Talia Sianne Rivas.

Apparently I could think of no better introduction for you than to quote a mediocre Will Smith movie, wherein he punched an alien in the face and then mispronounced the name of his own planet. You’re worthy of more, but this is the man that will father you, the one that you’re stuck with — a grossly under-prepared geek that makes jokes when confronted with things too big to grasp.

And you, though you are small yet, are a gift grander than I deserve. You are awe-inspiring. Tremendous. You are those things and every other word I could sift through in a Thesaurus like a man rummaging through a forgotten chest, hoping in vain that some small bauble might actually describe the enormity of your appearance and what it means to the kid who always defined himself by not having a father.

You are my heart, little girl.

Your name means “God’s dew,” but I won’t pretend that I wasn’t thinking of Batman a little bit when we picked it. Just like Talia al’ Ghul stole the Great Detective’s heart, you will rend future suitors helpless when they look upon you, when they witness your grace, your beauty and every other thing I just know you’ve received from your mother — whom I am now convinced has been a superhero herself all along.

You will be a warrior. A heroine. A priestess. A whatever-you-want-ess. I pray that you will know one hundred joys for every tear, that you will laugh in the face of fools, that you will discover that this world’s story extends beyond our backyard — and that you will long to know its Author.

Every parent thinks their kid will change the world. All I know is that you’ve changed mine.

That doesn’t mean it’s been easy, though. After all these 100,000 word dragons, I’m discovering the 5,000 word eagle still has talons, too.

Anyway, the idea is simple, pulpy and sciency: in the future, artificial humans are a fairly standard part of society. Our story, Enoch, picks up with the world’s first sentient robot – who, in his newly found awareness, chooses a life of crime.

This is the first 750 words or so (of around 2500 that I’ve written), and of course represents an unpolished rough draft. Posting it keeps me accountable to it and helps me get past that inner critic. So yeah, give me your thoughts and critiques, friends.

————

“Detective.” The voice hit him like a steel bar wrapped in silk. Eyes the color of a postcard sky regarded him with no emotion. Handcuffs rattled against the interrogation table. The sound reminded the detective of some cornered creature in the wilderness. There was a snake there, under that suit. A snake of wires and metal strength and unnatural cunning.

They don’t make them like they used to, Ramirez thought. Hell, they used to not make them at all.

It didn’t surprise Detective Ramirez that Enoch the gangster was an artificial human. He had been saying that to the department for weeks now. What surprised him was that Enoch had allowed himself to get caught. Most gangsters went down shooting once the jig was up. They sent pawns to take the fall in court. They eliminated anybody that could possibly bring down their organization. Once the water hit its boiling point, most gangsters let themselves get vaporized like some bit of steam. Poof.

But Enoch didn’t exactly match the typical criminal profile — or the human one, for that matter.

“It is nice to speak face to face, as it were,” the gangster said. Every word sounded like a threat, despite the polite smile that hung on his face like a lopsided picture frame. Androids had never really learned how to get that hard edge out of their voices. It was one of the reasons they creeped Ramirez out. Most of the detectives had an android partner by now. He would enter that phase of the Houston Police Department kicking and screaming.

For one of the first times in his life, Ramirez had no words. He’d interrogated dozens, if not hundreds of scumbags in this very room. Drug lords, parole violators, gang enforcers, rapists. Men and women that you could get an edge over, every last one of them. But what purchase did he have with Enoch – this man-made machine? A machine that had somehow found the spark of what makes humans into people, somewhere in the canals of his own flash memory. Or circuitry. Or whatever they built them with these days.

There was nothing he could say to bully Enoch, intimidate him, make him plead for some kind of mercy. Ramirez could see that in his eyes. There was no recourse left. No words.

If only his mother could see him now, speechless and unsure. Armandina Ramirez would do her best to put a phone call into hell’s receptionist to see what the temperature was like down there. And she’d very nearly make it all the way to the devil himself for all her tenacity. It was one of the few qualities of hers that he was glad he inherited.

That and her bluntness.

“You threatened my wife,” Ramirez said, tossing Enoch’s file down onto the interrogation table. He could have just pulled the file up on the table’s surface, but he liked the heft of an old-fashioned manila folder stuffed to the point of bursting. Most men flinched when it hit the table. Not Enoch.

The synthetic nodded, as if he had expected that. Conversations were chess matches to him. “Your ex-wife, Detective Ramirez.”

