What's the bet the artist is secretly loathing the stick figure nature of his artwork on this perfectly illustrated point...
Hound55 Member
Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!
STATUS: A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing 2 yrs ago
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A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing
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So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
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What's the bet the artist is secretly loathing the stick figure nature of his artwork on this perfectly illustrated point...
A bit of real talk, something that I've been thinking about and that I'm sure has been discussed before: are we placing too much pressure-to-perform on ourselves?
Yes. In fact, I'd go so far as to say 'almost entirely'.
Don't get me wrong; you guys are incredible writers, and I really do love reading your material. But at least from my experience, the pressure to keep up with you all and live up to my own standards means I end up taking longer and longer to get posts out, and I start to develop a mentality of "no post is better than a bad post." That starts becoming a whole negative-feedback-thing, where I feel bad for not posting, so I start writing a post, and then I burn myself out trying to make it perfect, then I end up not posting it, and then I feel bad for not posting, etc.
I stopped aiming for an unattainable perfection long ago. But conversations with others... I'd say this hits the nail on the head perfectly.
While I'm not suggesting we lower our standard of quality, maybe we reduce the expected quantity. Say, five to seven paragraphs per post, something you can knock out relatively quickly and keep the pace going (and make it easier to post multiple times per day). That would hopefully reduce the pressure of feeling like one has to write a chapter of a novel every time one logs in. It'd also hopefully encourage more interaction and collaboration, getting everyone out of the proverbial gates a lot faster, and might allow for more emergent storytelling rather than feeling like we need to have whole complex plots laid out from the start.
I think this will fall short, because I suspect its self-driven and more a case of people trying to 'keep up with the joneses' without factoring in the fact that many of us are harsher with ourselves, than assessing the works of others and/or have higher expectations for ourselves after seeing what others do.
This isn't the situation in my own case, its just been entirely lack of personal time as other aspects of my life grind me into the dirt. But it HAS been the case for me in the past when I was younger. The perfect being the enemy of the good.
In all honesty its a personal problem for each and every one of us, rather than something that could be fixed by rules at the outset, however well-meaning. Because people don't compare their work and production to the rules minimum in most cases, and rather their impression of the works of those around them that they've been reading.
People just need to be aware that everyone would rather read and see something that surpasses their own personal standards which keeps the RP moving, then read the works of an RP which becomes consigned to the scrapheap in a month or two.
And then once you realise you're just appealing to peoples own standards... which are entirely subjective in nature... ultimately, volume becomes more valuable than a handful of masterpieces which appeal to our own sensibilities before the whole thing collapses under its own lack of momentum.
I'm an old man and I've come to realise my bullshit is my bullshit, and at some point I've just got to get over it. Get the thing done.
Or, as a wise Southern philosopher managed to say in more concise terms than I am capable of mustering...
POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOST!
I'd also kinda like to see a more focused scope, having all of the player-characters be in roughly the same place at the same time. If, say, everyone's already a denizen of Gotham City, or a member of the X-Men, or what have you, it might be easier to jump in and start jamming with each other than when everyone has to spend weeks or months establishing their particular lore before venturing out to cross paths. More often than not, that leads to less of a group roleplay and more of a collection of individual fanfics with the occasional crossover.
This is one of the things I liked seeing about one pitch I saw someone working on.
Not even necessarily JUST one city, either... but yeah, limiting the world in scope.
One thought I had was a world with three major cities, and GM posts addressing specific cities in addition to whatever character posts those GMs have.
I'll need a few weeks to get a handle of stuff in my own life, move house and get settled, but yeah, stuff to think about.
While I'm always gonna be the type to hyper-obsess over how I'd reimagine every detail of Superman or Spider-Man (even though you bastards never pick me when I apply for them), I'm also seeing that the familiar approach pretty much always leads to me burning out fast and then feeling bad about getting burned out. Once upon a time, those of us who came over from the old Superherohype forums were able to sustain games for a year or more at a time, and a lot of that was a more rapid-fire output of short-form posts only punctuated with the occasional big one. I think the key to sustainability is the ability to make something a routine, and I think recalibrating to shorter (but still high-quality) posting would be a lot easier to make a routine out of.
