The Fastest And Easiest Way To Open Your Pelvic Cradle


I developed my own performance philosophy, because it became apparent to me that no one had a functional one. I started to realize the dire state of this matter when I was reading original translations of Chekhov (not the playwright, the actor) and Stanislavsky (the actor/director). Chekhov and Stanislavsky worked together for a time until Chekhov threw a massive temper tantrum over semantics and branched off into his own performance technique.

Michael Chekhov Was Anton Chekhov’s Nephew

The “ah-ha!” moment for me came when I was comparing these two Russian methodologies (I had been studying Shakespeare performance methods, and some Dada-ist garbage alongside rhetorical analysis and third-generational Marxist bodies of work), and I realized that they–each of them, quite earnestly–were talking about exactly the same end goal, and trying to start a war over whether they should pummel actors with one set of words or another. They were literally fighting over which words they ought to use to describe the same end results.

Stanislavsky Was A Terrible Director

I spent about six years of my life studying actors as they rehearsed and performed in classrooms, tiny audition rooms, and on stages of all sorts. I acted myself, and I watched the dynamics that unfolded over several moderately-budgeted film projects. I was fascinated by the ever-increasing gap between functional performance (by which I mean, acting, storytelling, that resonated deeply with an audience) and spoken or practiced methodology.

Shakespeare Was Handled The Worst, By Far

No one knew what they were doing; the best performers were destroyed by horrible directing and teaching, and support materials were often designed to deliberately hobble the actors or build a wedge of hatred and fear between the performers and the audience.

Gosh, Victor, How Did You Learn Anything?

I met two, no, make that three, good directors over these years, and I compared them exhaustively to the many, many terrible, harmful, and utterly incompetent directors that proliferated around them. Also, remember, I was studying functional source material at the same time (excellent French plays, treatments on Alexander technique, and heavy doses of Graham, Balanchine, and newer American theatre phenomenons, among other things).

Dude, This Is Not An Acting Blog, You Dirty Cross-Pollinator!

All this to say, I found, as I read Michael Chekhov’s ardent haranguing, that no one had a coherent performance philosophy at all–and I will say here, no one had a performance philosophy that functioned. By which I mean, actually worked. And by that I mean that any performance philosophy that cannot be applied by a student actor and create sustainable, measurable results in audience reaction, popularity, and emotional connection as an ensemble and as an individual figure to the public, is only a pile of ego-stroking hot air.

So I Made My Own. Like A Mad Scientist.

I didn’t cackle while I developed it, though I did become personally magnetic, and was borderline stalked by several people of both genders who found a sudden and urgent need to cultivate my favor. When I had the bare bones of a performance philosophy, I started running trials. I tweaked things. I procured several dozen willing guinea pigs in the form of student and community theatre actors, and I applied my techniques to their bodies and personalities.

Enter The Blocked Pelvic Cradle

I found an interesting phenomenon as I tested; I could make very hot, emotionally-viable actors, but they all had the same energy blocks. Every single one of them were blocked through their foundational motion carriage. And here is where I came up against a significant problem; human beings, once blocked through the pelvic cradle, are like grievously-wounded wolves. They bite, metaphorically, because their energy source is cut off, and they are, after a manner of speaking, suffering a slow death of personality.

How Do I Find Out If My Pelvic Cradle Is Blocked, Victor?

Well, the bad news is that your pelvic cradle is probably blocked. The good news is that you can open the energy flow, and remove the obstructions, if you . . .

Duh Duh Duuuuuuh!

Yeah, I recognize this feeling. It’s the feeling I get when I’m about to show how to do something profound. Well, I’m trying something new today. I’m not going to tell you how to work through your energy blocks (I wrote some books for that). When you get tired of that dried-up numb feeling in your hip sockets, shoot me an email, and I’ll think about it.

You’re reading Victor Poole. I was raised to be invisible, and to serve the whims of all other people. I am undoing my early programming. Despite my unfortunate beginnings, my comprehensive performance philosophy, which is painstakingly illustrated via allegory in these nine books, works exceptionally well.

