Do's and Don'ts of Zombie Writing (essay)

I love zombies. I love everything about zombies from their bone chipped, flesh clogged, teeth down to their decomposing toes. They come in all shapes and sizes these days; the fast angry zombies of 28 Days Later, the slow, mindless, brain eaters from Land of the Dead, and everything in between. And you know what? I think it's great! This surge of new zombie related content makes me glow with warming light down to the pit of my caustic, cynical, soul. Or rather... that's what I would be saying if I was still 17.

Yes, back in 2007, 17 year old me was very excited about zombies. I had a large collection of zombie video games, regularly watched new and old zombie movies, had more than one zombie related t-shirt, and would typically try to crack open my friends skulls to get to the warm jelly inside. Though that might have been a unrelated disorder entirely.

Today, though, zombies are the proverbial dead horse that every film maker, game producer, clothing magnate, and novelist, is bent on savaging until the last few dimes are belched from its decomposing corpse. Honestly, I'm embarrassed that my stance on zombies now amounts to, "I liked them before they were cool."; but in my sordid history the shamblers, I've picked up on the right and wrong things to do when it comes to writing anything about the beasts.

Don'ts

No Chainsaws
A very wise man once observed that chainsaws have been used against zombies in media more than they've been used against wood in real life. I have to audibly groan every time I see one of the carbon monoxide leaking machines being revved up by the group's strong man as he laughs triumphantly. It's getting to the point in this genres dimwitted life where the chainsaw is getting as predictable as the token slut getting buffed off shortly after the black guy in slasher movies.

Shotgun ≠ Invulnerable
Before leaving the idea of the character that's built like a brick shed to much, the subject of shotguns needs to be brought up. When did shotguns become the end all zombie destroying weapon? Why are they always carried by the Ving Rhames character? How many rounds does a typical shotgun carry, eight? Then you get to reload one bullet at a time? While zombies have already eaten your intestines are are moving quickly to your upper limbs? Thanks, I'll take a clip fed weapon.

"Tough Chicks"
I know it probably makes those of you with matched chromosomes feel good about your gender, and probably even solicits the occasional "You go, girl!" on pajama clad movie nights, but can we please get past the whole "tough chick" thing in zombie movies? I always had a lot of respect for Samus Aran from Metroid because her gender was never the focal point; it was always a matter of "She's a lady. She kills monsters. Let's watch her kill monsters.". The tough character is never particularly interesting, anyway. Taking a predictable, uninspired, blueprint and thinking that making it a girl will somehow make it interesting is flat out poor writing. I'm all for strong women in stories, but there is a line between a character that's a strong woman, and a strong character that is a woman. I guess what I'm saying is that my disinterested eye roll that used to be reserved for the entrance of the steroid pumped, "I'm a man!", character is starting to be shared with the equivalent female character.

Helpless Chicks are Passe
The flip side of that rather long argument is my frustration with the ever present prissy girl in zombie movies. The fact that there's always at least one bumbling female character prancing around in an outfit that was just fed through a lawn mower is criminal. Why has sex wormed its way into every genre? I'm trying to get my zombie on, I don't need a typical dumb blonde taking a shower whenever the writers feel like adding 15 minutes of padding because they don't want to work.

These last two points have been a bit tangential, but they're honestly just cries for gender equality in zombie media. Characters being carved out of the tough guy, sensitive guy, deep girl, slutty girl, etc. molds are completely unrelatable, not interesting, and most importantly, don't develop.

Don't Call the Zombies "The Nightmare"
Maybe this is more a video game thing, but I know I've seen it in at least one zombie movie. Unless you're going for silly campyness, for the love of your last shotgun shell, do not drop the "n" word when the characters are talking about the outbreak of zombies. Moreover, don't let them say it like it's supposed to be capitalized. "I wish everything could just go back to the way it was before The Nightmare!", cry, cry, obligatory sex scene between tough guy and helpless chick.


"Ya Gotta Shoot 'em In the Head!"
I've never been one to stand on tradition, and this one tradition that stupids seem to not only stand on, but stand on, chain to, and make out with. As with most other things that weigh zombie media down, the reason for ousting this dusty cliche can be summed up in one word: camp. It was delightfully grotesque to think that you'd have to blast a rotting corpse in the forehead to end their onslaught in the 70's, but it's just predictable at this point. And a character declaring to the others that it's the only way, and the others responding with confusion is just short of film makers insulting the audience. We know it, you know it, we know you know we know it. Get on with it.



