bignosedcopperking

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Everything posted by bignosedcopperking

  1. So I have this neice who is approaching two. I haven't seen her in probably six months. We haven't bonded yet. Her father is the brother I was closest with as a child, though since I discovered philosophy and truth, our relationship hasn't been the same but we still love and care about each other. Anyways, so this niece of mine; she is cute as hell. She's the girl I wrote the poems Today's Line for when she was born. My economic situation is not great and so I have to work full time. But besides that I'm an aspiring fiction writer and amateur philosopher. So my main interests are books and a blank sheet of paper. And besides that, I've never been in love, so I would like to experience that one day. Now I have this niece who is very very cute and pretty. My mother tells me stories about her daily antics on a daily basis and so I judge her to be quite charming and loveable. My mother is a good oral story teller, though too naturalistic and too detail oriented. Anyways, I have this cute niece that I haven't seen for a while ... and given my other values she is not a priority for me. If I had more time, I would spend time bonding with her, and trying to get her to love me. But given my entire context, she's simply not that important to me personally. My mother also seems to imply that she is a genius; or at least very precocious. So questions: What can I get from developing a relationship with her before she speaks in full sentences? How does one go about becoming her favorite uncle, what are some tricks of trade? What can I do with her that will be enjoyable for her AND ME? I imagine that I want to teach her something and I would really enjoy witnessing her mind expand and evolve because of me. But I'm like ten years away from teaching her the principle of drama. I imagine I could read her some Ogden Nash, or even some more mateur stuff just because she can't understand it yet, and my mother tells me she just likes people to read anything to her. What games to toddlers like to play? She seems to be a Diego and Dora fanatic but I know nothing about those two characters. I guess I'm asking how she can be more interesting than Ayn Rand, and I more interesting than Diego? Really, I am very stupid and far away from being a natural at this whole toddler thing. Thanks, Jose.
  2. Toddlers: Interesting Why?

    I'll tell you this: when we have seen each other, all I've wanted to do is watch her, and hear her sounds, and witness her innocent joy, her beautiful naivete, all her potential, how important it must be to set and keep things right to her. Yes, there is something special about a cute child's laughter. I laugh, giggle, and stare mainly. She stares at me in wonderment frequently. I sang to her once (Mona Lisa) and she was very impressed. But that soon got old, it seemed. I have made her laugh. But I've also made her cry. For her first birthday I brought over one of those birthday horns. She was intrigued the first couple times I blew it. But then she cried, it seemed out of fear. Or annoyance as if she didn't like the music of the horn. I said sorry. She accepted no apologies. We haven't been the same since. No, I'm just kidding, that was not the turning point of our relationship. The last time I saw her she was very shy. She was amazed at the way I looked. Normally, I remembered her very energetic and very sure of herself and confident in the devotion of those around her. But she was shy. I said little; just stared. My mother said she had just woken up. She drove away with dozen roses that were given to my mother. If I lose my shyness of dancing wild salsa in public I can dance for her, I'm sure. She can't escape but enjoy that. She'll probably end up mimmicking me exactly right after --the way my mother tends to describe her cognitive abilities.
  3. Toddlers: Interesting Why?

    Well there's an idea. Write her a children's story. Perhaps some day. I don't know how to write for a child yet. It would be interesting to state for myself the difference, the dividing line between a good children's story and a mateur story. That would be another question: for those with experience, what IS the difference. But besides, writing, what can one do to bond and establish an affectionate relationship with a child that young? And how does one balance being at your real, realist, and natural level and acting, playing, on the level of the child? I can't stand baby talk, for example; I can't understand the value in it, to the child or the adult.
  4. The MacBook Air

    Have you seen that faucet commercial, I think it's KOHL, where the woman asks the architect to build a house around a faucet. Well, one could build a LIFE around this new computer. I think it is simply sexy. What I would do with it! What a wonderful tool for a writer. Quite inspirational. Jose.
  5. I will share my writings with this forum

