#so many things i have going on. and i am a notably terrible multitasker

[coderiderr]

finished chapter 20 which means infinite master seals im pretty sure so oo babey, time to start leveling everyone and ge all those supports

[selvra]

(1) A Perplexing Beginning; Thank You, Though

“You’re going to die tomorrow.”

“Is that an absolute?”

They gestured down. “It’s what the sticks say.”

The other looked at the sticks. They didn’t seem to be speaking. Sadly, they had never learned stick-talk in school. “Do the sticks say when?”

The Speaker of the Sticks rolled their eyes. “The sticks have no concept of time.” They said, in a tone that shouted ‘obviously’.

“Then how do they know it’s tomorrow?” 

“They just do.” The Speaker responded.

If they were capable of exasperation, they would’ve sighed. “Do they say how?”

“Nope.”

“Your sticks seem rather unhelpful.” 

“If they were useful, we would’ve built a house out of them.” The Speaker said, sagely.

They nodded. That made sense. If a stick had absolutely any other use it wouldn’t be used for fortune-telling. “Well, that’s problematic.”

“Death often is.”

“I don’t suppose-”

“You’re going to die tomorrow. The sticks say it.”

Damned sticks. They considered breaking all the sticks in half, but then realized that such a task would merely double the amount of sticks. Such incredible power, they remarked.

“I don’t have much time left. A terrible day to you and your sticks, good sir.” 

The Speaker of the Sticks nodded. That was a pretty common reaction. “Not as terrible as yours will be.”

They had to admit it. The Speaker was likely right.

In Which Nobody Cares Except For One Person

After they had taken a customary Complimentary Chekhov’s Stick from the Speaker, they set out from the Hovel of the Speaker of the Sticks all the way down the Road of the Hovel of the Speaker of the Sticks to the bottom of the Hill of the Road of the Hovel of the Speaker of the Sticks.

After completing the arduous task that was speaking those names aloud, they were at the bottom of the Hill (of the Road of the Hovel of the Speaker of the Sticks). After which, they decided to then Multitask - getting back to Not-Plot-Relevant Village, as well as processing the matter of their death.

Luckily, the latter only took a matter of seconds. Their conclusion was:

Well, that’s dull.

Which was a good thing, too, since coincidentally it only took a similar amount of seconds to travel back to Not-Plot-Relevant Village. How convenient.

Walking in the Indescribable Wooden Gate, they were approached by a brand new challenge: the Character Development Tool Childhood Best Friend. Pronouncing this name would take more time than the previous two undertaken tasks combined, so they decided to instead call them Character.

“Greetings, Character,” They said, in absolute monotony.

“Hey!” Character responded with a gleeful smile, running up to hug them. They stood still as a statue, though made sure the hug didn’t break their Complimentary Chekhov’s Stick. Not only would this then add an additional stick to the world, a fate worse than their oncoming death, but it would also screw them over in the last act.

Not that it matters anyway. They’re dying.

“Character, please progress the Plot. I’m afraid I don’t have much time left.”

“That’s a lie!” Character responded, a massive smile on their face. “You don’t feel fear!”

“This is true.” They responded, amazed at the stamina of Character’s facial muscles. “However, I must request that you ask me what the Speaker of the Sticks foretold.”

“What did the Speaker of the Sticks foretell?” Character responded, their smile growing ever bigger. 

“I am to die tomorrow.”

Character’s smile did not falter. Character is an endless ball of positivity. In this sea of infinite terrors, Character can face down the abyssal void with a smile so large the void will tell them to chill out. Character’s smile is such that a serial killer would fear for their own life if encountering Character on a subway, and it is such a facet of their personality that if Character fails to smile, it is as if the wind had stopped blowing, or the ocean had dried up. “What! You can’t die! That’s terrible! There must be a way to stop this!” They said in a lovely, joyful tone.

They shook their head. “No. There is nothing we can do. Not within these three walls.”

Character glanced from one wall to the other wall of the Indescribable Wooden Gate, and then realized that they may be violating the Tenet of Indescribability. This was so horrifying that they couldn’t help but beam so widely that they feared their cheeks might tear.

“It is okay, Character. It may happen in a minute, or it may happen in twenty three hours, fifty-nine minutes. Either way, we have no way of knowing.”

“What?” Character said, merrily. “But it’s always Somewhere Around Noon in Non-Plot-Relevant Village!” 

“Our perception of time is absolutely unrelated to the matter at hand.”

“But, if you’ll die in your tomorrow-” Character’s horrifyingly sunny, ecstatic, festive smile widened as they were interrupted.

