For as long as I’ve been writing short stories I’ve struggled to formulate plots and environments that immerse, entertain, and provide an escape for the reader. I say “struggled” because every time I write, that’s what’s happening. Some authors can craft fantastic realms that are so real and so engaging in a single brainstorming session at Starbucks.

Not me. I’ve found that, as far as fiction-writing is concerned, my comfort zone is in character creation. I love bringing someone or something to life and seeing what they can become as the plot progresses. For as many calories as I burn trying to write that plot in the first place, developing a character is actually fun. Hell, it’s practically the reward I get for working on the story itself.

One of my favorite examples lives in my current endeavor, The Lives of Dexter Peterson. At one point Dexter becomes the captain of a small starship and one of his officers is an entity named Huey. Here’s a blurb:

“Hang on to something,” [Dexter] interrupted, “we’re going for a field goal.” [Alexandria] looked confused for a moment but wrapped her arm around a nearby rail anyhow. Huey could be seen behind her, oozing about and generally enjoying the excitement. With no bone structure and a body that closely resembled key lime pudding, he never needed to strap in. The last Dexter saw of him, Huey had splattered all over the ceiling with an enthusiastic giggle.

I wrote the last two sentences as an afterthought- a “wouldn’t it be cute if” moment -never thinking a peripheral character like that would develop much. Then he grew on me. All it took was the image of a pile of goop riding out a space battle and screaming “wheeeeee!” Humans can be predictable and commonplace, but an amorphous space blob just proved too much fun to resist. The “wouldn’t it be cute if” turned into a serious line of questions that would define the character.

If he’s not humanoid, how does he move?

What kind of voice would a pile of goop use, if he spoke at all?

Does Huey eat? How? What’s his diet like?

The questions kept coming and, as I learned more about Huey, he became more than a prop. Huey was alive.

I decided to make Huey a simple-minded creature because I couldn’t imagine any reader taking a pudding-based life form too seriously. The simple mind gave Huey an innocence that further endeared him to me, so I couldn’t kill him off in his first scene. That’s a trap I’ll often fall into; if I end up liking a character, I really don’t want them to go away. I wanted the readers to learn more about him.

Okay, that’s a lie. I wanted to learn more about him. Playing with an intelligent pile of goop was like finding that one Lego that fits a hundred different ways into whatever you’re building. The possibilities stacked up quickly and as I wrote I was almost giddy with fascination. Okay, that’s another lie, I was giddy. At points I actually giggled like a schoolgirl in whatever coffee shop I wrote in. People must think I’m weird.

In any case, as I write more fiction (and, on occasion, song lyrics) I’m always looking out for those characters that I can fall in love with. Whether or not my settings and story progression suck, at least I’ll be surrounded by good company.

If you’re in need of some new, stylish threads for fall semester (or just for fall), you’re in luck: I HAVE NEW SHIRTS AVAILABLE! I pulled two designs right off of my album covers and turned them into wearable art. Now you can stay warm AND look like a total geek right along with me. Check out the Osprey and Attention-Getting Shirts:

(Yes, The Viral Shirt is still available too, for those of you brave and geeky enough.)

More, of course, can be found in The Store

The Beer Bash was absolutely awesome this year. More than twice the crowd of last year’s VIP’s showed up for 2011 and yet, somehow, we managed to feed and en-beer-inate all of them properly. Some of them came from as far away as Washington state, Louisiana, Florida, and Texas. One even came all the way from Nashua (on foot, no less).

I took a bunch of photos (one of these is my Dad’s, actually), mostly from the brewery tour before the actual party…

Runtt and I also did a very low-key streaming concert with the VIP’s as our studio audience. Taking requests from the crowd, from the chat room, and from the voices in our heads was a fun time. Afterwards I had my annual Town Hall Meeting chat with them. I do this every year since my VIP’s are effectively my board of directors. I want to tell them my plan for the next year and get some feedback from them as to what they WANT from me for the next year.

Fortunately, they’re the conversational type. We had a great chat about what worked so far, what doesn’t work, and what they as subscribers really care about. I really don’t know how next year will unfold, but there will be beer and partying at the end of it!

After a long break from uploading these clips, they’re back! Matthew Ebel dot net All-Access and higher members can actually download the full-quality versions of these videos as they come out.

The audio was graciously engineered by Keith Lesinski (same guy that made us sound awesome at the live event), the video was shot and edited by Aaron Zschau.

Entry and artwork by Coyoty.

Once again, I find myself reading entries in my own journal, some of them accurate accounts of lives I’ve had, some of lives I may have in the future, and others that are obvious fantasy. I hope.

