Tag: books

On Shared Cinematic and Literary Universes

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

These days, you can’t go to the movies or turn on a television without being pulled into one of the many cinematic universes that exist. The MCU. The DCEU and now the DCU. The Conjuring-verse. The Fast and the Furious-verse. The Flanaverse. Star Wars and Star Trek. I could continue but I’d wager you know what I’m referring to.

Shared literary universes are less common. I can only think of two that I’ve read: Stephen King’s Dark Tower universe (which basically encompasses many of his 70+ books in some capacity) and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation/Robot universe. If there are others that I’m missing, please feel free to drop them in the comments. I love a good, shared universe. Hell, my Endworld books have elements of other things I’ve written over the course of my life, some published/circulated and some not in them. I even have a rough plan to incorporate other ideas into what may, one day be my own, shared literary-verse. Sadly, there are days where I feel a bit like Geoffrey Chaucer, and I wonder if I’ll ever complete half the things I want to write outside of the Endworld novels. Time is never on my side. But the idea remains. I even have a checklist in my OneDrive of WIPs that if completed would amount to the bare minimum of published writing that would in my mind make me a legit writer/author. Some of you reading this, right now may already consider me that. If you do? Thank you. I appreciate you more than you know. But inevitably it all comes back to how I feel about it, and for me? I need more. I need to do more. Once upon a time…

…because all good stories, and some sh*tty ones begin as such…

…I set a goal for myself to one day be a published author, and I guess, in a way I’ve achieved that goal. But it’s not what I envisioned. I have a lot of work left to do. Which begs the question: Why am I writing this blog entry now when I could be working on my HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD edit and prepping that for publication? Well friends, occasionally, an idea grabs you by the nape of your neck and refuses to let go. Anyone that’s been reading these pieces of Mental Flatulence for the last, few decades knows that every so often, I need to write a JJ Abrams-esque take on Dora the Explorer, or outline a play called “You Got Old, Charlie Brown” which postulates what happens to the Peanuts gang as they get older. This is no different. A few years back, a movie came out about the Gen X, childhood icon that was Mister Rogers. I still haven’t seen it–though I fancy a good, Tom Hanks movie and I do have it DVR’d on my YouTube TV account–but at the time it was released, I considered the possibility of a public broadcasting shared universe, centered on the idea that Bob Ross–yet another Gen X icon–was the Nick Fury character, i.e. the guy that brings everything from Mister Rogers to Sesame Street, to Julia Child to Rick Steves together. This idea has recently resurfaced since I have been a frequent visitor in what down time I have to the official, Bob Ross YouTube channel which has been running weekend marathons of up to five of the show’s 32 seasons in chronological order, and is currently running what it is calling “A Happy Little Week Long Marathon.” That’s right: Seven straight days of 24/7 Bob Ross’ “The Joy of Painting,” linkable HERE if you’re interested.

You’re welcome. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

So how would a public broadcasting shared universe work? Well, if you want to follow the template of the most successful, shared universe–the Marvel Cinematic Universe or MCU–you’d need to start with a recognizable, but not overly GOAT’ed personality, which means Big Bird is out. So is Elmo. I think I’ll stick with Fred Rogers though I’m sure my minions would prefer Abby Cadabby or the Super WHY kids. Just not DirtWorldGirl. Sheesh. She still freaks me out. Regardless, let’s say that at the end of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” they roll the credits. But mid-way through you’re back in Mister Rogers’ living room. He’s putting his shoes away and throwing on his jacket when he hears a knock at the door. He goes and opens it, and there stands Bob Ross in all his afro-tastic glory. He’s wearing his customary blue or white chambray work shirt, which is unbuttoned down to his naval and a pair of light-blue jeans. Fred Rogers says, “do I know you?” And Bob says “No my friend, you may not know me yet, but you will. I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news but apparently, the current administration wants to defund public broadcasting. Our happy little livelihoods are in jeopardy, and I want to talk to you about something I’ve been developing for some time now…”

“…I call it ‘The No Mistakes, Just Happy Accidents Initiative.'”

