feel so I suppose I still feel numb.
My father was my listening ear. He was the last and the gentlest to point out my mistakes. We would walk or drive for hours talking about religion, politics, love, fate. He was utterly unable to be judgmental of anyone. He never said a harsh, sarcastic or hurtful word. He was calm, especially when I was rattled. He never played the victim, never gave in to anger and never complained, even when being a dark-skinned, gentle man seemed to complicate his life. In his stillness, he never allowed my very intense, powerful mother to overpower him. They were equals and both of them knew it and celebrated it.
Without him, my mom and I sit now, sometimes for hours, and stare at each other. We don't know what to say. Sex? Boys? Girls? Dancing? Menstruation? Fear? I never talked to my mom about any of this. My father explained life to me with a certain careful matter of factness that never came with questions or platitudes. My mother was the one who threw my date out my bedroom window when I was sixteen.
I told my father once, "What if I never find a man as perfect as you are?" He laughed and said, "Then I suppose you'll have to find a woman." I always thought that was the most original response a father could give a daughter.
I will miss his dry sense of humor, his unwavering loyalty, his honesty and sincerity. I will miss our walks. I will miss our drives. I will miss that one person that never, no matter how wrong I was, found fault with me, or blamed me, or turned away from me.
I will miss him because he is my father but more so because he is my friend.
E.J.
There really aren't any words to describe how I feel so I suppose I still feel numb.
My father was my listening ear. He was the last and the gentlest to point out my mistakes. We would walk or drive for hours talking about religion, politics, love, fate. He was utterly unable to be judgmental of anyone. He never said a harsh, sarcastic or hurtful word. He was calm, especially when I was rattled. He never played the victim, never gave in to anger and never complained, even when being a dark-skinned, gentle man seemed to complicate his life. In his stillness, he never allowed my very intense, powerful mother to overpower him. They were equals and both of them knew it and celebrated it.
Without him, my mom and I sit now, sometimes for hours, and stare at each other. We don't know what to say. Sex? Boys? Girls? Dancing? Menstruation? Fear? I never talked to my mom about any of this. My father explained life to me with a certain careful matter of factness that never came with questions or platitudes. My mother was the one who threw my date out my bedroom window when I was sixteen.
I told my father once, "What if I never find a man as perfect as you are?" He laughed and said, "Then I suppose you'll have to find a woman." I always thought that was the most original response a father could give a daughter.
I will miss his dry sense of humor, his unwavering loyalty, his honesty and sincerity. I will miss our walks. I will miss our drives. I will miss that one person that never, no matter how wrong I was, found fault with me, or blamed me, or turned away from me.
I will miss him because he is my father but more so because he is my friend.
E.J.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Post 60
Do you like my original title? Since this is my sixtieth post, it fits, of course, but I was also going for that Hollywood/Pop TV feel--you know, "Studio 60" or just "300" or something. Like, maybe I should rename Mardi Gras 3000 to "3000" or "CCG #3000." I like that last idea because then it would be like I had 2999 other games.
Gotta tell you guys, if I had 2999 games, I might just take my royalty, you know? ;)
Work on the Second Generation of MG3K items won't begin until late April so right now I have a waiting time. It's actually really nice. Gille Hawkins has been named Managing Editor of MG3K Online and she's making (fast!) incredible changes to the system. She got a lot of feedback from the players (147 subscribers right now) and found numerous holes in our original expansion plans. One of the nice things about Gille: She a tech head that never makes you feel stupid. Gotta love that.
So...
What should I be doing now? I kept asking myself on Monday and Tuesday. I want to be fresh and positive when the MG3K work begins again. I want to be on the ball. I want to have crazy fast skills (that's what Jennifer told me I have to have). Solin said, "Do something else."
Ahh, yeah. Right. Something else. But what?
"Anything. But nothing about Mardi Gras 3000," she clarified.
Oh.
Hm.
Is that possible? I gave it a day. Today.
I have a new game. It's 9 PM. I started at 7 AM. And I have a new game. I'm breaking now to blog, eat chocolate, have a steak and some coffee, kiss my mom on the cheek, give Solin a hug, and retreat again to zip up a prototype on cardstock.
This... is... incredible. Baby, I am high. The kind of high that doesn't come from drugs or sex. The kind of high that lasts. The kind that makes you wanna pull a DiCaprio:
"I'm king of world!"
(Because "queen" of the world just doesn't cut it.)
E.J.
Gotta tell you guys, if I had 2999 games, I might just take my royalty, you know? ;)
Work on the Second Generation of MG3K items won't begin until late April so right now I have a waiting time. It's actually really nice. Gille Hawkins has been named Managing Editor of MG3K Online and she's making (fast!) incredible changes to the system. She got a lot of feedback from the players (147 subscribers right now) and found numerous holes in our original expansion plans. One of the nice things about Gille: She a tech head that never makes you feel stupid. Gotta love that.
So...
What should I be doing now? I kept asking myself on Monday and Tuesday. I want to be fresh and positive when the MG3K work begins again. I want to be on the ball. I want to have crazy fast skills (that's what Jennifer told me I have to have). Solin said, "Do something else."
Ahh, yeah. Right. Something else. But what?
"Anything. But nothing about Mardi Gras 3000," she clarified.
Oh.
Hm.
Is that possible? I gave it a day. Today.
I have a new game. It's 9 PM. I started at 7 AM. And I have a new game. I'm breaking now to blog, eat chocolate, have a steak and some coffee, kiss my mom on the cheek, give Solin a hug, and retreat again to zip up a prototype on cardstock.
This... is... incredible. Baby, I am high. The kind of high that doesn't come from drugs or sex. The kind of high that lasts. The kind that makes you wanna pull a DiCaprio:
"I'm king of world!"
(Because "queen" of the world just doesn't cut it.)
E.J.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Hardcore Players
I know from my inbox that many of my blog subscribers are not MG3K players. Today’s blog is not for them. Here’s a little note for them (special): “Send chocolate.” ;)
For all of you MG3K players (which means you support me and my publisher by buying decks, cards, boards, etc.), this blog is all about the future of the game. The nitty gritty. The juice bits of news. So keep reading. You’ve earned an “in.” Oh. And, I love you more. So there.
Two weeks ago, the MG3K backer backed out for a sweet real estate deal. There has been some crummy stuff going on since then but nothing that held a candle to that. In the end, I’ll just have lots to whine out at www.FullofPigs.com on March 20 (you *know* I already ordered by hoodie). The truth of the matter is: Windstorm doesn’t usually fly with investors. Jennifer is a Virgo (control freak, fast thinker, smooth talker, smart cookie, tough as nails) and she pretty much doesn’t answer to anyone (except God). So losing Mr. Money wasn’t so much of a downer, I just would have appreciated a nice phone call from him instead of a cold email. But, hey, I’d rather have chocolate than flowers but who ever listens, right?
Because Mr. Money is all gone, Jennifer had to rethink what to do. I asked her (in my tiny, little girl voice) if she wanted to drop the game. She answered, “Don’t be an idiot and talk normally.” That snapped me out of it. She asked me to give her twenty-four hours to make a new game plan. One day later she called.
Here it is:
MG3K will grow over the next year to include a d20 rpg, a video game, a board game, an even better online version, an official, fully interactive website, and a card game (a one deck game, like Uno). Fiction feeds and published novels will be added to the line up. All of these supporting items will drive players toward the core game—the Mardi Gras 3000 Customizable/Collectable Card Game.
This is how Windstorm works: Create a body of supporting products around a core idea. It has kept them alive for 17+ years while dozens (literally) of other indie presses have folded. The plan for MG3K had been much simpler—publish the first wave of cards (the Limited Edition) and then, with the clout of Mr. Money and his money, pitch the game to a bigger, traditional game publisher. No way now.
