A few months ago, I got an ARC of my friend Cherie's forthcoming Steampunk book, Boneshaker. I've raved about it all over the place, so allow me to just sum up without repeating myself too much: it's awesome. I loved everything about it, and I can't wait for it to come out so the rest of the world can read it an understand why I loved it as much as I did. (See an early version of the cover here.)
Boneshaker is one of four stories that are all set in this cool steampunk alternate history world that Cherie calls The Clockwork Century. I just read on Cherie's Livejournal that she created a website for that world, which is cleverly called TheClockworkCentury.com. She says:
The Clockwork Century
will be updated periodically with artwork from the series, including
maps and future book covers, publication and release information,
progress on upcoming projects, and anything else even marginally
pertinent to the universe.
If I may channel my inner Flounder for just a moment: "This is going to be great!"
There are two ways that I can commemorate Patrick Stewart's birthday, today.
The first:
And the second, which comes in two parts. The first part should illustrate how awesome Patrick is, and why I like him so much. The second part should remove any lingering doubt.
This is from Chapter Seven of Just A Geek, which is titled A Sort of Homecoming. It recalls a convention appearance I did with Patrick, Jonathan and Brent in 2001. Wow, 2001 … was I really just 29 when I wrote this? I guess I was.
A deep, commanding voice bounced off the marble floor of the hallway, and filled the room before its creator crossed the threshold.
“Are there Star Trek people in this room?” it boomed, “I just love those Star Trek people!”
We all turned to the door, as Patrick Stewart walked in.
Patrick is one of the most disarming people I've ever met. If you only know him as Captain Picard, or Professor Xavier, his mirthful exuberance is shocking. Patrick is one of the most professional and talented actors I've ever known, but he's also one of the most fun.
“Bob Goulet? I haven't seen you in ages, man! You look great!” he said to Brent, and hugged him.
“Jonathan Frakes! I am a big fan,” he smiled at Jonny and hugged him to.
He turned to me. “Who are you? You look familiar, but . . . I can't place you.”
“Wil Wheaton, Mr. Stewart,” I said.
He looked thoughtful for a moment and shook his head. “I'm sorry, but it doesn't ring a bell.”
“I was Wesley on Next Generation,” I said.
“Get out! You were never that young!” he said.
“Oh, but I was, sir,” I replied, solemnly, “I believe we spent some time in a shuttlecraft together.”
He nodded slowly, but remained unconvinced. “Go on . . .”
“That's all I've got, man,” I laughed.
“Wil, darling, you look wonderful.” he said with a huge smile. He held his arms wide, and pulled me into a warm embrace. “I am so happy to see you!”
He held me at arm's length, and looked at me. Even though Patrick and I are the same height, I felt, like always, that he towered above me.
“You too,” I said.
*******
This is also from Chapter 7 of Just a Geek. This excerpt picks up right as I’m about to wrap shooting on Nemesis.
The day is a blurred composite of images, and no matter how hard I try, I can't get my brain to separate them into individual memories. All I can clearly recall is how I spent the day spiraling around the Yin and Yang of joy and sorrow, until the director called cut on the final take.
"Thank you, everyone!" The First AD called out, "That is a company wrap for today, and picture wrap for Wil Wheaton!"
There was some polite applause from the crew, who really didn't know me, and some very genuine applause from Patrick and Gates, the only cast members who were still on the stage. They walked over, and embraced me. We knew that this was the real Journey's End for me and Wesley Crusher, but we didn't talk about it.
"I'm going to walk back," Patrick said to me. "Would you like to walk together?"
"I'd like that a lot," I said.
It was late, but not nearly as late as it had been the night before, and it was very cold as we walked through the "New York Street" area of the back lot.
"Remember when they built this for Bronx Zoo?" I said. "I used to come over here and pretend it was real."
Patrick slowed, then stopped. A huge arclight towered over us. Apple boxes and cables ran into the facade of a deli, and someone had left a styrofoam cup half-filled with coffee on the window ledge.
"When I first came here to audition for Next Generation," he said, "I didn't know if I'd ever get a chance to be on a backlot again, so I left the casting office, and spent nearly an hour's time walking round here."