Okay. So that needs work. Regardless, Fred, though hesitant decides to follow his new, granola-esque friend with the bushy, brown hair and greying beard down the proverbial happy little squirrel hole. What follows is a series of productions (I’m okay with movies and/or television shows, along with some literary pieces, as well) wherein Mister Rogers and Bob Ross begin to recruit other members of the public broadcasting family onto their team of heroes. Big Bird and Elmo. Snuffy from Sesame Street. Daniel Tiger. The hosts of Antiques Roadshow. Bob Villa. And yes, DirtGirlWorld because the larger the team, the more chance they’ll have to offset the force arrayed against them by the current administration, even though she freaks them all the f*ck out.

Fast forward a few productions to what is now, in modern entertainment-speak an Avengers Level Team up even though the MCU didn’t really pioneer the idea (but IMO they did perfect it). I don’t quite have a name for it yet–I’m sure that will come when I decide what to call this team–but in it, the heroes team up to take on the evil forces of the administration. Not just the BBEG (Big Bad Evil Guy or Girl for those of you that have never played an RPG), but all the BBEG’s minions, departments and non-governmental groups that are tasked with promoting government efficiency and saving money via downsizing which includes all public broadcasting.

You can likely figure out what happens next. The heroes persevere, but in the process of defeating their enemies, they lose their leader: A curly-haired painter named Bob Ross, who sacrifices his own existence to ensure that institutions like NPR and PBS never disappear. The credits roll less a mid-or-post-credit scene, but they roll to the music that closed every episode of “The Joy of Painting” for 32 seasons as one, final Easter Egg honoring the passage of the man that gathered them together to ensure that evil doesn’t triumph and that good is not dumb ala Dark Helmet’s observation in “Spaceballs” because the world needs more people telling us that there are no mistakes… Just happy accidents.

Finis.

What do you think? Not quite as elaborate as my JJ Abrams Dora idea or my Peanuts one, but I’m still in the early stages of Creator Mode on it so give me some time and I’ll work it out. Or I’ll never revisit it again. I honestly don’t know, and truth be told I never do. Where do the majority of my ideas go once conceived of? It’s a mystery. Sadly, they do not often end up on the page in totality and that’s something I need to reckon with moving forward. Let me be honest, folks: I’ve no intention of reaching out to anyone and pitching this idea, anymore then I intend to dig up my Dora or Peanuts treatment and pitch them. If you really want to read them, they’re both on this blog somewhere. These ideas are, in essence Fan Fiction, a concept which makes me almost as squeamish as DirtGirlWorld did and still does. I pitch them herein to hopefully elicit a chuckle or two from you, my sometime readers and to keep my ability to create a story fresh, even if that story is a contrived take on a beloved institution, or beloved characters from my Gen X past. It’s an exercise that many writers/authors go through. In creating something unoriginal we gain the confidence we need to create something mostly original. I’ve gone on the record in the past as saying that most of the good story ideas are played out, and it’s not about coming up with something inherently original anymore. It’s about telling a story in a new, and different way that has both familiar, and unfamiliar elements.

Do I have original ideas that I don’t think anyone else has ever conceived of? Sure, I do. There are a couple of titles on that WIP list that offer new takes on everything from time travel to space exploration, as well as one or two that are slightly Meta. I guess what it all boils down to for me, this God awful warm and steamy, late July night in 2025 is that it’s not so much about the idea as it is about writing the idea… Getting it out of my head and onto a page. Some of those ideas will land and others–like my infamous blog post about Dennis Rodman which I’ve referenced in the past and will not link herein because God, why would I subject anyone to that ever again–will fall flat. Yet again, I find myself questioning the balance of my life as it is now, as it was before and as I want it to be in the future. I can’t always force myself to stay up until 3AM each night and wake up at 6 or 7 to take my kids to camp or school, start work et al. My soon-to-be 50-year-old body and mind simply can’t sustain itself like it used to on a combination of caffeine and nicotine. But much like how I sat down tonight and kept working on this idea despite my reservations about it falling flat–and I leave that for you to decide friends and countrymen/women–I need to do what I can, when I have the time and the energy needed to go into Creator Mode. Even the MCU… Even the other shared universes I mentioned above… Even Stephen King and Isaac Asimov wrote stories that didn’t land. Should I allow myself to be constrained by my reservations and my fear of not achieving my own, personal goals as a writer/author? Or should I simply nut up, and get back to editing HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD so I can move onto my next idea? There is another option. I could retire for the night and watch another hour or two of “A Happy Little Week Long Marathon” before I pass out.

