They’re Not Just Machines

They’re not just tanks; in some cases, they’re coffins, relics and tombs to those killed while serving aboard them, and the U.S. doesn’t want to bring them home because it costs less to let them rot rather than transport them back, refurbish them, and redeploy them. The Anniston Tank Restoration Center’s back-order of tanks to repair looks like a damn parking lot, and America is wondering how to fix their lack-of-armored-vehicles problem in Iraq and Afghanistan (why not make more and stimulate the economy by putting people to work?)

The point is, I took a story idea from this, not just for the images, but from the emotions I felt as I watched this video. The music also helped to trigger ideas. I actually found myself crying, because I was ashamed at the complete disregard for the abandonment and neglect to America’s fighting machines, what I considered to be a grave form of disrespect to the crews which served, and sometimes died, within.

In the case of my stories, my character, Commander A9, is sent to Iraq to assist in counterinsurgency operations. He is captured by enemy forces, but he is not mistreated. In fact, he is taught the ways of their rationale, and already beforehand, he has sympathized (though that is not to say that he has betrayed his country). They then take him to this location in the video to show him the “tank graveyard.” Overcome with emotion and broken-hearted at the sight of the derelict tanks, several types of tanks being his favorited Abrams Tank, a tank once thought to be indestructable, he collapses to his knees in tears, unable to understand why such once-proud and powerful war weapons would be abandoned in the middle of the bloodstained desert.

I Nuked Islamabad

Indeed, I did. I staged a coup de tat in Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan, deposing the West-sympathetic government by launching a suicide carbombing attack against the Pakistani Prime Minister returning from exile, killing her instantly and initiating civil war. But as U.S. Marines from the 1st Recon Division closed in around my capital palace, I set off a nuclear bomb, virtually wiping out anyone who had the nerve to try to disrupt my coup, and martyring the city’s entire population, no matter their disposition. Though I was not there at the time: I was in my safe house in Nok Kundi in northwestern Pakistan awaiting transport to cross the border into Iran while in possession of a nuclear explosive removed from a nuclear warhead I stole from one of Pakistan’s ‘secured’ launch silos. My intention was to transport the nuclear package to a bunker in Iran, where it would be stored until it was needed.

Before that, I killed a boy. I killed a boy who was dressed in a white, black, and gray urban camouflage uniform and bearing the red angular triangle and scorpion motif of the enemy. He was about twelve years old, shorter than most other boys, wearing a Kevlar helmet that was too big for his head, his blond hair jutting out the sides. His pale hands were fumbling with an Russian AK-47 rifle loaded with only one magazine, he was carrying at least two or three grenades but he wasn’t wearing a flak jacket. Probably because all that weight would have slowed him down and made him useless to those who conscripted him. Just days ago, he had been a civilian, but like the days of World War II’s Hitler Youth, the enemy had grown so desperate to stop our advance that they were deploying child soldiers against us. Not exactly combat-effective weapons, but psychologically-killing and morale-shaking enough as it was. Though he was running towards me, I could tell he was shivering, gripped by the madness around him, the stench of death, the mind-numbing advance of tanks against men, the burning funeral pyres of destroyed vehicles, but in all, he was forced to go forward by those who pried him out of his mother’s arms.

The problem was, I didn’t hesitate. I leveled my M-16A2 at him, gripped the heat guards with my gloved hands, locked the boy’s chest into the crosshairs of my ACOG Scope and fired one round. I fired upon him as I would fire upon any other enemy soldier, and felt nothing. The bullet tore through his body in an instant, blasting blood out the other side and silhouetting his body in the red spray. He fell to the ground with a terrified look on his face, as though my firing on him was totally unexpected. Then I realized what I had done: I killed a boy, I shot a child, and now his blood was flowing onto the European landscape by my hands. Unconsciously, I ran to him. I sprinted at full speed, reaching him and kneeling over him. I blocked the sun from his body and saw a volcano of blood erupting upon his chest. He was wheezing, breathing through the bloodsoaked hole in his lungs, blood staining his open mouth and teeth, his helmet rolled off his head, his eyes turning glossy. I grabbed his hand and held it, cursing myself for what I had done. A bullet dug into the grass at my feet, and I released the boy’s hand to readjust my rifle and fire on my attacker, striking him as I had struck the boy. When I looked back down at the boy, I discovered to my sorrow he was dead; probably died the moment I let go of his hand.