I was honestly afraid that Jennifer would say, “I love you, sweetheart, but I’m a book publisher. I’m thirtysomething years old and I’ve been in this business 60 hours a week since I was sixteen. I don’t have any interest into morphing into a book and *game* press.” It’s an answered prayer that Jennifer sees every new hurdle as a new adventure. God bless her over-achiever soul.
None of the new MG3K items (with the exception of the online game—MG3K HSOL—which is now under the management of Gille Hawkins justonegrrlathotmaildotcom for more info) will launch until the Second Generation launches.
Second what?!
We’re now classifying products in the MG3K line in generations. Here's the definitions and when (and what) you should expect in the future:
First Generation products are what all of us have right now. A complete list is below. These products ship in 9 x 12 sheets. There have been three editions of the Starter Deck in the First Gen. The decks and boosters in the First Gen will sell out and then not be reprinted. The Challenge Boards, Standard Boards, Vinyl Board Cover, Boxes and Notebooks will stay in print in their current form. (Boxes will *not* be available through retail outlets.)
Second Generation products are what will be coming out in the summer of this year. This includes almost all of the First Gen products, repackaged with retail stores in mind. This means that the Starter Deck will be packaged smaller and will include a bound Player's Handbook. The dozen+ boosters will be grouped into "decks"—Terrapyre Expansion Deck, Celestial Expansion Deck, and the Universal Expansion Deck (inclusive cards). Expansion decks will come packaged with bound excerpts from MG3K fiction (cool!). Second Gen products will stay in print. See list way below. So, basically, the First Gen products will be boiled into concise decks.
Third Generation products will be packaged with retail stores in mind and will include all new products. This includes a series of Jump Boards, randomly packed boosters of Instants, themed Starter Decks, etc. A partial list of these products is way, way below.
I value Windstorm’s ability to be flexible. They are never rigid. They always seem to be able to morph and adapt. Don’t confuse this with weakness. Remember the adage of the best sword blade—it must have just the right amount of give.
FIRST GENERATION
Starter Decks
Starter Deck: First Edition (8x8: 76 cards and board)
Starter Deck: Second Edition (9 x 12: 110 cards)
Starter Deck: Third Edition (9x 12: 112 cards)
Celestial Boosters
Celestial Dreams Booster
Celestial Gold Booster
Celestial Royale Booster
Celestial Armor & Weapon Booster
Celestial Morph Booster
Celestial Flora Instant Card Booster
Celestial Single-Character Life Force Booster
Celestial Six-Character Life Force Booster
Terrapyre Boosters
Terrapyre MyPyre Booster
Terrapyre Visions Booster
Terrapyre Armor & Weapon Booster
Terrapyre's Companions Booster
Terrapyre Nightscape Booster
Terrapyre Prayers Instant Card Booster
Terrapyre Single-Character Life Force Booster
Terrapyre Six-Character Life Force Booster
Inclusive Boosters
Armor Booster
Skill Booster
Transportation Booster
Weapon Booster
Lair and Outpost Booster
Something Wicked Booster
Terrain Boosters
Terrain Booster: Road & Lava
Terrain Booster: Pines & Leaves
Terrain Booster: Snow
Terrain Booster: Rocks & Rubble
Terrain Booster: Grass, Soil & Swamp
Terrain Booster: Water Terrain & Bridge Instants
Terrain Booster: Water & Sand
Terrain Booster: Road & Oil
Terrain Booster: Roof Tops
Level Boosters
Level Combination Booster
Level One Booster
Level Two Booster
Level Three Booster
Level Four Booster
Level Five Booster
Level Six Booster
Expansions
Challenge Board: Brimstone
Challenge Board: Fast City
Boards
Clear Vinyl Board Cover
Purple Mist Board
Red Mist Board
Blue Mist Board
Green Mist Board
Pink Rays Board
Pink Graffiti Board
Boxes
Rock Trading Card Storage Box
Brick Trading Card Storage Box
Game Notebooks
Got Game? Game Notebook
Celestial Game Notebook
Terrapyre Game Notebook
SECOND GENERATION
Starter Deck: Fourth Edition
(5x7.5: 78 cards, player's handbook, and playing grid)
Celestial Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 78 cards, bound excerpt from “Bloodlines”)
To include:
Celestial Dreams Character Booster
Celestial Gold Character Booster
Celestial Royale Character Booster
Celestial Armor & Weapon Booster
Celestial Morph Booster
Celestial Flora Instant Card Booster
Celestial Six-Character Life Force Booster
Terrapyre Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 78 cards, bound excerpt from “Angelus”)
To include:
Terrapyre Edge Character Booster
Terrapyre Visions Character Booster
Terrapyre Armor & Weapon Booster
Terrapyre's Companions Booster
Terrapyre Nightscape Character Booster
Terrapyre Prayers Instant Card Booster
Terrapyre Six-Character Life Force Booster
Universal Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 62 cards, bound excerpt from “TBA”)
To include:
Armor Booster
Skill Booster
Transportation Booster
Weapon Booster
Lair and Outpost Booster
Something Wicked Booster
Non-Player Character Booster
Prop Booster
Celestial Power Up Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 180 cards)
To include:
Twelve Celestial Life Force Sets
Eighteen Level Card Sets
Terrapyre Power Up Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 180 cards)
To include:
Twelve Terrapyre Life Force Sets
Eighteen Level Card Sets
Terrain Expansion Deck*
(5x7.5: TBA)
To include:
Road & Lava
Pines & Leaves
Snow
Rocks & Rubble
Grass, Soil & Swamp
Water Terrain & Bridge Instants
Water & Sand
Road & Oil
Roof Tops
4D Clover
Ice Tunnel & Snow
City Tunnel & Oil
*The Terrain Deck may be broken into several decks by theme.
THIRD GENERATION
Themed Starter Decks
TBA
Jump Boards
Junk Yard Dogs
Sewer Rats
Warehouse
Rumble!
Graveyard
Night Club
Arboretum
Challenge Boards
Deep Blue Sea Challenge Board
Space Station Challenge Board
Instant Boosters
Randomly packed groups of eight to twelve Instants. Booster type *may* be designated Terrapyre, Celestial and Universal... or they may not ;)
This is a lot of change and a lot of work, everyone. But I’m excited and hopeful and positive. Want to get more involved? Want to do layout, image selection, grouping, or...? Email me. I’m serious, okay?
E.J.
For all of you MG3K players (which means you support me and my publisher by buying decks, cards, boards, etc.), this blog is all about the future of the game. The nitty gritty. The juice bits of news. So keep reading. You’ve earned an “in.” Oh. And, I love you more. So there.
Two weeks ago, the MG3K backer backed out for a sweet real estate deal. There has been some crummy stuff going on since then but nothing that held a candle to that. In the end, I’ll just have lots to whine out at www.FullofPigs.com on March 20 (you *know* I already ordered by hoodie). The truth of the matter is: Windstorm doesn’t usually fly with investors. Jennifer is a Virgo (control freak, fast thinker, smooth talker, smart cookie, tough as nails) and she pretty much doesn’t answer to anyone (except God). So losing Mr. Money wasn’t so much of a downer, I just would have appreciated a nice phone call from him instead of a cold email. But, hey, I’d rather have chocolate than flowers but who ever listens, right?
Because Mr. Money is all gone, Jennifer had to rethink what to do. I asked her (in my tiny, little girl voice) if she wanted to drop the game. She answered, “Don’t be an idiot and talk normally.” That snapped me out of it. She asked me to give her twenty-four hours to make a new game plan. One day later she called.
Here it is:
MG3K will grow over the next year to include a d20 rpg, a video game, a board game, an even better online version, an official, fully interactive website, and a card game (a one deck game, like Uno). Fiction feeds and published novels will be added to the line up. All of these supporting items will drive players toward the core game—the Mardi Gras 3000 Customizable/Collectable Card Game.