This… This is a timeless question y’all. I wish I could answer it, but truth be told? I honestly don’t know. I guess I’ll appeal to my shared universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence again and ask it to point me… Yet another Sh*thead… In the right direction.

Please?

FM.

On Six Years and Appeals to the Universe

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Six years. It doesn’t seem like a long time, does it? Given an average, human lifespan of 70 years in 2024 (SOURCE), and a universe that is billions of years old, six years seems like nothing. Less than a drop of water in the world’s biggest bucket. Less than a grain of sand on the largest beach on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Six years is miniscule when compared to other, time-reliant concepts. Yet for me, your old buddy The Madchronicler, who was formerly known as El Autoro and before that, Frank Marsh, six years feels like an eternity.

I was shocked upon opening what my good friend Ed likes to call “The Book of Faces” this morning, going to my memories (one of the rare things I check daily on it; on that point, I apologize for not wishing all of my 350 or so followers a Happy Birthday consistently for the last, few years–I simply don’t spend a lot of time on social media these days) and realizing that today, September 30, 2024 is the six year anniversary of when I moved into my current home in Swarthmore, PA.

Six years. Six years since I left my once-home in Broomall, PA for the last time as a resident, my then-truck (my trusty Honda Pilot, which finally fell apart at a shade under 160K miles, last Fall) loaded down with the last of my sparse possessions–the others were already here in the place I am writing these words now, from my now-combination office/bedroom on the second floor, overlooking a dreary, humid and chilly early-autumn day which hangs over the street below. Blackrock Road. What a cool name for a street. I should really look up, after six years, why they call this street “Blackrock.” Be right back. Or, in teen-speak, BRB.

Not unsurprisingly, there was nothing on Google (or Bing; I use both on this computer) to explain why my street is called “Blackrock.” The most I could find was a Wikipedia article on SwarthmoreWOOD, which is the sub-sect of Swarthmore, PA that I reside in. Given the lack of online information about Blackrock Road, I am going to simply assume (even though doing so generally makes an ASS out of U and ME), that when this area was developed in the 1950s, they found a bunch of black rocks lying around or in the soil. My apologies for how anti-climactic that probably is to a few, if not all of you reading this. Even storytellers, sometimes are forced to simply say “ah, f*ck it.” Acknowledge and move on.

I digress. Back to six years. I remember that day vividly. It was a surprisingly beautiful Saturday given what was happening–I guess Mother Nature didn’t think my situation was dire enough to warrant a gray and gloomy day like today. The temperature was about the same as it is currently–hovering in the high 60s/low 70s–and it was a bit humid, as the last vestiges of summer seem to hang on the longest in the Mid-Atlantic, every year. I remember watching my soon-to-be ex-wife drive away from our home in Broomall with the girls in tow, heading to dance class. I remember my friends and some family arriving to help me pack the last of my belongings into my U-Haul and Pilot. I drove the U-Haul down Route 320 (known colloquially as “Springfield Road”), 20 minutes away first, left it here, and then went back to get my Pilot courtesy of someone driving me back (apologies that I cannot remember who). Thereafter I was back here and have been here almost every night since I arrived save for those few nights, over the last six years where I was away for the weekend, or on vacation, or on a business trip. I never slept another night in Broomall, and that house is no longer owned by either a Marsh or a Gentile, my ex having moved out many years ago. As best I can tell–because I still spend a lot of time in Broomall and Newtown Square between school, and dance–it is now owned by someone who doesn’t like trees–they cut them all down–and hates decorating for the holidays. Every time I drive past it, I say a prayer for them. I hope they made/are making as many, wonderful memories as we did for many of the years we lived there.

