Karina Cooper

Adventures in Depression III: Attack of the Real World

Karina Cooper — Wed, 22 May 2013 22:49:26 +0000

DEPRESSION by ~guille1701

Drugs can’t buy you happiness (the body is in constant state of flux and ebb). Money can’t buy you happiness (everything needs money, more money, more). Love can’t buy you happiness (the ups are great and the downs are the most stressful out of everything else). Happiness can’t buy you happiness (because it leaves—it always leaves).

What seems like a solution—we don’t say the “cure” word around these parts—ends up being a reprieve, and it all comes back without anybody asking you. In so many ways, a reprieve is worse than just coping. You start to feel normal, healthy, balanced. Happy. And then something tips, that clock hand ticks over to the right/wrong number, and you’re there again. Only it’s worse, isn’t it? Because even though nobody says the “c-word” anymore, a part of you was maybe—just maybe—starting to hope.

But you know the worst part?

The real world doesn’t give a damn what you’re feeling.

Wibbly-Wobbly, Timey-Wimey…

Depression doesn’t stop time. You’d think it should, wouldn’t you? Everything comes to a stop in your immediate vicinity. There is no force on this earth that can move you to do whatever you thought needed to be done yesterday… Whatever you thought needed to be done tomorrow… Whatever needed doing, it’s not there anymore.

Daylight doesn’t change. One moment, it’s light outside. The next, it’s dark and the streetlights are on. Sometimes, it stays light for hours and hours. More hours than you think should be right. Inside your cave, there’s nothing to rock the boat. Nothing to make you look around and have to think.

Depression should stop time, because when you resurface, if you resurface, everything can go right back to how it was.

Except it doesn’t. The world doesn’t stop. Real life doesn’t sit back and wait. People don’t, deadlines don’t, commitments don’t.

It gets pretty easy to justify how many people turn into hermits.

…Emotional Black Hole

The tricky part about living in the real world with depression is that because life doesn’t wait, you can’t—or shouldn’t, or mustn’t, or something. People are waiting on you. Counting on you. You have to decide whether you want to follow through (fuck it), or if you want to simply say fuck it (fuck it).

Guess which one of these is easier to do?

You know what else gets easier? Giving up on all those attempts to make yourself feel better—through exercise or drugs or meditation or whatever. Because, hey, obviously they aren’t working. Why bother? It’s just… better, safer, quieter, less hurtful, easier… to sit in your cave, with the lights off and (if you remember that you’re kind of human and very much alone) music playing.

Music optional, because some music will make you feel worse and some will make you feel anxious and some will do nothing at all which is the worst of the three options depression gives you—like a carnival card-handler laying out three cups and asking which one hides the marble when you know it’s in his pocket. But his pocket is the universe and the marble’s long gone. Like you’re long gone.

I feel like an ambulatory version of Attack of the Clones: all Padme’s clothing and no feeling.

The Second Greatest Equalizer

Some days, it’s the hardest thing in the world to get out of bed and get to work. I sometimes think that I’m not so much a workaholic as I am using work like a shiny toy to keep me distracted from the looming sense of Something Wrong… like any moment, the rug, the floor, the whole world is going to be pulled out from under my feet and that,a s they say, would be that. The end of me.

Only I wouldn’t end, would I? I’d be there, falling and flailing, down the oubliette that is where all of life’s cosmic jokes go.

The thing I hate most about depression is how much of a great equalizer it is.

If I’m too happy, I can always count on it to drop me into nothing. If I’m sad, it’ll come around in its own way to take my sadness—and with it, everything else. If I’m scared, it will take that, too, and in its place, there’s nothing but a numb acceptance. The world will do what the world will do, with or without my input. SO let’s err on without and then I can stay in my cave a little bit longer.

The first great equalizer is death, but that’s only true until necromancy comes back into vogue.

Depression makes me calm. It makes me extremely rational—to the point where, like a doctor detached from ethics or understanding, I begin to amputate. I can ignore this. I can cut out that. I can stop going to this and tell them I’m not going to do that anymore. I can take a little off here and a little off there and then the next thing I know, I’m an emotional hunk of scar tissue stretched on a frame.

Depression is armor. And like armor, it really puts a crimp in your mobility.

All things are equal in depression. They love my books? Okay. They hate my character? Okay. Want to yell at me? Okay. Want to make me laugh? Okay.

Want me to work? Okay.

Want to just give up on everything?

Okay.

Just… okay.

A Thin Black Line

Logic will not solve anything. As with most things involving depression—a fact illustrated to beautiful poignancy here—any attempts to cajole, cheer, reason, or coax me out of it only ends up miring me in a deeper pit. Mancandy says my depression scares him like nothing else, and it scares me, too. It scares us because we’re fixers, solution-seekers. We want to fix it, and we want to make it never happen again.