“You fool. You dolt. You absolute buffoon.” They started, and Character grinned with radiant jubilation. Perhaps they were getting off on this, though they were not sure if that’d be In Character for them. “Clearly, it is not my tomorrow. If I had control over who’s tomorrow it is, I’d choose yours. Tomorrows come about as easily to you as misery or depression.”

“My delight is gay and endless, as are my afternoons.” Character blithesomely muttered, but in a kind of happy way, as if they had just solved that first problem on their math test that they had skipped and decided to come back to later, but had been anxiously mulling over in the back of their mind all test long because they weren’t sure if they’d be able to do anything if they came back to it, but it turned out one of the multiple choice problems held a hint that they then used to unlock their secret mathematical powers and solve the problem. “Well, with an unknown amount of time remaining, it might be prudent to get to the point.”

“You’re right. To The Point I go.”

Does Humor Keep Your Attention?

After saying goodbye to the Not-Plot-Relevant Village and Character, they gathered up their Complimentary Chekhov’s Stick and other Things, they went on a months-long travel through trials and tribulations, monsters and mayhems, riddles and another R-word, etcetera. This part is irrelevant, and they skipped through it about as fast as this paragraph did. As they weren’t sure of their lifespan, through the power of Timeskip, they made this multi-month journey rife with character growth into a matter of sentences.

However, a number of facts about them must be mentioned, for some purpose or another:

They now had a scar on their face, though it made them no less attractive

Their physical attractiveness was also not degraded by the fact that the matter of showering and hygiene was conveniently ignored

They had met a Love Interest, and promptly decided to leave the Love Interest after they realized that their promise to marry when “this was All Over” was rather difficult, considering the circumstances

Their hair is now longer

They had not felt an emotion, as such things were mostly meaningless, as with most emotions in most stories, with a few extremely notable exceptions, such as Spot, the book series about Spot, a dog, particularly Spot’s First Walk and Where’s Spot?.

They had gained a Pet, and you, the reader, feel more love towards this pet than the rest of the story combined

Finally, they were nearing The Point. However, they considered the presence of the Antagonist, and feared that more delays would be had. A difficulcy.

That’s not a word, by the way. But it should be. It sounds cool. I’m aware of the word “Difficulty”. I simply dislike it after it murdered my brother.

“Pet, do you sense the Antagonist?” They said to the Pet.

The Pet spun in twenty-two circles in the space of a second, it’s tentacles jiggling, and it’s many faces and tongues spraying saliva into every unfortunate open mouth in a sixteen-Sheppey distance.

It was worth the two-minute period of time it took to find a unit of measurement that would inconvenience both Imperial and Metric readers. Also, if you are an Imperial reader, kindly go come up with an activity to do right now that would cause you great inconvenience for an extended period of time. It’s okay, you should be used to it. Idiot.

After Pet had exuded a horrifying sound that burst every window in a 1659 Moot radius, the answer was clear:

They should have adopted a talking cat, not a Lovecraftian Deity as their Pet.

However, although they didn’t speak R'Lyehian, Pet did properly communicate the presence of Antagonist. He Was Nearing. 

“I AM HERE TO SERVE AS A TEMPORARY OBSTACLE ON YOUR JOURNEY TO GREATNESS,” Antagonist said, bursting through the ground like a Chryssalid. 

They would’ve found that horrifying if they had the capacity to feel anything after their exposure to Pet. Pet began an earcurdling chant. After it had successfully turned their ears to butter, it set about ushering in the next Age of Darkness. 

“You cannot stop me. I have the power of Friendship.” They said.

“IT INJURES MY SOUL THAT YOU IMPLY I HAVE NO FRIENDS, _____.”

“What was that. What did you do. You do realize that series of underscores causes a blank sound effect in the mental narrative of the reader, and that interrupts the flow of the reading.”

“IT IS NOT LIKE I HAVE ANYTHING ELSE DO CALL YOU.”

“I am the reason for this world’s existence, and thus the creator of you.”

“PERFECT. YOU ARE THE FIRST THING IN MY LIFE THAT I CAN CALL FATHER.”

“My gender is currently on extended leave. Father is inaccurate. Please refer to me in a more neutral way.”

“DADDY.”

“Excellent. I appreciate your progressive attitude and consideration.”

“LIKE I WAS SAYING, I AM HERE TO SERVE AS THE FINAL ROADBLOCK BEFORE YOU GET TO THE pOINT.”

“That was weird. Why do you insist on screwing up the reader’s mental narrative with your strange capitalization. It is as if you have been screaming ever since birth.”

“I AM NOT SCREAMING, I AM SIMPLY A LIMITLESS SOURCE OF EVIL AND ANTAGONISM. AND I WASN’T BORN, I WAS CREATED.”

