How to Write a Forward

Today, whilst I was reading a forward passed on to me by my mother (thanks, ma), I came upon a conundrum: where do forwards come from? I mean, we’ve all seen them (most of us more often than we’d like) and many of us have even ashamedly passed them on, but who exactly starts these soul-sucking, time-depriving monstrosities that flood our inboxes day in and day out? I didn’t have the slightest idea, so I began to research what I have dubbed the “Forward Phenomena”—going back over those few forwards I have left in my inbox and reviewing others online. What I found may shock you…

Human beings, actual human beings create these things (I know, I’m appalled too). In fact, there exists in our world today a small secret society, well versed in the delicate craft of forward creation, whose sole purpose is to devote endless time and energy to the development and subsequent mass dispersal of these email messages. With unrelenting sadism, they crank these suckers out in hopes of pulling us away from our more pressing messages and our regular responsibilities, thus wearing on our sanity and draining us slowly of our will to live.

Well, I say the realm of forwards has been held in the iron clutches of this exclusivist society for far too long. It’s time for us to take our lives and our inboxes back! How do we do that, you ask? Simple—we fight impersonal monotony with impersonal monotony! If we each develop a forward of our own, we can come together to barrage the inboxes of those merciless forward-writers, bringing down their massive servers and forcing them up from their mothers’ basements and into the light of day! Are you with me?!

If you’re ready to join me in mounting a resistance to this tyranny, I’ve used my research to develop a short treatise on forward-writing that should serve you well as we embark on this rebellion. The following step-by-step approach will teach you all you need to know to craft a forward:

1) As you begin, be sure to use an obnoxiously large or outrageous font—an indecipherable cursive or comically inflated font works best. Feel free to change the size and type of this font as you go along. In fact, the more frequently the font changes, the better.

2) Immediately switch your font’s color from the default black to something that will inflict more intense eye strain on your readers. Bright blues, greens, and reds are excellent. Remember this mantra: “if it can’t cause a seizure, then it’s not a forward worth sending.” Like the font itself, be liberal in your color changes throughout the body of your message. If you have no life at all, I encourage you to adjust the color subtly on each and every character you type. It may take time, but your forward-loving readership will appreciate your devotion.

*You can disregard points 1 & 2 if, and only if, you plan to draft your forward in an ancient plain type font (we’re talking straight from a Commodore 64). If your font is so very archaic that it actually hurts to read, then you’ve accomplished the essential point of parts 1 & 2 without all the fuss—congratulations.

3) Pay close attention to your punctuation. Either keep it to an absolute minimum OR place a period, comma, semi-colon, or ellipsis after nearly every word you use. The same goes for capitalization—EITHER CAPITALIZE EVERYTHING or forego capitalization altogether. It’s important that no matter what you choose here, though, that you stay consistent. Don’t go throwing properly punctuated or capitalized sentences in there anywhere—your readers don’t want to see that.

4) Use stupidly long acronyms, abbreviate phrases for no reason, and misspell common words just to be clever. B’lieve me, it’s GR8 and i know yer BFFs will jus’ luvvit. Ppl can’t get enuff, they’ll b ROFL, even if they have BTDTGTTSAWIO. (wow, it actually pains me to write that crap)

5) It is imperative that you include some tacky clip art, ASCII drawings, and/or poorly doctored photographs (animals with thought bubbles and friends faces tacked on celebrity bodies are very popular). I have found that very few forwards are complete without this element, so you must remember to take your time in implementing this portion of your project. In fact, if you’re nervous about what to write, you can forego a written message altogether if you attach an obscenely large string of pictures to your email (believe me). Examples of acceptable forward pictures include: puppies, babies, celebrities caught in embarrassing/compromising poses, or religious symbols found in bowls of cereal, sweat marks, oddly shaped potato chips, etc. Remember, though, any less than 10 of these pictures will not adequately make up for a lack of fabricated verbiage, so include plenty.

