Tag: art

On Writing: Plot point generation #2

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura4 Comments

You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.

A story is made out of meaningful stuff that happens. Each unit of meaningful stuff that happens is often referred to as a plot point. Here’s how to come up with them, before you consider fitting them into a structure.

  • Could weather create delays and accidents? Could it obscure vision, or make someone weak or faint?
  • What setting in your story could make some character to feel sad, fearful, nostalgic, angry, guilty, etc.? Think about the plot points that could be derived from that.
  • Find in your setting specific places that have extra significance, or places where events recur. To make a place iconic, make something big happen there.
  • Prior to the climax of the novel, find, brainstorm, try to apply six points at which your protagonist can demonstrate some heroic quality.
  • How will you show what your characters feel? What will express their thoughts? What will reveal their inner struggles?
  • Have your characters do things only they would do. Every character action represents that character. So when they act, have them act in a manner unique to them. Use every character action in your story to sell us on the unique nature of that character.
  • What events would reveal character?
  • Create stakes-raising dilemmas that give your protagonists opportunities to use their unique abilities. Let that explain why this character succeeded where others failed.
  • Can you allow characters to do the things that characters with different labels (protagonist, villain, etc.) would do?
  • How would a reflection character show the protagonist why and maybe how he can make it through the door, when he might slip back, have fear and doubt, second-guess himself?
  • Figure out plot points in which the allies are there for your hero, stick by him, speak truth in love, reflect back what the hero needs to see in order to understand and move one step closer to his goal?
  • In what plot point could the most “ally” character oppose your character regarding her goal?
  • Can you find a moment for each of your main characters to want the opposite of their hearts’ desire? Can you make it bigger, more emotional?
  • Where can you have characters say something other than what they mean (subtext)? Hint at something secret?
  • Can you find/add five places in your novel where a character acts rashly, inconsistently, contrary?
  • Imagine a moment when your protagonist is moved, unsettled or disturbed. This might occur when he’s facing a difficult choice, needing something badly, suffering a setback or surprise, having a self-realization, learning something shocking, or feeling in any way overwhelmed. Write down all the emotions inherent in this moment, both obvious and hidden.
  • What’s the biggest way in which your protagonist can act out? What can she destroy? Whom can she attack? What truthful thing can she say? What will shock others in the story?
  • Let your characters make mistakes: protagonists, antagonists, and secondary characters.
  • What events would push someone’s buttons relative to worldview and personal belief systems?
  • What would a character’s belief/past experience cause him to do?
  • What secrets does a character have, what lies he has told, to others and even to himself, that might cause plot point issues?
  • Think of plot points that would suggest the main character will get just more entrenched in his flaw, making it impossible to change, and others which suggest the possibility of changing.
  • What key moment in your novel showcases the primary reflection character/ally’s support?
  • What is your protagonist good at doing? Throw them the opposite of what they’re best at and make them deal with it.
  • Think up a moment in your novel in which the hero and the antagonist agree on something.
  • Think of a moment in which the antagonist is actually vulnerable and / or empathetic.
  • What is the primary antagonist and what key moment showcases the big conflict and issue between them?
  • The impact character may or may not be actively trying to get the protagonist to see that Truth, but he’s going to be there at crucial moments in the story to help the protagonist see the error of his ways. He has the answers the protagonist is looking for (even though the protagonist won’t know that at the beginning of the story), and those answers are going to end up being pivotal to the protagonist’s ability to conquer the antagonist and the external conflict in his quest for his story goal.
  • A character can’t change without something that impacts him by consistently and convincingly conflicting with his belief in the Lie.
  • What events could show off or amplify the inner journey?
  • Start by determining self-revelation, at the end of the story, then go back to the beginning and figure out the hero’s need and desire.
  • Brainstorm actions that prove the transformation.
  • Plant a redemptive action, the actions which could solve MC’s “fatal flaw”, and have the other person fail to do it.
  • Think of a way of showing a character’s change by putting him in a similar situation but acting differently, even to the point of disagreeing with his previous action in similar circumstances.
  • What event could bring about change for your protagonist?
  • What event could bring about change for a secondary character?
  • Throughout the story, the protagonist and his blind faith in his Lie are going to keep running smack into the impact character’s Truth. The protagonist may want to be left in peace with his Lie, but the impact character’s persistent presence keeps churning up the protagonist’s awareness of the Truth–and creating internal conflict.