This is how Windstorm works: Create a body of supporting products around a core idea. It has kept them alive for 17+ years while dozens (literally) of other indie presses have folded. The plan for MG3K had been much simpler—publish the first wave of cards (the Limited Edition) and then, with the clout of Mr. Money and his money, pitch the game to a bigger, traditional game publisher. No way now.
I was honestly afraid that Jennifer would say, “I love you, sweetheart, but I’m a book publisher. I’m thirtysomething years old and I’ve been in this business 60 hours a week since I was sixteen. I don’t have any interest into morphing into a book and *game* press.” It’s an answered prayer that Jennifer sees every new hurdle as a new adventure. God bless her over-achiever soul.
None of the new MG3K items (with the exception of the online game—MG3K HSOL—which is now under the management of Gille Hawkins justonegrrlathotmaildotcom for more info) will launch until the Second Generation launches.
Second what?!
We’re now classifying products in the MG3K line in generations. Here's the definitions and when (and what) you should expect in the future:
First Generation products are what all of us have right now. A complete list is below. These products ship in 9 x 12 sheets. There have been three editions of the Starter Deck in the First Gen. The decks and boosters in the First Gen will sell out and then not be reprinted. The Challenge Boards, Standard Boards, Vinyl Board Cover, Boxes and Notebooks will stay in print in their current form. (Boxes will *not* be available through retail outlets.)
Second Generation products are what will be coming out in the summer of this year. This includes almost all of the First Gen products, repackaged with retail stores in mind. This means that the Starter Deck will be packaged smaller and will include a bound Player's Handbook. The dozen+ boosters will be grouped into "decks"—Terrapyre Expansion Deck, Celestial Expansion Deck, and the Universal Expansion Deck (inclusive cards). Expansion decks will come packaged with bound excerpts from MG3K fiction (cool!). Second Gen products will stay in print. See list way below. So, basically, the First Gen products will be boiled into concise decks.
Third Generation products will be packaged with retail stores in mind and will include all new products. This includes a series of Jump Boards, randomly packed boosters of Instants, themed Starter Decks, etc. A partial list of these products is way, way below.
I value Windstorm’s ability to be flexible. They are never rigid. They always seem to be able to morph and adapt. Don’t confuse this with weakness. Remember the adage of the best sword blade—it must have just the right amount of give.
FIRST GENERATION
Starter Decks
Starter Deck: First Edition (8x8: 76 cards and board)
Starter Deck: Second Edition (9 x 12: 110 cards)
Starter Deck: Third Edition (9x 12: 112 cards)
Celestial Boosters
Celestial Dreams Booster
Celestial Gold Booster
Celestial Royale Booster
Celestial Armor & Weapon Booster
Celestial Morph Booster
Celestial Flora Instant Card Booster
Celestial Single-Character Life Force Booster
Celestial Six-Character Life Force Booster
Terrapyre Boosters
Terrapyre MyPyre Booster
Terrapyre Visions Booster
Terrapyre Armor & Weapon Booster
Terrapyre's Companions Booster
Terrapyre Nightscape Booster
Terrapyre Prayers Instant Card Booster
Terrapyre Single-Character Life Force Booster
Terrapyre Six-Character Life Force Booster
Inclusive Boosters
Armor Booster
Skill Booster
Transportation Booster
Weapon Booster
Lair and Outpost Booster
Something Wicked Booster
Terrain Boosters
Terrain Booster: Road & Lava
Terrain Booster: Pines & Leaves
Terrain Booster: Snow
Terrain Booster: Rocks & Rubble
Terrain Booster: Grass, Soil & Swamp
Terrain Booster: Water Terrain & Bridge Instants
Terrain Booster: Water & Sand
Terrain Booster: Road & Oil
Terrain Booster: Roof Tops
Level Boosters
Level Combination Booster
Level One Booster
Level Two Booster
Level Three Booster
Level Four Booster
Level Five Booster
Level Six Booster
Expansions
Challenge Board: Brimstone
Challenge Board: Fast City
Boards
Clear Vinyl Board Cover
Purple Mist Board
Red Mist Board
Blue Mist Board
Green Mist Board
Pink Rays Board
Pink Graffiti Board
Boxes
Rock Trading Card Storage Box
Brick Trading Card Storage Box
Game Notebooks
Got Game? Game Notebook
Celestial Game Notebook
Terrapyre Game Notebook
SECOND GENERATION
Starter Deck: Fourth Edition
(5x7.5: 78 cards, player's handbook, and playing grid)
Celestial Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 78 cards, bound excerpt from “Bloodlines”)
To include:
Celestial Dreams Character Booster
Celestial Gold Character Booster
Celestial Royale Character Booster
Celestial Armor & Weapon Booster
Celestial Morph Booster
Celestial Flora Instant Card Booster
Celestial Six-Character Life Force Booster
Terrapyre Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 78 cards, bound excerpt from “Angelus”)
To include:
Terrapyre Edge Character Booster
Terrapyre Visions Character Booster
Terrapyre Armor & Weapon Booster
Terrapyre's Companions Booster
Terrapyre Nightscape Character Booster
Terrapyre Prayers Instant Card Booster
Terrapyre Six-Character Life Force Booster
Universal Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 62 cards, bound excerpt from “TBA”)
To include:
Armor Booster
Skill Booster
Transportation Booster
Weapon Booster
Lair and Outpost Booster
Something Wicked Booster
Non-Player Character Booster
Prop Booster
Celestial Power Up Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 180 cards)
To include:
Twelve Celestial Life Force Sets
Eighteen Level Card Sets
Terrapyre Power Up Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 180 cards)
To include:
Twelve Terrapyre Life Force Sets
Eighteen Level Card Sets
Terrain Expansion Deck*
(5x7.5: TBA)
To include:
Road & Lava
Pines & Leaves
Snow
Rocks & Rubble
Grass, Soil & Swamp
Water Terrain & Bridge Instants
Water & Sand
Road & Oil
Roof Tops
4D Clover
Ice Tunnel & Snow
City Tunnel & Oil
*The Terrain Deck may be broken into several decks by theme.
THIRD GENERATION
Themed Starter Decks
TBA
Jump Boards
Junk Yard Dogs
Sewer Rats
Warehouse
Rumble!
Graveyard
Night Club
Arboretum
Challenge Boards
Deep Blue Sea Challenge Board
Space Station Challenge Board
Instant Boosters
Randomly packed groups of eight to twelve Instants. Booster type *may* be designated Terrapyre, Celestial and Universal... or they may not ;)
This is a lot of change and a lot of work, everyone. But I’m excited and hopeful and positive. Want to get more involved? Want to do layout, image selection, grouping, or...? Email me. I’m serious, okay?
E.J.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
This Is Just to Say
I have finished
the cardamon
that was in
the cupboard
and which
you were probably
hiding
for guests
Forgive me
it was delicious
so wild
and so rich
in my
early morning
coffee
with your friend
E.J.
the cardamon
that was in
the cupboard
and which
you were probably
hiding
for guests
Forgive me
it was delicious
so wild
and so rich
in my
early morning
coffee
with your friend
E.J.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Tick Tock
Got a new pen today. So fine it allows me to write cursive when I’m printing, never picking up the pen, creating fine, interconnecting webs between each and every letter, word and line.
I am wasting breath to murmur that a keyboard will never replace this feeling, like another part of me, lost then found, the feeling of a new lover, companion, muse alight on my fingertips, resting in my hand. The possibilities are endless and she is beautiful.
There is a cup of coffee on my desk and a palette drying on the window seat. I last slept early Monday morning. I am thinking a lot. I am remembering.
I am wondering where you are.
I am glad you are near.
I am alone without you.
You are always within reach.
“If you stay so accessible you will never be respected.” Who told me that? It was in an email. A generic Hotmail account with a string of letters and numbers. I think it was spam. Randomly targeted cyber vomit.
If you could email Bill Gates or Donald Trump or George Bush and know that he’d read your message, what would you say?