I don't disagree with anything I've seen, with the possible exceptio of thinking 'smaller minimums' as a set rule would actually have an impact.
Most of the issues have been pressure applied by the self-driven nature of things.
He snored with his eyes open.
"Hey! Hey! You're not asleep, asshole! I know you heard me!"
Banjo snored louder, the sides of his mouth curled into a broad smile.
"I said 'Put your goddamn seat up!' I know you're awake!"
He made eye contact with the flight attendant, and raised his eyebrows and gestured 'two' mouthing the word and raising his fingers for two of the small bottles of Jack Daniels from her cart. Before returning to snore.
"Hey! I saw that! Put your seat up!"
Banjo curled up and snored, whilst the back of his seat was repeatedly kicked until it did actually rock him to sleep.
The smile never left his face.
It would be the last smile which would be there for quite some time.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The ocean-forced isolation was intense, and was experienced immediately.
As he stepped forward to feel the sea mist hitting him in the face, his first thoughts went to whether bringing the horse here was the humane thing after all.
He'd worn a black band T-shirt repping 'The Vines' and their 'Highly Evolved' album. When the bundle of white scrubs were thrust into his chest, he grimaced. The people doing so offered no conversation. No conversation, they were presumably trained, would lend itself to less argument. Silent arms pointed the way to where they were to progress.
The silence they had been instilled with was a brittle one, however.
Silent until they were very much not. Outbursts were met with quick reprisal.
The exact kind of situation which would normally see Banjo shattered upon the rocks.
But he NEEDED to get in here.
In over twenty years he hadn't needed anyone or anything. But justice didn't exist outside of these walls, and right now that was all he had left.
Justice, a pony, a footlocker full of two decades worth of accumulated shit and a rage which could burn him from the inside out, if permitted.
Zimmerman seemed perplexed by the scrubs, but shrugged and pushed onwards. Assuming it was part of the initial boarding and orientation process, perhaps they took quarantine seriously. These were people isolated from much of the world, maybe they lacked the same immunities to land-borne disease?
They dressed without conflict, Banjo made a mental point of the sterile decor much akin to what he'd seen projected in the Trials.
They loathed the Houses. The Teams.
Was this because they truly believed in individuality? Or was it just more easy to bend and mold a person alone, than when they seek the security of the pack? The strength of collaborative effort?
Now, more than ever, he felt he played his situation with Katja right.
He couldn't see her anywhere, but he hoped she hadn't done anything... well, anything he would do... when going through this 'introduction' herself.
He could think of little more valuable than numbers right now, and began to wonder if the isolation and reputation he'd been more than willing to lean into at P.R.C.U wouldn't bite him in the arse NOW when he might need to be able to find people to trust and depend on, and have those people feel for half a second they could actually trust and depend on him.
Crazy. A joker. A joke.
“When you have changed, please deposit your personal belongings to the right for inspection. Everything that passes inspection will be returned to your assigned room. When you have completed this, please line up for your student identification.”
After a half a second's hesitation he deposited the contents of his pockets where directed.
I just got this bloody phone...
It mattered not. He NEEDED to get in, after all. It raised his blood, but he wasn't going to have it be a sticking point.
“Please place your left wrist in the hole to your left, underside facing up.” He heard the attendant utter, further ahead in the queue.
“Next.” The delivery flat as a tack.
All within the line took their turns, having pain inflicted upon them, grabbing the hand at the wrist on the way out. Next. Ahead of him in the line, he spotted it.
A barcode. Burnt into the flesh.
The person ahead of him stepped forward with no small amount of anxiety, she tried to resist and her arm was thrust within.
“Next.”