The Quick And Easy Guide To Writing Human Nature

dragon clip

The frill is going to extend up along the side of the head, and the skin will have a silvery tint. I haven’t put in the dragon stone yet, either, but this is one of the beasts from The Second Queen, which I am editing right now.

New Fantasy Book, Very Exciting, Coming Soon!

I actually wrote the first half of this book almost four years ago, and then hit my goal of fifty thousand words and stopped. I wrote a little tag at the bottom of the last chapter; it read, “to be continued . . .”, which I felt was appropriately ominous.

Now It Is 120k Words, And Quite Intoxicating

I looked up one of my old acting rivals last night, just to make sure I’m not as behind as I sometimes feel I am (I’m not behind at all). There are only a couple of genuinely successful people (actors) from my school, and none from my age group. I check periodically, to make sure no one has rocketed to astronomic success before me.

Victor Poole Is A Jealous Person!

I have to start eating more fat. My body is partway through developing into adulthood, and I have the opposite problem of many people, where I have to make sure I eat enough food.

And I’m Slowly Bulking My Arms

Rose, the cat who haunts my house, has discovered the joys of having her undercoat brushed out (you’re welcome, Rose), and now she shadows me along the kitchen counter in the wee hours, mewling appealingly for attention.


This is her before brushing. She is rather sleeker now.

Here’s The Writing Part

Poor writing explains relationships from a standpoint of fairness and equality; the narrative voice plays nice with the characters, and attempts to frame the story within an obviously idealistic world, where all the humans make an effort to get along and build each other up, aside from one or two bad apples who are misunderstood antagonists.

To Write Human Nature, Drop The Fair And Nice Parts

Excellent writing shows the inequality, both between individuals, and between established roles in society. Good writing, and writing that exposes human nature, comes from a framework of predatory abuse. The antagonist is generally a person who recognizes the cannibalistic nature of social exchange, and exploits it without apology or remorse. The protagonist is a genuine person who goes more than halfway to meet people in an exchange of goodwill and fellowship. The conflict in the story arises from the clash of the selfish against the disinterested human.


Bad Writing:

Berthold pushed back his hair, and squinted into the twilight. Shooting was running over schedule, and his wife would be disappointed that he was late for dinner again. So difficult, he thought, to balance the demands of an artistic career with a home life. Relationships were wonderful, though.

Greg fussed over the camera with Joel, and then waved for the sound guy to come over. They were working very hard to set up the next scene.

Berthold felt so lucky to be the star. He dug his feet into the black soil, and suppressed a contented sigh. I’m going to be famous, he told himself, and imagined the tamales that were swiftly going cold at home.

“Here we go,” Greg called, clapping his hands together. “This is it, Berthold. We’re all counting on you.”

Good Writing:

“We’re going to go over that part again,” Greg said, propping his script against his hip and staring shrewdly at Berthold. “Listen, I like what you’re doing, but I need it to feel more, um, fresh. Like you’re waking up into the world for the first time.”

“Okay,” Berthold said. He was thinking of the way his wife would be staring at her phone, waiting for a text. His was turned off, per production rules.

“Just, can you be more innocent about it? Like, pretend you’re a bird.” Greg reached out a hand, and mussed Berthold’s hair to the side. “Like a hungry bird.”

“Okay,” Berthold said again.

“And don’t do that, that smiley thing when you say ‘regret.’ Give me, like, a burst of orange there.”

“Got it,” Berthold replied.

Writing Human Nature Requires Cynicism

And remember, you have a unique perspective on a whole lot of things you’ve lived through. If you frame your experiences with a disillusioned and honest eye, your writing will improve a great deal. And also remember, people are only nice if they’re the protagonist, or if they’re selling something.

You’re reading Victor Poole. Look! I’m selling something! Thursday is the fourth day of the week, and The Dead Falcon is the fourth book in this series.

The Obvious Way To Edit Your Novel That Almost Everyone Ignores


Put your novel into a free Createspace template, complete with chapters, page numbers, and margins. This will make it look like a “real” book. Think of the most detail-oriented but fair critical reader you’ve ever known personally, and go through your novel sentence by sentence with this critical reader present in your mind.