Six years folks. Over the last, six years I’ve watched my two daughters grow into teenagers. I’ve been in a few relationships, but all ended for one reason or another–usually me. I retired the Pilot in favor of a gently loved 2020 Equinox which I hope to pass onto my oldest when she starts driving. I’ve maintained my abode in SwarthmoreWOOD as best I can, though admittedly, some repairs are starting to evade my expertise. I’m on my third job, but I’ve been in my current one for almost five years. I’m a lot greyer than I was in 2018 and a bit skinnier, and I can no longer deny the fact that my once-beloved head of hair is beginning to recede. I’m less than 365 days away from the Big 5-0 and I’m having difficulty coming to grips with the idea that the average human life expectancy in 2024 is 70 and I’m less than 21 years away from that. Maybe my keen awareness of such things is a product of the comfort level I have achieved in my life after the six most turbulent years of my existence. I’m not averse to the changes. Time can be a cruel companion, but only if you let it be one. I tend to look at time these days as a welcome partner on my journey deeper into the latter third of my life.

Six years. Gone in a blink. 21 more until I hit (and hopefully exceed) our corporeal terminal velocity as human beings. Six years to get to a point in my life where things have grown relatively quiet again. The past remains–the pain I felt, the hurt I endured and what I regrettably dished out at times–but only because, to quote Matthew McConaughey, “sometimes you gotta go back to go forward. And I don’t mean going back to reminisce or chase ghosts. I mean go back to see where you came from, where you’ve been, how you got HERE.” There are lessons to be learned from the past, but you cannot let all of the above factors affect your present, or your future.

Six years. When I started writing this piece, I was fixated on that. But the more I compose, the more I think that this little blog entry, piece of Mental Flatulence or Dissertation is more of a reflection on where I’ve been, and where I’m going. Inevitably, we humans reflect on where we’ve been and consider what we could have done differently. I’ve done plenty of that in my 49 plus years, here on my side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. When I was in college, I considered going into IT like many of my friends at that time. Frank Marsh, Computer Programmer. There was and remains a ton of money in that field, though the landscape has changed a lot–I see it every day in my current job. IT folks are opting for the life of a digital nomad versus a steady, in-office, 9-5 mundane, routine existence. Many of them become independent contractors and work multiple gigs for multiple companies at a time. They’re not tied to one place… One location. They can do the same job from East Jipip that they do from Bumf*ck (or, if you prefer a less vulgar comparison, SwarthmoreWOOD and Dominica). IT folks in 2024 are part of a world in which there are no borders save for the ones that their forefathers and mothers drew, hundreds of years ago. It’s about as close to the digital world of Neuromancer as we’ll ever get as a species (sorry William Gibson, but AI is going to take the digital highways and byways of this world over long before people start “jacking in”). That could have been me. But sometime in mid-high school I fell in love with English and there was, from that moment forth no line of code that could or would ever replace it.

Speaking of English, my plan had always been to teach. I had it all figured out, and I came closer to it than I did a career in tech: A few content credits and a stint as a student teacher away from an MA in Education. Yet those of you that know me know that didn’t play out the way I drew it up either. Life, and Probability and Statistics intervened, and I settled for a career in the staffing industry which… If we’re being honest, has absolutely nothing to do with English unless you count drafting emails as a similarity. That decades old vision of me, bearded and standing in front of a group of high school or college students as Frank Marsh, MA or PhD in a pair of faded jeans, a button-down Oxford shirt and a corduroy suit jacket with patches on the elbows teaching Shakespeare is only a memory now. It too could have been me.

I could continue to cite examples–Frank Marsh, Actor/Director. Frank Marsh, Published Author (I guess this one kind of happened, though if you ask some folks, self-publishing does not count, even if said self-publisher made a profit, and maintains a relatively high rating/review standard for his two, SELF-published novels), Frank Marsh, Outside Salesperson for a hydraulic and pneumatic distribution company, Frank Marsh, Training Store, or even Regional Manager for CVS/Pharmacy–but to do so at this point is fruitless. All could have been me. But this is not about reminiscing or chasing ghosts. This is about NOW. I am a 49 plus year old Business Development Manager. I know how I got here. The answer is simple: I made a choice. I made choices that led me to this point. And let’s be fair friends: I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My success as a BDM is one of the main reasons why things have grown quiet in my world for the first time in… Honestly longer than six years (because none of what led me to that beautiful but fateful, late September Saturday morning six years ago today happened overnight). I still deal with stressors, but for the first time in a very long time, career-wise they’re not primarily employment-related. I have and will continue to embrace my NOW, here, on the cusp of 50. I intend to make the best of whatever life I have left beyond this moment in time, up to and God willing past my corporeal, terminal velocity. But there are still questions that beg to be answered because despite the general silence, there remains a desire for more. Six years. I know where I was six years ago today. The question: Where will I be, six years from NOW?