Ramirez pulled his chair back and sighed as he let himself down into it. It might as well have been a tub of ice water for all the creaking in his joints. “Her, too.”

The android dismissed the joke with a wave of his hand. “It was an idle gesture. I’d hoped you were a man of less stern stuff.”

“You expected me to act irrationally.”

“On the contrary,” Enoch said, “backing off on the investigation to save a loved one would be the rational thing to do. Your continued pursuit was the irrational part.”

Ramirez couldn’t decide if Enoch sounded annoyed, intrigued or neither. “There’s been nothing but ill will between me and what’s-her-name for some time. You misjudged love, Enoch. Not too surprising.”

A programmed blink of the eyelids was all that interrupted the synthetic’s intent gaze. Ramirez had to fight the urge to lean away from him. “I don’t believe I did,” he said. “You are every cliche of a pulp detective. Down-on-his-luck. No mistress but the job, seduced by sleepless nights at a desk stuffed with empty bottles that you don’t remember drinking. Separated from what’s-her-name twice. A brother you never speak to. I did not misjudge your love, no. I misjudged your pride.”

“How do you figure?” Ramirez asked, pretending to be more interested in Enoch’s file than the conversation.

There was that sickeningly polite grin again. “I thought you had less.”

“Let’s get started, robot.”

“Yes. Let’s.”

Anyway, I wanted to brush up on my Canadian politics, so I had a conversation with my Canadian friend, Mitch. It went pretty well, I think.

Mitch: the GOP proves this

Me: look at mitch
with his relevant american political jokez
you know
i dont even know the names
of canadian politcal whatever
i dont even know the divisions of canada
states? kingdoms?
probably kingdoms
ice kingdom
forest kingdom
france kingdom
is that right?

Mitch: sure
actually
that would be cool
Prairie Kingdom
it’s provinces
bro

Me: so
not kingdoms then?

Mitch: no

Me: there are not kings of canada?

Mitch: we have a couple fiefdoms

Me: that live in long stone halls
with moose antler crowns?

Mitch: that are owned by the british crown

Me: and every now and then they all go to war

Mitch: it’s like game of thrones
but much more polite
“oh shoot, sorry about killing your uncle eh?”
“Oh don’t worry aboot it”

Me: a fifedom?
like
a flute kingdom?

Mitch: fief

Me: do you guys have flute battles

Mitch: look
the new message indicator

Me: Fife Hero

Mitch: was coming up over what I was writing
so I didn’t see it

Me: 3
2
1
FIFE
SERFECT
now im mixing puns

Mitch: I stopped following you
a while ago

Me: hahaha

————

I hope this lesson serves you the way that it has served me. But really, wouldn’t all political structures be better if they were more like Game of Thrones?

This weekend, Jen and I went to the Alley Theatre to check out the much celebrated Toxic Avenger musical. While that might sound strange or awesome to you depending on whatever whacky lens you use to view the world, rest assured — it was one of the greatest live performances of anything I’ve seen, ever.

For those unfamiliar with the tale of the Toxic Avenger, it’s a musical re-creation of the cult classic of the same name produced in 1985 by Troma Entertainment, purveyors of other iconic B productions such as Redneck Zombies and Cannibal! The Musical. The short of it is that a guy gets dumped into a vat of toxic waste and emerges as the Toxic Avenger, New Jersey’s eco-friendly superhero with a bit of a super violent streak. As you can imagine, seeing this campy story in musical form is an experience like no other. Add to that the fact that the music itself is excellent, and performed by some amazingly talented singers to boot.

The whole performance was aided by the fact that you could tell the entire cast (which comprised a total of 5 people playing all the roles) was absolutely loving every minute of it. They weren’t just doing their jobs — they were doing what they were born to do and having a blast. Every time I see that, whether it has to do with movies or music or whatever else, I can’t help but tear up a little bit. I guess that sounds weird, but it’s just true. I get misty-eyed when I see people experiencing that, because there’s just nothing else like it.

And the funny thing is, sometimes writers get the short end of that joyous celebration stick. As much as I love writing, there’s absolutely not a rockstar equivalent whatsoever. I know that’s kind of a vain thing to think about, and I’ll own that, I suppose. But writers don’t get to type in front of a screaming audience and then smash their keyboards over a set of speakers when they’re done. Nobody gives a standing ovation when you turn around a really terrible first draft or think of the right quirky turn of phrase for a seemingly innocuous event. I don’t think anybody in the world demands an encore of watching you stare at the blinking cursor or correcting every time you went with a terribly cliche piece of simile.