6) Now, on to your actual message. Although this would typically be the meat of any email, in the case of forwards the message is relatively unimportant. Simply keep in mind that your message must contain one or more of the following: (1) a decidedly one-sided religious and/or political message, (2) a sappy lesson-evoking story, (3) a stupid, offensive, and/or ridiculously corny joke, (4) reasons to love/hate your job, (5) quotes from overplayed pop/country songs, (6) numbingly simplistic metaphors and analogies, (7) manufactured advice, (8) warnings about computer viruses, identity theft scams, or spreading diseases, (9) a questionnaire about yourself and your favorite things, or (10) an invitation to stand up for a cause your readers have either never heard of or expressed no personal interest in. Include any one of these elements and your message will inherently achieve the maximum poignancy possible for any forward.

7) As you close your message emphasize that your letter must be sent on to no less than 10 to 15 other people. To ensure that your readers do pass on your message, be sure to threaten, insult, or guilt them in the appropriate fashion. Possible closing messages include: (1) “bad luck will befall you if you don’t pass this on,” (2) “pass this on to xx number of people and you won’t believe the amazing surprise you’ll receive… believe me!” (3) “Bill Gates will personally send you a check for $1,000 if you only forward this on to xx of your closest friends,” (4) “if you don’t pass this on to xx others then you don’t care about this country or the liberties we hold dear,” (5) “if you have any real faith or conviction you will share this message with xx others,” or possibly (6) “share this with the people you truly love, because you know they wouldn’t hide such an important message from you.” Whatever you choose to close with, just be sure that you pull no punches and hold no regrets. The closing of forwards is unscrupulous business. Be prepared to take advantage of everything your readers’ hold dear.

8) Now we come to the finishing touches. Before you send your message off, be sure you are using an email account that is in some way sponsored by an advertising entity. I can’t stress this enough, ALL FORWARDS MUST END IN RELENTLESS INVITATIONS AND TEMPTATIONS TO “CLICK HERE.” If, following your signature, you offer your readers no means of saving on medical insurance, losing a ton of weight, making a small fortune, erasing their debt, winning a free vacation, downloading free smiley sets, or switching to a better, faster email service, then all of your previous work has been in vain. If you don’t already have links like these at the ends of all your emails, then you really need to refocus before you send out any forwards.

9) You have more freedom when it comes to the title of your message. Just be sure to make it cryptic and ambiguous enough to keep your readers guessing until they actually open the thing. You wouldn’t want them to actually know what they’re about to read, now would you? This is especially crucial in the case of crude jokes or emails containing loud music files. I would suggest that if you are in the market for these kinds of messages, then you title your email something like “You Have to Open this at Work” or “Your Coworkers will Love This!” That may sound like an obvious sneak attack to you, but you won’t believe how gullible and naïve forward-openers can sometimes be.

10) In your subject line, before your main title, be sure to include the “FW:” tag. This too is essential to your success. Even though this is the very first time it’s going out, your readers must understand that this is without a doubt forward-able material. For good measure, you might consider adding multiple FWs to your subject line—there’s nothing more personal than receiving a message that’s obviously been passed around to everyone else first (not unlike a disease, if you think about it). *Note to readers: if you receive a forward, you must not, under any circumstance, remove the “FW” from the subject line. By removing the “FW,” you add far too much of a special touch to your message. It must be inherent to your friends and family that you care so much about them and this message, that you couldn’t even take the time to give the title personal flair.

11) Last but not least, go back into the body of your message and fabricate a series of address headings. First off, you don’t want your readers to have any idea where the forward passing actually began, so it’s important that you implicate as many other folks as possible. Secondly, everyone knows that any forward worth its salt contains a million and a half email addresses before the actual message begins. Your readers expect to scroll for an eternity before ever coming to anything of “substance,” so give them what they want. General rule of thumb: every forward should contain 3/4 email addresses and headings, and 1/4 message. If you follow this rule, you’ll be greeted with nothing but success.