Do's

Originality
Say you want to make a zombie movie. Imagine the key elements of every zombie movie you've ever seen, every zombie story you've ever read, and every zombie video game you've ever played. Now, don't do any of that. No tough guys with shotguns, to blondes getting their tits out when they think it's safe, no sensitive guy sacrificing himself to save the group, no maddened rush to a helicopter, no shopping malls. The status quo is destroying ever facet of media. If you really need to make a zombie anything, make it your own.

Break the Mold
Make the audience give a shit about your characters. If I had some change for every time a character I had no emotional investment in was fed to the zombie horde only to have their death be followed by sad music I'd be eating nickel soup. It's cool to feed a few characters to the woodchipper for its own sake, but expecting a reaction other than "Go, zombies!" is about as realistic as expecting me to tear up when the mailman drives away.

Sidestep Zombies Entirely
Going back and re-reading over some of these, this is starting to read like Baby's First Zombie Guide. These are all things that regularly frustrate me in zombie related media though, that's the frightening thing. I'd like to think that the hired professionals that are paid to write the tripe we see on shelves every few months are familiar with things like developing characters, but I'm really not seeing it. So for that reason, the best "Do" I can give you when it comes to writing anything about zombies it to not write about zombies at all.

"But Jeremiah, I want to write my story about a core group of survivors with complementary skills stranded by zombies in a mall waiting for a helicopter to pick them up!" Well, lets do the same basic thing, but make it the least bit good. How about instead of survivors with complimentary skills, they're cooperative strangers who don't excel at anything; that way they work together, develop, and have struggles. Instead of zombies, how about Japanese style ghosts, which have physical form. And instead of a mall, how about a logging camp in British Columbia? Lots of makeshift, log walls, and spooky forests. And instead of a helicopter saving them, make it a river boat that will take them to a stronghold in Washington State? Hold on, I need to write this down.

Soviet Girl 1 (fiction)

Back in the days when I was a little girl in Soviet Russia, I used to live just outside the village of Kimjeco. It was a pleasant ramble of shacks and huts nestled in the cliffs of the East, just above the jungle. Each day I'd climb down the sides of the rocks and boulders to play on the edge of the dense foliage, and in the swamps. I climbed up trees, swung on vines, and talked with the Indian Gavials that would lazily meander by. It was a delightful area of a war torn country, with no exposure to the hardships that plagued Moscow and other cities. That is… until that one day...

One day while clinging to a thin tree, I heard a bazaar sound. Something familiar, like footsteps in the mud. I turned around to see a man, an American, standing in front of me, clad entirely in camouflage right down to the paint on his face. My tiny lungs filled with air as I prepared to scream, but at the last minute, he clasped a firm hand over my mouth.

"Don't be afraid." he said in flawless Russian. "I'm a CIA operative, only hear to learn; not hurt anyone. I know this might seem scary to someone as small as you, but you need to keep the fact that we met a secret, okay?"

I looked up at him contemplatively, and for a second I almost agreed.

"Wait." I told him. "I won't tell anyone, but I want to come with you. I want you to take me to the other side of the iron curtain."

"That's impossible!" he said.

"Maybe. But the very fact that you're here is a violation of international law. If you were exposed, your government would deny knowledge to prevent Khrushchev from becoming belligerent. Really, who wouldn't be angry that they were having spies invading their country? And you, Mr. CIA would be left to the mercy of either the jungle, or the KGB, who would eventually come to pick you up."

I have to say that I was a smart little kid.

The agent looked at me aghast. He knew it was all true, and that he had no choice in the matter at this point. He'd been painted into a corner by an eight year old. His continence shifted to desperation. His brow furrowed. It was clear he was trying frantically to think of a response. We stood there, ankle deep in warm mud for several seconds, never breaking eye contact.

Finally, he sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was looking to the left, over my shoulder. He stared into the distance for several long moments. My vision stayed locked him. That is, until he squinted his eyes and a look of shock and surprise crossed his face. I whirled around to see what he’d spotted.

Nothing.

I glared, and turned around to meet him again, but I wasn't met with an American. I was met with nothing. Not a man. Not an American. Nothing left behind. Not even footprints in the muck. He was gone without a trace.

And there I stood. I felt like I stood there forever - betrayed, and ignored. Left with only the feeling that my stomach had been cut open, and my guts had fallen out; hearing only the chitter of swamp frogs.