Not that I think about these things often. Clearly it’s not something I care about a great deal, or I would have figured out a different way to spend my free time. Still, it’s a funny thought. Maybe someone could come up with Writers! The Musical or something next. But it still wouldn’t be nearly as good as the Toxic Avenger.

Or at least, the first dozen drafts wouldn’t.

Oh, Swagrid.

Several months after part 5, here we are at Part 6 (of 7) of my re-read of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. And here I thought I’d knock this thing out in just three short essays. I apologize for the delay, but Jurassic Park knows best when it tells us that “life finds a way”, and that includes interrupting all of our plans to write about wizards.

In this edition, we talk about Ridgebacks, centaurs and the stars. The end of our last session found Harry spying on Severus as he threatens Quirrell for the Sorcerer’s Stone. Or so it seems. Dun dun dun, and so forth.

Chapter Fourteen: Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback

Now that they expect the Sorcerer’s Stone to be stolen at any minute, Harry and the gang are feeling particularly stressed about their days at Hogwarts. I’m not sure what all they expect will happen when Snape gets the Sorcerer’s Stone (since they don’t realize Voldemort is behind it) other than having the moody Professor around for 665 years, but they’re worried. However, it seems that Quirrell is made of stronger stuff than they first thought: although he is paler and thinner and looking rather sickly, he is holding out on divulging information, and rather admirably at that. Of course, the stronger stuff he’s actually made out of is the disembodied spirit of Lord Voldemort mooching on the back of his noggin, but that’s neither here nor there.

They actually take to defending Quirrell of all things, because they feel pretty sorry for him. When they’re not advocating for the rights of stuttering evil wizards everywhere, they’re getting ready to study for their exams. Hermione is already freaking out about finals and just like us, still has no idea what the twelve uses of dragon’s blood are. I think I’ll make up a few: baking a cake, making an everlasting fire and highlighting blonde hair. Also: why was it that in school, the smartest and most prepared people were always the ones freaking out the most? Guess that’s something Muggles and magic-folk have in common.

During one day of their studies, the gang stumbles upon Hagrid the giant (which is the same as saying they stumbled upon Shaquille O’Neal) in the library researching dragons. Because they’re so very nosy, they decided to see what Hagrid is up to at his hut, in addition to bugging him some more about the stone’s security measures.

After some flattery from Hermione, who really might be some kind of con artist or cat burglar at this point, the grounds master dishes out the following: several teachers, including Dumbledore, all put their own forms of protection on the Sorcerer’s Stone. Harry jumps to the conclusion that the only thing Snape now needs is whatever Quirrell did to guard the stone. Perhaps a magical turban or a stuttering riddle?

Before Hagrid can jump too far into his annoying “trust Snape” speeches, Harry and the others spot Hagrid’s new prize: a dragon egg he won from a Nigerian prince in the exchange for a small amount of galleons. Of course, this thing is going to hatch soon, tear apart the countryside and eat Hagrid whole, but the friendly giant could care less about that. He’s going to be a mommy, you see.

Ever the nosy nannies up in everybody’s business at Hogwarts, the trio gets worried. Who dubbed these guys as the Everyone’s Problems Police? Seriously. Anyway, their blabbering on about Hagrid’s business catches the attention of their worst enemy, Malfoy. Draco happens to roll up right when the three of them watch Hagrid become a dragon’s mummy, which of course spells doom for their illegal activities.

In order to help Norbert the dragon get out of the castle, they all hatch a complicated Children of Men plot (with Ron as Clive Owen and Harry as the pregnant chick, I guess) to smuggle him out of the castle to Ron’s older brother Plot Device, er, Charlie. Of course, Malfoy comes in and guffs everything up as always, and it looks like the jig is up – but not before they realize they left the Invisibility Cloak in the tower.

Chapter Fifteen: The Forbidden Forest

This chapter starts with a good old-fashioned scolding from Professor McGonagall. Now that I’ve been watching Downton Abbey, all I can see in my head is the Dowager Countess pursing her uppity lips at all the trouble makers involved, and somehow it’s fairly entertaining. What’s even crappier for Harry than everyone dumping on him for being kind of an idiot is the fact that Neville gets in trouble, too, because he was trying to cover for them. Not only that, but he’s then led to believe that there was no real dragon in the first place, and it was all an elaborate joke at his expense.