"Alright, hold up... Are we talkin' a brand here, or some kind of laser? I'm not resistin'--"
His arm was grabbed and stuffed in the hole. He made no effort to struggle. "--I'm not resistin'. I'm just askin' cos I don't want my powers to trigger on instinct and make ya have ta-- Hnng!"
The laser started burning his skin.
"Do it twice... Never mind. Laser, eh?" He stuffed his tongue deep in his cheek, and screwfaced.
The boy who was burned repeatedly by the sadistic teacher of his youth wouldn't permit him to make anymore disruption than the initial surprise of when the laser hit his flesh. It took a concerted effort to not juice and absorb all the heat of an implement like a cigar, cigarette or branding iron, but the concentrated heat of the laser seemd more than he would have been able to take on even if he was ready.
This was just another burn. Another power-hungry teacher. Another sadist. The role bred a will to power, why would Banjo ever be surprised?
It burnt. More than the cigarettes. More than the cigar. But he refused to let it be anything more than just another burn.
“Next.”
He wouldn't grab his wrist. He wouldn't whimper. He turned his hand to check the print and the ten digit number they'd denoted him with and then a horrible thought drifted across his mind.
I'm gonna have to do this all bloody over again, when juicin' makes the scar tissue fade, aren't I?
The burning took a nagging tone, ever antagonising the front of his mind. Reminding him of its existence, the way pain only could. But refusing to dwell he stepped forward into the common space, somewhere behind him his roommates were being processed, but his attention needed to be here now.
His eyes scanned the upper deck and the faces of Foundation regulars who were curious about what the newcomers from P.R.C.U had to offer and it took Banjo's complete attention. He kept scanning the faces, committing them to memory.
If Daedalus had no knowledge of where Haven was going, and was still somewhere within the Foundation, wouldn't he take an interest in every dropoff of new students in case she numbered amongst them?
If that was the case, would he be amongst them?
He considered it unlikely... but not necessarily someone who might work for him.
The thread which would lead back to the man.
His face held no humour, no mirth. Eyes that looked like they could burn a barcode into a man, scoured those raised in assembly. More than a few directed their attention elsewhere, either finding him disconcerting or not fit for purpose.
"Whoa... That's them!"
The voice came from behind him. Zimmerman had presumably finished being processed, and was distracted enough by some large banners featuring the pride of the Foundation, that he'd forgotten all about whatever pain he'd just endured.
"I-- uh--- probably should have warned you about that. The comics used to use like these communicards that the Force had to confirm their ID and stuff, but I mean... they're comics. I'd read that wasn't what they go with in a letters section, but-- well-- yeah. Sorry."
If Zimmerman was in anyway disturbed by the reality which surrounded them, it didn't show at all on his face.
Banjo wasn't sure if that was something to be comforted by, or very much not.
Banjo looked back up to the upper deck after the brief distraction and saw some faces missing. He furrowed his brow and tried to figure out who had left. Had Daedalus' man not seen who they were looking for and gone to pass the message on that Haven wasn't in this load of students either? Or had he gone to tell him about the presence of another? Or was it just coincidental... an irrelevancy.
“Keep it moving!” The yell came from behind them, another attendant directing them out of the common space.
“You’re to report to temporary holding.” He ordered, “Solitary until evaluations are complete. When the door opens, you’re free to report to your quarters.”
Solitary... I could do solitary standing on my head. Doin' me a favour, takin' me away from these other jokers and givin' me time to think about everythin'.
The path ahead gave way to a hallway with a series of doors on either side.
Only about a metre between the centre of each door.
Something about this... didn't seem right, Banjo realised.
The mathematics, unless some're deeper and then wind around... with different antechambers. There's not enough--
A door was opened and he was directed inside.
Oh you miserable bloody arsewipes...
The boy in the box entered, and turned and sat on the bench in his metre squared recession. To call it a room would have been to do these Foundation fucks a service they had not earned.
Seconds later the lights went out. Terror and darkness enveloped the boy in the box.
