Depends on Your Definition/How Getting Shot in the Face Taught Me to Live Part I

Okay, so I have a bit of a confession. That cover for Have Degree; Will Travel? I made that for a class. To date, I've written about fifty pages of it. If you're interested, you can click the picture. There's a marketing-copy synposis and an author bio on there. If it still sounds cool after that, I could talk about it more in the future, but I wouldn't hold my breath for it being published. You'd be better off with Peter David's Sir Apropos of Nothing books (and his style is similar to mine, but, y'know better) or Knight Life series. If the politics of high fantasy interest you and the wacky hijinks don't, check out pretty much anything written by Jennifer Fallon.

In any event, I know what you're thinking. How do I square this trickery with my stated promise never to lie to you. Well, it's simple really. A lie is an intention to deceive. I am almost fundamentally incapable of deceit. I didn't try and deceive anyone (maybe I succeeded?). Look closely at the text on the cover. I've got a review quote from an author who has been dead for over a decade, and my bio claims I wrote another book- a Hugo winner no less, while I clearly stated this is my first book on the blog. Basically, as a story teller, I can say any kind of crazy nonsense I want long as I don't expect you to believe me. What a great loophole. For instance, if you ask me what I thought of your book, I may have to tell you it sucks. And in the next breath when you ask where I'm going for vacation, I'll tell you all about this great little beach front cottage I've got on the Sea of Tranquility.

In any event, although I know I'm spinnning off ever more into ego-stroking tripe, there's something important I want to discuss, and when we get to the end of it, you'll understand. And after that, I promise I'll do some book reviews. I'm also toying with the idea of giving away chapter critiques. But more on that later.

A couple years ago, I helped arrange my brother’s Bachelor Party. There was a big round table between all us groomsmen, very democratic. We made general choices and then left details to those with the guts to take charge. Fun conversations, but not much effifiency. And lots of sore feelings, too. Go-karting? Nope. Skydiving? Nuts to that. We ended up paintballing as our big second-day activity. That was absolutely the bottom of my list. I tried everything to dissuade the group. Concerts. A minor league baseball game. I pushed those Go-Karts and skydiving pretty hard. But in a Democracy, being the Best Man doesn’t ensure victory.

So we went paintballing. Most of the guys had gone once or twice. I hadn’t. It was hot and humid and my breath kept fogging up the plastic visor on that tight helmet. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. Poorly coordinated, a sizable limp, and working on virtually no sleep to boot.

Which is to say; I was really bad at it. Sort of figured I would be. I was an average shot, maybe, but I couldn’t really run or sneak very well.

So for the first few rounds we play, we’re part of larger groups before the owners prep some stuff just for us. Which was nice, I guess. Usually they require 12 people for private groups and we only had 10, but they made an exception because it’s important to shoot the bachelor before his wife gets a chance to complain about the paint stains.

Now, in our very first match, we were on the side which is given an essentially impossible situation. The enemies were pre-fortified in a mansion with crates of additional ammo, and we had to get to them through a long field with tiny “gravestones” as our only cover, without the real world option of sneaking up at them. In other words, we were pushed into a suicide run against enemies who could fire at us continually from under far better cover, a literal and tactical high ground, superior numbers and limitless supplies. At the very start of the rush was a slick, muddy jaunt down hill before trying to clamber up. One of the paintball range guys pretty much pushed me down the hill and were it not for some creative rolling and whatnot, I probably wouldn’t even have made it to cover, but in the process, I twisted my leg. Plus, I’m fat, have a big head and broad shoulders. That “gravestone” was no cover at all for a guy of my size. In the end, I think I only moved one or two spaces father ahead before someone got me with a lucky shot.

I justified my near refusal to act on the pain in my leg and the awkwardness of pushing myself into a position from which I might actually move but the simple fact was that PLAYING IT SAFE WAS A GUARANTEED WAY NOT TO ACCOMPLISH ANYTHING AT ALL.