It rained today, long and hard, and flooded my mind with thoughts of water. Bubble bathes, chi tea boiling, wet highways, drowning, baptism. I thought about the sterilization of humanity. The changing structure of everyday life.
I thought about falling in love. About spiritual responsibility. About whether or not the soul has memory before and beyond life here. I wondered why you once told me, filled with sorrow and in a dark car driving no where to see no one, that you didn’t believe in the soul.
I have more important things to do.
Like breathe. And sleep. Cook for a friend. Call my congressman.
And precisely because I have more important things to do, I will, instead, sit here and allow myself to be romanced by the simple, honest, satisfying movement of pen across paper. To be amazed by the truth that somewhere right now, in the darkness of this night, you are sleeping—or not—you who would do anything for me. You who seem God-sent. Because you see me fully and have turned me, like a marble, in your hand. I am just what I appear to be. I am who I say I am. I walk as I say I walk.
There is no luck. There is only Divine strategy.
Thank you. I love you.
I know.
E.J.
I am wasting breath to murmur that a keyboard will never replace this feeling, like another part of me, lost then found, the feeling of a new lover, companion, muse alight on my fingertips, resting in my hand. The possibilities are endless and she is beautiful.
There is a cup of coffee on my desk and a palette drying on the window seat. I last slept early Monday morning. I am thinking a lot. I am remembering.
I am wondering where you are.
I am glad you are near.
I am alone without you.
You are always within reach.
“If you stay so accessible you will never be respected.” Who told me that? It was in an email. A generic Hotmail account with a string of letters and numbers. I think it was spam. Randomly targeted cyber vomit.
If you could email Bill Gates or Donald Trump or George Bush and know that he’d read your message, what would you say?
It rained today, long and hard, and flooded my mind with thoughts of water. Bubble bathes, chi tea boiling, wet highways, drowning, baptism. I thought about the sterilization of humanity. The changing structure of everyday life.
I thought about falling in love. About spiritual responsibility. About whether or not the soul has memory before and beyond life here. I wondered why you once told me, filled with sorrow and in a dark car driving no where to see no one, that you didn’t believe in the soul.
I have more important things to do.
Like breathe. And sleep. Cook for a friend. Call my congressman.
And precisely because I have more important things to do, I will, instead, sit here and allow myself to be romanced by the simple, honest, satisfying movement of pen across paper. To be amazed by the truth that somewhere right now, in the darkness of this night, you are sleeping—or not—you who would do anything for me. You who seem God-sent. Because you see me fully and have turned me, like a marble, in your hand. I am just what I appear to be. I am who I say I am. I walk as I say I walk.
There is no luck. There is only Divine strategy.
Thank you. I love you.
I know.
E.J.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Ratbert
When I worked for a year as an intern for my now-publisher Windstorm Creative, one of the duties I pulled was "production." Imagine if you will the loud rumble of many giant machines, the scent of industrial adhesive and strong hydraulic lubricant. Imagine ear plugs and goggles, sweaty people crammed together and a break-neck pace. Now stop imagining and I'll tell you what it was really like:
I recently read on the B.G.D.F. (Board Game Designers Forum) that standard royalty is 5% on monies received. I get 15%. Actually, all Windstorm authors get 15%. Windstorm can do this because unlike what the drama-addicted idiots that run the supposed watchdog sites (read: sites where rejected authors get to complain and publicly get their mad on) insist, you don't have to have a freaking office in New York City to be a legit publisher. Founded in 1989, Windstorm didn't even have an office until 1999 and they've had regional and national bestsellers--books and games.
That office is beautiful but it's only 800 square feet. Literally surrounded--almost swallowed--by evergreens. Inside the ceiling towers at 20 feet and there's a cherry-wood catwalk across the back wall lined with books. The catwalk leads to storage on the left and the production room on the right. The central room is filled with soft, warm, auburn leather chairs and a couch around a heavy treasure chest-style table. A small green pellet stove warms the space... which includes two small white, silver spotted rabbits in a large enclosure. The room smells like pine and books and the antique typewriters that line another wall.
Go up the stairs to the catwalk and exit to the right. You're on a little landing now looking down the long production room. It's ten feet wide and twenty feet long. In houses a book binder the size of a small car, a general table, a hydraulic cutter with a 24 inch blade that 1.5 inch thick, a server, a laptop, and three massive printers. One person works in this room at a time. One person and one stereo. Cranked. The truth of the matter is, a shift on production is a cakewalk. A vacation. A dream come true job.
I can't tell you how many times, especially during my summer time there, that Jennifer (the *CEO* of the company!) flipped coin to see which one of us got to work production. Jennifer health isn't so good now, but back then she was in full-on boxing form and she's work for ten hours straight, bobbing to classic '80s and '90s rock and roll, in blue jeans and white tee, her braid bouncing against her back (when I watched her jealously from the landing). She still holds the records for the number of flawless books bound and trimmed in one day--602.
I was never so calm. I brought in a backpack full of CDs and wound up playing DJ for my ten hour shifts. I sang at the top of my lungs (because the machines *are* loud), played "drums" with metric rulers, and was known to time the cutter blade to the bass line.
One of my favorite things about the production room is that--day or night--the room is all windows and looks out on solid forest. Birch, pine, spruce, oaks. Raccoons. Deer. Bear. Greenmen. Jennifer's kids add to the wonderment because in the depth of these great woods is their homemade pirate ship play structure. Like little wild animals, those two play! "Argh!"
Production rules were very, very strict. You mess up a book? You pay for it at cost. Jennifer always said: "Work quickly and perfectly. I can do both; so can everyone else." She had no problems poking her head in and calling out, "Faster, E.J.! There's 500 more galleys waiting out here for you!"
Pinned to one of the windows, in the very bottom corner, was a "Dilbert" cartoon cut out from a newspaper. In it, Ratbert is sitting on the corner of a desk. The Pointy Haired Boss approaches. "In the short time you've worked in Quality Assurance, you've found a huge number of flaws in our prototype," says PHB to Ratbert. Ratbert smiles, "That's my job!"
PHB is furious, "You're destroying our schedule! We'll miss our deadlines. The entire project will fail and it's all your fault!"
"How is it my fault?" exclaims Ratbert.
PHB explains, "If a tree falls in the forest, and we've already sold the tree, does it have quality?"
"How many angels can dance on your head?" Ratbert counters.
This cartoon has been pasted to that window since the office was built in 1999. It shows so perfectly Windstorm's attitude: Print in small quantities, quickly and perfectly, because if, at any point, an error is found, it *will* be fixed. Jennifer would rather have a product delayed by months and have it be perfect, than have shoddy items with her company's name on them. Jennifer challenges us all to be Ratberts... and she's one mean Ratbert herself.
This year, she took it a step further. This year there will be an official Ratbert Award given to one staff member. To win it, you must not only catch a mistake but fix it. And *there* is the heart of my blog tonight :)
Jennifer calls it, "Errors without offers." This is the biggest sin at Windstorm. Find an error or problem but don't offer a realistic solution. At Windstorm, you not only have to be the perfect, positive, happy Ratbert but you also have to have the know-how, or know-who, to fix any problem you find. Oh! And you have to know the difference between a problem and a complaint. That was a big one for me. "A problem," Jennifer told me, through gritted teeth after realizing I'd wasted eight hours "fixing" something that, in truth, wasn't broken. "Is something that *more* than one person has."
I've been very lucky so have some pretty amazing Ratberts in my life. MG3K players and authors who find errors and fix them. Who point problems out politely and calmly and then talk with me about solutions, and offer of their time and knowledge. Gille, Launa, Chris, Lunah, Brianne, Cris, and, of course, Jennifer. "Mardi Gras 3000" is, after all, my *first* game. There is a learning curve. I'm far from perfect... no matter how good I look grooving to the music between the binder, the big silver file cabinets and the hydraulic cutter.