    Of course, I would like to wish Ayn Rand a happy birthday, and draw some attention to this poem I wrote for her 101st birthday, and say that the stylistic inspiration for the poem was a song sung by Frank Sinatra called I Don't Know Why I Love You Like I Do. Jose.
  6. THE DOG RULE AND THE JAPANESE BEAUTY - BY JOSE GAINZA Georgia Takanaka was one of those women of Japanese descent that troubadours travel the oceans to get to. She was slender, fragile, long, and white as milk. She had enchanting green eyes and hair of black silk. She also had voluptuous breasts that many other women hoped were manufactured. She was brilliant and in graduate school to become a doctor of philosophy. She carried herself with an angelic aura. She came from a wealthy family who had prospered in Toronto for generations. Her parents had died some years ago and had left her with a vast fortune. She lived alone in a very tall condominium in the lower-eastern part of downtown Toronto, a full glass structure of emerald green, with prominent, long balconies of the same color. Her suite was on a high floor, and faced the east, so that the dawn would greet her every morning on her bed. It was a building that allowed no pets what so ever. The concierge staff considered her a model tenant of the building. She was polite, affectionate, and friendly with most of them. She wasn’t a stranger to polite conversation with them when she met with them to be provided with one of their services. She was one of the rare tenants who knew which concerns to properly bring to the concierge persons and which not to. She was not one of those tenants who would ask the concierge to get a toaster fixed that was bought at Wal-Mart and not provided by the developer. She never tried to abuse the visitor parking rules. She always brought back the locker room key on time. She did not go past her pre-assigned usage time of the recreational amenities. She defended the competent property manager and the concierge company when false accusations were brought up at general meetings. And at Christmas she gave each concierge member a generous envelope. She was not one of those tenants who were caught with a prohibited dog, cat, or cobra. She was an angel. She was an inspiration to the concierge staff. They, both men and women, knew that she was a philosopher, though she never made clear exactly what her philosophy was. So she had all the staff reading books on philosophy. One was reading Plato and Aristotle, another was foolishly ambitious and was reading Kant, another was reading Nietzsche, and another Sartre. One day the concierge guy reading Nietzsche asked her, “So why does Nietzsche call Christians dogs?” She chuckled at the innocent bluntness of the question. “Yes, Nietzsche is quite hostile. I believe that deep down he wanted to love humanity, but was too disturbed by what he saw around him. He was not romantic enough. He saw that his fellow German’s were too servile to authority of the church and the new philosophy that had just been born in Germany in the last two centuries before his. He was not a man to bow down to authority and yet millions of Germans seemed to have been born that way. And so he thought that there were two types of men, masters and slaves, men and animals, and that neither type could change their destiny. And so the key to changing the state of the world according to his vision of what men like him should be was to force it upon the lower types. Christianity was a doctrine that trained men to be obedient, satisfied, and unambitious.” “Are you a Nietzschean?” asked the concierge man newly introduced to Nietzsche. “No. I’m not an Idealist. Nietzsche was a victim of German Idealism. He had a glimpse of the right road but he turned it into a blind alley. It’s hard to be a rebel when your education has enabled you to injure your greatest weapon against the misery you see around you.” “What’s that weapon?” “Your mind … I got to go; keep on reading.” “Wait! Wait! One more question.” “Okay.” “You don’t have dreams? You don’t want to improve things?” “What are you talking about?” “You said you’re not an idealist.” “Oh! Look up Idealism on the internet. Check out Hegel. You’ll begin to know what I mean. Good night.” This young European found it hard to believe that a woman who was also Japanese could be so smart. She must be an angel. He in that moment was certain that she was a virgin. The next day the new Nietzsche enthusiast could not wait to see her walk in back from her day. He had been brainstorming in his mind what exactly he would say to her. How could he impress her? She walked in with a brown leather bag on her arm, and a handsome young stallion of a man on the other. “Dominic,” she said, “I need a parking permit for my boyfriend.” And as her new boyfriend gave Dominic the information as he wrote the permit, she was nibbling on her boyfriend’s ear. Dominic was a strong boy and he did not let this spectacle interfere with his calm composure. He simply asked a question. “So are you a philosopher too.” “No. I’m a mechanic.” Dominic could only complete the permit by filling: 4307, which was her suite number. She interrupted, “Vito services my Ferrari. No one knows the idiosyncrasies of my engine like he.” And she smirked in a devilish manner. Dominic was speechless for a moment. And soon he was able to mutter under his breath, while the couple was already at the elevator, “Do you know who Nietzsche is?” The question would have been directed at the boyfriend. In this way was extinguished the romantic idealism of our Dominic surrounding the person of Georgia Takanaka. Dominic got off at midnight on a Friday and he would be off then until the following Thursday at midnight. On his return he read the security reports. There were five noise complaints reports about suite 4307. That seemed impossible not only to Dominic but also to the rest of the staff because how could their sweet angel betray such an important condominium rule. The no pet rule was one of the main attractions to the building. Dominic remembered the mechanic of his last shift and felt: her betrayal is possible. It was 0143 hours when a call came in from 4308. The woman on the other line reported again persistent dog barking, wolf howls, scratching on the walls. Soon 4304 and 4306 reported similar noises. Dominic called up to 4307 but no one answered. The next step was to go upstairs and knock on that door. He knocked. Georgia answered wearing a green kimono with white camellias. “I’ve received three noise complaints about loud and strange dog barking from you suite.” “There’s no dog here.” “I hope that’s true because you know how strict the rules are here on that kind of thing.” “Yes. I have no dog.” “Can I come inside?” He had noticed that she was perspiring and her hair was damp, and that the kimono was thin. “No!” “Please.” “No. It’s for your own good. Now go away.” He went back to his desk in the lobby. He decided to review the parking log. There it was! The Ferrari mechanic had his car registered again. He had done so every night since the last one. “HE must be the one bringing the dog.” He spent the night reviewing the video system. He watched them every night ascend an elevator, kissing passionately. There was never a dog. How does he get it in? He wondered. He noticed that all the complaints were between midnight and two in the morning. At no other time was there any complaints or reports of a dog barking—not even when she was away for 12 hours at the University, which is when a dog would miss her most. What stupid dog would bark while she was home? He watched footage for the day time hours. No person with a dog came down the elevator. No one was seen walking a dog. It was too strange. He asked his supervisor whether he saw anyone walk a dog during his shift. No. He asked him what he had found out about this dog mystery. “I talked to her the other morning, Dominic, and she insists that she has no dog. I don’t know what to do. I believe her.” “Do you think it’s her boyfriend barking?” “Her? No! Not her.” “It can’t be.” On Dominic’s next shift he verified that the boyfriend’s car was registered. Then he went to her floor and stood in the vicinity of her suite door but in the stairwell. He stood there an hour. He was paged a few times but he did not answer. Tenants had been waiting to be served at the concierge desk. But Dominic was resolute. And then he heard it. It began like the howling of a wolf. Soon it changed into deep growls. Soon that became deep barking. And then there was whimpering. In the midst of wolf howls Dominic knocked violently on her door. The howls stopped. All was silent. He knocked for five minutes but no one came to answer the door. He went back to his desk and wrote the report. About an hour later he saw the boyfriend descending the elevator. He had an angry look on his face, and he was shaking his head, and banging his fist on the elevator door, as if in self-reproach, humiliation, and resentment. One could tell that he was muttering vulgarities. Soon Dominic could see his car speeding out of the parkade. From that day forward there were no more barking complaints from the neighbors of 4307. It occurred on a shift that lasted from 1600 Hours to 2400 Hours. It was approximately 1800 Hours. It was dinner time and Georgia came down and sat on a leather sofa in the lobby area. She called someone on her cell phone. “Hey there Jessica! It’s Georgia. I was wondering if you want to go get some sushi … That affair ended … He didn’t want to bark anymore … I know, I shouldn’t … I should have after the first time … I will respect it more … I must … So how about in a half hour at the usual place?” When she returned, Dominic could tell by the look on her face that the sushi had satisfied her. She was alone. She looked at him as if she was pleased to see him, and sorry that she did not give him the attention he craved for while she was sitting in the lobby talking to her friend. He looked at her with the eyes of a creature that guards a junkyard—when it is tamed. He could not wait until midnight came when he would be off shift. Midnight came and he was certain that she was alone. He handed over the keys and equipment to his relief co-worker and instead of walking in the direction of the main entrance, he walked towards the elevator. “Where are you going?” asked his co-worker. “There’s some business I got to take care of upstairs.” The co-worker pretended not to hear. When he arrived at her door, he did not knock. He knelt on the ground, with his back arched back. He howled like a wolf, “Awooooooooo!” He did it again. A neighbor came out. “What the hell are you doing?” she yelled. Then he began to bark passionately, “Woof! Woof! Woof!” “That’s it,” she said, “I’m calling the police!” He continued. When the woman entered her apartment, Georgia opened the door quickly. “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered. He whimpered. “Get in here!” she commanded He crawled inside. She closed the door. “Stand up like a man!” “I thought you liked that?” “What makes you think that?” “All those barking complaints, they were your boyfriend.” “So you figured it out. He’s not my boyfriend. It’s over. Why would you want a woman who wants you to bark?” “I figure that once I fulfill you for a night you won’t need me to bark anymore.” “I don’t need you to bark right now.” “What can I do? I’ll do anything. I’ll learn Nietzsche. I’ll learn to tell you about his relationship with Wagner, and his influence by Schopenhauer, how he detests Kant, his views on Greek tragedy, and some theories on why he went crazy. I’ll tell you about Existentialism and Bernard Shaw and Joseph Conrad.” “I know all that.” “Yah, but who else does, that’s as young as you, and beautiful as you?” “Not many. Learning Nietzsche won’t impress me.” “Fine then; Kant.” “I don’t think you can handle Kant.” “I’ll do it. That’s how much you mean to me. I keep on falling asleep during his Prolegomena but I’ll read that and both his Critique’s.” “Any silly philosophy professor can do that. Kant’s even worse than Nietzsche.” “So tell me. What should I learn? What will draw you to me?” “You know; none of my students so far has exhibited such a passion as you for ideas. You would actually torture yourself with Kant. Have you heard of Alicia Felicia?” “Yes. I have not gotten to her. She doesn’t appear until like after the Second World war.” “Oh. Start reading her quickly. You can send me e-mails about her. But that won’t get you anywhere with me. Get to know her well enough. And then read some histories of philosophy. Elect who you think are the major thinkers in the history of philosophy and write me a compare and contrast essay to them and Alicia Felicia.” “That sounds like fun.” “Oh and I hope I don’t have to tell you that if you don’t like her, you won’t get very far with me.” “I believe that philosophy is a practical science. Would you agree?” “Yes.” “Then if Alicia Felicia is anything like you then I’m sure I’ll write an essay as a tribute to her … and you’ll give an A+++.” “That’s charming.” And she gave him one peck on his left cheek. She gave him her business card and then kicked him out of her apartment. Dominic walked past his co-worker with a beaming smile, it was a smile that told his co-worker that this would not be the last time he saw him walk past his concierge desk, smiling. THE END
  7. THE DOG RULE AND THE JAPANESE BEAUTY