With the completion of step 11, you are ready to attack. Now choose 15-20 forward-happy people in your social circle and let ‘er rip. The society will never know what hit ‘em.

\m/ Fight the power. \m/

Random Emailage of the Day

Wow, I'm doing amazingly well at this whole posting everyday thing. I really need to get my act together, I guess. That is, if I want to truly blog with the best of them. Well, right now I'm at work, so I feel morally (and I suppose contractually) obligated to focus on my work-related obligations and I can't really spend all afternoon sharing my innermost secrets with all of you--although I want nothing more. All that being said, though, I see no reason why I can't share with you a random email I sent to a friend of mine the other day (what a consolation, huh?). My wife suggested I post it, as you might find it funny and perhaps pick up a bit more on what drives my occasional lunacy (although, I doubt you will *wink*). There was a website posting made by my good friend, Ann White, that informs the email below, but I don't think you really need it to enjoy the conversation that follows. I hope it gives you a mid-day chuckle.

The following email was by no means drafted or sent on company time...cough:

Ms. White (in the Ballroom with the Candlestick),

I’m interested in pursuing a second degree through Oklahoma Christian. I saw “Underwater Basket-weaving” on the University’s blog-site and I wanted to inquire as to the entrance requirements for the program. While I can hold my breath for decently long periods, splinters and I do not mix. Is it a 110% probability that I will get splinters during the program or can that be avoided through extra practice sessions and resolute devotion to my craft? Why does the University use splinter-prone materials, anyway? I know a guy who could get you some high-quality basket fiber that has a splinter threshold of approximately 1400 lbs. A bag of 128 tabby cats and 1/8 scale bronze statue of Buddha couldn’t break those things (believe me, we tried it). As long as the University doesn’t ask him where he gets it, my guess is he’ll give it to you cheap.

Anyway, I was also wondering what professional contacts the school could offer me through this program. Are there any good internships available? I noticed on your website that the three top career choices of U.B. Majors were “butcher, baker, and candlestick maker.” I don’t have a strong interest to do any of those things. In fact, synchronized baking just seems silly and underwater butchering sounds pretty disgusting. Candlestick whittling could pose a significant underwater challenge… but I don’t think it’s for me. No, what I really want to do is weave impossibly large and convoluted wicker masterpieces whilst I prunify in a depth of no less than 12 feet in the Mediterranean Sea (the water there is more conducive to shapely bending of the basket fibers). Have any of the professors at OC spent any time under the Mediterranean? I hear it’s beautiful and the local undersea craftsmen really know their stuff. One guy weaved a full-size likeness of Paul Giamatti during a eight hour stint underwater to commemorate the opening of “Lady in the Water” a couple years back. Not the greatest flick, but I heard that basket sold for a cool $8.37 on EBay. Now that’s the kind of lucrative career I could really sink my teeth into.

Underwater Basket-weaving has been a dream of mine since I was a wee lad. Ever since my father died from wicker shrapnel cast off from a basket made by one of those “above water” manufacturers, I’ve known this was my calling. Now that OC is finally offering this desperately needed field of study, I want on board. Could you put me in contact with Professor Dumbledore so that we could discuss more. (By the way, tell him his name sounds very familiar… has he ever been to Anchorage? My parents used to have a penguin ranch there. Hmmm…)

I’d appreciate any information you can give me. Thank you for your time!

Cornelius Blue

A Small Smackerel of Writing for you to Nibble On

This is not my post for the day, but I thought for those avid readers out there it might tide you over. Below is an excerpt from a manuscript I started a while back. I had intended to turn it into a full-length novel, but I was really struggling to make it flow right and I wasn't sure it carried the narrative hook necessary to hold my readers. I'm very interested to hear what you think. Read the Prologue and leave a comment. If you're absolutely hooked and have to know what happens next, then I suppose I'll have to write more. If you find it slow or boring, please tell me that too. Every great writer values criticism (mind you, I didn't say we all "like" it).

