Public figure

So, how does one become a Public Figure? I'm scared to look at who else Facebook thinks are public figures, although I noticed Donald Trump on the list. Trump has millions of "likes" and "talking abouts." Wolf DeVoon has one. I liked myself. Zero seemed tragic. Maybe it's a clerical error. A stupid Facebook computer hiccoughed, and I'm a Public Figure by mistake. I won a lottery. Tomorrow it'll be someone else who's equally obscure. Honestly, I find it baffling. Google seems to think I'm a novelist, although that, too, seems a little strange. I only wrote five or six novels, all of them VERY obscure and self-published, rock bottom on Amazon's bestseller list. Google Books picked them up by prestidigitation, a word that I enjoy using as often as possible. Library Thing shelved a couple by mistake. Maybe I was quoted a lot. Quotes.com seems to think so. It's quite hard to grasp that people know about me. I did a radio interview recently, and I was introduced like a famous person, a "libertarian icon." Apparently, a lot of libertarians thought I was dead, because I haven't said much about it recently, busy writing novels -- nor is there anything else to say about liberty and justice. Whatever I knew about it was published a long time ago, got noticed perhaps. Makes no sense that Facebook designated me a Public Figure rather recently. I spent part of my day today considering how to spend my last $20, and the stupid dog qualfied for a $5 item on my shopping list. I also weed-whacked another acre to beat back weeds and invasive wild grape vines. Hell is neither hot nor cold; it's festooned with razor-sharp wild vines. Is that what Public Figures do? -- fight weeds with half a roll of plastic string and a remaining quart of gasoline? Whacking an acre of hemlock, broadleafs, clover and tall stickers revealed an enormous assortment of fallen branches I need to gather and stack on the burn pile. That's the exact meaning of "windfall" -- picking shit up, often requiring a chain saw. Last season, a massive thorn tree fell, after a hellacious storm. Took a month to cut it up and haul rounds to a concrete pad behind the tin barn, already overloaded with oak and walnut and sycamore. I made a substantial pile of firewood by punching a road through the forest and bringing 7000 volts across the road and up the hill five or six hundred feet from another direction. Ha! - famous for windfall and bulldozing. Huge mess, you wouldn't believe how many men and machines it took to clear a 150 ft x 12 ft driveway plus a cleared building site for a little house. Had to be done, to get the concrete trucks in. An infinity of 2-inch rock delivered by double-axle dump trucks to harden the road. Famous for spending too much money. Certainly notorious for blowing through $30K on credit cards, all of which are max'd out and credit score annihilated. Seriously, down to my last $20 of cash. That's why I have to sell my car -- to eat, take the dog to the vet again, buy some heartworm pills, do something with his bad eye. I do NOT want him to suffer major surgery again. Last time I took him in, the nitwit vet pulled most of his teeth, which I did not want done. Poor guy has a heck of a time eating anything bigger than a morsel. I tell him he's a good dog. Old and disfigured (like I am) the dog can't earn a penny. When he was young and strong, he could have won a show. Public Figure? -- bah. No money in it.