I Think Of My Editor, Who Is The Most Demanding Reader I’ve Ever Met

Think of how they would react to every word choice and punctuation mark. Do not change subjective elements of your novel; only alter things to satisfy the demands of your rigorous friend.

But Victor, If You Have An Editor, Why Are You Doing So Much Work?!

If this process sounds unbearable to you, you need to start looking for an editor who will do this work for you;  the good ones work for free for their friends, at greatly reduced prices for people they know and like, and will rightly charge you more than double your rent if they don’t know you at all.

Looking For An Editor Online Is Like Playing A Lottery Full Of Scamsters

If you’re a person who writes, and you have not yet obtained an agent, a book deal, or a respectable following of readers (don’t despair! These things take time!), you are probably looking at your finished products (stories, novels, essays) through the rose-tinted eyes of a loving and nurturing parent.

Henry Fielding Compares Novels To Children

Children of the brain, he calls them. Try an experiment with me for a moment. Imagine that your latest book is a five- or six-year-old child whom you are about to drop off for the first day of kindergarten (or private school, or neighborhood homeschool co-op).

Is Your Novel Prepared For The Gauntlet Of Public Opinion?

Look at your novel-child. Is it dressed appropriately? (This correlates to the cover design, interior formatting, and sales blurb.) Does it know how to use the bathroom, and have you taught it not to hit or steal? (This correlates to pacing, plot holes, and matters like grammatically-inconsistent style usage.) You may think I am stretching the metaphor too far, but if you examine the public presentation and manners of your writing, you will find a much keener awareness within yourself of what is there and what is lacking.

Victor, My Book Is Not A Kid!

I live next to a little girl who currently attends second grade. She has informed my little boy that she is really fifteen years old, and that she has a thriving rock-selling business that has garnered her gobs of money. These fibs are somewhat charming, but have not alarmed me as a parent. Another boy visits the neighborhood to see his grandparents, and he has proved so destructive and personally malicious that my children are no longer allowed out when he is around (he has a habit of luring younger children out of bounds, and teaching them to throw big rocks).

Where Ya Goin’ With This, Victor?

Let us imagine that our neighborhood boy and girl are novels, complete with their respective behaviors. Now, we will look at how these behaviors may correlate to writing, and how attentive editing, and a mind to the manners of your work, can result in perfectly appropriate prose.


Bad Writing (ill-mannered child):

Drav was the most heroic man in the whole world; in fact, even the monsters in the Wilkren hills feared him. Drav’s name was even a curse word for most of the elvish people, who had learned to hide in their tree homes whenever his shadow darkened the green grass of their province. Drav was taller than a horse, and his pet dragon, Blackwing, ate maidens whenever Drav wasn’t looking. The story of Drav’s greatest exploit starts in a wind-swept plain of the icy mountain, where he had gone to hunt baby ice-birds for their glorious wings. We join him now at the dead of sunset, crouching low over a hillock of snow and ice, glaring with steely nerves at a grouping of the creatures.

Meh Writing (harmless lies):

Drav hoisted his spear over his shoulder, and examined for the fifteenth time the tiny specks in the distance that he was sure were baby ice-birds. They never left their nest this late; he thought they may have been abandoned by their mother. Teeth flashed in his mind. He imagined a snow-tiger mawing hard on the graceful neck, blood staining both snow and feathers. Drav crept forward through the snow. He had promised to himself to obtain at least two fluffy corpses before the night was out, and they will scatter when he flings the weapon. His steps lay behind him, a mosaic pressed into the harsh ground of the unforgiving climate that threatened life here.

Good Writing (well-behaved child):

The ice-birds rolled in the loose snow; their glittering blue feathers sparkled like jeweled robes in the twilight. Drav hung behind a snowbank, his right arm steady and his eyes fixed on the bathing babies. The little ice-birds smashed their extravagant feathers into the powder before flaring their wings to each side, casting snow out in clouds around them.

Drav’s heart had slowed; his arm loosed the spear, which arced through the air and pierced straight through the heart of the largest bird.

As the others tumbled wildly into the air, their plumage throwing flashes of iridescent blue over the snow, Drav stepped over the ridge of snow and drew his throwing knife.