    Here are some excerpts from my story that I particularly enjoy, besides the story itself, that bring me joy whenever I re-read it: *********** “You don’t have dreams? You don’t want to improve things?” “What are you talking about?” “You said you’re not an idealist.” *********** He in that moment was certain that she was a virgin. *********** Dominic was speechless for a moment. And soon he was able to mutter under his breath, while the couple was already at the elevator, “Do you know who Nietzsche is?” The question would have been directed at the boyfriend. ************** The no pet rule was one of the main attractions to the building. Dominic remembered the mechanic of his last shift and felt: her betrayal is possible. ************* At no other time was there any complaints or reports of a dog barking—not even when she was away for 12 hours at the University, which is when a dog would miss her most. ************* “Do you think it’s her boyfriend barking?” “Her? No! Not her.” “It can’t be.” *************** He looked at her with the eyes of a creature that guards a junkyard—when it is tamed. ************** “Where are you going?” asked his co-worker. “There’s some business I got to take care of upstairs.” The co-worker pretended not to hear. ************** “That’s it,” she said, “I’m calling the police!” He continued. ************* “What can I do? I’ll do anything. I’ll learn Nietzsche. I’ll learn to tell you about his relationship with Wagner, and his influence by Schopenhauer, how he detests Kant, his views on Greek tragedy, and some theories on why he went crazy. I’ll tell you about Existentialism and Bernard Shaw and Joseph Conrad.” ************* “I don’t think you can handle Kant.” “I’ll do it. That’s how much you mean to me. I keep on falling asleep during his Prolegomena but I’ll read that and both his Critique’s.” ************ “I believe that philosophy is a practical science. Would you agree?” **************
  8. I posted a story of mine but it was deleted because of the language and the imagery of the story, also the subject was pretty intense. That's fine. You probably wouldn't like the story anyways; it might even make you puke. Well, I'll tell you something about. I show the protagonist throwing up at the toilet. Why? It's because he just realized he's in love with someone, realizes what it means, realizes the responsibility involved; there's fear and shame involved in that puke. Think of the idea this way: a boy comes back from a tropical vacation with his family, a monumental vacation that made him realize what he wants, namely, that he needs some years of being alone, so that he could focus his mind on what he wants. The boy returns and meets up with his girlfriend whose behaviour has suddenly changed, she is angry, reproachful, and bitter. She is generous but she is cruel in her generosity. She acts as if she doesn't want to see him again. But they'll spend the day together. Suddenly, unexpectedly the girl begins to throw up. She has stomach trouble and she has to spend too much time in the bathroom. After that day they never see each other again. Years after the boy still wonders what the exact meaning of the puking was. It was impossible that the girl was pregnant. And she was a strong, athletic girl, whom he has never seen sick. Did she love me? What happened? It is not until one day many years later that the boy understands what the meaning of that puking was, perhaps. It is when he wants to puke himself when he realizes that he is genuinely obsessed with a different girl. Loving this new girl makes him sick, something he will have to fight to get over, and he wonders if this new girl pukes for him too. That's the idea.
  9. I will share my writings with this forum