So, in effect, I killed thousands of people with a nuclear blast and a child with a bullet. But, the amazing thing is, I did it all without even joining the military, potentially betraying my country, grabbing a weapon, and going on a killing spree overseas. -I did it by typing it, by writing it, by creating a story of it.

Let no man question me when I say writers are gods, for in effect, you can defame my name, you can curse at me, you can cast me out, you can insult me in all manners, you can break my heart, but with the tools of writing before me, I can destroy your world without even touching you.

Ripped From Life

I write of brutality and war, love and sex, anything you may find in everyday life, and connect it all to war. Some people have called me crazy simply based on the ideas I have presented for reading. In the past, some people have asked me “Where do you get such wild ideas?” In truth, I tell them: life.

Many of my ideas on what my characters do, say, think, the world political and military climates, and aspects of individual performance come from my own life, or real-world events. Combat actions against Russia were born out of Russia’s 2008 invasion of Georgia and their war in Chechnya, Pakistan and Saudi Arabian maneuvers were derived out of the “War on Terror” in Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iraq, the 2000 bombing of the U.S.S. Cole in Yemen, Bhutto’s assassination in 2007, Pakistan’s firing on American AH-64 Apaches last month, and the instability of Pakistan.

In the past, some have questioned whether or not I could face legal prosecution for using ideas from videogames and other created works. But, largely, I do not “rip off” what has already been created in our media. I use its reference and change some aspects to make it my own. Take for example Call of Duty 4. A Middle Eastern man leads a coup de tat in an unnamed Middle Eastern nation (though by the map, it occurs in Saudi Arabia) and then sets off a nuclear device in what appears to be Iran. However, the nations of Iran and Pakistan are not directly mentioned, so if I wanted to stage a story in Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, or Iran following a storyline similar to what is found in the videogame, I could do it (mainly because I’m not selling my stories and therefore, I am protected under the “Fair Use” doctrine of copyrighted material).

Additionally, other ideas for my characters, specifically, the one which is an embodiment of myself, “Commander A9,” are taken from actual events in my lifetime, such as my paintball performance, videogame capabilities, and actual military training. I was Battalion Commander for my Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps battalion in high school, I went to Norwich University, the Military College of the State of Vermont until 2005, I worked at a dust-hole of a factory until September 2006, and then I entered Rowan University immediately thereafter, joining up once again in the Reserve Officers Training Corps and finishing a 2-year time slot, bettering myself morally, physically, and mentally, as a good college student and upcoming soldier should do so.

Recently, I went on a 48-hour bender playing Call of Duty 4, and during so, I had two very successful engagements in which, by myself, I alone stopped the efforts of the opposing team to bomb our weapons storage by picking up a machine gun, a sniper rifle, and a combat knife and turning all three against. I maneuvered in such a way that my friend complimented me, saying my stalwart performance was “epic.” So, I took my battle from the videogame and will incorporate its idea into my writing for when my writing focuses on combat actions in the Middle East.

Other battles are derived out of my paintball combat performance, my actual military training, and the events of my own life. As my parents are teachers in reality, my parents in my stories are teachers. As I participated in track and cross country in high school, my character is an expert runner. I cannot imagine being someone else other than who I am. My alternative identity is me.

In effect, this is my autobiography in story format.

Those who have read my work thus far find me to mimic the authenticating and authoritative style of Tom Clancy, famed military and political disaster scenario writer whose work has been made into several movies and videogames, and whose videogames accurately predicted the Russian-Georgian conflict which occured this year (Clancy predicted where, when, who, and why and got it down accurately right down to the month Russia began complaining to Georgia). However, the difference between myself and Mr. Clancy is that I do all of my own research on my own. In truth, I’ve got more intelligence data on tanks, planes, weapons, personnel, military tactics, doctrines, and other related fields of the forces of the U.N., U.S., Russia, NATO, SEATO, allies, and enemies that sometimes I think I’ve got enough data to make the Pentagon nervous.