We’re Fucked, Pt. 128 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura2 Comments

Here I am, at the threshold of the apocalypse, in this chamber of interrupted dreams where my boss, the vilest of swines, stands between me and the ripper of reality. I’ve been ordered to take a seat, so I shuffle towards the oasis among cables and machinery. A workbench supports a soldering iron, a hot glue gun, and a clutter of transistors, capacitors, and electronic components whose purpose eludes me. Screws and circuit boards surround a dismantled desktop PC. Affixed between cabinets and shelves littered with tools, a long-forgotten whiteboard bears the faded scribbles of equations and diagrams. Beside it, unknown hands have tacked to a corkboard printouts along with photos of men in nineties’ garb, posing in front of the office building, as well as with the spiral device. A yellowed note yells in all-caps, “DON’T GO IN TWICE, YOU WILL DISAPPEAR!” Anyway, that’s all I care to notice about my surroundings. I’m not one for poetic descriptions, perhaps as a result of having my mind stuffed with thoughts of creampies.

I leave my notebook and ballpoint atop a stack of manuals. Then, I slide aside with my foot a metallic trash bin that stands sentry over the dust bunnies, and I plunk my butt down onto a swivel chair. Its plastic, cheap and flimsy, creaks under my weight.

A headache pounds at the inside of my skull as if a tiny prisoner were hammering the bone with a miniature ice pick to escape from confinement, and I have a hard time calming down while sitting in this dungeon, a lair that reeks like raw sewage mixed with rotting flesh and burned dust, a stink that scratches my lungs with every breath. I wish I could fire a laser from my forehead to vaporize this contraption, which emanates a miasma that makes the molecules of oxygen vibrate with hostility. A laser would have a higher energy density than a bullet, and thus it would penetrate that silvery-white shell, incinerating the spirally innards. Instead of a laser, though, my forehead only sweats, and my armpits feel like they’re about to soak.

I need a more realistic plan to rid the world of this machine. Maybe I could set it on fire, or better yet, blow it up. But how? I’m a coder, not a demolitionist. I don’t know where to get my hands on explosives, and even if I did, the police wouldn’t take kindly to a woman carrying around dynamite and detonators. Maybe I could ask my interdimensional harassers for a bomb, or a nuke.

I imagine a fiery cataclysm tearing through my workplace, engulfing every shred of existence, from my boss to the computer that taunts me daily. When the smoke cleared and only cinders remained, I would strut amidst the ashes, the mistress of a barren wasteland, with mommy’s arm snuggly hooked to my elbow. After I’d finished cackling, we would raise our fists triumphantly, and bask in our victory together. We would then move to a farm and raise alpacas.

Ramsés, the man who stands in the way of my alpaca-farming utopia, the man whose mustache is a crime, puffs on the last of his cigarette, then tosses the butt and grinds it with a twist of his heel.

I shake my head.

“Is it an inherent trait of smokers to pollute whatever place they’re in? You’re sucking on concentrated carcinogens and disseminating them, so I guess it’s too much to ask that you have some respect for the environment.”

My boss frowns, revealing weary crow’s feet.

“I’m not a fan of being lectured, especially by someone with your disgusting habits.”

“Wh-what’s with that unfounded accusation?”

Ramsés runs his nicotine-stained fingers through his graying hair, ruffling it. The fluorescent lamps highlight the greasiness of his face, the sallow bags under his eyes, and the sagging of his cheeks, while shadows pool in the wrinkles and folds of his flesh. He’d benefit from a stint at a beauty salon, or an encounter between his face and a sledgehammer.

“You weren’t just hallucinating about the machine, were you…?” my boss asks. “You knew about it.”

“You could say so, because it would be true. Indeed, I knew that this reality-raping contraption was lurking down here, waiting to devour the universe, although I didn’t know where ‘here’ was in relation to this rotten planet of ours.”

“Who blabbered about it? Was it… Jacqueline?”

His piggish lips should never have dared to form mommy’s sacred name. I’m tempted to grab the hot glue gun and squirt molten goo down his throat, but I must prioritize the fate of the world over satisfying my bloodthirst.

“Blabbered? More like blubbered. And not just any blubber, but a blobby blubber of black goo, studded with slimy eyeballs.”

“At least try to make sense, Leire.”

“Alberto, that crotchety prick.”

Ramsés takes a step back. His expression has dropped as if I had announced his bank account’s PIN to a roomful of identity thieves.

“Alberto…?”

“You know, he used to work here, or up at the office anyway, before you hired our intern. I’m not sure if he ever told you about his wife, but she cheated on him and then divorced him, so he became a bitter bastard. I wouldn’t blame you if you forgot about the guy, though, as I’d rather not remember him either.”