The Devil Inside (article)

Lately the advertisement belching Jabberwocky I call my television has been reminding me that my life will not be worth living if I don’t rush out and see The Devil Inside. After having the shakily recorded commercial drool down my ear roughly every 15 minutes for a day or two, I’ve developed some opinions on it. And I think they’re about what you can expect someone to say about anything dribbling saliva into their unwilling ear holes.

I’ve decided to approach this from the point of view of the every man. Yes, I could do research and learn about the plot, setting, development, et cetera, but I’m writing about a commercial. People don’t do research when they see a commercial. They make a knee jerk reaction to see a movie or not see a movie. That is to say, people not terrified of seeing a bad movie and wasting $12 at a theater, do that. But, if Hostel, taught us anything, it’s that people will part with their money with a smile if it means having flashing lights to stare at for 90 minutes.

 

The ad in question is the 30 second TV spot for the movie; The Devil Inside. It’s not a lot to go on, but it's what the majority of the public will go on. Those 30 seconds are the film’s opportunity to make the viewer move from indifference to willingness to part with their hard earned. So what happens? A camera dead set on giving me a headache staggers like a drunk at a party, for one. I understand that the whole “record the movie like it was done with a handheld camera” thing is popular now, but even a rudimentary film maker understands the usefulness of a tripod when people are talking. This film maker, however, is Hell bent on getting their cardio, because it appears that they jog in place at all times while shooting.

To be fair, not every scene was shot by a winded asthmatic in their death throws. Several shots were done with stationary, wall-mounted units designed to look like surveillance cameras. You know, the same style we saw in Paranormal Activity 1-3, The Fourth Kind, and every other ghost MacGuffin film in the last 6 years.

The right angles and camera work will make or break a horror movie selling itself on atmosphere. Would Psycho have been so unsettling if every angle was perfectly eye level? Would Hellraiser have been so tense if not for eerie shots from the ceiling of light and dark? Having a camera that controls like its being held by a person is gritty. It’s engrossing. In some ways it breaks the fourth wall and makes the audience feel like they’re a part of the action. The problem is, many film makers have realized this. The Blair Witch Project, Quarantine, and Cloverfield are just three examples of major blockbusters that worked the handheld style into the ground; and that’s not to mention all of the independent films that didn’t gain recognition.

At this point you could be saying that those are all movies based around the fact that one of the characters in the film is literally holding a hand held camera. The operator speaks to the other characters, the camera changes hands, when the camera’s paused the movie jumps ahead to when it’s unpaused. But that’s the problem. From what I can tell, The Devil Inside is trying to do that with in every way save the additional character. At one point there’s even a handheld cameras spot light shining in a dark room while the characters deal with their demonic predicament. It’s like they wrote in a cheeky sidekick character with a camera, but forgot to give him dialogue.

Hand-held shooting is a good tool to have, but don’t exaggerate it when you’re not basing the entire movie around it. And as for the stationary, security cam style shots, Hollywood, can we please leave this dead horse to rot rather than beating it too enthusiastically? I was already sick of them even before I finished Manhunt back in 2007.

The second deficiency I found in this short lived trailer is the fact that it’s about botched exorcisms. Yes, if you hadn’t guessed by the shockingly generic title, The Devil Inside is about exorcisms. I want to take a moment to point out that as satisfyingly dark and broody as this title will no doubt seem to the apathetic, Hot Topic clad, high school audience that it appears to be targeting, those of us with fully changed voices will find it forgettable. I forgot it three times while writing this article, as a matter of fact.

Title notwithstanding, the 14-19 year old crowd seems to be about the target audience for this movie; maybe as far as 23 for the slow ones out there. In the ad, characters talk about “non-sanctioned exorcisms” while contorted human figures with expressions of agony have their bones broken by an unseen, diabolic force. I’m not even exactly sure what the movie’s trying to prove with all of this. Possibly that Catholicism can be corrupt and heartless? Ooh, edgy.

The Exorcist did a phenomenal job of making The Church look weak and powerless and they made a priest the hero. Subtlety is the frosting that separates your movie from being a satisfying cake and dry, vanilla, bread. I know it’s easy to sit in a theatre with snacks you had to take out a second mortgage to afford and enjoy lights dancing on the wall; all of the subtlety removed, all of the thinking done for you, but it’s so much less fulfilling. Some people seem to genuinely like that though. And while I’m perfectly okay with declaring that my opinion is right, I’m not okay with telling everyone that their opinions are wrong. If I did that I’d be no better than the corrupt and heartless Church that The Devil Inside is straining so hard to vilify.