    IT AND CRUELTY Suddenly A weight is gone; it floats away onto the floor, As I ascend this lift that you have given me. All these years how you have built this creed of yours, this craft, All these years how you have come so far With this abode that your present. And all the furnishings therein are there to taunt, As until today they used to haunt: There, the kingdom of your beauty bed. There, the only sovereign is your image glass. There, your body stands alone in welcome, Before this sad invading soul that’s fighting shock. The cruelty stops, it seems to stop because of you, Like from that laugh of yours that waves inside of me— That seems to drench into my core. To that smile of yours that speaks so loud, And knows so much, That bore it all alone, While juggling balls of pleasure and solace, I say good day before the dancing sun that is your soul. And to that voice and sight that dare to will those things that shake my earth, And make a man like me reproach himself for thinking wrong, I say straight and proud, I say Amen. I take I don’t want to be cruel anymore. I take it now I want to raise men to your height, Now that I have met you for the first time— Once again. I spent my days and years lashing at them, Striking at them, spitting sometimes at their feet, And now perhaps I’ll share a little embrace with some, Though some will still annoy me, and annoy you still perhaps. You have distracted me from being cruel; you know it well— Freed me from doling on men at least in that only way, For their only use it seemed. I have spied that you treat them differently than I: You show that bit more concern for them than I, Though they can’t see of how much you are aware. You give them a chance, it seems to me. You let them hurt you. And you take their blows, You take their threats, and secret lies— You give them strength, On you. And this is where you have come to distract me— It’s as if they never reach the core of you: Into your wise, wise sphere. They with their cruelty, And you with that ready stare, Do not contradict this realm that we endure. How do you dare stand there ready for me? Have you even been waiting all this time! How cocky and cruel!
  10. Actually I enjoyed this story. It brought back an old happy memory, a memory which led to a story I think I will now share with this forum presently. I had a similar puke incident once. Jose.
  11. I will share my writings with this forum