That’s how we show our love.

But you can’t fix depression.

I feel guilty. If there’s room for anything in this type of depression, it’s guilt. If I fall again—when I fall again—I know how much it scares the man I love, and how much useless it makes him feel. It makes me feel the same way. I know that friends don’t understand—and if they do understand, that they’re in a position where they have to use their best judgment.

I want to be fine. I don’t want to have to be the one reassuring people that I’m fine when I’m not, and knowing that it doesn’t matter what they say, nothing can make me fine but time. Well, if I’m lucky, time and some fine-tuning of antidepressants

So, instead, I walk this thin black line—on one side, a pit and on the other an oubliette. I ponder which of the two would be better to fall into. A pit might see me pulled out faster, an oubliette could be nice and quiet for a while. But they both suck. So on this line I stay, barely balanced, holding a pole slicked down with the blood of all those innocent people waiting for me to follow-through on commitments that no longer give me happiness.

Because depression eats happiness, see.

I understand—more than I’m comfortable understanding—why so many creative souls become hermits. Why they close themselves away from a world that hammers on them, over and over, with positive intentions and negative, with demands and requests and commitments and failures.

Rationally, I love my job and the work I do. I love writing. I love doing what I do, and I love the people I do it with.

Depression doesn’t care. Like the honey badger, it doesn’t give a shit. It consumes everything I touch and somedays—today—I think about letting it set fire to the world I’ve created and go find a mindless, empty, meaningless job in a mindless, empty, meaningless world where I live a mindless, empty, meaningless life.

Life doesn’t stop when depression starts.

But then, it’s kind of nice knowing that everyone’s out there doing what they do, and will still be there when depression unclenches enough to let me out to join them.

Things will get better. That’s the thing to remember. Things will get better. Maybe with time, with drugs, with help. But when you’re in it?

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not dreams, not goals, not fears, not love, not money, not anything.

So the cycle continues. Neurosis unleashed. And life will do what it does until I fall off that thin black line or find my footing on solid ground again.

Welcome to the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences

Karina Cooper — Wed, 22 May 2013 04:00:49 +0000

To Whom It May Concern—

There are, within the bounds of our very own world, monsters. They live among us, some in the dark and most—contrary to popular belief—in the daylight. They sport fur and fang, if one is fortunate enough to merit such obvious strangeness, yet they also wear the face of familiarity. Madmen. Murderers. Politicos of fiendish design. You may doubt the veracity of these words, yet never should you question the motives to which I implore you: good sir, gentle lady, do not trust so easily. Whether you walk in the dark or stride in the light, you must never let down your guard.

Whether the tools of these monsters are of supernatural origin or alchemical design, whether the plots hatched and schemes unleashed come of science or idle boredom, lust for power or revenge—whether they stem from a love torn too early or a hatred borne of a thousand generations—the details matter less than the motives to which they are applied.

I beseech any who read these words and understands that of which I speak to look for the Ministry in London’s own. As long as this stalwart organization stands, humanity does not totter on the brink of subjugation or extermination. Peculiarities will not go unseen. If you or a loved one has experienced a matter the likes would see you placed in Bedlam by them what don’t understand, my counsel is as such: steady on, fine soul, and seek the Ministry’s help. What plagues you will provide fodder of academic and no doubt heroic entertainment for them.

Do not wait, do not doubt yourself. Most of all, do not walk alone.

Yours in good faith,
Cherry St. Croix

Cherry’s views on the subject of monsters and men seem to be taking a not-so-subtle turn for the open-minded. What on earth is happening in Corroded to make her question her stalwart faith in science over magic?

Or was it the events of Gilded that have shaken her faith?

Tarnished introduced you to a world where science and reason reigned over magic, but could it be that Cherry’s understanding of the world is seeing a shift?

Win The First Two St. Croix Chronicles Books

Want to win a copy of Tarnished and Gilded? Just in time for September’s release of Corroded, here’s an opportunity to get a signed duo! What do you have to do? Easy!

Tell Me a Story

In the comments below, tell me what makes the ideal steampunk villain. You don’t have to tell me a whole story, but share what makes a steampunk villain particularly vile, maniacal, evil, creepy, or just plain villainous. Is it the gear? The methods? What about them?

Is it all in the name?

If you went up against a steampunk villain, what kind of villain would make you quake in your high button boots?

I’ll choose a winner at the end of blog hop, May 29th.

International Readers: You are welcome to enter, but due to shipping costs, I will be offering you e-books of each. If you want them signed, I do have them available on Authorgraph. It’s easy to request a signature!

What is the Ministry?

Galileo Games and Imagine That! Studios have teamed up to bring you an ambitious steampunk project! The Ministry Initiative is a two-part creative endeavor that will not only premiere new fiction from the steampunk world of the Ministry but also present a brand new role playing game from the makers of Bulldogs! and the ENnie Award winning game Shelter in Place. Thrill to the tales in Ministry Protocol anthology, or join in as an Agent in The Ministry Initiative RPG.