Characterization in signature work

I've created a lot of fictional characters over the years, many of whom I liked and respected. A few were modeled on people I knew, supporting characters whose personalities were frozen -- well, that's a bit harsh, let's say inflexible, unable to transform. It happens in life to most people. Their formative battles were fought long ago, and it shaped how they think and live. All of them deserve honorable mention to acknowledge their strengths and sorrows. It's important always to treat a character with respect, even the tawdry ones, the bit players and stock figures -- tailors, waiters, uniformed cops, cab drivers. Little glimpses need to be three-dimensional and real. It's never wrong to be honest about where they are in life, how they move, talk, think, hide themselves from others. Characters who transform, undertake challenges and put their future at risk, are "principal players." There is no story without such people. Some of them are heroic men and women, some are dangerous villains. It's possible to see virtue in a villain, no different than a hero with inner conflicts and limitations. I'm speaking mostly of male characters. Women seldom deliberately do wrong, although it's good to see the extreme and exceptional. One of my favorites was a film star -- Ophilia Opfir -- always outrageous, mercurial, a comic figure. Now that I think of it, all of my women were wonderfully complicated. The Good Walk Alone had several female characters, no two alike, vital to the story line. In Mars Shall Thunder, Wendy and Emma Churchill played pivotal supporting roles, far more important than the men. Leading ladies are important to me. Sorry, that's an understatement. The Good Walk Alone is Janet DiMarco's story. Mars Shall Thunder is Laura Oak's story. Chris is nothing until he meets Peachy in A Portrait of Valor. Chris and Peachy are the subject of this essay. For the rest of my remaining days as a writer, I will author stories about them, as they mature in life as a married couple. It's interesting how they emerged in a tutorial of screenwriting on Zoetrope, to explain a method of organizing and creating scenes. Movies usually have 40 scenes. It's not important to start at Scene #1. Scenes can be written out of sequence, if you have a good outline, each scene with a unique dramatic action, no two scenes alike. The method of organizing a movie using Scene Cards is something that I was blessed to get from a profoundly talented mentor a long time ago. It's explained in Screenwriting Form & Structure, and there's a video on Vimeo that shows how Scene Cards are useful in story rewrite, to identify and resolve problems. To demonstrate Scene Card logic, I offered to write a screenplay out of sequence. Members of my private office at Zoetrope could pick a number, any number, from 1 to 40 in a story outline, and I'd write that scene to a budget of pages for that particular scene. Some were simple and quick, others were long dialogue scenes, or tense action, or lonely monologue. No two scenes alike, remember? The result was a completed screenplay called The Case of The Empty Case, and it introduced Chris Cable, private detective, and Mary Blount, Ph.D., a spectacularly stunning babe he orders to scram, go away, while he's dealing with a suitcase bomb parked in front of his office door. He doesn't know her name, calls her Peachy. It wasn't supposed to be a good story. It was a practical demonstration of a movie structure, how to conceive and execute individual scenes. Years later, at a watershed moment in my writing career, I thought of Chris and Peachy again. They deserved a series of novels. I risked everything to do it -- personally, financially, artistically. I don't regret it, although I doubt that Chris and Peachy will be well received by readers. I'm writing purely for myself, something I felt drawn to do after 30 years of storytelling, some of which was work for hire, a polite term for prostitution. It became important to give Chris and Peachy a voice of their own, in honor of their exceptional lives and exceptional challenges. A narrative novel is supremely expressive. Every word matters. I cringe whenever a typo or an ill-chosen word appears in print, self-published. It's humiliating to be self-published; I do it to archive the work. Others can make Kindle or POD successful. I can't. Please don't offer suggestions about marketing, or writing popular material in well-grooved genres. Chris and Peachy matter more than money. Christopher Cable, P.I., is a better man than I am, far more complex, far more courageous. He was an only child born into a military family. His birth took his mother's life. His father was a stern naval officer who became a powerful member of the Deep State, if you know what that is. Chris was raised by colored servants, if you know what that is. He went to Ivy League prep school, a sprig of privilege. He spent summers in New York with show people, his mother's clan of Broadway actors, dancers, musicians. When he was 18 years old, he was accepted in Marine Corps Officer Candidate School to honor his father and follow in his footsteps. Combat changes people, always, and Chris fought with courage that could not erase sorrow and guilt and revulsion. He hated killing. As an officer, his duty was ever-present and clear, ordering men to their death and dismemberment. Rising to the rank of Captain, partly on merit, partly because his father pulled strings, Chris couldn't continue. He resigned, changed his name, and fled to Los Angeles -- a disgraced black sheep who abandoned his duty and his father's iron sphere of influence and expectations. Ex-military is where most of our cops come from, and Chris had friends in L.A., ex-Marines who went into law enforcement, well-paid private surveillance, and medicine. None of those jobs were right for him. Chris couldn't deal with fussy paperwork or take orders, especially an order to do nothing, to drop a case, let the guilty skate because they had political pull. When the story opens in A Portrait of Valor, he's alone, lonely, miserable, age 38, jailed for killing a man, which he regrets but was compelled to do, to save a crowd of laughing drunks and doped-up chicks at a Hollywood nightclub. Terrible karma. The man who hates killing, forced to kill as a licensed private eye, working alone, financially strapped, hardened to life, expecting nothing but trouble. Not handsome, covered in battle scars, Chris cleans up every night and tries to be cheerful, drinks in nice nightclubs and dinner joints, hoping to meet a single woman his own age or thereabouts. He's ignored, night after night, year after year. Enter Peachy. I don't think I want to talk about her, a truly exceptional woman among women, beautiful, brilliant, elder daughter of a billionaire nuclear physicist (a horrible father), turned her back on wealth and made her own way in the world, a Stanford Ph.D. plugged into Silicon Valley. Wonderful couple who saved themselves for each other, wouldn't settle for less than ideal romance, astounding sexual chemistry, risking their lives for each other repeatedly. This is the glory of heroic fiction, to paint the beautiful. What other people write doesn't matter.