Thank you, Ratberts, for making my stomach drop every time I see an email from you. And I mean that in a good way... kind of ;)
E.J.
I recently read on the B.G.D.F. (Board Game Designers Forum) that standard royalty is 5% on monies received. I get 15%. Actually, all Windstorm authors get 15%. Windstorm can do this because unlike what the drama-addicted idiots that run the supposed watchdog sites (read: sites where rejected authors get to complain and publicly get their mad on) insist, you don't have to have a freaking office in New York City to be a legit publisher. Founded in 1989, Windstorm didn't even have an office until 1999 and they've had regional and national bestsellers--books and games.
That office is beautiful but it's only 800 square feet. Literally surrounded--almost swallowed--by evergreens. Inside the ceiling towers at 20 feet and there's a cherry-wood catwalk across the back wall lined with books. The catwalk leads to storage on the left and the production room on the right. The central room is filled with soft, warm, auburn leather chairs and a couch around a heavy treasure chest-style table. A small green pellet stove warms the space... which includes two small white, silver spotted rabbits in a large enclosure. The room smells like pine and books and the antique typewriters that line another wall.
Go up the stairs to the catwalk and exit to the right. You're on a little landing now looking down the long production room. It's ten feet wide and twenty feet long. In houses a book binder the size of a small car, a general table, a hydraulic cutter with a 24 inch blade that 1.5 inch thick, a server, a laptop, and three massive printers. One person works in this room at a time. One person and one stereo. Cranked. The truth of the matter is, a shift on production is a cakewalk. A vacation. A dream come true job.
I can't tell you how many times, especially during my summer time there, that Jennifer (the *CEO* of the company!) flipped coin to see which one of us got to work production. Jennifer health isn't so good now, but back then she was in full-on boxing form and she's work for ten hours straight, bobbing to classic '80s and '90s rock and roll, in blue jeans and white tee, her braid bouncing against her back (when I watched her jealously from the landing). She still holds the records for the number of flawless books bound and trimmed in one day--602.
I was never so calm. I brought in a backpack full of CDs and wound up playing DJ for my ten hour shifts. I sang at the top of my lungs (because the machines *are* loud), played "drums" with metric rulers, and was known to time the cutter blade to the bass line.
One of my favorite things about the production room is that--day or night--the room is all windows and looks out on solid forest. Birch, pine, spruce, oaks. Raccoons. Deer. Bear. Greenmen. Jennifer's kids add to the wonderment because in the depth of these great woods is their homemade pirate ship play structure. Like little wild animals, those two play! "Argh!"
Production rules were very, very strict. You mess up a book? You pay for it at cost. Jennifer always said: "Work quickly and perfectly. I can do both; so can everyone else." She had no problems poking her head in and calling out, "Faster, E.J.! There's 500 more galleys waiting out here for you!"
Pinned to one of the windows, in the very bottom corner, was a "Dilbert" cartoon cut out from a newspaper. In it, Ratbert is sitting on the corner of a desk. The Pointy Haired Boss approaches. "In the short time you've worked in Quality Assurance, you've found a huge number of flaws in our prototype," says PHB to Ratbert. Ratbert smiles, "That's my job!"
PHB is furious, "You're destroying our schedule! We'll miss our deadlines. The entire project will fail and it's all your fault!"
"How is it my fault?" exclaims Ratbert.
PHB explains, "If a tree falls in the forest, and we've already sold the tree, does it have quality?"
"How many angels can dance on your head?" Ratbert counters.
This cartoon has been pasted to that window since the office was built in 1999. It shows so perfectly Windstorm's attitude: Print in small quantities, quickly and perfectly, because if, at any point, an error is found, it *will* be fixed. Jennifer would rather have a product delayed by months and have it be perfect, than have shoddy items with her company's name on them. Jennifer challenges us all to be Ratberts... and she's one mean Ratbert herself.
This year, she took it a step further. This year there will be an official Ratbert Award given to one staff member. To win it, you must not only catch a mistake but fix it. And *there* is the heart of my blog tonight :)
Jennifer calls it, "Errors without offers." This is the biggest sin at Windstorm. Find an error or problem but don't offer a realistic solution. At Windstorm, you not only have to be the perfect, positive, happy Ratbert but you also have to have the know-how, or know-who, to fix any problem you find. Oh! And you have to know the difference between a problem and a complaint. That was a big one for me. "A problem," Jennifer told me, through gritted teeth after realizing I'd wasted eight hours "fixing" something that, in truth, wasn't broken. "Is something that *more* than one person has."
I've been very lucky so have some pretty amazing Ratberts in my life. MG3K players and authors who find errors and fix them. Who point problems out politely and calmly and then talk with me about solutions, and offer of their time and knowledge. Gille, Launa, Chris, Lunah, Brianne, Cris, and, of course, Jennifer. "Mardi Gras 3000" is, after all, my *first* game. There is a learning curve. I'm far from perfect... no matter how good I look grooving to the music between the binder, the big silver file cabinets and the hydraulic cutter.
Thank you, Ratberts, for making my stomach drop every time I see an email from you. And I mean that in a good way... kind of ;)
E.J.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Gamer Grrl
When my publisher first asked me to create this blog, I wondered (aloud) what in the world I would write about. "Just write about your work day," I was told. "Testing die-rollers and new cards, trying out different sizes of packaging, reading countless articles by "industry professionals" who know pretty much nothing, nada, ziltch outside the cardboard box of the traditional, musty gaming industry that hit its ceiling so long ago that renaming "Park Place" makes the WSJ.
As all of you, my loyal, dedicated and tolerant readers know, I actually found quite a bit to talk about but little of it has had to do with the gaming industry and be, as a chick, in it. Mostly I write about what informs me, my games and my life as a designer. Mostly I try to talk with you as I would with a friend. Because, truth be told, not many friends will pay $16.99 plus shipping, plus boosters to hang with you. Most friends just ask for a freebie. Which makes all of you extra special... and worthy of more than thin, weak, pointless blogs about deciding whether or not the Starter Deck should ship with stack clips.
Okay. I know *some* of you want to hear about details like that but *most* of you don't. I mean, unless we're talking about the metallic green, pink and pink clips that are all shiny and punk and neo-black... then, really, how interesting can clips be? Unless, of course, they're holding up your twelve-card stack of Elijah and all her human companions and a bunch of modifiers and a Hummer. We can talk about *that* clip any time. It would be lavender. Duh.
Seriously, tonight I decided to write about gaming for once and for all. Specifically about the wonderland of Instants. Instant cards, in Mardi Gras 3000, make up the heart of Advanced Play. They elevate the game beyond the Basic Rules and shake everything up. According to how you play, hold, and stack your Instants makes and breaks your game.
Right now, on the market, are the first generation of Instants. Some Instants are only for Terrapyres. Some are only for Celestials. Some are inclusive (any character). The choices are pretty much balanced. But looming on the horizon is the second gen of Instants. A balance of all three types. What will they be? What will they do? How can they be powerful enough that players want to buy them but not so powerful that they are undefeatable?
Wait! Go back! First gen Instants. Are any of them useless? Any too strong? Do I see a recall or clarification in my future?
Baby, I need a bevy of writers in leather pants or Carnival masks telling me exactly what these elusive immortals need.
All during this brainstorming (which means while my brain storms around making a mess), I am haunted by the movement among the MG3K players: Luck or Learned? Some players say MG3K can be won on luck. Like, your four year old brother can whip your butt if he rolls high for movement and low for battle. Now this argument *almost* disappears in Advance Play but more on that later. Back to Basic Play...
So some complain about luck... after they've been unlucky a few times. And I worry, you know? I don't want the game to be all about luck. But now, about six months into the release of the game, I'm starting to get some very aggressive messages from "expert players." These are players who literally play several games a day. I mean, like they've played 1000 or 2000 games, seriously. Some of these players are undefeated. Does that mean they're very, very, very lucky?