    SUN AND SOURCE—By Jose Gainza I, blue without you, I blew without joy The breath of my soul. I was quenching like coal. My soul without you Is ailing so blue. O, Medic, come! Medicate my beats, Revive my spirit’s skin, Make my survival win, Bring a cheering drum— Hither come … At last, my nurse! Make past the hate Of death’s choking grip, Will exhausting sip-by-sip, By the poison curse, From my beloved’s purse! Hand delved for love— In my hand it would stay. Hand would love denominate— And even suffocate For the love of love … Or love’s rejecting shove. The risk I took! With a frisk, a look, Down into love’s coy bank, Sunk with not a modicum of prank. My hand hit hook! Love took—love took … All consciousness And my far off goals Love pulled suddenly inside, An effect I would not chide. There was my happiness— My happiness! Happiness. This ocean I swam. Its potion was drunk With the thirst of my life. I grew gills fighting strife. I did not give a damn If I burst through some dam. Speeding with skill, Pleading for more, Of my god from Atlantis, Of his love from Atlantis. For it I could kill. But Atlanta did kill. “What?” you do say? Thus why I lie Here looking at your eyes, Gasping ‘til I “dies”. It’s so nice you don’t pray— Will I depart away? Sure, I won’t speak … Hm-hm … hm-hm … Hm-hm, hm-hm, hm-hm … Hm-hm, hm-hm, hm-hm … Hm-hm, hum hum, Hum hum, hum hum. Can I go on? … I ran through love’s soul. I pledged a deed with Zeus (We even slaughtered a goose!) And he let me go on And I “done” what I “done”. I sang sweet praises, I rang the lyres. I gulped from every draught. I well learned the drinking craft. I sang with goblet raises Until god’s passion drank my blazes. Perhaps his throat Perhaps I burnt. Love, he took me in his chambers To sentence, ban me from his members. O, how hard a smote! My life away he wrote … Ocean gone. Potion damn locked Within his lordly bag, Exposing me without a rag. I was banished with nothing on, My love: god’s pawn. And so I’m blue On land a fish, Dying in the scorching sun, Red thoughts blue away they run … Because of you … (No, nurse, not you!) "Why kiss me so? Dying, I can’t love-- These are my thoughts for I can’t speak-- Breath is filling in one rapid streak: In my spirit lungs you blow The breath of love—I glow …" My hue’s not blue— I blush so pink Because you kiss so real … Fulfillment, O, you pledge to deal? Just us: two? Do I love you? You’re PUNCTUAL, Smart, quick, strong, fair; You see that there is much of me to want, You dare our love to flaunt, You want me actual, You LIKE me tropical … I need no sleep! I feed awake with you, From round to round with you, The contest that will fuse us two, Leaving loving bruises blue. Love’s too vast. Mythic love shall not Delude one from love’s true seat, Nor from the span of that sun’s heat: In rays among us fairly cast, Though, burn us they can do quite fast. But if we quench And cut the heat, With showers work to dominate, A dancing harvest we shall cultivate. Intemperance we’ll clench: The creators’ hands shall wrench.
  12. Advice to Fiction Writers