“He told you… before quitting?”

I squint as I tilt my head at him.

“Stop bullshitting, sir. Alberto didn’t quit; he vanished without a trace. That greedy bastard walked into the machine a second time, and got yeeted into another dimension. That’s why you looked for a new programmer to replace him. You couldn’t tell anyone the truth, could you? That the previous coder had been swallowed by a spiraling deathtrap. You’d have to admit that you own a machine that fucks up reality, and there probably are laws against that.”

Ramsés’ voice sounds hoarse and dry.

“You’re telling me that Alberto contacted you after he disappeared?”

“That’s right. You wouldn’t have recognized him, though; he got out of shape. In any case, let’s focus on what’s important: this machine is bound to tear apart the universe unless I stop it. That sentient horse pal of mine tried to warn me about it from the beginning, but I refused to listen, because I’m an asshole. I would have been done with all this nonsense long ago if I cared enough about our world. Whatever horrors have been unleashed in the meantime are sadly on me.”

Ramsés massages his temples, his eyes squeezed shut. He’s not taking the revelation of the supernatural well. A shame I’m too busy saving the world to enjoy his distress.

“Leire, you’re mentally ill. You’re delusional.”

“Am I the one who keeps the apocalypse in his basement? What are you planning to do with this thing, anyway?”

“Alright, I’ll tell you, but don’t you dare interrupt me. I’m not in the mood for more of your antics.”

“Sure, I’ll just sit here and pretend that I haven’t been tormented by interdimensional abominations who harassed me until I agreed to save the fucking universe, and that the fate of all existence doesn’t hang on me destroying this spiraling death machine. What is it exactly, other than a reality-eroding piece of junk that I wish to obliterate as soon as possible?”

Author’s note: today’s song is Modest Mouse’s “Cowboy Dan.”

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of 212 videos so far. Check them out.

Getting through this part took me fucking ages. I feel like I haven’t recovered from a medical episode that sent me to the ER; I have trouble reading, and processing words in general. I’m waiting for a call that will schedule an MRI to confirm if I’ve ended up with brain damage. Such is my life, it seems. Anyway, thanks for reading and all that.

On Writing: Plot point generation #1

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura1 Comment

You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.

A story is made out of meaningful stuff that happens. Each unit of meaningful stuff that happens is often referred to as a plot point. Here’s how to come up with them, before you consider fitting them into a structure.

  • Imagine great scenes. See them in your mind and justify them later. Who are these people? Why are they doing what they are doing?
  • Take a stack of fifty or so index cards and start imagining scenes. Whatever picture comes into your head. When something vivid comes to mind, jolt the idea on a card. The notation may be as brief as: bar fight with biker.
  • Imagine memorable moments playing out on the big screen. What scenes would audiences talk about for years to come?
  • What are the things that frighten you? What would you usually try to avoid?
  • What events would provoke the greatest uncertainty in the reader?
  • How does the setting impact the characters, and viceversa?
  • Think of new events as actions taken by your hero or opponent.
  • Create a situation in which your exceptional protagonist is in over their head, feels unprepared, is simply lost, or in any other way must admit to themselves that they’re not perfect.
  • Think of what scenes you need in order to tell the story you have in mind.
  • What would the other major characters be up to, unseen?
  • Imagine scenes that add contrast to the motivations of characters, focusing on their differences regarding the actions, decisions, and attitudes. For example, two characters want to get control of an artifact, but while one character tries to negotiate their way to it, someone else intends to go in guns blazing.
  • Imagine moments in which your characters will change, be forced to make a choice, be pushed into despair.
  • Which plot points would be possible in this concept but almost in none others?
  • Picture a movie poster for your story. What one key scene is pictured on it that embodies your concept?
  • What iconic scene can you write in your story that will showcase the essence of the premise? How can you make it even bigger, more intense?
  • What events would hurt the important characters’ prospects?
  • Figure out what they want most, then put the things they fear most in their way.
  • Think about active events the villain might cause to thwart the good guys’ goals.
  • Can you put the object of desire of the scene’s driver in the room and have another character try to hide it?
  • What plot point could make a character rethink their decisions and goals?
  • What events would force the protagonist to deal with their inner issues?
  • What events would force a character to confront and deal with the issue that keeps them from achieving their goal, the thing that’s holding them back?
  • Brainstorm situations that force a character to confront their flaw.
  • What scenes would expose a character’s deepest secrets and most guarded flaws?
  • What scenes would force a character to confront their demons?
  • Use your action scenes to challenge your hero’s fatal flaw. This way, it’s not just about the action, but how that action affects your hero.
  • What scenes would show that a character is trying to overcome their flaws?
  • Figure out plot points in which an antagonist attacks a weakness, forcing that character to deal with it.
  • Which would be examples of how a character’s flaw limits their effectiveness?
  • What kind of events would test a character’s, particularly the protagonist’s, flaw to the max, in order to open their eyes?
  • Imagine an event in which a main character discovers, realizes, or is shown their inner need.