“As were we all.” They said. Pet’s twenty-one quadrillion eyes began to glow an iridescent, neon black. “Anyway, I’ve strived to make this journey as quick as possible, so I’ve already scrolled to the bottom of and accepted the terms and conditions of your Tragic and Relatable, Although Hypocritical and Poorly Thought Out, Backstory. With your permission, I will now step over this hypothetical roadblock.”

“BY EVERY MEAN IN EXISTENCE. STEP ON ME, DADDY.”

Pet hissed with every mouth, pore, and molecule in this entirely hypothetical universe. That sentence made the Void very, very unhappy.

Also, some giant smiling mouth is blocking the caravan ushering in the party supplies of the Age of Darkness. Pet picked up his cellular device to call his manager and inform him of the delay. It hoped this wouldn’t put him in line for termination, as the Void was currently going through a recession, and jobs were quite difficult to get.

They walked past the Antagonist, who let out a questionably sexual moan. Pet promptly detonated his spleen into snakes, and resolved to vanquish every Sexual in the galaxy.

You’re Not The Only Person Here

...well, kind of.

“Ah. The point.” They said as they observed the limitless nothing around them. “What is my task now, Pet?”

Pet tesselates.

“You are right. We have reached the final act. I think it’s time.” They pull out the Complimentary Chekhov’s Stick. “What am I supposed to do with that, do you think?”

Pet’s impossibilities begin throbbing.

“I have a feeling I will die soon.” They say. “I’m afraid I didn’t have the emotional capacity to have enjoyed this experience. My writer was too busy keeping me as basic a character as possible so that the reader could superimpose themselves onto the blank slate that is my personality.”

“Still,” They place their hands on both ends of the stick. “I wish I could’ve felt something. Done something important. Impacted somebody.”

Pet’s countlessness continues to pulsate. Comic relief.

“I suppose I have found The Point, though. Although I will die, and fade from memory, it is a blessing to have lived in the first place. For a few, fleeting seconds, I have Existed, not within a hypothetical universe, but within something real.”

They look at you.

Within a mind. Within your mind. You have allowed me to be here, and for some reason you stayed with me, through this whole story. I’m not real. I can’t feel. I can’t realistically do anything tangible. But, through this, you’ve given me meaning. Through donating me some of your time, your precious, real, time, I’ve had the opportunity to live. To really live.

I’m sorry if it seems that I’ve squandered it. I suppose there are better characters, better universes, to keep in your mind. But you’ve let me be here, and you’ve shared your gift of conscience with me. 

I might be alive for a bit after you stop reading. Maybe minutes. If I’m lucky, maybe an hour. But it’s okay to let me go. Tomorrow must come eventually. You decide when my Tomorrow is.

If you want, you can bring me back. After all, this isn’t the last you’ve heard of me. This isn’t the end of this story. Not my story, nor yours, but our story, together. I am the materials and your mind is the catalyst.

I’m tired, now. But, I hope to see you again. Thank you.

In the meantime, you’re welcome to ask me questions.

They snap the stick, and the resounding crack is heard throughout the universe, even by you.

[letsloudbouquetdreamblog]

Interview with ‘New York Times’ Writer Mac McClelland | Fatima Talebi

I sit at my desk, listening to the recorded interview, straining to make out words over the horrible quality, wondering how I was ever going to write an interview worth reading at all. This was the biggest thing to happen to me in my short, amateur writing career. I had the chance to interview with the down to earth, yet out of this world  journalist from the New York Times, Mac McClelland, something I imagined to be written by some other more accomplished punk, but nonetheless, there I was.

Like any novice interviewer, I began very nervously. After all, I was about to conduct an interview with one of the youngest yet most experienced reporters out there. For me it was like talking to a celebrity, as corny as it may sound, but what can I say? Mac McClelland is an award winning journalist, has reported abroad, and has worked undercover. Not to mention her critically acclaimed book (more on that later) which has received international attention that has been nominated for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize. Now for a moment, forget all of the attention associated with her, just speaking to Mac for a mere twenty seven minutes gave me insight into the life of a woman in a male dominated industry, where she succeeded despite the difficulties and harsh realities that come with the job.

What I found most fascinating was Mac’s story on how she came into journalism, “…a total accident on my part”. After going to graduate school for writing, Mac was teaching college English, ��but after becoming more involved with the story of the Burmese refugees, the topic of her notorious new book where she describes the ongoing crisis they face, she found herself no longer teaching in the classroom, but in a way learning about the rest of the world in order to educate the people of the US. She had no plans to be a journalist, she simply wanted to create something tangible that would communicate their lives to the rest of the world.