    You got me all wrong there. I never considered that a duty. It is more an indication of all the material there is for stories, so much to choose from, that it is exciting and difficult to choose at the same time. I haven't read Mr. Cline's books yet, so I can't say whether I will find them satisfying. But they sound great! I would have needed, for my self, to write some book on the American Revolution, to live with those great men, and the men in my story of my own invention. However, when I read Mr. Cline's books I may find that what my soul needed was fulfilled already by the work of Mr. Cline. Fiction about the American Revolution is a great passion for me. It is a very personal love and admiration that I have for those men. So at this point, I guess I have to say that one day I will write a book on the American Revolution, a very personal duty to myself. But I don't have to start preparing for it for twenty years from now. I'm very conscious of my own personal learning curriculum. I can already see the hierarchy and I've been able to see it for years. I don't operate the way you are implying. Perhaps Ayn Rand would hate, and even Objectivist will hate my first great novel, or my second. That's not why I write it. I stopped considering what Ayn Rand would like for some time now. Her approval is not what I seek. That is an impossibility. Although, asking what Ayn Rand might like is often a spark for more original creations of my own and simple thinking. I guess I can't blame you for implying that I don't know what I'm talking about, so you suggest that I read Causality verss Duty; among other things. The writing I have provided for this forum, or the posts I have written, perhaps are not immediately convincing of what I know. It seems to me that I know more than you think. Only time will tell; until then I will bear your judgment and that of others. Jose Gainza.
  13. Great souled man (a poem)

    Just read it after Brian's. Yours was really nice. Thanks. Jose.
  14. The Poetry Of Brian Faulkner

    "Great-Souled" Woman was just precious. It has outdone Adam Sandberg on SNL on Saturday so that I look forward to my next great impression, not impression as in an imitation but impression as in meeting with my senses and my soul immediately. Jose.
  15. Iran labels CIA and US Army "Terrorist Organizations"

    I apologize for interrupting the flow of the seriousness of this subject with humour, however, I believe it is quite apt. And also I wouldn't be surprised if Andy Sanberg is put on a hit list because of this: Loving the Iranian President Enjoy, Jose.
  16. Advice to Fiction Writers