Song “Schizosaurus Rex” (Paisley Underground version) from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Inteligencia artificial, MúsicaLeave a comment

In case you don’t know, this year I’ve been exploiting the amazing AI service Udio to produce songs. I’ve already made and released two full albums based on a strange story I wrote back in 2021, named Odes to My Triceratops. It follows the adventures and misadventures of a trio of friends who live in a town lost in the map. The main dude is a songwriter named William Griffin, who’s passionate and sensitive, if a bit unhinged. Another character is William’s next-door neighbor Claire Javernick, a blind redhead. Then we have Lorenzo, who’s a sentient triceratops for no justifiable reason. You can download the first two albums of this story through this link.

So yeah, a fresh new song directly to your ears, this one in the style of the relatively obscure Paisley Underground movement, which is a sort of garage psychedelic rock with a Californian vibe. I’m very fond of how this tune turned out.

Lyrics below:

A beast from the deep,
The monster under your bed.
Eyes red like the setting sun,
Claws the size and weight
Of a heavy human soul.
It can’t die; it only transforms.
It can’t be stopped,
Unless it decides to stop.

I have a portal to hell inside my throat.
It hurts, but I’m getting used to the pain.
Still, I don’t know whom I hate more:
The world, or myself.

This isn’t the story of how I died.
This is the story of how I met a girl,
We fell in love, and she betrayed me.
She didn’t do it on purpose;
She was just a dumb kid.
Besides, the darkness drove her crazy,
Almost as crazy as me.

I ain’t a poet, couldn’t hope to be,
But I’m the only person left:
A castaway in a plastic kayak,
Drifting down the River Styx
Past skeletons clinging to rocks,
Reaching out for a bite to eat.

You and I, love, we shared our lives,
We did the best we could,
But the best we could
Was a steaming pile of dogshit.

Someday I’ll make it to that faraway shore
Where eagles soar on golden wings.
There, I’ll sit and rest in my blue suit.
I’ll watch as time goes by,
Not aging a day, not losing a thing.
The memories will blur and fade
Until all I have left is me.

EDIT: I fed this post to the Google AI thing that generates podcasts out of your material. Yes, I’m writing the lyrics, you guys (who are by the way unaware of the fact that they’re AIs themselves). Check it out.

We’re Fucked, Pt. 127 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial3 Comments

After an hiatus of nine months, mostly so I could tell the story of a motocross legend, my ongoing story, as long as a trilogy of novels, has returned. I wouldn’t blame if you if you’ve forgotten all about it. You can read any of its chapters on here, or listen to the existing audiochapters on here. I won’t continue producing audiochapters, though, because I have my fingers in too many pies. Anyway, let’s get rolling.

In the tomblike blackness, as if I were descending into the bowels of the earth, I keep inhaling oxygen to sustain the biological machinery of my aging body, even though every breath fills my throat and lungs with the stench of ammonia and rotten meat, a stink so overwhelming that it could knock out a woolly mammoth.

A click of a switch, followed by a whirring and the faint whooshing of air. With a buzz, fluorescent bulbs flare to life, bathing the subterranean lair in a bright glow.

“Here’s why I’m constantly up to my neck in bills,” my boss says.

At the center of the square-shaped room sits a hulking mass of metal: a shiny aluminum cylinder. No, not a cylinder, because a person-wide opening curves into the device, a path blocked now by an orange gate barrier that may have been pilfered from the streets. From the top of the machine grows a cluster of industrial piping, electrical wiring, and conduits resembling the ruptured guts of a mechanical beast.

A vibration disturbs the air like a low-frequency hum. From the opening of the spiral, through the gate barrier, danger leaks as a tangible yet invisible force; I sense the glare of a cosmic intelligence beyond my understanding.