Fish (fiction)

It’s always cold in the Bay Area. Something about the mountains and wind patterns; stuff I heard an egghead say once, but forgot. There wasn’t any sun coming through my curtains. It was going to rain, and it wasn’t going to stop. I left the vacuum of, what’s now only, my apartment today with my trench and my hat in hand.

I dunno who I was kidding. I didn’t have any place to go. No people to meet. No friends to share a few fingers of rye with. No dames to sweet talk. Maybe I was just trying to kid myself. If I got out of that hole in the wall I could pull it all together how I wanted it. See things in a new light… But it was raining. It always rains by the Bay. I walked the streets for some time. I walked up and down the wet streets of the Marina District. I snaked my way down Lombard Street, watching the rainwater gush down the gutters.  I wandered into The Fisherman’s Warf; my hands plunged into the pockets of my coat like they’d produce a sunny day if they dug deep enough.

Water was pooling and dribbling off the brim of my fedora when I finally sat down on a bench overlooking the water. I hadn’t been there more than a few minutes when an old man sat next to me. “What’s your story, kid?” he asked me in a tone that was both aloof and sympathetic.  “Just lookin’ at the bay, pops.” I said, somewhat mutedly, and turned away slightly. I’d hoped that would be the end of it, but the stiff sat next to me. “C’mon, what’s eatin’ you?” he continued. “You don’t look more than twenty-three. What could have a kid like you down?”

I twisted my shoulders and looked at him. The lines time had etched in his face were as many and as twisted as the rain drops running down the windows of the store fronts. He held himself with something I couldn’t push my brain to identify. There was slickness about him but he wasn’t a con like you saw on every corner. He had a rough, almost stern look worked into his face, but there was a level of compassion in his eyes that wouldn’t let itself be drowned out. I paused for several seconds, looking into his face. He looked right back at mine.

“I just got back from the War two months back.” I told him. He pursed his lips and nodded slightly. “My girl and I had been together through high school. When I graduated two years ago they sent me to Okinawa. I was there until the war ended. I got back home and it was just like those silent films you see of the G.I.s gettin’ home after the first Great War. I got off the boat and right away I spotted her in the middle of the crowd. I got over to her and picked her up in an embrace. I don’t think I’d been so happy to see a person in my life.” The old man was staring over the bay; a gray expanse of water against a gray expanse of sky.

I continued, “Things were great for the first weeks I was back, but one night we were listening to the radio, and she told me that while I was away she had gotten a job at a nearby office. She told me about how her and her lady friends had talked about how different it was working for the first time, and that she’d learned so much about herself. She told me that for the first time in her life she was living for herself. She learned that what she’d been told her entire life was wrong – she didn’t need a man to take care of her. She packed her bags and left the next day.”

He shifted on the bench and cleared his throat after my story had come to an end. “Look at the bay, kid. Those boats won’t pull in fish every day, but they’re going to come back each day, and keep trying.” He pointed to a new, freshly painted boat coming off dry dock. “Look at that new boat, kid. That boat may not get anything today. And it may well not get anything tomorrow. But it’s going to come back full of fish eventually. Even if it comes back empty a hundred times in a row, it has a long life at sea ahead of it.” He pointed at a second fishing boat on the dry dock; old, rusted, weathered, ready to be scrapped. “Look at that one now, kid. It’s over for that one. It has a little something left, but its fishing days are over.” He paused, and looked directly at me, “If it found itself dry docked by a new boat that wasn’t going out anymore, it would probably reach over and pop it right in the mouth for not appreciating the opportunity.”

I looked at him, and then at the bay. The rain was beginning to let up, and the sun was starting to make a stand against the wall of gray that held it back. “You know a lot about old boats, old man?” I finally managed to ask him. “Of course I do…” he said slowly, “My wife died in ’41.”

Visceral Gratification (article)

Anyone with vague interest, or who even knows someone with vague interest, in the video game world knows that on November 11th Bethesda launched the fifth installment of The Elder Scrolls series. As fan of the games since 2002, I'm not shy in admitting that I eagerly awaited the launch of Skyrim months in advance. I even waited outside of my local game retailer in sub-freezing temperatures for two hours waiting for the midnight launch.