Pip Anderson, winner of the "All Girls Tournament" (www.windstormcreative.com/angel/tournaments.htm) and a current front-runner in the March HSOL online tournament (www.mardigras3000.com), is undefeated and insists that this has to do with how you set the board and the paths you make and don't make for fast movement. She talks to me about finding the pathways in a preset boards, and looking for traps. She talks about how being aggressive is never a negative thing when you're playing a peer. She has a move for every possible die roll and every possibly moment. Good roll? Great. Bad roll? There are no bad rolls.
So...
Who do I ask about Instants? What kind of player do I cater to? Hardcore players like Pip? Casual players who feel that Instants remove/reduce the luck factor? Hm. These are questions that are fabulous to ponder with your ultra-cool mom and her childhood girlfriend over mocha ice cream. They are also perfect questions to impress a buff, closet-gamer red-head at a rave. But even though both these situation conversations (sit cons) are pleasant and fun, they don't answer the real question:
How am I going to create forty new Instants in thirty days?
Failure, darling, is not an option.
E.J.
As all of you, my loyal, dedicated and tolerant readers know, I actually found quite a bit to talk about but little of it has had to do with the gaming industry and be, as a chick, in it. Mostly I write about what informs me, my games and my life as a designer. Mostly I try to talk with you as I would with a friend. Because, truth be told, not many friends will pay $16.99 plus shipping, plus boosters to hang with you. Most friends just ask for a freebie. Which makes all of you extra special... and worthy of more than thin, weak, pointless blogs about deciding whether or not the Starter Deck should ship with stack clips.
Okay. I know *some* of you want to hear about details like that but *most* of you don't. I mean, unless we're talking about the metallic green, pink and pink clips that are all shiny and punk and neo-black... then, really, how interesting can clips be? Unless, of course, they're holding up your twelve-card stack of Elijah and all her human companions and a bunch of modifiers and a Hummer. We can talk about *that* clip any time. It would be lavender. Duh.
Seriously, tonight I decided to write about gaming for once and for all. Specifically about the wonderland of Instants. Instant cards, in Mardi Gras 3000, make up the heart of Advanced Play. They elevate the game beyond the Basic Rules and shake everything up. According to how you play, hold, and stack your Instants makes and breaks your game.
Right now, on the market, are the first generation of Instants. Some Instants are only for Terrapyres. Some are only for Celestials. Some are inclusive (any character). The choices are pretty much balanced. But looming on the horizon is the second gen of Instants. A balance of all three types. What will they be? What will they do? How can they be powerful enough that players want to buy them but not so powerful that they are undefeatable?
Wait! Go back! First gen Instants. Are any of them useless? Any too strong? Do I see a recall or clarification in my future?
Baby, I need a bevy of writers in leather pants or Carnival masks telling me exactly what these elusive immortals need.
All during this brainstorming (which means while my brain storms around making a mess), I am haunted by the movement among the MG3K players: Luck or Learned? Some players say MG3K can be won on luck. Like, your four year old brother can whip your butt if he rolls high for movement and low for battle. Now this argument *almost* disappears in Advance Play but more on that later. Back to Basic Play...
So some complain about luck... after they've been unlucky a few times. And I worry, you know? I don't want the game to be all about luck. But now, about six months into the release of the game, I'm starting to get some very aggressive messages from "expert players." These are players who literally play several games a day. I mean, like they've played 1000 or 2000 games, seriously. Some of these players are undefeated. Does that mean they're very, very, very lucky?
Pip Anderson, winner of the "All Girls Tournament" (www.windstormcreative.com/angel/tournaments.htm) and a current front-runner in the March HSOL online tournament (www.mardigras3000.com), is undefeated and insists that this has to do with how you set the board and the paths you make and don't make for fast movement. She talks to me about finding the pathways in a preset boards, and looking for traps. She talks about how being aggressive is never a negative thing when you're playing a peer. She has a move for every possible die roll and every possibly moment. Good roll? Great. Bad roll? There are no bad rolls.
So...
Who do I ask about Instants? What kind of player do I cater to? Hardcore players like Pip? Casual players who feel that Instants remove/reduce the luck factor? Hm. These are questions that are fabulous to ponder with your ultra-cool mom and her childhood girlfriend over mocha ice cream. They are also perfect questions to impress a buff, closet-gamer red-head at a rave. But even though both these situation conversations (sit cons) are pleasant and fun, they don't answer the real question:
How am I going to create forty new Instants in thirty days?
Failure, darling, is not an option.
E.J.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Where Have You Been (All My Life)
It wasn’t supposed to be a date.
That said, when a certain kind of man (the kind that owns ten or eighty d20) sits across a small table from a certain kind of woman (the kind that knows what to do with ten or eighty d20), for ten hours, with nary a break, three pots of Turkish coffee, two six-packs of Coke, three pounds of beef jerky with cumin and a plate of hand-rolled dolmati with rice, yogurt and Greek olives, *things* might just happen.
Like long (in this case, one-sided) wistful gazes. Like leading questions. Like proposals of cohabitation.
But what if, like the song, you’re a grrl who just wants to have fun—and probably not the kind of fun that the song implies but rather the kind of fun that involves cards, dice and strategic thinking? What if your idea of fun is playing fourteen games of Mardi Gras 3000? What if, despite your penchant for raves and motorcycles, you don’t drug, drink or have casual sex?
I’ll tell you what, my friend: You get called a “geek” by a geek ;)
We weren’t alone on this “date,” of course. And this delightful, self-described “scrawny gamer guy” was a long-time family friend (though one I had never, personally, met before). We talked constantly while we played MG3K and he liked to pepper his sentences with phrases like, “seriously, anything I say that you like, just use it, take it, it’s yours—no credit to me, okay?” This kind of annoyed me and I told him so. He laughed and popped another Coke.
My mother, the forever elegant (and possibly immortal) Pahmela Angel, she of almost-undefeated Celestial fame, kept flitting in and out of the kitchen (where we were) on the cordless with Gamer Guy’s mom, no doubt. I never heard what she said but it was probably like this, “No, no, Doris, they don’t seem to be getting along in *that* way. Yes, I am starting to wonder if she even likes boys. I mean, she seems to like them well enough when she plays online games, you know? Yes, you’re right, maybe I should take her motorcycle away.”
That day and evening, as we played game after game, we talked about taking over the world with MG3K. Creating versions of MG3K in every single genre known to God and man and woman. Board game? Got it. Diceless, MTG-like play? Yep. Tabletop game with figures? All over it. Online Flash play? RPG OGL rules? Virtual world? Daily fiction feeds? Clothing lines? Jewelry? Virtual pets? Yes. You bet. Absolutely.
Nothing was fully fleshed out or even beyond white, skinny bones but it sure got me thinking BIG. And he only put his hand on my thigh once. For .0045 of a second. I have never heard a grown man say “Uncle!” so quickly.
The evening would actually have ended pretty well if it weren’t for my easel. Remember how I paint? Those nice commissions and stuff? Well, even when my parents decided to join me in Washington, I reminded them that the house was still *mine*--that means I can leave my stuff where I want it. And I want my easels kind of... well... everywhere.
Gamer Guy tripped. It was a twisted mess of skinny pine and, well, my skinny guest. We wound up at Harrison Hospital (in Silverdale because I like him more than to take him to HH Bremerton). From the screaming, Mom and I assumed it was broken but it was just a sprain (“Bad sprain!” I’m reminded, when I run this blog by Mr. Guy). What a night.
Oh. By the way. The final score was 10 to 4. My favor. Is that what they call “insult on top of injury”? ;)
E.J.
That said, when a certain kind of man (the kind that owns ten or eighty d20) sits across a small table from a certain kind of woman (the kind that knows what to do with ten or eighty d20), for ten hours, with nary a break, three pots of Turkish coffee, two six-packs of Coke, three pounds of beef jerky with cumin and a plate of hand-rolled dolmati with rice, yogurt and Greek olives, *things* might just happen.