Even though everyone is like, woah, that’s a pretty good idea for a way to screw with Neville in the future, they’re even more shocked when they find out that McGonagall is going to remove 50 points each for the transgression. It doesn’t take a mathematics spell for all of them to realize just how totalis screwedicus they actually are. Soon enough, everyone in Hogwarts hates them, including their own house. All I can say, yet again – get used to it, Harry.

The hatred starts to get to the boy wizard so much that he even wants to quit Quidditch. In fact, it’s starting to get to him so much that he finally doesn’t even want to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong – imagine that! Eventually, Harry’s new found mind-your-own-business streak gets compromised when he hears Quirrell being threatened, followed by catching a glimpse of the professor straightening his turban as he leaves the classroom. Harry assumes it’s Snape doing the threatening, but the classroom appears to be empty. For the first time, Hermione says they should tell Dumbledore. If only these kids could adopt this motto for the rest of the entire series.

Soon enough, they brush the haters off their shoulders and get suited up for their detention assignment – The Forbidden Forest. I’ve always wondered, is there another Unforbidden Forest somewhere else on the grounds of Hogwarts? If they have to single this one out, then it only makes sense. Like maybe there are four forests, and people got confused which one was the Forbidden one.

Anyway, Filch says some really creepy stuff to the kids on the way to detention, which pretty much makes him a prime suspect if a kid in your neighborhood ever goes missing. It’s OK if you torture children as long as you’re just a harmless squib, right? Once they get to Hagrid’s, Malfoy drops his first “just wait until my father hears about this” comment, which would make for part of an excellent Harry Potter drinking game. Hagrid, rather wrongly, says he thinks his father would want Malfoy to be punished. Maybe he got Lucius confused with a different Malfoy. Perhaps a distant second cousin, Luscious.

So out into the forest they go. We learn that something is out there killing unicorns, which is a huge shame because they are so awesome or something. For some reason, it’s especially bad to kill a unicorn in the wizarding realm, and not, say, zebras. Sidenote: could the unicorns have wandered over from the Unforbidden Forest? Like when you cross the train tracks and don’t realize it and then get jumped for your iPad?

Everyone splits up, which is the obvious move when hunting for something sinister that kills awesome pure virgin unicorns. Harry and Hermione end up first with Hagrid. Occasionally, in a fun bit of foreshadowing, they hear something “slithering” across the ground near them. Eventually Ronan the centaur rolls up, high on huffing some star and constellation fumes, and talking crazy talk about prophecies and signs. Bane shows up, too, who is a slightly angrier high. After they leave, Hagrid tells Harry that “centaurs know things”, like where to get the best blue star stuff on the market.

After a series of goofy mishaps involving false sparks and a cowardly Neville, Malfoy and Harry end up together in search for this dark evil. Which, of course, makes total sense. As one might expect, they stumble across a dead unicorn and a hooded figure drinking its blood. Harry’s scar flashes in pain, and the hooded figure creeps towards him. Fortunately for the Boy Who Lived, centaur Firenze gallops up (is that offensive to centaurs?) and saves the day. He totally wants Harry’s autograph and even lets Harry ride him, which pisses off centaur Bane because he totally wanted to be the first centaur Harry rode.

Anyway, before they depart, Firenze says some more wacky stuff about the stars and the planets, and that he’s ready to stand behind humans no matter what. He also says that he hopes the stars are wrong (about Harry’s death, presumably by Voldemort’s hands, which makes the centaurs think that Voldemort could ultimately win). Also, that Voldemort is probably behind everything.

This entire ordeal resolves with Harry getting reunited with the others. Later that night, he receives his Invisibility Cloak back with a hand-written note: just in case.

Random Observations:

- Hagrid shows his habitual love for terribly dangerous creatures. One could even speculate that he loves the unlovable because he was first shown love by Dumbledore. Again, that Deeper Magic business I’ve been rambling about.
- Harry’s Invisibility Cloak proves early on that the Deathly Hallows lead to nothing but trouble.
- It’s interesting that Harry and Malfoy’s little encounter happens up in the tower. This won’t be the last time that these two face some difficult penalties because of that tower. And again, Harry will be hiding.
- We’ve been talking about Dumbledore’s design as we’ve gone through the book – do you think the Forbidden Forest encounter with Voldemort was also by his design? Interesting that Harry gets sent out into the Forest on that particular night.
- Harry’s first encounter with the dead-but-not-dead wizard Voldemort is in the Forbidden Forest. Some years later, the two return there before Voldemort triumphantly brings the dead-but-not-dead Harry back to Hogwarts.