After having spent nearly 35 hours on Skyrim in one weekend, I could write a novella of praises I have for it. The developers went to painstaking measures to ensure that the world was beautiful and varied. I personally shivered the first several times I went out exploring during a blizzard, and spent at least an hour walking through the lush autumn forests, enjoying the way the sunset was hitting the yellow trees and hopping off the streams.

In addition to being one of the most visually striking games I’ve ever played, the redesigned level system has made playing much simpler. It’s a sin to imagine the number of cumulative hours I’ve spent planning my characters on previous Elder Scrolls games. I would do everything short of making a flow chart to figure out how I could juggle every skill I wanted while still raising all of my stats. Bethesda was able to trim huge amounts of fat away from character creation without making gameplay overly simplistic, the way Fable III blundered.

The experience Bethesda gained from working on Fallout 3 is evident in a few ways in Skyrim, specifically the combat. This gave way to a problem I had with the game, and led me to question Bethesda’s direction.

Skyrim’s combat is a far cry from the old "hack away until the other guy fell down" of Oblivion. Often times when you finish off a character, the game will go into a two or three second, VATS-style, scene of your character running them through with a sword, or hammering a final blow on their face with your cudgel. Or if you took the stealthy approach and came up behind the enemy, undetected, you get a satisfying throat cutting scene. This is enjoyable, and the scenes never become boring, but they leave something to be desired.

I’m rarely impressed by excess gore in video games, but it really felt Skyrim should have pushed the envelope more in this regard. The game opens with your character witnessing a public execution. A prisoner is put on the headman’s block, and, I admit, I cringed when the executioner’s pole arm whizzed through the air, and decapitated the character with a visceral slice, leaving the character’s to head roll into a basket. This is where the serious gore ends though. After making Fallout 3, it seems like it would have been obvious for Bethesda to include some meaty head explosions or limb severings.

This omission really struck me the first time I picked up a mace and got into combat with a particularly difficult bandit. After a long, difficult fight, I’d whittled his health down to a sliver, and he fell to his hands and knees. I relished the moment as I walked over to him and charged a heavy swing aimed straight for the top his head. The hit connected, but with no blood, no crunch, and not even a groan from the bandit. He just fell limp.

“What the hell is this?” I thought to myself. After a serious fight, a shining moment of blood soaked victory is the perfect icing on the cake that is a game's combat system. That’s why smashing the faces of thugs on Dead Island was so enjoyable. That’s why knifing on Battlefield is so satisfying. Don’t misunderstand, I would be disgusted if Bethesda had gone the MadWorld or Mortal Kombat route - going into medical detail of what you had just done to the other guy's internal organs, and reminds you of how depraved and desensitized to violence you are. But in a game where a good majority of the combat it spent swinging a sharpened slab of metal at someone else’s face, no visceral gratification is a serious let down.

Assassin's Creed II and Brotherhood are keen examples of flowing combat systems with incredibly satisfying coup de graces, with the omission of excess blood. You gain a very strong understanding that the hammer Ezio's swinging is heavy. Seeing him counter a guard's attack, pelting him across the temple, and hearing a crack as the guard collapses into a pile is fulfilling. To take away such a satisfying reward for learning, and perfecting, how to fight in the game world is like finding out your diploma is printed on recycled toilet paper. Sure you feel accomplished and are proud you pulled it off, but can't shake the feeling that the entire thing is shit.

Hello World

Hello, denizens of the internet, and welcome to my bright eyed attempt at a blog. I'm here for the exhibition of my writing abilities, watching my own progression, and the occasional cathartic rant that every writer trips into from time to time. As a young, college going, writer, its easy to be overlooked in the sea of bodies that any editor will undoubtedly be bludgeoned with. With Dialogues in My Imagination I hope to show to future employers, fellow writers, or anyone that just feels like reading, the way in which my ability and style stands out against the grey.

My style itself tends to focus on imagery and word play in description, as such, I typically excel at focusing closely on particular subjects. Time spent writing this way has taught me to write reviews, opinions, and expositions well. In entries to come, I plan to include postings with my thoughts on products, as well as my interpretation of media.

I also have some experience writing fiction and non-fiction; its relatively new ground for me as a formal writer. Its been a hobby since childhood, but recently I've began indulging in it in a structured environment and have been met with success. As my finesse for crafting the fictions is eked out more completely, I plan their addition.

That about wraps up the key talking points of my personal exposition. Hopefully it was informative and propels you forward into other postings. I look forward to any feedback and comments anyone has to give. More postings to come!