Find out more about this endeavor and support the Kickstarter!

For other giveaways, steampunk blog posts, and more, visit these sites:

Rules to Live By: Own Your Shit

Karina Cooper — Mon, 20 May 2013 02:48:36 +0000

I’m speaking today from a position that is one part freak and two parts common sense. My neurosis is showing again.

The crux of this bit of You Better Work advice is very close to a rant. It’s one that has been boiling up for quite a while.

Fortunately, it’s also one that I believe is truth. Good writing sense demands that I lay out the following.

No Rules? No Story

Imagine a story in which you, the reader, have been told that the setting is watched over by positions of power. That you have been introduced to these positions by the narrator, who explains that these positions operate with a certain autonomy, that one is beloved and one is feared and one holds the ear of the reigning monarch. Imagine that the narrator has very helpfully assured you that the people in these positions are people worthy of respect. You are prepared to meet them, to be awed or inspired or afraid. You are interested to see how the people of this story will treat these positions.

And when you finally meet one of these positions of power, the people in the scene treat them as if they are fools.

Okay. Conflict! That’s interesting, isn’t it? Why are they treating these authorities like fools? Surely there is plot here! Surely the next batch of locals will not be so rude! Perhaps, you think, as the reader, the first batch were spies, or revolutionaries, or dissenters.

But not. The next group of civilians ignores advice levied by the person who is beloved.

Another group sneers in the face of the authority who is feared.

Yet another openly derides the figure who claims the ear of the monarch.

And they all do so without indication of anything out of place.

What happened to the rules the narrative laid out for us? We came prepared for the beloved, the feared, the wise counselor, and we were given instead toothless characters and a people who were not given the memo—we have been told that the rules of the social engagement were one thing, and yet we are given another set of rules entirely upon the page.

Perhaps a more realistic example?

You have purchased a bed frame online. It’s a very pretty bed frame, with a headstand made of polished mahogany and carved by hand in a tropical island somewhere. The site promised that you will smell the fragrance of the sea embedded in the wood. You can’t hardly wait to get it inside and have a good night’s sleep on your new bed frame.

Yet when it is delivered, you find it’s made of plastic painted like wood. You inhale deeply, and you smell chemicals. You suspect it’s been hand-carved all right—in a sweatshop.

The rules of this engagement were laid out just so—I give you my money, I get a bedframe as described—and that rule is broken.

That’s what we call a bait and switch, and it can be just as devastating to a reader’s sense of balance within a book as it is in a real-world situation. In a harsher world, we’d call it fraud.

Show, Don’t Tell

The age-old writer’s adage of “show, don’t tell” is a trite bit of nothing that gets bandied about until it’s mucked up with old gum and hollow intentions. Problem is, it’s as true today as it ever has been.

Will you believe me when I tell you that the sky is black, or do you need to see it for yourself?

If I tell you that Carol is very popular with her high school friends, and then show you how they ridicule her, isn’t that confusing?

When I tell you that it is a death sentence to trade gold across country borders, and then show you how people do so openly and with impunity, doesn’t that take away any sense of danger or consequence? “Hey, don’t break the law, but you know, everyone is breaking the law, so whatever.”

In short, an author—a storyteller of any stripe—does the reader/audience a great disservice by laying out the ground rules of a world (vampires can fly, it rains chocolate pudding every Thursday, the King is feared by all, it’s illegal to spit on the sidewalk on Sundays), and then breaking those rules in such a way that does not give credence to the irregularity of that breaking.

Follow Through

If I lay out for you that the chancellor of the kingdom was a vile, angry, small-minded man whose mansion was reputed to be haunted and whose tenants feared him greatly, then the onus is on me to prove that: to show you why he has a reputation, or why he is (or is not) that man.

As a storyteller, it’s up to me to lay out these rules for you—the reader, the listener—and then show you that rule at work. I can’t simply tell you that no one on earth flies, and then show you a character who does without ever once addressing why. That makes no sense, and it serves to leave readers lurching for a grounding point. You can’t rip the foundation out from under a reader without some serious lead-up.

Now that said, follow through can also mean laying out a few rules, and then showing why the person breaking them is important. This is the stuff main characters, plot devices, and conflict are made out of.

To use our vile chancellor once more, I could lay out a narrative that explains that he’s rumored to have murdered all four of his wives and he beats his housekeeper every night with a silver switch, and that is your foundation. Are you prepared to dislike this man? Are you prepared to hate him? To want to see him brought to justice? Are you intrigued?

So armed and prepared, what will you do if I then show you that he is cursed by the spirit of his first wife, his other three ran away rather than be married to a haunted man, and his housekeeper is a practicing witch up to mischief without his knowledge or consent?