And phew, that’s the end of Part 6. I had a lot to say because I’ve been so quiet about Harry Potter for so very long. Expect Part 7, the final installment of The Sorcerer’s Stone, sometime next week. Any thoughts on these two chapters? Discuss in the comments!

In many ways, being a writer is like being one of those dudes that spins plates. I’m not really sure if there’s a technical name for that, and I really don’t feel like Googling “that dude who spins plates”, but I’m sure you get the gist of it. Basically, with first drafts, there’s always something else to fix. Whether it’s general copy, something thematic, a dumb character, a bad piece of dialogue or just terrible story crafting, some plate is always going to be wobbling. You might drive yourself mad trying to keep up with it all.

I learned this hard lesson firsthand last year, when I spent most of my creative juices fumbling through the wreckage of the first draft of In the Blood, the silly young adult monster hunter book I’ve been working on. Having never attempted a second draft before, my approach was ridiculous. For a while, I spun my wheels copy editing. This was satisfying at first. Hooray, I could say. My words are changing from crap to less crap! Look at all the progress I’m making! But that feeling soon fades once you understand just how broken your 100,000 word mess actually is. Looking back on it, it’s painfully obvious how stupid it was — why go through the trouble of making something sound pretty when the content isn’t even locked?

After a couple of months of copy-editing, I realized that I was, in fact, going to have to scrap a good third of the story altogether. That blow took a bit of time to fade, but when it did, I hit the story hard and focused all my energy on fixing it. But then I ran into the problem I mentioned earlier: too many spinning plates. The father/son themes were wildly inconsistent. The story itself didn’t make a lot of sense. I was forcing my main character into situations he didn’t belong. The climax needed to move back to his home town. The home town needed to be just as much of a character as Gabe. How could I fix all of it at the same time?

So I decided to stick to one plate for the second draft. It was the only thing that made sense to me. I would make each draft about a new plate that I needed to fix within the story itself. I’m not sure if it was the best way, but it was how I finally powered through and got the thing done. I had to ignore all the other plates that were screaming for my attention.

Now, with the monumental task of yet another draft of the story ahead of me, I’m wondering if there’s a better way to write a book. Fortunately, my good buddy Jeff James linked me to an interesting thing called the Snowflake Method, wherein writer Randy Ingermanson poses a more formulaic approach to writing.

The basic idea coincides with making a paper snowflake. You make a shape with a piece of paper, then you make the shape again, and you keep repeating the shape until you unfold the creation and an intricate snowflake is born. He proposes that writing a novel works the same way. Step 1: write a sentence about what your novel is about. Step 2: turn that sentence into a paragraph, with each sentence representing an act or turn in the story. After that, you turn each sentence into its own paragraph, building out the story piece by piece. Eventually, you’re writing a page long description of each character, along with page long descriptions of each individual act.

The whole thing sounds a bit daunting, but it forces you to work out the kinks in your story before you end up in my situation — staring at a third draft and wondering how the heck to fix it without ripping the whole thing to shreds in frustration. So far, I’m using the Snowflake Method for my new project, and I have to say the results are more than satisfactory. I’ll admit that it removes some of the spontaneity of discovery writing, but it’s also forcing me to confront problems at a much simpler level than holding several chapters in my hand and curling into a brown ball on the floor.

I’m definitely curious to see if it makes tackling the first draft any easier once I’m finished, but for now I’m taking my time and seeing how much I can figure out before I jump into something new.

So how do you guys approach writing or working on new projects? Have you ever tried something like the Snowflake Method, or do you tend to wing things more?

The Snowflake Method

OK, to say that the ideas has fascinated me is putting it a bit lightly. It’s more accurate to say that it has consumed me almost completely. In fact, when the idea hit me, it was so put together that I swore I must have been Incepted. Fortunately, I haven’t spotted Leo or fake Ra’s al Ghul hanging around me.

While I’m not ready to go into it just yet, I will say that it’s a story that blends absurd fantasy with the most mundane setting on the planet — the corporate office. I’m in the process of trying out a new means of outlining and pre-writing this novel at the moment, but I thought I’d take a little survey to give me some guidance.

For those of you that have experience in the corporate world, could you share some of the biggest cliches or headaches that you deal with? I’ve already got most of the corporate tropes that I’m building the story around, but I wanted to see if the things I’m focusing on are the same ones that other people actually deal with. These cliches can be anything from annoying buzzwords used by soothsayer vice presidents to the types of co-workers that you generally deal with in a given department (Steals Everyone’s Lunch Guy comes to mind).