Editing Is Hard Work That You Can Do

Many people regard editing with a superstitious fervor, but it is a matter of manners and public discretion. If you have the sophistication and discernment required to guide a small child into behaving with appropriate decorum in a public place, you have the skills required to edit your novel. If you don’t know any persnickety, but fair, readers, find one and spend time talking over books with them until you can predict their complaints and their reactions. If all of this sounds impossibly difficult, resign yourself to spending a great deal of money. Remember, if you can spend the time and energy writing a wonderful novel, you can also expend the time and energy to learn to shape it into good form.

You’re reading Victor Poole. My editor loves this book. My imaginary dog, Fifu, wants you to buy and read this novel today.


The Importance of Sensory Details to Believable Writing


I had an acting teacher a long time ago who was obsessed with sensory input; she wanted us to always be touching something, or imagining the smell of something to add richness to our acting.

She Thought Imagining The Taste Of Chocolate Would Create Sensuality In An Actor

Her ideas were interesting, and I have adapted them to writing. The people you are writing for have senses; when you write down that Bob wiggled his shoulders, and tilted his head a little to the left, your readers feel an echo of that motion within themselves, or they literally mimic Bob with their bodies.

Words Create Sensory Echoes

Imagine the sharp smell of a freshly-peeled orange, and the slight spray of juice that spurts out if you crush the segments.

Remember the thunderous effect of heavy rain on the canvas of a tent, when it sounds as though the whole world will crash in upon your head. Think of the touch of a kitten’s whiskers, that tickling hint of fuzziness. Imagine the moment your teeth sink into the very tip of a perfect watermelon, or the rush of steam that moves against your face when you open a hot pizza box.

Dammit, Victor! You’re Making Me Hungry!

Sensory details suck the reader into the visceral experience of a story; the creak and sigh of a wooden boat, if grounded with specific details, makes us feel as if we are really at sea.

Perhaps you can think of a book, or books, you have read that achieved this effect, books that drew you in so that you could believe yourself somewhere else, and someone else.


Bad Writing:

Stephanie chewed on her pencil and stared at the dancing girls. The one on the left, she thought, would mix in all right with the current set. A long rumble sounded through the cavernous hall, and a slice of light fell over the stage; Stephanie did not turn, but she saw the women hesitate in their movements. One in the front, a red-headed Gramie woman, stared open-mouthed, obviously afraid, at the approaching figure.

Good Writing:

The plastic pen split tenderly between Stephanie’s teeth; she pushed her tongue along the hairline fracture on the casing. Her eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the ten women who danced on the narrow stage before her. Only two strong dancers this time, Stephanie thought, and she didn’t like the way the one on the right looked straight out into the lights. Too sure of herself; wouldn’t fit in, she reflected. bending the pen gently between her molars.

Sensory Details, Sprinkled Like Salt, Flavor Your Words

Like the chewy pieces of chocolate-smothered toffee in chunky fudge ice cream, grounded details pull the reader into the world of the book, and make them feel immersed in your writing. Your stories will be ever more delicious to the reader as you plant specific sensory details throughout the work.

You’re reading Victor Poole. My favorite books are these. Indigenous peoples of the X6-Grok cluster urge you to purchase and read this book.

The Best Way To Approach Secrets So Your Novel Takes Delightful Twists


I love reading Agatha Christie novels. She is so sneaky, and her bad guys never seem crazy until the last few pages. I am not remembering the title of the novel at the moment, but she wrote a book about a sculptor, and the character who was the murderer was a tremendous surprise (I used to have a trade paperback of this book, but I misplaced it in a move).

There Was A Pool Behind A Country House

That book was more artistic than her others. It was more nuanced. But back to the point of today.

I went to a high school production of Beauty and the Beast a long time ago. The costumes were pretty good, and the cast and director had worked out a neat switch with a double for the man playing the Beast, so that when the fog cleared away, the mask seemed to have been removed by magic, and the prince was revealed in all his handsome glory.

I Love Good Theatre Tricks

I remember sitting in the auditorium during that show, and thinking about secrets. The director and the cast, I heard afterwards, had gone to great lengths to keep the existence of the double Beast a secret from the families and friends of the performers. The mystery was preserved, and the audience was delighted. (As for how I learned about the switch, well, when you’re an actor, other actors tell you things. Because you’re part of the family, as it were.)