I’ve experienced some strange things, but I don’t look forward to being an Elvis-impersonating ostrich, if that’s to be an eventual incarnation. At least I’d be prepared for it. “Review” incarnations have come in handy for avoiding physical danger and personal embarrassment. They’re also very frustrating.

I’ve yet to read any clues as to why this is happening to me or how to bring it to an end. Or if I should end it. Am I to be a great hero who needs these experiences to defeat a threat to all these worlds I’ve passed through? Am I dead and in Purgatory? Just a brain in a virtual reality rig?

Or maybe I’m a false person with false memories in a simulation created by a Solaris-type entity. (I really hated reading that book and concept.) Worse yet, am I really just a round-robin shared-universe character doomed to live out the scripted whims of my “fans”?

Having been celebrities and series authors, I can see the satirical commentary opportunities for that. The catalyst for this world’s “Dexter’s Journal” is a musician named Matthew Ebel. As usual, I’ll submit an entry with the hopes that he would actually know the answer to my questions and be open enough to the possibility that I’m actually “his” character to give me some answers before I

Editor’s note: I don’t know either, Dexter, just keep moving. Nothing to see here.

Entry by Menokh. This entry needs artwork!

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,577 different people.

I wake up with a sudden rush of adrenaline. The building I’m in, whatever it is, feels and sounds like it’s exploding. I grab the gear next to me and run outside. I’m surrounded by who must be my comrades in arms. I get the armor and assorted gear on long before I notice that we’re not human. We stand upright as humans do, but we have fur, muzzles and tails. We almost look feline.

I don’t have time to be surprised.

We take off running. The building was our training barracks, and they’re being bombarded from orbit. I’m told several dozen soldiers are missing and presumed dead. Several of us have no armor, and many did not think to grab their gun in the chaos. We’re heading across base to arm ourselves for the presumed ground invasion. My mind is swirling.

I wonder, as I have before, what would happen if I were to die when I am someone else? No time for that. Feigning forgetfulness from the attack I ask what is happening.

“We’re being attacked. Other worlds in our Kingdom have been fully burned from orbit, totally wiped out. This is different, they’re attacking. They must want this world.”

I do not respond. We get to the armory just in time to see an enemy warship descend over our capital city a few miles away. I’m terrified, even as the ship hovers over the city it is bombarding targets miles away. Plasma blasts blow overhead and strike our command center. We’re screwed.

I grab a rifle and take of running into the hills with my comrades. We aren’t prepared, and we fear we’ll lose against such an advanced enemy. Crouching in the bushes we see landing pods launched from the ship by the hundreds. Just then my suit radio crackles into life. It’s a General Tsune Murasame from some place called Owara. I have no idea who he is any more than who these people are. He says his ship is in orbit and ready to lend its assistance as required. He tells us to hunker down and wait for word from Central.

Sometimes I think very highly of myself for earning a living making shit up, but I’m constantly reminded of just how good my fans are at making shit up as well. Seriously, you guys are an exceptional bunch of people. If you haven’t seen what people have been submitting for The Lives of Dexter Peterson contest, here’s a look at some of the entries:

• Conspiracy of the Bulls by Glen Lupher Jr.
• Over My Head by Goldeen Ogawa
• Raindexter by Adam Hoek
• A Slimy Trail of Thought by Max Goof
• The Wronged Queen by Sarah Lander
• Unintended Consequences by Robbert Moore
• Whiskers and War Wounds by Wyatt
• 2,000 Years of Peace by Runtt
• You Just Lost the Game by Steven Shiroma

Seriously, check this shit out. And if you’re a graphic/photo/video artist, please help these cats (and yourself) win a copy of the album/novella by adding some artwork to go along with the journals!

Entry by Steven Shiroma. This entry needs artwork!

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,577 different people.

When one awakes it is often to the sound of an alarm clock, a cell phone, a door bell, or some other device designed to grab attention; however that luxury is lost when the time and place one wakes up in lacks the technological advancement. As such I woke up today not to an alarm, but to a person “asking” me a question.

It was rather startling to wake up from a rather pleasant dream of flying (or was it memory?) with a person, he looked to be military of some sort, dressed in thick plate armor topped with a winged and battle scarred helm hiding his face and accompanied by a rather viscous looking blade on his side. The stranger stood in front of me “asking” a question. I stress “asking” because it was not in the normal sense that someone would verbally communicate a question.

You see he never spoke a word, nor did he make any physical gesture. But as soon as I felt him “ask” his question I found myself spouting words unbidden but unable to be held back, my mouth vomiting forth with an overly cheery and car salesman-ish gusto, “Welcome back adventurer! Your reward for that bounty is five royal gold pieces as well as five hundred ee-ex-pee!”