It had been twenty years. He couldn't hush his breathing anymore, as the darkness swept through, poured in like a torrent.
His voice made an ugly wheezing noise, that sounded like it was coming from outside of him.
"Banjo-- Banjo, are you OK?" Came a voice ever in need of being helpful.
But it was imagined, wasn't it? It had to be. This was soundproofed. And if he knew anything in this world he knew that the darkness lied.
The darkness lied and it had a cruel laugh. It had horns.
It just wanted to see his weakness. To find it so it could mock and exploit it.
He--he couldn't breathe! The darkness was too thick! Like treacle, it oozed. It wasn't breathable! It was--
He pressed himself up against the sides of the box and wheezed.
Fuck! You! You Fuckin' Fucks!
His breath scraped and rasped as he wheezed. Trying to kill him?
The darkness held cruel mirth and would devour--
No.
His breathing didn't sharpen or clear, but his mind came back into focus.
THIS darkness doesn't have a presence.
He wheezed, but he'd live.
THIS darkness doesn't have horns.
He'd hate it, but he needed it. He needed what it would get him.
THIS darkness wasn't lying. Wasn't looking to mock and break him.
With teeth gritted, the boy in the box beared down.
Banjo didn't peek. He threw himself to the darkness. He ran the faces in the upper deck and tried to remmeber who was missing the second time.
Trying to draw clarity of thought from a moment of distraction, or distraction from a moment clear of thought.
All the while Banjo worked, trying to keep one thought from worming its way into his skull.
...that they never said how long this evaluation would take.
"Hey! Hey! You're not asleep, asshole! I know you heard me!"
Banjo snored louder, the sides of his mouth curled into a broad smile.
"I said 'Put your goddamn seat up!' I know you're awake!"
He made eye contact with the flight attendant, and raised his eyebrows and gestured 'two' mouthing the word and raising his fingers for two of the small bottles of Jack Daniels from her cart. Before returning to snore.
"Hey! I saw that! Put your seat up!"
Banjo curled up and snored, whilst the back of his seat was repeatedly kicked until it did actually rock him to sleep.
The smile never left his face.
It would be the last smile which would be there for quite some time.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Former P.R.C.U transfers to The Foundation
Previously: Do You See What I See? / Nothing Left to Burn
The ocean-forced isolation was intense, and was experienced immediately.
As he stepped forward to feel the sea mist hitting him in the face, his first thoughts went to whether bringing the horse here was the humane thing after all.
He'd worn a black band T-shirt repping 'The Vines' and their 'Highly Evolved' album. When the bundle of white scrubs were thrust into his chest, he grimaced. The people doing so offered no conversation. No conversation, they were presumably trained, would lend itself to less argument. Silent arms pointed the way to where they were to progress.
The silence they had been instilled with was a brittle one, however.
Silent until they were very much not. Outbursts were met with quick reprisal.
The exact kind of situation which would normally see Banjo shattered upon the rocks.
But he NEEDED to get in here.
In over twenty years he hadn't needed anyone or anything. But justice didn't exist outside of these walls, and right now that was all he had left.
Justice, a pony, a footlocker full of two decades worth of accumulated shit and a rage which could burn him from the inside out, if permitted.
Zimmerman seemed perplexed by the scrubs, but shrugged and pushed onwards. Assuming it was part of the initial boarding and orientation process, perhaps they took quarantine seriously. These were people isolated from much of the world, maybe they lacked the same immunities to land-borne disease?
They dressed without conflict, Banjo made a mental point of the sterile decor much akin to what he'd seen projected in the Trials.
They loathed the Houses. The Teams.
Was this because they truly believed in individuality? Or was it just more easy to bend and mold a person alone, than when they seek the security of the pack? The strength of collaborative effort?
Now, more than ever, he felt he played his situation with Katja right.
He couldn't see her anywhere, but he hoped she hadn't done anything... well, anything he would do... when going through this 'introduction' herself.