    Ayn Rand does say in The Art of Fiction, that you can start with any aspect of the novel, theme, plot, character, so long as you eventually cover them all and integrate them all. You can very well start with an explicit theme, as long as you deal with an apt plot and characterization. She says that your story doesn't really begin until you grasp your plot-theme. You can very well start with the desire to express you philosophy so long as your story supports it. It all depends on how talented you are, that is true. Jose.
  17. Advice to Fiction Writers

    Thank you for saying this. So perhaps someone can discuss this more. That would be great. Also thanks for your specific questions and comments, Betsy. They did get me thinking and it is always good for me to make statements about such things. So, until I am able to write some more about such things and other questions posed. May you, if you are able to watch House tonight, enjoy it, if it is able to earn your joy, for I cannot predict how I will feel about it. I'm not sure. I hope I am greatly amused. The same goes for the rest of the members. Jose.
  18. Advice to Fiction Writers

    I agree with you here too. I mean be in control, indirectly, over the long run. I am very well aware how my sense of life has changed. And it is also interesting in this way: When I was 18, my subconscious metaphysics was mixed. Today it perhaps still is, except that the benevolent is much more dominant, than it was dominant when I was 18.
  19. Advice to Fiction Writers

    I agree. It's not impossible nor difficult to strive for both.
  20. Advice to Fiction Writers

    1. I don't see how you can say that my theme is not appropriate for a story, without knowing my context. You assume that I don't know what Ayn Rand has to say about the craft of writing, it seems. Surely if the theme of Atlas is sufficient for a story, then surely that philosophy is important to a man's education is sufficient. I know what it takes to tell a good story. I know about conflict, etc. I know. Just to clarify, it's not about philosophy being important to one man's education but to all men's. Whether you agree or not doesn't matter, so long as I succeed in telling a STORY with that theme. And of course, there's nothing wrong with starting with a theme. You will always need a theme, or you will express a theme; it's better to have a conscious theme. It's not that difficult. 2. Yes, it is true of non-fiction and other sciences. So what? It can be true of fiction writing. It does not have to hamper the writing of fiction. 3. I'm very well aware of the question you pose and I use it very often. My question is relevant to those who choose to start with ethics. There's nothing wrong with it. And the other thing: Ethics is very important in building characters. Extremely.
  21. Advice to Fiction Writers

    Something about metaphsyical value-judgments: Aren't they answers to questions such as whether the universe is knowable or not--whether man's mind is efficacious to deal with it--whether man has free will--whethr man deserves to be happy and whether his success is possible? Certainly these are philosophical questions. They do not exhaust all of philosophy but they are nothing else but philosophy. And so in a sense metaphysical value-judgments is philosophy. Art expresses the former consciously or subconsciously. A student of Objectivism is in a good position to be in control of that expression. He can reach the point where, whether he lets his subconscious go on a stream of inspiration or giving carefully conscious expression, he can be expressing the same sense of life (a.k.a metaphysical value-judgments). I love O. Henry. I love Brian Faulkner's poetry. I have conflicts myself. I guess my point to Bill Bucko's initial statements is that just because one finds oneself expressing Objectivism in dialogue or narrative, does not mean one is no succeeding in telling an exciting story. Whether that Objectivsm is supported by the action and the characterization, and warranted by it, is what is important. I learned to appreciate stories that don't provide a support of Objectivism. One can do that only when one knows a little bit about the complexities of the aspects of a work of literature. One starts to appreciate the virtuosity of a writer and at the same time be swept by the story, so that one finds enjoyment in both aspects, and one has trouble choosing between the two modes.
  22. Advice to Fiction Writers