The sight of Ramsés’ face, this swine in the guise of a man, with his middle-aged features, unkempt mustache, receding hairline, and lack of resemblance to Jacqueline or anyone I’d like to stare at, would have made me want to push him down a flight of stairs. Now, though, I’m glad he was born: he has led me to the one thing I couldn’t be arsed to search for properly.

“Hell yeah,” I say, and rub my palms. “I hate to admit it, boss, but you’ve done a great service for the universe.”

I grasp at the slippery reins of my sanity like a drowning woman clawing at pieces of driftwood. Alright, how can I destroy this reality-shattering device? The engraving of a skull and crossbones flashes in my mind: my trusty revolver, now stored in my work desk. I feel a pang of longing for its wood and steel to remind me of the glory days when I was still the main character and not the slave of others’ whims. Hey, Spike, my deformed, castrated pal, apart from wanting your own head blown into inhuman sludge, is this why you brought your revolver along? But I lack enough bullets to blast this spirally cylinder into nothing. Besides, I can’t forget the feeling of my hand being torn off that one time I relied on gunfire to defeat my foes, back when Alberto oozed from the wall in all his blobby, seething depravity to ruin my evening with apocalyptic tidings.

The stench is burning holes into my sinuses, and the hostility emanating from the machine thrums through my bones, but I approach the silvery-white shell, which reflects my blurry likeness like a liquid mirror. After rubbing my chin, I kick the device to gauge its solidity. Clang.

I was thinking of asking my boss if he had a chainsaw at the ready, when his hand, thick and beefy, wraps around my biceps, gripping tightly. He pulls me backward. Once I wriggle free, I’m tempted to punch Ramsés’ jaw with the force of my pent-up frustration and despair, which would atomize his teeth and ignite the meat of his face and pop his eyes. However, the fiend’s scraggly face, a map of the terrain of the damned, has contorted into a scowl, like a gorilla’s after I punted one of his relatives.

“Leire, what the hell are you doing?! You see an object you don’t understand, and the first thought you have is to break it?! Are you a chimpanzee?!”

My hand clenches around the ballpoint pen as if it were a dagger. The notion of impaling one of Ramsés’ eyeballs seems like a beautiful dream.

“Nah, I wasn’t planning on wrecking your stupid pipe thing, I just wanted to, you know, tap on it? Maybe I detected a kink that would be fixed by a whack on the side. Now seriously: I’ve finally found the cause of my misfortunes, the culprit to this whole ‘shredding reality’ business, and it’s been in the basement of my workplace all along! I should have known, given how this place has sucked up my soul ever since I foolishly allowed myself to be employed here. Anyway, once I find a way to obliterate this heinous contraption, this spiraling gate into insanity, the universe will be safe. Well, relatively safe, until the next asshole erects their own death machine. So let’s figure out how to acquire nitroglycerine.”

“Fuck’s sake, Leire, what are you blathering about?”

I sigh.

“Listen, boss, I can tell you haven’t grown so weary of life that you’ve been fiddling with, perhaps even fondling, an interdimensional end-of-the-world machine fully aware of the lethal stakes. You simply haven’t been notified by otherworldly monstrosities that tolerating this thing’s existence would lead to the irreversible and terminal cancerization of our fucking shithole of a world. Still, I must lay some blame on you, sir, as an accessory to this shitfest, whether through incompetence, naivete, or willful ignorance, if not sheer fucking stupidity, as long as you feel the machine’s malevolent aura attempting to smother our minds with its diabolical power. I shan’t have my newfound family squashed by a collapsing space-time continuum, so I must prevent the end of the universe, the death of everything, the grand finale of reality!”

Ramsés’ brow furrows as his jaw clenches, and I expect a torrent of insults and threats to gush from his mouth. Instead, he strokes the edge of his graying moustache, that unsanitary ornament made out of curly, coarse fibers that I wish to rip off strand by strand. His nostrils flare as he sucks in a breath to speak.

“I should have known you’re so demented that you wouldn’t think twice before assaulting delicate, irreplaceable hardware. Leire, I’m going to tell you a little story.”

“Oh my, is it story time? Can’t we skip it?”

“No, damn it. I need you to understand something about the machine.”

“Isn’t this chimpanzee too dumb to learn?”

My boss scrunches his greasy, perverted mug in annoyance. He pats his jacket, fishes out a cigarette, clamps it between his teeth, and lights it up. Then he takes a drag so deep that the tip glows red.