It’s later now. I’m at dance, waiting for the girls to finish their nightly slate of practice–four hours for the oldest, and only one for the youngest. The above asked question has haunted me since I posed it to myself (and you, readers) a few hours ago. I don’t know that I can say, for sure where I WILL be. But I know where I want to be, and that may be the closest a non-divination human of 49 plus can get (yes, that was a veiled D&D reference).

Leg one is simple: I want to be even more secure and at peace than I am now. No more lingering home repairs or financial concerns. Fewer stressors. A better sleep pattern and about 25 additional pounds lighter than I am presently. But legs two, three et cetera are trickier (or “tricksier” to quote everyone’s favorite Gollum). Here’s where I grow tentative because I know what I want to answer. I’ve answered this same query, the same way multiple times pre-tonight. But I’ve never had the ability or, to be honest (TBH in teen-speak) the energy/desire to follow through. I’m okay with being a co-parent, homeowner and BDM. I’m okay with being a Dance Dad, Theater Papa, Basketball Father (and occasional private coach for my youngest daughter) and whatever else the universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence desires me to be. I ask only one thing in return of said universe, and if he/she/it can grant me this, okay. Let’s f*cking go (LFG in teen-speak).

Six years. Six years from now, I want to be, nay I need to be a writer too. I have too many stories kissing my subconscious, some more forcibly than others to not keep doing what I’m doing right now. Here in this silence, I’ve never felt more imaginative. I feel like I have a new idea, or the return of an old idea every day. My words are beginning to flow, more freely than they have in some time and there’s something new in them. Good or bad–I leave that up to you, friends; I can see it in this blog entry–I have… I am changing. Evolving once again, both as a writer and a person. I want to harness this. 21 years is still a lot of time, and assuming my trusty Marsh/Hamilton genes keep me upright like my trusty Pilot kept me mobile, 70 may just be the start. After all, my mother and father are both well into their 70s and my grandparents, for the most part lived well into their 80s and 90s. There IS time. And if you, oh universe grant me this, I swear to you, this night–as the rain that has been threatening all day begins to slowly, methodically pitter-patter on the fuselage of my new, so far trusty Equinox–I will be everything that you require me to be and more.

Back home now and sleep is calling. Or some semblance thereof. I know I need to be up early in the morning to run the girls to school before returning, back here to Blackrock Road in SwarthmoreWOOD to work. I’ve no scheduled meetings tomorrow–which is not always a bad thing. Tomorrow is October 1, 2024: Day One of Q4 and marks the start of my yearly “sprint to the finish.” Can I hit my numbers this year? Can I exceed my output from last year? Thus far, each year has improved on the one before it. Hopefully this year–which has, at times been very good, and at times less so–follows suit. Good, bad… The continued duality of my existence on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, no matter whether I’m living in Broomall or SwarthmoreWOOD, PA, or somewhere between the two. Much of my life, these days is spent in that gray area between the two locations, and some is spent between the two poles of morality. Maybe that’s just me, going too hard on myself. I do believe I am inherently a good person. Even good people do bad things sometimes. I guess I’ll leave the final ruling on that up to the universe that I am appealing to but one thing I know for certain is that every decision I have ever made, not just in the last six years, but over the course of a good portion of my 49 plus year life has been a measured one. I trust in that. I trust in myself. I trust in the universe to hear me this night and maybe, just maybe, the next six years WILL prove to be less chaotic, and more peaceful than the previous six.

Six years. An appeal to the universe. And hopefully a good night’s sleep. I wish you all the same, friends.

Booyakasha. RESPECT. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

F.