    The point is that a poem, even Brian Faulkner’s, or a short story, even O. Henry’s, cannot give the soul what a novel can, like those of Ayn Rand’s or Hugo, namely as full as possible of a confirmation or denial of the man’s metaphysical value-judgments. A poem, or short story, is simply not an adequate model for a moral ideal, or even one single principle, or sub-principle, or sub-sub principle, of a moral ideal. A writer should strive to express his metaphysical value-judgments, and since humans are involved, he will best do this, and you will find this in all levels of the aspects of a novel, with the aid of, and reference to, his code of ethics. If a writer is not in this state of mind consciously, then if we are at all moved, and can relate to his expressed value-judgments, then it is his sense of life that is responsible for it. If a writer has been provided with the tools to be in control of his sense of life, then he should seek consciously to express his evaluation of the good. Ethics provides you with a wide gamut of options to tell a story. And it is my belief that only ethics allows you to be so rich. A writer may reach the stage where he has to decide to give up telling his stories, because he has accepted that he is not good enough, not effective enough. But a writer has at least a couple of decades before he has to decide that. The more important the abstract theme, the more people it could (should) reach. Even a young intellectual can succeed in expressing a moral theme. A young intellectual still knows what he knows, and that will be the limits of his ambition and triumph; yet that writing can still be effective. We should judge him according to how well he succeeds in portraying his morality in an interesting story. We should go into a story wanting this, unless at the outset are needs are otherwise. But when our needs change an we need intellectual profundity and high stakes, only a longer and serious work can adequately achieve that, and the more profound the more it affects within us. Your soul is better off to have read Atlas Shrugged five times than The Gift of the Magi five times. Much much more.
  23. Advice to Fiction Writers

    A quick remark about short stories: I think a writer should aim for long fiction, however length it takes to present his theme. Short stories are difficult. They are difficult because they are short. Too many short stories should have been longer. A short story may be enjoyable, but the enjoyment one finds does not mean that the story is adequate in length. You can't do much with a short story. There is just not enough room. It is interesting that Poe found that the short story came into existence because in the industrial revolution people were too busy to sit down and read long novels, so the person who could be entertaining in short space, was needed, since art is always needed to fuel a society. The problem is more severe today, especially with the threat from television and movies. But a writer should still aim to write a novel because in a longer space he can create a bigger universe and more giants. Jose.
  24. Advice to Fiction Writers

    If you understand your values and virtues explicitly but first hand, then use it. If you haven't lived your values or know what it takes to live them, and where they can take you, then re-creating those values in a story will be difficult. But certainly don't disregard ethics. It will only help if it is real and genuine to you. You can certainly start off with an abstract theme. I will one day write a novel for the theme, "the role of philosophy in a man's education.' I need to spend many years thinking about the intellectual side of the issue. Because I start with this theme doesn't mean that my novel will be dull. It can only help me to know my explicit theme twenty years before the story is finally written. The way I see a writing career, a writing career of a man who is philosophically minded, is that his life revolves around his ethical themes, and one theme takes him to another ... his writing will only reflect that process of life. For the story about education I just mentioned, it is not the theme that excites me, but the characters I already envision, and the situation I already know they will be in. I already know the last scene, or at least the nature of the last scene, so that I'm almost impatient. But there are other stories before that. My concern is love and sex right now in fiction. But I would also like to understand the business world more and explicity write short stories about businessmen. I have to grow intellectually before I can write top notch stories about them. And my tribute would be original and sincere. A doorway into that process right now is to study the mobster as a foil to the businessman, and by that process expose the essential and naked beauty of the businessman. You will have great difficulty creating and drawing your characters without having access to the power of the science of ethics. It can only help. You have two basic choices in drawing characters: copying what you've seen (including autobiography) or by archetypes according to a moral code. Maybe this question will help: My hero; what is his code of ethics, does he follow it, what moral value does he represent most--and what is his sense of life--do they clash? I don't advise you to go out and write stories by saying, " I want to depict my sense of life". If you can identify your sense of life, then you already have the power of conscious ethics. And why settle for non-ethical stories. O. Henry couldn't write those stories because of his inadequacy. If you know more about life than O. Henry, then don't settle for the first few layers of a man. O. Henry is an interesting specimen. He was a natural and very knowledgeable and erudite. But why never did he write a novel? It's a pity. If you want writing to be a dominant activity of your life, and you know it will, don't settle for short stories; you know too much for it. Jose Gainza.
  25. Sangue de Galo Goals

    So I've decided to provide for the world my latest edition of Sangue de Galo Goals -- a PDF version. It is edition 1.1 because 2.0 will have drastic changes in plot and style, not much in the former but significant. I have added a preface and an appendix. So enjoy. And feel free to comment and even give me suggestions for improvement. It can only help. Thanks, Jose Gainza. Sangue_de_Galo_Goals_PDF.pdf