He began to walk again.
"That's so weird," I said. "I mean . . . here you are, fifteen years later."
He smiled. "I know. I remember worrying that the security department would catch me, and I'd end up in a great deal of trouble!"
We laughed together.
"I've lost count of the number of times I had run-ins with the security department." I said. "Most of them involved dangerously speeding around the lot in a 'borrowed' golf cart, or playing music too loudly in my dressing room.
"I wish I'd been able to hang out with you guys when we were doing this every day," I said.
"Oh, my dear, you missed out on a great deal of fun!" His voice became excited. "The late Friday nights when we'd close down Nickodell's [A restaurant that used to be on Melrose, with a backdoor that opened right onto the Paramount lot. It was bulldozed for "progress" in the 1990s] were great!"
"Can I tell you something?" I said.
"Of course," he said.
"I really blew it when I was here before. I should have treasured the experience that I had working with you guys, and I didn't. I'm really sorry that I was such a dick when I was a teenager."
He stopped again, and put his hand on my shoulder. "Wil, my dear, you were a teenager. We all understood."
"Really?"
"Yes. And when we worked together, I always related to you as an actor, first, and you were a lovely actor. You know, I wasn't thrilled about working with a child, but working with you was a great pleasure."
What do you say to that? How do you respond, when it comes from the man who was, for all intents and purposes, a father figure, mentor, role model, and hero? If you're me, you say, "I'm so sad that this is over for me."
"So am I," he said we began to walk again. As we turned the corner and neared stages 8 and 9, I saw someone come out of the stage.
"Hey! That's Brad Yacobian!" I said.
"It is!" Patrick said. "Hello! Brad!"
Brad started as a First AD on Next Generation, and has worked on all the incarnations of Star Trek since then. He was working as the co-producer and unit production manager on Enterprise.
"Hey you guys," he said. "Are you just wrapping?"
"Oh yes. It's Thursday, you know." Patrick said. Brad smiled a knowing smile, and I laughed. See, production usually starts out with early calls on Monday, but the Screen Actor's Guild requires a 12 hour break for the actors between their release, and the next day's call time. So if we start at 8, but don't wrap until 10, we won't start until 10 the next day, and so on. This doesn't happen very often, because it's very expensive for the studios, and if a show isn't starting until the afternoon on Thursday, it usually means that the director is incompetent, the schedule is very complicated, or a little of both.
"Director
or schedule?" Brad said.
"Schedule," Patrick said. He pronounced it with a soft "ch" sound, like "shelf." I suppressed a giggle.
"Who's working tonight?" I asked, hoping the answer would be "Jolene Blalock, and she wants to see you without your pants in her trailer right now."
Brad looked at his call sheet. "I think Scott is still here –"
"Is he in his trailer?" Patrick asked.
"Yeah. You want to say hello?" Brad said.
Oh my god. I'm going to stand with Patrick while he talks to Scott Bakula!
"I'd like to, yes."
Brad walked us to Scott's trailer. It was in the same place where Patrick's trailer was so many years ago.
That's a little weird.
He rapped twice on the door, and from behind it, a muffled voice emerged. "Yeah?"
"Scott, it's Brad. I have someone here who wants to say 'hello.'"
I thought back to all the times I heard this when I was on the other side of that door, and felt a little uncomfortable. The door opened, and there was Scott Bakula, in that cool Enterprise jumpsuit.
"Hey, Patrick! How are you?" He said. Oh . . . they know each other. Interesting.
"I'm well," he said. "Scott, this is Wil Wheaton, he plays Wesley Crusher."
Plays Wesley, not played Wesley. That was cool.
He extended his hand and I shook it.
"It's really nice to meet you," I said. "How are you guys doing?"
"It's Thursday night," he said with a tired grin.
"Some things never change, I guess, " I said.
We all laughed.
"Listen, Scott," Patrick said. "I've been on and off the lot for several weeks now, and I should have come over much sooner to say hello to you."
"Thank you," Scott said. "I've seen you pass by several times, but I've always been too busy to say hello myself."