He could think of little more valuable than numbers right now, and began to wonder if the isolation and reputation he'd been more than willing to lean into at P.R.C.U wouldn't bite him in the arse NOW when he might need to be able to find people to trust and depend on, and have those people feel for half a second they could actually trust and depend on him.
Crazy. A joker. A joke.
“When you have changed, please deposit your personal belongings to the right for inspection. Everything that passes inspection will be returned to your assigned room. When you have completed this, please line up for your student identification.”
After a half a second's hesitation he deposited the contents of his pockets where directed.
I just got this bloody phone...
It mattered not. He NEEDED to get in, after all. It raised his blood, but he wasn't going to have it be a sticking point.
“Please place your left wrist in the hole to your left, underside facing up.” He heard the attendant utter, further ahead in the queue.
“Next.” The delivery flat as a tack.
All within the line took their turns, having pain inflicted upon them, grabbing the hand at the wrist on the way out. Next. Ahead of him in the line, he spotted it.
A barcode. Burnt into the flesh.
The person ahead of him stepped forward with no small amount of anxiety, she tried to resist and her arm was thrust within.
“Next.”
"Alright, hold up... Are we talkin' a brand here, or some kind of laser? I'm not resistin'--"
His arm was grabbed and stuffed in the hole. He made no effort to struggle. "--I'm not resistin'. I'm just askin' cos I don't want my powers to trigger on instinct and make ya have ta-- Hnng!"
The laser started burning his skin.
"Do it twice... Never mind. Laser, eh?" He stuffed his tongue deep in his cheek, and screwfaced.
The boy who was burned repeatedly by the sadistic teacher of his youth wouldn't permit him to make anymore disruption than the initial surprise of when the laser hit his flesh. It took a concerted effort to not juice and absorb all the heat of an implement like a cigar, cigarette or branding iron, but the concentrated heat of the laser seemd more than he would have been able to take on even if he was ready.
This was just another burn. Another power-hungry teacher. Another sadist. The role bred a will to power, why would Banjo ever be surprised?
It burnt. More than the cigarettes. More than the cigar. But he refused to let it be anything more than just another burn.
“Next.”
He wouldn't grab his wrist. He wouldn't whimper. He turned his hand to check the print and the ten digit number they'd denoted him with and then a horrible thought drifted across his mind.
I'm gonna have to do this all bloody over again, when juicin' makes the scar tissue fade, aren't I?
The burning took a nagging tone, ever antagonising the front of his mind. Reminding him of its existence, the way pain only could. But refusing to dwell he stepped forward into the common space, somewhere behind him his roommates were being processed, but his attention needed to be here now.
His eyes scanned the upper deck and the faces of Foundation regulars who were curious about what the newcomers from P.R.C.U had to offer and it took Banjo's complete attention. He kept scanning the faces, committing them to memory.
If Daedalus had no knowledge of where Haven was going, and was still somewhere within the Foundation, wouldn't he take an interest in every dropoff of new students in case she numbered amongst them?
If that was the case, would he be amongst them?
He considered it unlikely... but not necessarily someone who might work for him.
The thread which would lead back to the man.
His face held no humour, no mirth. Eyes that looked like they could burn a barcode into a man, scoured those raised in assembly. More than a few directed their attention elsewhere, either finding him disconcerting or not fit for purpose.
"Whoa... That's them!"
The voice came from behind him. Zimmerman had presumably finished being processed, and was distracted enough by some large banners featuring the pride of the Foundation, that he'd forgotten all about whatever pain he'd just endured.
"I-- uh--- probably should have warned you about that. The comics used to use like these communicards that the Force had to confirm their ID and stuff, but I mean... they're comics. I'd read that wasn't what they go with in a letters section, but-- well-- yeah. Sorry."
If Zimmerman was in anyway disturbed by the reality which surrounded them, it didn't show at all on his face.
Banjo wasn't sure if that was something to be comforted by, or very much not.