DISCLAIMER: The text below contains some mild language. If you're very averse to profanity, please stop reading now and wait to enjoy my next post. Thanks.

Prologue

The room was dark, only vague images could be discerned in the blackness. A table, maybe a mirror in the far corner—something reflective enough to impress a small void on the opposite end of the room—otherwise Mark couldn’t be sure. The room was large, chasm-like from the sound of his timid shuffling.

Why am I shuffling again? I can’t quite remember…

He didn’t remember much, in fact. His head throbbed with a bitter heat, the kind that reminded him of summer days spent in bed and cruelly punctual mornings spent popping the lids off Ibuprofen bottles as if they were packages of tic-tacs.

How did I get here?

The darkness was disorienting. Coupled with the relentless pulsing of what felt like his very brain, it was enough to make Mark sick. He struggled to focus, but silhouettes washed in and out of his vision in a maddening tide. He would sit, but some instinct told him to remain upright. The best he could do was grope forward and hope for some convenient support to rest his body against until the whirlpool in his head calmed to a mild ripple.

Though he felt tense, his arms were almost alarmingly loose—they swung about drunkenly before him, slashing at the nothingness around him with crude efficiency. Meanwhile Mark’s legs struggled to keep up.

One foot after the other, just like mams taught you.

His whole lower body felt stubbornly rigid—every hinge all but refusing to budge. He thrust his torso forward, continuing to flail his upper extremities, and his heavy legs slowly edged ahead.

That’s right, baby steps ol’ buddy. No reason to freak out.

There was reason enough for Mark to be scared, though. Someone else was moving around in here too. Not doggedly creeping as Mark was, but scampering about with such liquidity that Mark felt more sure of the shadows swimming about him than of the whereabouts—or even existence—of this mysterious individual.

Mark listened intensely for discernable movement. Nothing. All he could hear was the static crackle that he could only assume was rain falling outside somewhere. He guessed that the disjointed nature of the sound, as well as the dull hum that complemented it, could only be the inventions of his own agonized brain. After all, if the room could be sloshing about in a soup of ambiguity, who was he to assume that the sounds accompanying its constant ebb and flow would be any clearer? Nonetheless, Mark kept his ear trained for the sound of this strange person—or thing—moving around him.
At last one of Mark’s fishing arms landed. His right hand caught hold of a rough surface just a couple feet in front of him. The concreteness of the object before him, whatever it was, energized Mark’s obstinate muscles and, as if every part of his body were giving a collective shout of rejoicing, he lurched forward and enthusiastically took hold of it.

Oh, thank God.

He barely had time to celebrate this small victory, though, as the sound of movement behind him brought the foreboding nature of his surroundings flooding back. Mark gripped tighter onto the object before him—what felt like a large rock podium of some kind—and wrenched his head around toward the back of the room. He was hardly surprised to find that he could see no one moving behind him, not even the peculiar artifacts of movement one can sometimes find in the dark were visible. He squinted and strained, but saw nothing.

“Is…” Mark stopped, hesitant to continue, shocked by the sound of his own voice there in the dark. “Is someone there?”

No response. Only a faint chattering and an airy whistle could be heard. Silently willing his ears to hear, Mark could only stare—stare into nothingness and pray.

“I won’t hurt you,” Mark said cautiously, “just please let me know if you’re there… Please.”

Chatter, chatter, chatter, but no words came to sooth Mark’s growing paranoia.

“Listen. If you’re scared, I understand. I don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t know how we got here and I don’t know why it’s so dark and so cold and so…”

Chatter, chatter, chatter.

“Dammit! Talk to me!”

A harsh and bitter moan cut through the emptiness before him. A rasping, gurgling, heaving cry that, though wordless, expressed more to Mark than words could ever say. “Kill me,” it said, “end it now before I have to see, feel, know what happens next.” Mark turned his back to the noise.