There was a sudden flash of light surrounding this soldieresque figure in front of me before he took off at a full sprint. I don’t mean like a brisk walk or something befitting social standards, this guy RAN out of the room. After he left I felt a little more comfortable, what with no longer being stared down by an nonspeaking, seemingly unsocial character. Even after what I would call the “soldier’s” departure autonomous movement had yet to be granted to my limbs.

Seemingly of their own accord my hands suddenly sprung to life. One which was holding an empty mug the whole time was held firmly still while my other hand which had also been holding a cloth began to polish the already polished mug and kept polishing…and polishing… It seemed in this life I was to remain rooted for the however long it lasted. Thankfully my eyes and head where somewhat motor functional, allowing me to turn my head and direct my vision but speech was still lost to me. Not too long before I figured whereabouts I was.

If the constant glass polishing wasn’t an indicator, the large bar I was permanently rooted behind hinted to the fact that in this life I had become a bartender. The multitude of colored, unlabeled bottles behind me seemed to all be full, all the glasses that sat in rows below the bottles where so spotless and picture perfect it hardly seemed to me that they had been used. There were no patrons currently at the bar and only a few other guests lingered about the dining area of the bar, all standing, a few pacing but they never went very far.

These people gave me the creeps to be honest, they moved in short, repeating movements.

I doubt that those people where as conscious as I was, or maybe they where and like me where unable of vocal communication short of pre defined scripts it seemed from my earlier monologue. Just as I was getting accustomed to this new setting, a female figure ran into what I came to a conclusion as Green’s Tavern, boasted by a large wooden sign I noticed hanging above the bar. As she approached at the same break neck run as the soldier, there was no missing that her manner of clothing was much simpler than that of the previous patron.

She wore leather armor which I presume was homemade, a pair of riding boots, worn gloves and a tattered dark red cloak fluttering in her wake. Instead of a sword a strung bow seemed to be the preferred weapon of this newcomer, firmly grasped in her hand while the quiver was firmly strapped on her back, the flights of the arrows seen poking above her right shoulder. Sadly the hood of her cloak obscured her face this time simply a dark recessed shadow. I just so happened to notice something that had slipped my attention before.

Above this newcomer’s head floated what I could only explain as a small…text box, but in real life. The text written there was simply a name. Alexandria.

She was here and soon she was standing right there in front of me, only a bar separating me and her. I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout, ask her who she was, where she came from, why she was here but nothing came out. Then to my dismay I felt it happen again… I was getting “asked” a question and before I knew it I was gushing with that overly zealous tone, “Welcome back Adventurer! Your reward for that bounty is five royal gold pieces as well as five hundred ee-ex-pee!”

That same golden light enveloped Alexandria, a small “ding” was barely audible but was soon accompanied by more floating next, this box rising with the words “level up!” in it. Before I could even compose myself she was off like a shot, sprinting at full speed out the door and like that she was gone again. All I could do was go back to polishing that glass and await the next patron.

Entry by Runtt. This entry needs artwork!
Note from General Ebel: Obviously, this one ain’t eligible for prizes since Runtt is drumming for the freaking album in the first place. He’s already getting this stuff for free!

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,577 different people.

The alarm clock has gone off for the fifth time. Time to get out of bed. After a nice morning stretch I casually walk to the window. Parting the curtains, I’m astounded to see a city that seems to go on forever into the horizon. Much like the ocean, but visibly active.

The city looks oddly familiar, but different. It reminds me of home from my former life. Who am I now? It felt good to to take a shower for the first time, in what seemed to be a lifetime, without being shot at. I felt a real sense of calm.

My clothes, a grey suit, made from a blend of silk and other fabric, were laid out for me. A white shirt and purple tie accompanied it, with a very nice pair of loafers. A successful business man perhaps? This apartment is cozy. Not too big, not too small. I can take a wild guess and say that it’s a pretty expensive place to live. It looks to have paintings of who could be important people tastefully hung throughout the rooms.

I’m guessing it’s the 20th floor, judging by the view. I fix myself some coffee and pick up the local paper, conveniently slipped under my door. The headline jumped from the front page… 2,000 YEARS OF PEACE

Today, September 11, 4016, marks the two thousandth year of peace since the towers fell, and our city was devastated. Many will gather at the Tower Memorial to remember the history of that day and the resolve our fair country showed during such a dark day in our past, and to celebrate the many centuries of peace that would follow nearly two decades of war. Among the festivities will be performances by local rock bands, the theater district and speeches from the governor, the mayor and various celebrities (to be announced).

Placing the paper down, I sat up, and fixed my tie. There was knock at my door.

“They are ready for you, Mr. Mayor.” I grabbed my overcoat and my speech and walked out of the apartment.