Banjo looked back up to the upper deck after the brief distraction and saw some faces missing. He furrowed his brow and tried to figure out who had left. Had Daedalus' man not seen who they were looking for and gone to pass the message on that Haven wasn't in this load of students either? Or had he gone to tell him about the presence of another? Or was it just coincidental... an irrelevancy.
“Keep it moving!” The yell came from behind them, another attendant directing them out of the common space.
“You’re to report to temporary holding.” He ordered, “Solitary until evaluations are complete. When the door opens, you’re free to report to your quarters.”
Solitary... I could do solitary standing on my head. Doin' me a favour, takin' me away from these other jokers and givin' me time to think about everythin'.
The path ahead gave way to a hallway with a series of doors on either side.
Only about a metre between the centre of each door.
Something about this... didn't seem right, Banjo realised.
The mathematics, unless some're deeper and then wind around... with different antechambers. There's not enough--
A door was opened and he was directed inside.
Oh you miserable bloody arsewipes...
The boy in the box entered, and turned and sat on the bench in his metre squared recession. To call it a room would have been to do these Foundation fucks a service they had not earned.
Seconds later the lights went out. Terror and darkness enveloped the boy in the box.
It had been twenty years. He couldn't hush his breathing anymore, as the darkness swept through, poured in like a torrent.
His voice made an ugly wheezing noise, that sounded like it was coming from outside of him.
"Banjo-- Banjo, are you OK?" Came a voice ever in need of being helpful.
But it was imagined, wasn't it? It had to be. This was soundproofed. And if he knew anything in this world he knew that the darkness lied.
The darkness lied and it had a cruel laugh. It had horns.
It just wanted to see his weakness. To find it so it could mock and exploit it.
He--he couldn't breathe! The darkness was too thick! Like treacle, it oozed. It wasn't breathable! It was--
He pressed himself up against the sides of the box and wheezed.
Fuck! You! You Fuckin' Fucks!
His breath scraped and rasped as he wheezed. Trying to kill him?
The darkness held cruel mirth and would devour--
No.
His breathing didn't sharpen or clear, but his mind came back into focus.
THIS darkness doesn't have a presence.
He wheezed, but he'd live.
THIS darkness doesn't have horns.
He'd hate it, but he needed it. He needed what it would get him.
THIS darkness wasn't lying. Wasn't looking to mock and break him.
With teeth gritted, the boy in the box beared down.
Banjo didn't peek. He threw himself to the darkness. He ran the faces in the upper deck and tried to remmeber who was missing the second time.
Trying to draw clarity of thought from a moment of distraction, or distraction from a moment clear of thought.
All the while Banjo worked, trying to keep one thought from worming its way into his skull.
...that they never said how long this evaluation would take.
Sounds like several of you have tentative thoughts forming. Maybe getting together and working on something cohesive would have a better chance of succeeding.
You mean... some kind of... collaborative writing..?
...it'll never catch on.
<Snipped quote by Retired>
Because the veil has been lifted. We no longer feel the pressure of 'oh we better not post in the OOC cause I don't have time to post and I don't want to feel/look bad
I'd have to be capable of experiencing shame first.
Also quite a difference between banter and writing a post.
Also true.
Is it sad that the most active this thread has been in over a month is after the RP has been declared dead? That probably says something.
Ehhhhhh... not necessarily.
Bottlenecked in an event situation where people were waiting on advancement. Doesn't necessarily mean a lack of interest, just a lot of standing, watching and waiting. RL gets involved.
Something to learn from, sure. But not necessarily anything as negative as a lack of interest.
<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>
I've seen worse.
Pick myself a VP that galvanises me against assassination...
@Hound55 I'd be happy to co-GM something if you need a co-GM.
I reckon I'll be alright. Just figuring stuff out now.
<Snipped quote by Sep>
You say that like it's a bad thing. I still have the Skype chat logs from a dozen years ago; current versions of the members of this community are an improvement over past models.
I'm still buggy. They're just different bugs.
Except for the original bugs I couldn't figure out, which I now call "features".
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