Like long (in this case, one-sided) wistful gazes. Like leading questions. Like proposals of cohabitation.
But what if, like the song, you’re a grrl who just wants to have fun—and probably not the kind of fun that the song implies but rather the kind of fun that involves cards, dice and strategic thinking? What if your idea of fun is playing fourteen games of Mardi Gras 3000? What if, despite your penchant for raves and motorcycles, you don’t drug, drink or have casual sex?
I’ll tell you what, my friend: You get called a “geek” by a geek ;)
We weren’t alone on this “date,” of course. And this delightful, self-described “scrawny gamer guy” was a long-time family friend (though one I had never, personally, met before). We talked constantly while we played MG3K and he liked to pepper his sentences with phrases like, “seriously, anything I say that you like, just use it, take it, it’s yours—no credit to me, okay?” This kind of annoyed me and I told him so. He laughed and popped another Coke.
My mother, the forever elegant (and possibly immortal) Pahmela Angel, she of almost-undefeated Celestial fame, kept flitting in and out of the kitchen (where we were) on the cordless with Gamer Guy’s mom, no doubt. I never heard what she said but it was probably like this, “No, no, Doris, they don’t seem to be getting along in *that* way. Yes, I am starting to wonder if she even likes boys. I mean, she seems to like them well enough when she plays online games, you know? Yes, you’re right, maybe I should take her motorcycle away.”
That day and evening, as we played game after game, we talked about taking over the world with MG3K. Creating versions of MG3K in every single genre known to God and man and woman. Board game? Got it. Diceless, MTG-like play? Yep. Tabletop game with figures? All over it. Online Flash play? RPG OGL rules? Virtual world? Daily fiction feeds? Clothing lines? Jewelry? Virtual pets? Yes. You bet. Absolutely.
Nothing was fully fleshed out or even beyond white, skinny bones but it sure got me thinking BIG. And he only put his hand on my thigh once. For .0045 of a second. I have never heard a grown man say “Uncle!” so quickly.
The evening would actually have ended pretty well if it weren’t for my easel. Remember how I paint? Those nice commissions and stuff? Well, even when my parents decided to join me in Washington, I reminded them that the house was still *mine*--that means I can leave my stuff where I want it. And I want my easels kind of... well... everywhere.
Gamer Guy tripped. It was a twisted mess of skinny pine and, well, my skinny guest. We wound up at Harrison Hospital (in Silverdale because I like him more than to take him to HH Bremerton). From the screaming, Mom and I assumed it was broken but it was just a sprain (“Bad sprain!” I’m reminded, when I run this blog by Mr. Guy). What a night.
Oh. By the way. The final score was 10 to 4. My favor. Is that what they call “insult on top of injury”? ;)
E.J.
Gather No Moss
I used to be so laid back my parents thought I was on drugs. Okay. My father never thought I was on drugs but my mother wondered if I was an alien or adopted or somehow contained genes that had nothing to do with her.
My father ran a small, fine furniture store. First he worked under the owner--a huge man with a very white face and a very red nose--then he bought the business and worked under the wealthy people who bought his wares. I cannot count the times my parents would have heated discussions about that store--my mother insisting that my father did not deserve to be trod upon and my father repeated endlessly, "But the customer is always right, Pahmela."
My parents were not laid back (nor are they laid back now). They weren't reclined in anyway, actually. They were talkers and doers. They didn't roll with anything. Yes, like good Christians they accepted everything but they settled for nothing they could change with hard work. Even if it was an enormous amount of hard work. "God does for those who do for themselves," my mother was proud of coining, usually followed by, "Now, go (fill in the blank with anything near impossible), E.J.!"
I was the kid who got bullied at school and shrugged it off. The bullies would stop because my unaffected stare bothered them. I was the teen that dated casually, didn't really mind getting "dumped" or lied to. Hey. No big. A shrug. I diffused any high drama around me. No one ever told me to chill out... I was already carrying ice cubes.
With this ultra calm (hey! who said apathy?!) came an interesting bedfellow. I trusted people. Everyone. I was never suspicious. I was never hesitant. If I was invited to a party by a stranger (and you know I love to dance), I went. Alone. I never gave it a second thought. Want my cell number? Cool. Wanna meet up and go for burgers? Heck, why not?
What happened?
Life happened.
Those of you who know me now--through work or gaming or raving--know that I am so far from laid back I may have a steel rod tied to my spine. Yeah, I can still go dancing. I even still occasionally date--when I'm not buy dancing, or working, or painting--but the world looks differently to me now. It's still as exciting and delightfully dangerous and full of good and/or challenging surprises, but it's also full of ugly tidbits in the most unexpected places. These tidbits are never tasty and they always have teeth.
Who is to blame if a long time friend gives your phone number to a new friend who puts down her cell phone and a guys picks it up and gets your number and runs it through the reverse-directory and finds your house, where you live alone, without an alarm or a gun or a dog, and knocks on the door and introduces himself and you smile and he hits you and the next thing you know you're waking up on the floor and all your stupid valuables are intact but you aren't?
I believe that Camille Paglia would say I'm to blame. I've tried hard but I can't really disagree.
I start to see life through my mother's eyes. I start to see, yeah, you roll with it just the same (or you die) but you don't have to be *okay* with it. You don't have to just nod and shrug off every load of carpe diem that culture, fate, life, whatever throws at you. It is so freaking okay to get angry.
And you know what? If you think I'm only talking about women and rape and other issues like that, that have become so common they're powerless, toothless cliches (and that's the real danger, by the way), you're mistaken. I'm talking about so much more. I'm talking about the twentysomething man beaten down by his over-bearing girlfriend until not only is he completely emasculated but a nonhuman. I'm talking about the thirtysomething anyone working at a job that means nothing to them but bills getting paid with all hope and expectations tied entirely around what stranger wins another humiliating round in a reality TV show. I'm talking about the companymen and women who get a pink slip after forty years of service; the ignored and silenced parents of autistic children told again and again that their instincts are bogus because they aren't supported by the leading scientific research, and I'm talking about every other small, medium or large injustice that we've all told ourselves is okay, just part of life, not a big thing.
When is it okay to get angry?
Even Christ got angry.
My publisher has this cool Rabbit Atrium. A walk-in deal where you can check out these beautiful rabbits all running loose and very happy. Then some loose dog comes and kills them all. I told you all this tale before.
The State of Washington is taking the owner of the dog to court. Meanwhile, my publisher's mailbox is getting blown up and egged and tagged. Because *they* (my publisher) are the good people, right? They are the ones following the law. Paying their taxes. Playing by the rules. While their mail carrier and their neighbors say nasty things about them (to their faces and behind their backs). That kind of garbage wears on a good person. Heck, it wears on any person.
So what is the healthy way to get angry?
Don't tell me to mediate or connect with my inner infant or something. Talk to me about Christ flipping tables over and work me down from there. Talk to me about the sheer aggression I can channel into an eight- by twelve-foot canvas. Talk to me about taking back not the night (love the night) but my own darn life. Step off the road to no where and stop, sit your butt down, and ask yourself what is my impassioned path? What am I supposed to be doing? Who will it effect? How will I feel with myself when it's all done?
The rolling stone gathers no moss. Nothing clings to the rolling stone. It knows how to move forward. And it also knows how to find the right path, crush obstacles, remain insanely strong and listen to nothing that and no one who tells it to stop, slow down, that can't be done, there's just no way.
My bedtime prayer: Jesus, going into this month, when our financial backer for the project has pulled for a bigger fish, when sweet Jennifer has sworn her loyalty until the end, when my father is MIA, when the bills--mortgage, property tax, income tax--are looming, when detractors and naysayers bite at my supporters, let me roll on strong and sure, like a stone. Even if I move slowly, allow me to move. Allow my path to be clear.
With you... all of you... all things are possible.
E.J.