They talked for several minutes about the things that you talk about, I guess, when you're the captain of the Enterprise. I remember Patrick said, "You're doing a wonderful job," and I realized that he was having the conversation with Scott that Shatner should have had with him in 1987; he was passing the torch to — well, to the next generation.
I looked at Brad, and before either one of us could say anything, his walkie said, "We're ready for First Team on the bridge." How many times had I stood in this exact spot, and heard those exact words, over the years?
"Gotta go to work," he said. "I'm so glad you stopped by. I'll come over and visit you . . . are you on 16?"
"Shortly," Patrick said. "We're on 29 until tomorrow, then location."
Scott shook my hand. "It was nice to meet you."
"You too."
"Have a good night, you guys," Brad said, as they walked into the stage. He keyed his walkie and said, "I have Scott, and we're walking . . . "
I turned to Patrick. "That was very cool, man."
Patrick just nodded.
We arrived back at the dressing rooms. My trailer was farther away than his, so I said, "I guess this is goodbye."
Hey, remember when I posted stuff in my blog every day and we all had a good time while learning? It's a distant memory, but if you squint, you may be able to pick it up.
Anyway. It's summer, I've been working on awesome projects that I can't talk about, finishing up awesome projects that I've talked about a lot already (Memories of the Future, special edition of Happiest Days, etc.), and since Ryan came home from school and I have my whole family together under one roof again, I'm not especially motivated to stay at my computer after I'm done working, you know?
To close some tabs, though, please enjoy these things that are all related:
Author Boyd Morrison sold two books, the first one called The Ark, to Simon & Schuster. Boyd uploaded and sold the books himself and raised awareness for his novels by being a member of Kindle Boards and generally self-promoting.
He will be published in hardcover in 2010 and is working on his next book featuring swashbuckling adventurer Tyler Locke.
Kick ass, Boyd Morrison! I hope your experience in traditional publishing is better than mine was, and I hope you'll keep your fellow authors informed about your experience.
Bestselling novelist Michael Stackpole says he's making great money
selling fiction directly off his site; he doesn't worry about pirates,
"People downloading my stories from the big torrent sites were never
going to buy them anyway. It's no money out of my pocket."
I have a similar philosophy, and I consider myself tremendously lucky to have the kind of relationship with my customers that I do.
I hadn't read any of Wil's books, and "Sunken Treasure" seemed like a
good place to sample his writing. My favorite chapters were those about
his childhood – the bad Star Wars trade, the arcade games, auditions.
There's something about the way he captures the true sense of those
times and weaves in pop cultural references so naturally. In those
chapters, I forgot I was reading and was totally drawn into the
storytelling. It felt like being there. I also liked the chapter which
was an on-set diary about a recent acting job – a very open and
engaging account of how it happens and what it's like.
Wil's writing is very honest, clever, vulnerable, raw, and
unprocessed. He's not afraid to show his doubts or fears, and he's not
embarrassed to share his highs. It makes him very real and very
likeable. After reading this sampler, I wanted to know more about him.
Finally, I simply appreciate the fact that this is an independently
published work. I think a lot of people shy away from self-published
books because they're concerned about unchecked quality. The writing
here is terrific and there is a feel of integrity and control in
presenting it.
So…yeah, that's pretty awesome. I love it that so many readers enjoy
Sunken Treasure, and the biggest complaint is that it leaves people
wanting to read more (kind of the idea, but don't tell anyone I said
that, okay?)
This morning, Twitter user @KenMcConnellsaid: "Wil (@wilw) Wheaton's Sunken Treasure used on Scribd page for ad copy. Cool for him! http://bit.ly/19Y18W" I grabbed a screenshot, because it's one of those things I kind of want to remember when I'm in the adult diapers stage of my life. If I haven't kicked the everlivingshit out of this dead horse, allow me to take a few more whacks (slow, then fast): publishing with Lulu has been a fantastic experience for me. It's easy, the quality of the final product is fantastic, and it frees me up to do the creative stuff I couldn't do when I was fulfilling orders in my living room with the occasional help from my friends and family. If you're considering publishing, I suggest you give Lulu serious consideration.
