Confessions

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Okay. This is kind of difficult. I mean, truly, there’s no easy way to say this so I think the best approach would be to just “rip off the Band-Aid” and declare.

Deep breath. Here goes.

Wow, this is harder than I thought it would be.

One. Two. Three.

I liked the Justice League movie.

I’m sorry, but I did.

Write What You Know By YA Author Tom HooverDid it have its low points? Sure. Most movies do. On balance, a solid plus. I mean, it was no Thor: Ragnarok, and the Flash was so childish and annoying I wanted to punch him. But I loved stoner Aquaman, and I could clearly see the Joss Whedon touches that completely saved the flick.

And yes. I know that’s akin to blasphemy. In the religion of comic book movies, it goes: Love Marvel; Hate DC. And DC has been working really hard to make us hate them. Its heroes are so dark and take themselves so seriously, and the villains are so so so so so over the top. It’s hard when you’re only 15 minutes into a movie and you’re checking your phone to see if you missed any birthday messages … even though your special day is more than six months in the future, it seems like you’ve been in the theater for at least that long.

And of course, Wonder Woman is exempt. She’s an anomaly, like generations of truly hideous human beings mated their way to Scarlet Johansen. And for her success, she was punished by having to play opposite Ben Affleck for two movies.

But I digress. This blog is really about writing.

The big writing decree is the one everybody knows. It goes like this: Write what you know.

It’s a phrase that’s somehow wormed its way deep into our collective unconscious. In fact, just the other day, I was in line at the grocery store. I went specifically to get the one thing I forgot last time. I was waiting there with my bag o’ salad and my cans of black beans, while the man in front of me pulled tiny tin after tiny tin of cat food, one at a time, from the bottom of his shopping cart like a kid’s party magician pulling scarf after different colored scarf out of his mouth. He was in no hurry and I just stood there growing older, hoarse from ahem-ming. Finally, when he’d tiled the conveyor belt with Friskies, the clerk said, “Paper or plastic?”

The man thought for a moment and replied, “Write what you know.”

So I killed him.

I was just following directions.

Because people die in the books I write.

I have become a criminal for my art.

And now I’m in discount witness protection, surrounded by hungry cats.

And I still have to write a friggin’ blog.

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