If I mention a weapon, vehicle, rifle, combat system, or otherwise something I feel must be authenticated, I do it. I explain the device’s capabilities, its relevance to the wars in my stories, and other critical information which must be listed in order to make my stories seem more realistic. I explain the make-up of military units, the power behind ranks of tanks, the sleek capabilities of the most futuristic of jet fighters, and the rationale behind locking a bullet into a firing chamber and pulling the trigger. I describe the mind-numbing concussive force of standing next to a discharging rifle’s muzzle, the sweaty and surprisingly-open spaces of being inside an Abrams Tank, the flow of adrenaline pumping through veins when a bullet narrowly rips a man’s ear off, and the euphoric feeling of victory, alongside the agonizing tears of defeat; all as they are in reality, all as I have experienced them firsthand.

I do all of these things in an effort to make my stories more real, for if they are real, then they can be believed. There can be no assumption, there can be no guessing, there can be no unproven facts; there can be only truth, there can be only authenticity, there can be only fact.

Who I Am; What I Do

Unlike Lonelygirl15, whom we have seen to be as being less than authentic and less than credible, I know who I am. For our class, we were discussing the idea of online identity, and whether or not our online identities construct who we are in reality.

In my case, I, in my real persona, am my online identity. I could never imagine being someone other than who I am, both online and offline. This is why I construct all of my online personas (avatars, if you will) to better resemble how I look in real life. Therefore, my alternative ID is me, whereas Lonelygirl15 is nothing more than an actress in front of a camera, not a girl moping incessantly on Youtube.

As a man seeking military service, I am a combat writer: simply put. I write about what I know and what I’m very good at. I write of war, battle, siege, death, political scandal, and military maneuver, while intermingling such ideas with snippets of romance, betrayal, love, passion, and yes, even sex. Why? Because I have the freedom to do so, because it is my choice, because I have the power, and because I feel I have the obligation to do so to give back to a particular videogame community. No one can affect my stories and my ideas but me. No one can write my stories in the manner I wish but me. No one can wage the wars I do as well as I can but me.

I first got started writing when I came across a particular story-posting website known as the Grey Archive. The site contained a variety of stories, most of which contained at least one or two romance scenes and sexually-explicit moments known as “lemons” (why, I have no idea). I found two stories on Command & Conquer, Westwood Studios’ smash-hit military strategy computer game series, while browsing the site, read them both, and was appalled. I wondered how anyone could mar my treasured series in this manner, though it was their freedom to do so. So, I motivated myself to pick up my pen in Spring of 2002 and began writing. I started with a simple school notebook and a pen, writing down entire paragraphs as the timeline of two, three, innumerable wars played out in my head.

It took me four months to write my first story, and two months to type it into a word processor. So began my writing career. My process for writing began with a notebook in which I would write a story before transferring it to a word processor, then sending it in to the lead moderator at Grey Archive. The longest it ever took me to write a story was a few months, the shortest only two days (while bored out of my mind at Boys’ State 2002). I wrote roughly ten or eleven stories before finally having my word processor-typed stories catch up to my written work. I went through several notebooks, many sleepless nights, and permanent skin discoloration on my left hand (being I am left-handed when I write) before I finally dropped the notebooks altogether and decided to stick to a word processor to type. Much easier.

However, a problem which became clear to me so late was that I would type a story, send it into Grey Archive, then edit it. When I would find a new mistake, I would resend my story to the moderator, and then I’d find another mistake after correcting the corrected version. I think I once sent the first story I wrote into the website five or six times: not exactly a way to make friends with a site’s moderator when he’s paying for the site out of his own pocket. Another problem I discovered about three years ago was the fact that I was drifting away from the plotline as portrayed in the Command & Conquer videogames. Battles were out of order, characters were misplaced between stories, and generally, I was unsatisfied with my work as I grew up and became more mature. In truth, I was doing exactly what the two Grey Archive C&C stories were doing to my beloved series: I was marring my own work and disrespecting my C&C community by losing my objectivity for realism and military authenticity, something I always look for in military-related videogames, and something I am always angry about when it is lacking.