When I was in Portland, working on Leverage, I spent all of my non-acting time writing stories. When I wasn't writing, I hung out with John Rogers and talked about writing stories. I'm not sure if I grew a level, but definitely gained a whole lot of XP: I wrote a short story that I love (to be released in the near future after I give it a second draft and Andrew applies the Red Pen of Doom) and began work on another that shows at least some promise.
Ryan just wandered out of his room and sat down next to me on the couch with his laptop.
"Dude, you have to see this!" He said, pointing to something on the screen.
"Who is this is?" I said, glancing up from my own laptop.
Anne and I went to the grocery store this afternoon. When it was time to get the orange juice, there was only one left, and it was way in the back of the cooler.
I reached in really far to get it, and as I did, Anne began to sing the chorus from Take On Me.
If you follow me on Twitter, you already know this*, but even if you do, I'm telling you this story right now because it's a perfect excuse to point out, once again, that my wife is awesome. It is also a perfect excuse to repost the Literal Version of Take On Me, which is almost as awesome as she is.
This was originally written and published on July 5, 2002, which simultaneously feels like years and days ago.
When I was growing up, we always spent Fourth of July with my father's aunt and uncle, at their fabulous house in Toluca Lake.
It was always a grand affair and I looked forward to spending each Independence Day listening to Sousa marches, swimming in their enormous pool and watching a fireworks show on the back patio.
This fireworks display was always exciting because we were in the middle of LA County, where even the most banal of fireworks – the glow worms – are highly illegal and carried severe fines and the threat of imprisonment, should we be discovered by LA's finest. The excitement of watching the beautiful cascade of sparks and color pouring out of a Happy Flower With Report was enhanced by the knowledge that we were doing something forbidden and subversive.
Yes, even as a child I was already on my way to being a dangerous subversive. Feel free to talk to any of my middle-school teachers if you doubt me.
Each year, the older children, usually teenagers and college-aged, would be chosen to light the fireworks and create the display for the rest of the family.
I was Chosen in 1987, three weeks before my fifteenth birthday.
The younger cousins, with whom I'd sat for so many years, would now watch me the way we'd watched Tommy, Bobby, Richard and Crazy Cousin Bruce, who always brought highly illegal firecrackers up from Mexico.
I was going to be a man in the eyes of my family.
This particular 4th of July was also memorable because it was the first 4th that was celebrated post-Stand By Me and at the time I had become something of a mini-celebrity around the family. Uncles who had never talked to me before were asking me to sign autographs for people at work, older cousins who had bullied me for years were proclaiming me “cool,” and I was the recipient of a lot of unexpected attention.
I was initially excited to get all this newfound attention, because I'd always wanted to impress my dad's family and make my dad proud, but deep down I felt like it was all a sham. I was the same awkward kid I'd always been and they were treating me differently because of celebrity, which I had already realized was fleeting and bullshit.
Looking back on it now, I think the invitation to light fireworks may have had less to do with my age than it had to do with my growing fame . . . but I didn't care. Fame is fleeting . . . but it can get a guy some cool stuff from time to time, you know? I allowed myself to believe that it was just a coincidence.
The day passed as it always did. There were sack races, basket ball games and water balloon tosses, all of which I participated in, but with a certain impatience. These yearly events were always fun, to be sure, but they were standing directly between me and the glorious excitement of pyrotechnic bliss.
Finally, the sun began to set. Lawn chairs were arranged around the patio, wet swimsuits were traded for warm, dry clothes, and I bid my brother and sister farewell as I joined my fellow firework lighters near the corner of the house. I walked casually, like someone who had done this hundreds of times before.
As the sun sank lower and lower, sparklers were passed out to everyone, even the younger children. I politely declined, my mind absolutely focused on the coming display. I wanted to make a big impression on the family. I was going to start out with something amazing, which would really grab their attention. I'd start with some groundflowers, then a Piccolo Pete and a sparkling cone. From then on, I'd just improvise with the older cousins, following their lead as we worked together to weave a spectacular tapestry of burning phosphor and gunpowder for five generations of family.