What the hell is happening? I can’t take this. I just can’t take this.

In every inch of his body Mark could feel his heart throbbing, pulsing with anxiety and uncertainty. He placed his hand over his chest as insurance that it wouldn’t just burst right out and dance across the floor. His legs shook. His skin felt clammy and cold.

Relax. One breath after the other—mams taught you that too.

He tried desperately to drown out the sound, but the man’s cries refused to be dampened—they echoed from all corners of the room as if the darkness itself were weeping in agony.

“Stop it!!”

Mark closed his eyes tight, wishing to block out the room entirely from his consciousness.

No more. Within me I’m safe. And when I open my eyes, this torture will be over.

“Wrong again, Marky-boy.”

Mark’s eyes sprung open almost involuntarily. Before him, etched in the darkness, was a face. He saw no body. In fact, he saw nothing at all. It was as if the visage before him were made of the very emptiness filling the room. And yet he could recognize its presence, sense its… no, his emotion—and he was smiling.

“You’ll never be safe, Marky-Mark. Not now. Not now that I’ve made my mark.”

The face contorted and a tongue of blue flame licked out from its mouth. Mark briefly saw the shimmer of water and his own faint reflection. The tongue retreated back into its jaws, as the face let out a wild cackle.

“Don’t worry, though, Marky. You die, and then the fun really begins.”

3...2...1...Blog

I find it stereotypical to begin one's blogging career by saying things like:

"So this is my first blog, I hope you like it." or "This is an experiment really, who knows where it will lead." or "This first entry is a test. TEST!" or "I'm funny and good looking, listen to what I have to say." or "THIS WILL BE THE BEST BLOG EVER!" or "Sometimes, I write incredibly personal things down so that the whole world can read them and share in my pain--won't you please cry with me today?"

No... I scoff at the stereotypical gibberish that so frequently adorns the maiden blog post. I feel instead that this first entry should express to you, my adoring readers (there must be at least two of you by now--hi mom), what it means to navigate the convoluted gray matter of my ever-wandering, ever-pondering mind. That way you can leave now, while you still have a chance. And I must warn you, I cannot be held responsible for the confusion, nostalgia, deep thought, forgone bowel movements, or random outbursts of laughter and spit that my writing may elicit.

You have been warned.

So, in today's post we explore the essence of me--lover, dreamer, and covert rock star. I say "covert" because no one really knows I'm a rock star. In fact the only thing I play is the guitar... and I suck at it. But that's what keeps me under the radar, you see? As long as I don't develop any real talent or skill in that arena, my fans will leave me alone and stop snapping shots of me picking my nose at the Circle K. (and when you have the twin habits of mining for nasal nuggets and downing obscenely over-sized fountain drinks, that can be a bit of a problem) So, with that said, it's just you and me who are in the know on the rock star thing... let's keep it between us, shall we? I'll sign something I've sweat and/or wiped a bodily fluid on and send it your way to make it worth your while.

You may have found that previous paragraph quite random. If so, congratulations! You've now learned something of vital importance about me and my noggin. You see, most people's brain waves move in a continuous S-pattern. My brain waves, on the other hand, tend to complete one cycle, get scared by what they find at the end of it, and scatter--leaving my neurons hopelessly lost as to where to fire next. This cerebral chaos tends to leave me with a kaleidoscope of ideas parading through my brain at any given moment.

Not many of these ideas stick, however. I stay tuned in to the ones I need and do my best to suppress the ones I don't. For example, those voices that tell me to embrace my inner nerd: "Sure man, buy the floor-length Anime inspired jacket. If Keanu wears one, you know it's gotta be cool... You know we could avoid going from computer to computer all the time if you just wore your jump drive around your neck on a snazzy Halo 3 lanyard... How long do you think it would take us to put together a full-length ASCII version of all 22 bond films... We should splice together random clips from the A-Team and sync it up with Hanson's MmmBop--our YouTube compadres would dig it..." I SUPPRESS THESE THOUGHTS AT ALL COSTS. I don't have a WoW subscription and I'm proud of it. The day I'm addicted to Mountain Dew and old reruns of Dragonball Z, is the day I mount the bridge of the Starship Enterprise and throw myself off.