Over the course of the past six years, I wrote over twenty stories, each averaging fifty pages in length, until Grey Archive was shut down since the moderator could not afford to pay for the site. Twice so far, I have “revamped” my work, discarding my old stories for writing new ones which are more intuned with the games’ plots, as well as more militarily authentic and accurate. Currently, I have several thousand pages of ideas lined up for my upcoming stories, but due to time constraints, I have little time to type my work anymore.

Also, I have changed the venue of where my work is published. I figured that if I control my writing, I should control where I post it. Therefore, I decided to post my stories to my DeviantArt page. This will allow me the freedom to post, edit, and remove a story as I see fit, without owing anyone any money or paying anyone any favors. Though, I still worry about my lack of free time to myself. Sometimes, I feel as though I’m running out of time to finish my work.

Nevertheless, I write. I write so that I may tell the war of Command & Conquer accurately, authentically, as the war should be told.

Untapped Power

I don’t think a lot of people realize the kind of power they wield as a writer. I spoke with some colleagues today who I got into a discussion with about the actual power granted to a writer. They argued that a writer should write within the constraints of what society expects of him if he hopes to be read. A war writer should write about bloody conflict, a romance writer should write about sex, a political writer should write about scandal. Besides what is expected of the societal norm and standard of various genres of writing, my friends believed that a writer otherwise does not have much power or choice in the work he creates.

I didn’t necessarily see it that way, and I explained this to them.

I believe the writer has ultimate freedom. The writer does not have to write stories with pertain 100% to the genre he chooses. A writer can write about whatever he wishes in the same manner as you or I can decide to get up in the morning and go to class, or not. A writer has the freedom to create his own characters, forge his own storyline, build up and ruin lives all the same, and above all, to defy convention and norms expected by society.

In subsequent posts, I hope to describe the manners in which I write by my own choice, and how I do what I do, though I have rarely shared these secrets.

Until then, I encourage you to write as you please, for all writers have ultimate control and god-like power, and I encourage you to exercise it, for in the future, we may not have that chance.

On Playing God

Expanding on the idea of writers as gods, I have to admit that when I am writing, I really do feel like a deity. When I sit and type out a story, I feel as if I am playing god. To the reality and characters that I have created, I am fate, destiny, the higher power; although I am not the same as the God of today’s religion. I am the god that has complete control of the world I rule over; I am a god that is a manipulator and puppet-master, pulling the strings.

In some way, that is a frightening god. A God who has complete control is a god who doesn’t allow for choice. But as an author, choice and free will are not things that I can give characters, because they do not act independently and can’t.

Also, my characters do not have faith or a belief in me. They don’t know that I exist and can’t pray or plead with me for their lives to go a certain way.

And yet, I hold their lives and their reactions in my hands. I decide what will happen in their lives, what they look like, where they lives, how they react. I am a god because I have complete control over their lives; it does not make me a good or benelovent god, but it still makes me a god.

Gods Amongst Men

Who has the power to affect millions, perhaps billions and untold numbers of lives? Who has the power to turn the earth to build new homes, to annihilate entire cities, to bring smiles to seniors as much as tears to children? Who has the power to control who lives, who dies, who comes home at night, who is never seen again, the fate of nations, the fate of planets, the elements of reality’s very existence? I’ll give you a hint: it’s not the President or any other global leader.

It is the Writer, the author, the novelist, the short story scribbler, otherwise, god.

We are the Devine Writers. Founded on September 9th, 2008 in Rowan University’s Education Building Room 2093, we share the opinion that the individual writer has the power of a god. While man is mortal and finite in life, the writer has the power to bend reality to his or her will. Through the use of a pen and an acceptable surface, the writer can create his or her own reality, complete with a series of characters with shining traits and damning flaws, as much as prosperous worlds and crumbling planets. The forces of nature and the laws of physics may not apply to the writer’s creation unless they are desired by the writer. No man may be harmed for years to come or thousands may perish by the moment if it so desired by the writer. Knights and dragons may trot the earth as starships and orbital space stations dot the heavens if it is made so by the writer. In the real world of order or convention or standards, the writer has the opinion to defy everything that is considered “normal” and “standardized” or “expected.”

While the world may seem uncontrollable to some and perilous to others, the writer has ultimate control and divine power to affect his or her own world as he or she sees fit.

Simply put, by no small order, the writer is God.