My father ran a small, fine furniture store. First he worked under the owner--a huge man with a very white face and a very red nose--then he bought the business and worked under the wealthy people who bought his wares. I cannot count the times my parents would have heated discussions about that store--my mother insisting that my father did not deserve to be trod upon and my father repeated endlessly, "But the customer is always right, Pahmela."
My parents were not laid back (nor are they laid back now). They weren't reclined in anyway, actually. They were talkers and doers. They didn't roll with anything. Yes, like good Christians they accepted everything but they settled for nothing they could change with hard work. Even if it was an enormous amount of hard work. "God does for those who do for themselves," my mother was proud of coining, usually followed by, "Now, go (fill in the blank with anything near impossible), E.J.!"
I was the kid who got bullied at school and shrugged it off. The bullies would stop because my unaffected stare bothered them. I was the teen that dated casually, didn't really mind getting "dumped" or lied to. Hey. No big. A shrug. I diffused any high drama around me. No one ever told me to chill out... I was already carrying ice cubes.
With this ultra calm (hey! who said apathy?!) came an interesting bedfellow. I trusted people. Everyone. I was never suspicious. I was never hesitant. If I was invited to a party by a stranger (and you know I love to dance), I went. Alone. I never gave it a second thought. Want my cell number? Cool. Wanna meet up and go for burgers? Heck, why not?
What happened?
Life happened.
Those of you who know me now--through work or gaming or raving--know that I am so far from laid back I may have a steel rod tied to my spine. Yeah, I can still go dancing. I even still occasionally date--when I'm not buy dancing, or working, or painting--but the world looks differently to me now. It's still as exciting and delightfully dangerous and full of good and/or challenging surprises, but it's also full of ugly tidbits in the most unexpected places. These tidbits are never tasty and they always have teeth.
Who is to blame if a long time friend gives your phone number to a new friend who puts down her cell phone and a guys picks it up and gets your number and runs it through the reverse-directory and finds your house, where you live alone, without an alarm or a gun or a dog, and knocks on the door and introduces himself and you smile and he hits you and the next thing you know you're waking up on the floor and all your stupid valuables are intact but you aren't?
I believe that Camille Paglia would say I'm to blame. I've tried hard but I can't really disagree.
I start to see life through my mother's eyes. I start to see, yeah, you roll with it just the same (or you die) but you don't have to be *okay* with it. You don't have to just nod and shrug off every load of carpe diem that culture, fate, life, whatever throws at you. It is so freaking okay to get angry.
And you know what? If you think I'm only talking about women and rape and other issues like that, that have become so common they're powerless, toothless cliches (and that's the real danger, by the way), you're mistaken. I'm talking about so much more. I'm talking about the twentysomething man beaten down by his over-bearing girlfriend until not only is he completely emasculated but a nonhuman. I'm talking about the thirtysomething anyone working at a job that means nothing to them but bills getting paid with all hope and expectations tied entirely around what stranger wins another humiliating round in a reality TV show. I'm talking about the companymen and women who get a pink slip after forty years of service; the ignored and silenced parents of autistic children told again and again that their instincts are bogus because they aren't supported by the leading scientific research, and I'm talking about every other small, medium or large injustice that we've all told ourselves is okay, just part of life, not a big thing.
When is it okay to get angry?
Even Christ got angry.
My publisher has this cool Rabbit Atrium. A walk-in deal where you can check out these beautiful rabbits all running loose and very happy. Then some loose dog comes and kills them all. I told you all this tale before.
The State of Washington is taking the owner of the dog to court. Meanwhile, my publisher's mailbox is getting blown up and egged and tagged. Because *they* (my publisher) are the good people, right? They are the ones following the law. Paying their taxes. Playing by the rules. While their mail carrier and their neighbors say nasty things about them (to their faces and behind their backs). That kind of garbage wears on a good person. Heck, it wears on any person.
So what is the healthy way to get angry?
Don't tell me to mediate or connect with my inner infant or something. Talk to me about Christ flipping tables over and work me down from there. Talk to me about the sheer aggression I can channel into an eight- by twelve-foot canvas. Talk to me about taking back not the night (love the night) but my own darn life. Step off the road to no where and stop, sit your butt down, and ask yourself what is my impassioned path? What am I supposed to be doing? Who will it effect? How will I feel with myself when it's all done?
The rolling stone gathers no moss. Nothing clings to the rolling stone. It knows how to move forward. And it also knows how to find the right path, crush obstacles, remain insanely strong and listen to nothing that and no one who tells it to stop, slow down, that can't be done, there's just no way.
My bedtime prayer: Jesus, going into this month, when our financial backer for the project has pulled for a bigger fish, when sweet Jennifer has sworn her loyalty until the end, when my father is MIA, when the bills--mortgage, property tax, income tax--are looming, when detractors and naysayers bite at my supporters, let me roll on strong and sure, like a stone. Even if I move slowly, allow me to move. Allow my path to be clear.
With you... all of you... all things are possible.
E.J.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Do You Still Love Me?
Nervously, the twentysomething in the blue jeans and black combat boots steps out onto the dark stage. She never did sleep with a nightlight, but this stage is *dark.* She tucks in her white tee-shirt. Across the chest, in black typewriter print, the shirt reads "GamerGrrl" and now she wonders if she should have worn the black shirt with the words "For Their Own Redemption. To Save Their World." You just never know...
Suddenly, she's struck with a cold, bright light. That type of pale, white spotlight that they never use in theatre because it makes everyone look like a corpse (even brown grrls like this actress).
She clears her throat. Her voice is kind of deep like her mom's. (Should that be "like her dad's"?)
"There's no excuse," she begins, at first looking down. "Really there isn't." She's silent for a moment and then she frowns, shuffle-kicks one boot at nothing, and looks up, directly out over the darkness engulfing the rows and rows of chairs. "I was busy, yeah. I was swamped, sure. But you're right, I abandoned you. I left you hanging. I didn't tell you anything, you know? I just... well... disappeared into myself. Did my own thing."
Her hands come up out of the depths of her pockets and find their way to her hips. "No, I didn't get hooked up or have some fling or sink into a depression or some other asinine reason for ditching your fanbase and your friends. I just fell into my work and I didn't, you know, come out. For a while. For two months. And some extra days." Her eyes dart to the side for a moment. "Not that I was counting... or anything."
She looks down again. Then mumbles something. Then says it again more clearly, "I still don't have a Chia Pet."
And she walks off stage.
Only her very dear and loyal readers will know what the heck she's talking about.
"I'm back..."
E.J.
Respond to this or other posts in "Gamer Grrl in Small Doses" at:
http://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=2
Suddenly, she's struck with a cold, bright light. That type of pale, white spotlight that they never use in theatre because it makes everyone look like a corpse (even brown grrls like this actress).
She clears her throat. Her voice is kind of deep like her mom's. (Should that be "like her dad's"?)
"There's no excuse," she begins, at first looking down. "Really there isn't." She's silent for a moment and then she frowns, shuffle-kicks one boot at nothing, and looks up, directly out over the darkness engulfing the rows and rows of chairs. "I was busy, yeah. I was swamped, sure. But you're right, I abandoned you. I left you hanging. I didn't tell you anything, you know? I just... well... disappeared into myself. Did my own thing."
Her hands come up out of the depths of her pockets and find their way to her hips. "No, I didn't get hooked up or have some fling or sink into a depression or some other asinine reason for ditching your fanbase and your friends. I just fell into my work and I didn't, you know, come out. For a while. For two months. And some extra days." Her eyes dart to the side for a moment. "Not that I was counting... or anything."
She looks down again. Then mumbles something. Then says it again more clearly, "I still don't have a Chia Pet."
And she walks off stage.
Only her very dear and loyal readers will know what the heck she's talking about.
"I'm back..."
E.J.
Respond to this or other posts in "Gamer Grrl in Small Doses" at:
http://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=2
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