Keeping Secrets Pays Off

And now on to today’s example. It is very important to remember, when you are writing your novel, that your subconscious is capable of unveiling wonderful secrets, if you allow your conscious, driving mind to get out of the way.


Bad Writing (Thinking Brain):

Briel tapped the wire frame of her glasses against her chin as she gazed down into the observatory. Her uncle, Theodore, would come in a moment, and he would not know that she was hidden in the top shelf of the cabinets. Briel had a secret from her uncle; she was going to steal his recipe today, and sell it to the evil moneylender across the street, who wanted to start a rival business peddling marvelous inventions.

Good Writing (Intuitive Secrets): 

Briel chewed on the hem of her sleeve; she was tucked into the height of the belfry, and the doves pecked around her with placid trills. She held a white string in her hand, which trailed down the column and into the stove where her uncle’s latest invention simmered. She was waiting, waiting, for the creak of the door. Her heart seemed to thud in the roof of her mouth; the fabric between her teeth was rough against her tongue.

Hoard Your Secrets With Miserly Intuition

Keeping secrets requires writerly discipline, but the reader is rewarded by a thrill of emotion and excitement when the moment of revelatory locking-into-place finally unfolds. It is far better to follow the unraveling of plot folds that resonate with your gut than to make a scheduled, brainy dispensation of each secret.

You’re reading Victor Poole. Coren’s mother did something awful and secret to him that is revealed in this book. Your gynecologist might want you to read more books like this.


Dead Guy Gets Waylaid In The Afterlife


Caleb woke up in an office. It was an office that, over the course of a few years, would drive a working man mad. It was just large enough to give the impression of freedom, and just boxy enough to knock that impression in the teeth and then stomp on its nose. When Caleb first opened his eyes, the ordinary white rectangles of ceiling tile made a soothing and regular pattern; the coarse carpet beneath his hair scratched at him, and the afternoon sunlight drifting hazily through the blinds of the window made the lazy dust motes over his head hang maddeningly in the air. Caleb swiped at the dust; the particles swished to one side before returning, like tiny, determined homing pigeons, to their original places.

“Horrible dust,” Caleb muttered, and sat up.

He could not remember where he had been just before this; the slapping of water against the side of the boat, and the spray of the lake in his hair hovered tantalizingly at the edge of his mind. He could not remember where he had been. The office was foreign to him; he could draw no picture of remembrance into his brain. The smell of the cheap carpeting, mixed with the low hum of central air, and the quiet rustle of paper and footsteps on either side of the thin walls, rang no memorial bells in Caleb’s mind. He was alone, in an office, and he did not know how he had gotten there.

Caleb fixed his mind on remembering where he had been. He did not panic; his pulse did not beat any quicker, and his eyes did not dart with fearful trepidation through the contents of the room. He looked about himself slowly, thoroughly, making notes of each piece of furniture and its quality and shape, like a lawyer watching the face of a key witness. Caleb watched the ceiling tiles, and the way they met against the walls of the room; his eyes travelled gradually down the grey painted walls of the office, and rested at last on the rubber edging that had been pasted around the base of the room. The walls, the ceiling, and the material of the rubber that kissed against the coarse carpet all around the room contributed to the same picture: that of an office that so closely resembled the idea of an average that it failed to contain hardly any identifying marks of its own. It was, as Caleb’s friend Joseph would have said in a low grumble, “An office for the ages.” Joseph, who was Caleb’s first and last business partner, and the holder of the record for ugliest office lived in consecutively for the most years, had never allowed his office the moniker of “office for the ages.” This title, however, Joseph had bequeathed, with some fondness, on the office next door to their own suite of rooms.

Caleb thought for a moment that he was in his old building, but a cursory examination of the carpeting and walls negated this possibility; Caleb’s building had been cheap, but it had not been shoddy, and this office was, in unison with its boringness, quite shoddily constructed.