So, what say you guys? Feel free to share.

Two days ago, I ran for 13.1 miles, finishing my second half marathon in the last few years – and well, ever, I guess. To be able to say that I’ve done two of these things now is something I never would have believed back in 2009, when I was in the midst of some Internet shows, 110 pounds heavier and largely (pun entirely intended) unsatisfied with my creative and professional trajectory.

The most recent half marathon was much more fun than the first one. Considering I weighed 70 more pounds for that race, that should be a tad less shocking than Paula Deen having diabetes. Back in 2010, it took me almost 3 hours and 20 minutes to go the distance. In 2012, I barely skimmed in under my goal of 2 hours, with a total time of 1:59:56.

Here are some pictures:

2010

2012

Next year, I’ll see if I can combine those distances and run the full marathon without keeling over somewhere in southwest Houston.

The other day, a friend of mine asked me if I liked running, or if it was just something I do to keep the weight off. Without really hesitating, I told her that I do, in fact, enjoy running. Quite a bit, actually.

“Why?”

It’s funny. I didn’t have an answer. And I’m not sure if I will have one anytime soon. That probably makes it sound like some kind of zen thing, but it’s really not. My answer is more like a picture than something I can put into words.

Whenever I think about why I like running, I think about the only time I ever tried to run a mile in elementary school. It was a muggy fall morning in Sugarland, Texas, and my fourth grade P.E. coach herded all of us outside to do a series of exercises. After forcing us to contort our bodies in a variety of torturous scenarios, he then told us we were going to have to run a mile. As a nine year old, I of course had no concept of just how far a mile actually was, but in my head he might as well have asked us to run to Saturn.

So I ran. I didn’t have a choice. Or a prayer. I was an unathletic chubby kid that parted my hair down the middle and pretended like I was on the bridge of a starship during recess. I remember the cramps that hit my side like thousands of daggers, the muggy air as I tried to huff it down into my lungs. My parents’ divorce was rough, but running a mile outside of Highlands Elementary felt like the worst thing that had ever happened to me. When we were done, I threw up in the bathroom and went to the nurse’s office to lay down because I was embarrassed. All the other kids had run the mile without a problem.

For some reason, that morning stuck with me. It was almost a decade before I would try to start running again, with similar results in high school. I’m not sure what it is about childhood, but memories like that leave marks somewhere deep inside of us.

I guess that doesn’t answer the question of why I like running, though. As I said, it’s more of a picture than something I can put into words. The best way I can describe it is that when I run, I think of that nerdy kid who didn’t have a lot of friends. I think of him giving up in 4th grade and him giving up in middle school and him giving up in high school. I think of all the times he didn’t have the confidence to do something that he should have been able to. I picture the insecurities that ran him around by his nose until his self esteem finally hit rock bottom.

And then I want to rewrite that story.

Somewhere along the way, that picture was enough to keep me running, one step at a time.

I’ve got a bit of a confession to make. As much as I know and love movies, there is a tremendous gap in my experience when it comes to classic films. I can’t really pinpoint why, but for some reason or another, I haven’t seen a few movies that many consider to be among the all time greats.

Naturally, this results in a lot of balking and the “What?! You’ve never seen (movie that everyone claims is mind-blowing) before?! And you call yourself a movie buff?!” line of questioning that just makes me want to hammer punch people in the throat before they can finish the sentence. I think some day, some poor soul’s utterance of these words will finally make me snap, and then things will get very real.

As a result of this, my good friend Chris inspired me with something that he’s been attempting recently. You see, he dove headfirst into Flickchart’s 100 Greatest Movies of all Time List. He is now watching all of the movies he hasn’t seen in order to get caught up.

I believe the challenge has been accepted, good sirs. It’s a bit daunting, but here are the movies I have yet to watch from that list. Do not mock my shame too much. Because of the aforementioned hammer punches.

Goodfellas
The Godfather Part II
Black Swan
Drive
Fargo
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Rear Window
Let the Right One in
Taxi Driver
Apocalypse Now
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
American History X
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
City of God
North by Northwest
Casablanca
Chinatown
Yojimbo
Clockwork Orange
Oldboy
Citizen Kane
Raging Bull

So I guess that can be a pretty good goal for me in 2012. Where should I start? Which of the movies on the list have you not seen?