The show now rivals the tell, and therein is the conflict.

When Show Opposes Tell

Without a narrative understanding that what is being said is not what is being seen, it tends to read like this:

Carol has a lot of friends (she doesn’t) and she always sits with them at lunch (where she sits by herself in a corner and they fling spitballs at her). She’s very popular and smart (she’s barely scraping by with Ds and she thinks math is hard), and she’s probably going to be Prom Queen (she’ll never get invited to the dance).

How does that make sense at all? But hey, let’s do another:

The executor of the King’s will is a dangerous man (who is constantly ignored by the King’s subjects), and is known for brutal efficiency and ruthless determination (but he can’t actually hurt anyone because the King won’t let him). The true danger of the executor’s authority lies in autonomy: he can operate outside the law as often as he needs to in order to get the job done (but can’t do that, because the people will gang up on him and shout at him, and then the King has to take him to task in front of everyone). Nobody dares cross him (and nobody listens to him).

These are kind of fun!

Other common conflicts between show and tell:

She’s smart, I swear! (But she routinely does stupid things.)
He’s smooth with the ladies. (But crashes and burns every time he talks to one in dialog.)
This man could kill me with one word. Nobody dared cross him. (But I will, because apparently I’m immune to things like social consequence.)
This politician is feared across the kingdom, known for his cruelty. (Nobody gives a damn.)

When Show Complements Tell

When the opposing forces between show and tell work, it can be quite jarring—but in a way that supports the plot of a story. For example, let’s look at poor Carol, and add a little bit of that missing narrative:

Carol tells her parents that she has a lot of friends, and often makes up birthday party invites (but the truth is that she’s really sneaking away to the library). She sometimes tells her guidance counselor about all the fun she has with the other kids at lunch (but only afte she’s pulled all the spitballs from her hair). She wishes that she could be popular and smart, and she dreams of one day being Prom Queen (even though no one would ever invite Barrel Carol to the dance). Still, her parents think she’s okay, and Carol doesn’t want to disappoint them.

Whoa! Holy crap! Now we have a bullied teenager just trying to live her life, lying to the adults to save her pride (or perhaps to save herself further ridicule and retribution), and the conflict and plot now wraps around what she’s telling people, and what the reality is.

What about our executor of the King’s will?

The executor of the King’s will is a dangerous man who is known for brutal efficiency and ruthless determination (even if he often privately regrets the actions he must take to carry out the King’s will). Rumor has it that he acts with the King’s authority, and even when he breaks the law, the King turns a blind eye (which isn’t completely true, as he’s been forced to sit through more than one lecture about his methods from the King’s advisors). Though some have begun to whisper black rumors in the darkest corners, the executor remains publicly uncrossed (and it’s only a matter of time before the peasants revolt, or are put in their place—an action he is already coming to dread).

A powerful man whose reputation is as black as a deviled soul, but whose private feelings on the matter are conflicted? Say it ain’t so.

I already mentioned how our poor chancellor’s “show” could rival his “tell” in a way that makes for conflict and plot.

Why It Matters

Freeform games are often comprised of no real “statistical” rules. You make a character, you play, and everyone figures out how to make it work. If your art has no rules—green splatter! red lipstick! naked models rolling on canvas! a dash of pee yellow for smiles!—then it’s avant garde.

But a book with no rules, no foundation, is a bunch of words on a page. It holds no shock or surprise—Carol flies up into the sky! meh, so what?—and no real foundation upon which a reader can relate to. It becomes as desensitizing as torture porn or 4 hour Youtube videos wherein people just scream randomly at one another while staring into a black sky.

In short, it has a niche audience, but is it what you want out of a book? Where’s a plot to take a reader when nothing is off limits?

But even more, here’s where I lose my shit:

If you’re going to go to the trouble of laying out the norm (vampires fly, moonbats have pink wings, bacon sings a opera every full moon), then I damn well expect those rules to be the norm.

If there is a foundation, I expect to be able to sit on it with some comfort.

If you tell me that the King’s advisors are beloved, and feared and listened to, I want to see them be loved, feared, and treated with caution. I want to see that from everyone else, even as your main character—or foil, or whathaveyou—treats them differently, and I want to see why that’s different.

I don’t want you tell me over and over that the sky is black when I can see for myself that it’s blue.

That’s my neurosis talking.

Put your money where your mouth is (fingers are?), and show me why it’s a big deal that Carol is lying to her parents. Or that the chancellor isn’t the man the narrative suggests he is. Tell me why the executor is feared—and then show me what he did to earn that, and what he’s doing now to redeem himself. Let me feel the conflict.

Don’t tell me that the chancellor is universally reviled, and then show him having picnics with his tenants without any sort of explanation. That kind of bait and switch is just bullshit.