An edging of terror crept into Caleb’s heart. He began to wonder if he had been kidnapped or abducted. He could not imagine why anyone would desire him as a victim of abduction, but the strangeness of his surroundings to him, and his inability to remember what had occurred just before he had woken in this office, joined together to make an ominous cloud of threatening possibilities. This threatening cloud hovered strangely about in Caleb’s heart; he did not think he had been kidnapped, and he did not feel himself in danger, really, but as he searched through the archives of his experience, his mind zipping down through the months and years and pictures like a driving cleaver, he could find nothing similar to this, no hint of context to give him a clue as to the meaning of his waking here. Caleb was not afraid, not yet, but the possibility of fear was there, and the possibility of terror raised the hairs on the back of his hands.

A shallow clicking noise made itself known in his ears; Caleb jumped, and looked around. A large, white-faced clock was hung on the wall behind Caleb, its long black hands fixed firmly over the numbers that rimmed it round. Caleb studied this clock for a whole minute before he could make sense of its symbols; the numbers, he found, were backwards. The six was at the top of the clock, where the twelve should be, and the three had changed places with the nine.

Caleb stood up and approached this clock. It did not appear to be an extraordinary clock. Indeed, Caleb was sure that he had seen a very similar clock very recently, in a party store, or on the beach, or in the house of his young lover. Caleb closed his eyes, and recalled these places. He imagined himself standing in the store; he remembered the smell of cheap plastic, and the pink curls of trick candles. He had been there with Monique, and she had pointed out plates that had clock faces on them. These clocks, he saw in his memory, had normal faces, with the numbers in the proper places. Next, he turned his inner vision to the beach. What, he asked himself calmly, had a clock been doing at the beach? A white ship, in the shape of a short yacht, rose up in his inner eye.

“She’s called The Clock Face,” Caleb heard Monique’s father saying in his mind. Caleb looked through himself, but he could find no actual clock face upon the boat, or anywhere else on the beach. Finally, Caleb examined what he remembered of Monique’s house; she had kept a soft pink face clock, he realized, at the back of her dresser. The hands did not work, and were frozen in a position similar to the hands of the backwards clock within this office.

Caleb opened his eyes and examined the large white clock face anew. The soft click-click-click of the whip-like second hand sounded like thunder within the walls of the plain grey office.

Caleb was sure that he was not dead. His mind was like a camera, and like a flexible, powerful cord that tied together every memory he held within his body and brain. His body remembered things; his skin in particular kept a living file of every sensation he had ever come against in his life. His library of memories was thronging long and wide around him, the shelves of his interior experience open to his reaching mind. Caleb had decided, long ago, when he was still a child, that when his library closed off to him, he would be dead. He was sure now that wherever he was, and whatever was actually happening within him, he was not dead. He was so sure of this that the strange echo within the office walls made no meaningful impact on his consciousness, and the curiously relaxed feeling within his joints and between his shoulder blades he tucked away, as an effect of his inability to know where he was right away. If Caleb had been a superstitious man, the licking of water against his recent memory, and the slipping, sliding feeling of seeping water that still clung to his fingers, and to the ends of his toes, would have impressed itself more forcefully upon his present self.

You’re reading the opening scene from this book. I’m Victor Poole, and I’m angry right now. Friday is a great day to think vindictive thoughts.

The Beginner’s Guide To Reverse-Engineering A Successful Story


A powerful way to improve your storytelling is to study (and deconstruct) the successful books that have gone before.

How To Reverse-Engineer Story

What you want to do first is take apart the emotional components. A successful book will generally have a limited palette of emotional tones, and the energy choices will be harmonic. (You know, I think many manuscripts are rejected by agents and publishing houses precisely because no attention has been paid to the energetic composition or emotional colors of the piece.)

What The Hell, Victor Poole? Colors?

Yes, yes, I know, I sound like a raving lunatic, but what I say, alas, is possibly true. For an example, let us look first at a book, and then at a recent film.

You’re Crazy, Victor

Thanks, dear friend. Let us press on in an investigatory spirit, and learn more about my off-the-wall ideas. For our book example, we shall examine The Little Prince, and then we will take a look at the new Tom Cruise film, The Mummy. Our overview, alas, shall be incredibly brief, because I have to get back to work in five minutes.