Dusk arrived, the family was seated, and the great display began. Some of the veteran fireworks lighters went first, setting off some cascading fountains and a pinwheel. The assembled audience cheered and gasped its collective approval, and it was my turn.
I steeled myself and walked to the center of the large patio, casually kicking aside the still-hot remains of just-fired fountains. Casually, like someone who had done this hundreds of times before.
My hands trembled slightly, as I picked up three ground flowers that I'd wound together. My thumb struck flint and released flaming butane. I lit the fuse and became a man. The sparkling fire raced toward the ignition point and rather than following the directions to “LIGHT FUSE, PUT ON GROUND AND GET AWAY,” I did something incredibly stupid: I casually tossed the now-flaming bundle of pyrotechnics on the ground. Casually, like someone who'd done this hundreds of times before.
The bundle of flowers rolled quickly across the patio, toward my captive and appreciative audience.
Two of the flowers ignited and began their magical dance of colorful fire on the cement, while the third continued to roll, coming to rest in the grass beneath the chair of a particularly old and close-to-death great-great-great aunt.
The colored flame which was creating such a beautiful and harmless display on the patio was spraying directly at this particular matriarch, the jet of flame licking obscenely at the bottom of the chair.
The world was instantly reduced to a few sounds: My own heartbeat in my ears, the screams of the children seated near my great-great-great aunt and the unmistakable zip of the now-dying flowers on the patio.
I don't know what happened, but somehow my great-great-great aunt, who'd managed to survive every war of the 20th century, managed to also survive this great mistake of mine. She was helped to her feet and she laughed.
Unfortunately, she was the only one who was laughing. One of my dad's cousins, who was well into his 20s and never attended family gatherings accompanied by the same date, sternly ripped the lighter from my hand and ordered me back to the lawn, to sit with the other children. Maybe I could try again next year, when I was “more responsible and not such a careless idiot."
I was crushed. My moment in the family spotlight was over before it had even begun and not even the glow of pseudocelebrity could save me.
I carefully avoided eye contact, as I walked slowly, humiliated and embarrassed, back to the lawn, where I tried not to cry. I know the rest of the show unfolded before me, but I don't remember it. All I could see was a mental replay of the bundle of ground flowers rolling across the patio. If that one rogue firework hadn't split off from its brothers, I thought, I would still be up there for the finale, which always featured numerous pinwheels and a Chinese lantern.
When the show was over, I was too embarrassed to apologize and I raced away before the patio lights could come on. I spent the rest of the evening in the front yard, waiting to go home.
The following year I was firmly within the grip of sullen teenage angst and spent most of the festivities with my face planted firmly in a book -Foundation or something, most likely- and I watched the fireworks show with the calculated disinterest of a 15-year-old.
That teenage angst held me in its grasp for the next few years and I even skipped a year or two, opting to attend some parties where there were girls who I looked at, but never had the courage to talk to.
By the time I had achieved escape velocity from my petulant teenage years, Aunt Betty and Uncle Dick had sold the house and 4th of July would never happen with them again.
The irony is not lost on me, that I wanted so badly to show them all how grown up I was, only to behave more childishly than ever the following years.
This 4th of July, I sat on the roof of my friend Darin's house with Anne and the boys and watched fireworks from the high school. Nolan held my hand and Ryan leaned against me as we watched the Chamber of Commerce create magic in the sky over
La Crescenta.
I thought back to that day, 15 years ago and once again I saw the groundflower roll under that chair and try to ignite great-great-great aunt whatever her name was.
Then I looked down at Nolan's smiling face, illuminated in flashes of color.
"This is so cool, Wil!” he declared, “Thanks for bringing us to watch this."
"Just be glad you're on a roof and not in a lawn chair,” I told him.
"Why?"
"Well . . . ” I began to tell him the story, but we were distracted by a particularly spectacular aerial flower of light and sparks.
In that moment, I realized that no matter how hard I try, I will never get back that day in 1987, nor will I get to relive the sullen years afterward . . . but I do get to sit on the roof with my wife and her boys now and enjoy 4th of July as a step-dad . . . at least until the kids hit the sullen years themselves.
Then I'm going to sit them in lawn chairs and force them to watch me light groundflowers.