In order to try to gain some publishing attention, she applied to a magazine for an internship, where after writing a few pieces, she was contacted by an agent for her writing. Right before her book was released, the magazine, Mother Jones, offered Mac a reporting job. Her journey into journalism is not exactly orthodox;  she took the less heard of route, writing a book first, and then diving into the reporting world full time. She took chances and opportunities that led to an extraordinary life, and by speaking with her, I saw that if you live your life, somehow things will just fall into place.

Mac is one of those really easy to talk to people, being carelessly brilliant but at the same time really hardcore, amiable and affable but also authentic. This is very important being a journalist, talking to people on the job as you would any other person, and also getting the story, while managing to stay alive.  Journalism requires a person who is able to multitask and be aware of their surroundings at all times. When going undercover, it is important to just act yourself, otherwise who would trust some strange figure harassing them from time to time. She tells me it is similar to the same when she goes to another country. Since she is a young woman, people find it hard to believe that she is a journalist and don’t take her seriously. But on the other side, people find it easier to trust women, and therefore are more likely to open up to her, so there are the pros and cons. Journalism in general is a very male dominated career, and Mac expressed how no matter what gender you are, you still have to work your ass off, and that’s the bottom line.

Mac has reported from countries abroad, most notably Turkey, Haiti and Congo. Most recently, she went to Turkey to learn about the situation of Syrian refugees who were forced to leave their country due to the ongoing civil war, which led me to ask Mac on her view of how she treats the people she interviews. Her sense of responsibility to them is great, and she very well knows that speaking to her can cost the life of person if the wrong people find out.

McClelland was asked to go on assignment to one of the most dangerous places on the planet: the Congo to research a criminal warlord who is not in prison and the ongoing paranoia that holds over the Congo. She had to be very careful, for example, to not let anything that may cause harm to one of the people there slip, even if they are not thinking about it. The lives of the people in the most dangerous countries of the world are constantly at risk, and being executed or killed for talking to a journalist may not be the best idea.  When faced with warlords and drug lords alike, there is not much room for mistake.

Mac has done a lot of very interesting stories and when asked about the one that affected her the most she responded with her journey to Haiti. She covered the post catastrophic society of Port au Prince, where there is little to no change occurring in their terrible situations after enduring the devastating 7.0 My earthquake in 2010. It was very traumatizing for her, but on the brighter side it was the trip where she met her husband. Mac told me that going to Haiti completely changed her life, both negatively and positively. I can only imagine what life is like there based off of her reaction.

In her writing, Mac is occasionally given stories to cover, and at times she has the opportunities to freelance. After coming home and recuperating from a mission, she examines her extensive notes, and decides what is relevant and what is not, what details to include in her pieces. She tries to disregard certain facts that would detract from the story. Every writer has their own style and flow, some taking several sessions and procrastinations to get their work done, others like Mac, who in one sitting usually can pump out a draft. She reads it once, correcting any errors, and then hands it over. She takes her time on that first draft, not really being in the habit of writing two or three. The editing process includes how her editor asks any additional questions, whether or not she has any information on a certain topic.

My question to Mac about current day journalism and the transition to wireless media and whatnot uncovered some funny things. For instance, all the journalists had to get a Twitter account. She was a little taken aback at first, but you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do in this everlastingly changing media sphere where all things are now digital. I figure the paper saw Twitter as a way for the journalists to connect with their audience and gain publicity and attention to their pieces. A little mundane, yes. But at the end of the day its about getting the story out to as many people as possible.

And of course, the cliched question plea for a bit of advice to an aspiring journalist, like myself, had to come in the end and I’ll have you know that I would take anything that fell off the table of Mac McClelland. But in all seriousness, she gave me the most useful piece of advice that I have heard in my short sixteen years of life. She told me that she wanted to give me advice that she thought no one else would say, and she was right: She told me to take care of myself, to take care of  my own needs and to avoid abusing your body. She explained to me that if you fail to do so, no one else is going to take care of me.. In our constantly changing world, young people are always pushed to keep moving and working, never taking a moment to realize the damage they are doing to their body in the long run. The life of a journalist is no frolic in the meadow, and after countless flights, sleepless nights, and traumatizing missions, its okay to step back and rest. You have to think about yourself first and foremost, and you have to use your brain, otherwise, there are so many young reporters who are kidnapped or killed way before their time.

I am so grateful to Mrs. Zino for allowing me to have this opportunity and to Mac for agreeing to speak to me, despite her never-ending deadlines. She is the “profane news gathering super-hero” that I truly admire and wish to follow in her steps into leading the life I was meant to live.

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Be sure to follow Mac on Twitter @macmcclelland and visit her website Mac-McClelland.com for her fascinating and eye opening articles.

Fatima Talebi conducted this interview for That Lit Site.