The Little Prince

This book is an energetic wonder; it is written with golden energy, and has glinting fragments of diamond-like white and blue throughout. Harry Potter has some gold filigree through the center, but The Little Prince may as well have been dipped in a pool of molten gold. It is incredibly rare to find any story with so much precious light in it.

Gold Vs. Yellow

I may as well take a moment here to explain the difference between yellow emotional tone and gold. Yellow, bright, unmitigated mustard-color, is jovial and unapologetic and exceptionally irreverent. It’s got the energy of a squeaking helium balloon, and irritates more natural colors. Gold, on the other hand, is the manifestation of idealized human destiny, and is an emotional tone that is extremely rare, both in people’s energy fields and in stories.

You Said You Couldn’t See Auras, Victor Poole!

I don’t see colors. I have never seen colors. However, I can see energy movement, and my brain processes the different qualities of energy as color. So, when I see someone, I see just them, with no accompanying clouds of light, but then when I describe what their energy field was like, my mind interprets the qualities of movement in terms of color.

The Mummy

The overall effect of the new Tom Cruise film, energetically, is a dark red tinged with burned (false) gold leaf, almost orange, and eaten away by navy blue that is meant to be seen as black.

Now That We Have A General Impression, How Do We Deconstruct Further?

Let’s begin with The Mummy. Navy blue is used when a story is attempting to portray evil, but has been written by people who are cloaking themselves in denial, usually because their bosses actually are evil. Most Hollywood films that approach evil do so with either a rusted-blood red-brown (which does not remotely approach black), or with an intellectually-lazy navy blue (which is much closer, but still a lie).

Interestingly, the color black does not represent evil at all; black is the color of death, which is friendly and warm. But that is a topic for another day, and I am not going to describe to you the colors of evil (which are not black).

To dig deeper into the way The Mummy functions as a story, we must look at the harmony of the emotional tones chosen to convey meaning. The colors at the beginning of the film are muted, almost washed out, like watercolor with too much water thrown in. As the film progresses, the emotions approach deeper and truer tones, until, in the final few minutes, the richness of an untempered acrylic, or a thinned-out oil appears.

Victor, Your Words Make No Sense

Too bad for you. Let us look at an example of imitating this story construction; light, watered-down emotions building to a truer, richer pigment.

Faint Color:

Horace lifted his shovel to his shoulder, and trudged through the dying grass towards his shack. The sun made a colorless burning over the sky, and Horace felt, as he usually did, a deadening silence through his whole soul. He was so bored.

Strong Color:

He drew his rifle, and fixed his eyes on the thundering monster, which had three bronze horns, and a pair of silver wings raised above its back. The beast roared as it leapt forward; Horace’s bones shook within his frame. He fired; the shot cut through the noise with a deafening clap.

Now, The Little Prince

You will probably not be able to follow any description I make about this story’s construction, or you will say I’m crazy, so I will describe it in shorthand.

The Little Prince is written as a gradual unravelling of the core energy entwined around every biological human’s lower spine. This is the segment that can be hooked into higher meaning (God, if you will), and also the area most often targeted by professional soul-eaters.

Wow, You’re Crazy!

I told you so. Let us examine a method of writing that imitates this style. Remember, unless you are in a place of deep soul-clarity, you will be unable to write like this. Or, if you have a very healthy subconscious, and are really good at compartmentalizing. Then you’d be all right, if you are in decent shape, energetically speaking.

Normal Writing:

In the center of the world was a cave, where a secret diamond slept. At the heart of the diamond was a tiny egg, which had been miraculously preserved, and which slept now, destined never to wake at all. Until the magical fairies came down, and discovered the diamond! And cracked it open! And used their time-control powers to awaken the tiny egg!

Unravelled-Core Writing:

Sarah was a fat girl, with very long, dirty blond hair. It was not dirty because of the color, but because she washed it with too much conditioner, and the oils soaked into her scalp, and gave an unhealthy sheen to the locks that drifted, in strangled tangles, to her hips. She was in love with her best friend, and wore glasses that often fell down to the tip of her nose.

You’re reading Victor Poole. My books are here. I really thought yesterday was Wednesday, but it was Tuesday. Today, however, is Wednesday.