All that's not to say I don't have nerdy tendencies. I appreciate technology and I have a couple Mario Brothers T-shirts. I enjoy Rock Band and TiVO Heroes without fail. But that's about where I draw the line. I refuse to be consumed by my gadget-loving, slurpee-drinking, Steve Jobs worshiping, "I'm about to beat this level so go to bed without me, honey" alter ego.

That's not the only side of my personality that I need to keep in check, though. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind sits an old philosopher--graying, blind, and brimming with poetic exultations on humanity. It is he who drives me to analyze every good book, deconstruct the latest Hollywood blockbuster, and tune in to the emotional fluctuations of my relationships. He wants to read, to think, to learn. He longs to be locked in an old library, with nothing but the smell of musty paper and worn leather to keep him company; and nothing but the ideas and creations of men and women past to keep him fed (I know he's blind, but if you're literarily savvy then you know the man I described is the archetypal oracle... let's just say he knows what the books say before he even picks them up [no, I'm not precognitive myself--I can only wish (this may be the longest and most layered parenthetical statement in recorded history)]). Anyway, this old philosopher drove me back to school when I thought I was ready to be done, and I think he will continue to force my mind to stretch, even when I feel I can stretch no more.

You no doubt witnessed my zanier, A.D.D.-prone side coming through during the liberal parenthetical usage in the previous section... Now you see how these sides of my personality really can challenge one another for attention. In fact, I like to picture these divergent elements of my psyche duking it out. In the case of the Nerd and the Oracle, we have a respectable duel to say the least. On one side we have a white-haired man, hunching over a worn wooden staff and holding an hour-glass in his hand. He wears a thin old robe and his eyes flash blue like sapphire. On the other, we have a chubby, acne-prone teenager. He wears a Strong Bad T-shirt that's two sizes too small, an open fanny pack full of cheetos and bite-size Milky Ways, and has his gamer-tag tattooed on his upper-arm. He has a spool of ethernet cable at his side like a whip, a one-up mushroom for a belt buckle, and he shakes under the weight of the Highlander's sword.

In this case, I don't think either personality would come out on top. The Oracle is far too wise and patient to succumb to the Nerd's obnoxious acronym slinging and pompous IT-lingo, and the Nerd has spent too much time watching 300 to trust a thing the Oracle says. So, we're left with a stalemate.

All this randomness brings me in a roundabout fashion to my lead personality, and the one you as the reader should take note of. You see while the Nerd and the Oracle are competing voices in my thoroughly jumbled mind, they are frequently subjugated for more pressing personality traits--the Professional, the Socialite, the Rocker, the Lover, etc. (all personalities you may see come out in a later post). One personality that rarely falters is the Writer--a side of me I have affectionately named Quill. (Yes, I named a portion of my personality. You can call me schizo or you can call me a philosophical genius. I won't lie, I prefer the latter.)

You have no doubt noticed that no matter which "personality" I speak of (I'm using quotes now so you'll think I'm less crazy), I have a tendency to wax poetic or run on verbosely. I won't deny it. I am a lover of words and the ability to combine them to tell a story, convey a message, change a mind, or touch a heart is a skill I hold most dear. This is why I've chosen Quill to be my voice to you here. May his ramblings interest you as they've interested me.

I hope you've found this post disjointed, confusing, and thoroughly enjoyable. Don't expect future posts to be this off-the-wall, but I wanted to hit you with my craziest work first so you'd know what you're getting into.

I tried to warn you. Now on down the rabbit hole...