“Shut your trap and listen. This story starts back in the eighties or early nineties, when the internet was still a network of text terminals for academics. I was a kid then, if you can picture that. We used to visit relatives on my mother’s side, traveling out of province. In that family’s foyer hung a painting that terrified me even before I heard the adults talk about it. As soon as I stepped through the doorway, a malicious glare coming from the painting stabbed me through as if saying, ‘What the fuck are you doing in my house? Get out!’ I only dared to glance at the picture once, but in that brief look, I burned it into my memory.” My boss exhales smoke, then continues. “The painting depicted an elderly, bearded fisherman garbed in a canary-yellow raincoat. He faced the viewer, standing in a wooden dinghy surrounded by choppy seas and a stormy sky. The image seemed hyperrealistic, as if I could reach out and touch that rough water. The family that had chosen such an unsettling painting as the centerpiece of their foyer spoke of strange occurrences attached to it: a stench of rotten fish coming from the entrance, footsteps pacing up and down the hallway at night. I didn’t enjoy staying over. Anyway, one evening, as my brother and I were playing on the SNES in our cousins’ bedroom, the lights shut off. Far faster than it would have been possible, the stench of rotten fish swarmed the room. I heard the adults hurrying to the entrance, where they flipped the circuit breaker. I don’t recall how the rest of the evening transpired, but from that day on, I knew the painting was haunted.”

“Wow. This turned out to be an intriguing tale.”

“Sure. But as I grew older, I learned that the smell of rotten fish can be caused by circuit failure, as can a sudden power outage. Some heat-resistant chemical coatings release such stink before burning up. And strong electromagnetic fields mess with people’s brains, make them feel as if they’re being watched. You see what I’m getting at?”

“That you gaslit yourself into believing that you didn’t experience a paranormal event, just because you couldn’t handle the truth? Maybe the painting was haunted. Have you thought of that?”

Ramsés’ frown deepens.

“I told you I did.”

“It could have been both electricity and a ghost. Poltergeists love fucking with electrical systems. Anyway, I see far weirder stuff on the daily. Cultures across all ages have spoken of ghosts, and depicted them in similar ways. Doesn’t that count as evidence?”

“That may be the case, but it’s irrelevant to my point.”

“What did your tale have to do with this spiraling death machine, then?”

My boss throws his hands up.

“Oh, who knows!”

“Sure, we can waste time with anecdotes. After all, there’s no hurry to destroy that thing, not when the universe is about to be torn apart. Why don’t we find the painting, burn it with gasoline, then piss on its ashes? Not that we’d need to bother, because the world will be ending soon.”

Ramsés flicks his cigarette, sending a clump of ash to the floor.

“I suppose I must spell it out for you: the machine’s electromagnetic field messes with your already screwed-up head. You’re hypersensitive to it. Don’t bother me with this nonsense about the end of the world. Take a seat and calm down.”

Author’s note: today’s songs are “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails, and “Paranoid Android” by Radiohead. I keep a playlist with the myriad songs I’ve mentioned throughout this series. Check it out.

I’ve missed you, Leire, you fucking nutcase. I hope I can get back in the groove of this story soon.

By the way, Ramsés’ story is straight out of my childhood. The original experience is even wilder when it comes to what my relatives told about how the painting changed.

Speaking of spirals, the anime adaptation of Junji Ito’s masterpiece about obsession and spirals premieres tomorrow. Check out the clip below:

I’ve fed this chapter to the Google AI thing that generates podcasts out of any material. Check out the result:

Remastered “Behind the Door” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 3

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial, MúsicaLeave a comment

Udio released the ability to download your produced songs in parts (bass, drums, other instruments, and vocals), so naturally I’m remastering all songs I thought done. And I wanted to tackle as soon as possible my favorite of all I’ve produced: a strange piece that somehow feels like it encapsulates most of my life in eight minutes and thirteen seconds of pitch-perfect emotion.

Udio uses AI to divide each song into stems, and it had trouble with this one: the wavering instruments and vocals turned up in different stems, only to return to the original. I haven’t seen it do this with any other song remotely to this extent, which adds to the strangeness of the for me timeless song. Too bad I came up with this one before Udio improved its audio quality.

Song “Knife-Beard Dreams (psychedelia version)” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial, MúsicaLeave a comment

In case you don’t know, I’ve been obsessed with producing songs lately by exploiting the amazing AI service Udio. I’ve already made and released two full albums based on a strange story I wrote back in 2021, named Odes to My Triceratops. It follows the adventures and misadventures of a trio of friends who live in a town lost in the map. The main dude is a songwriter named William Griffin, who’s passionate and sensitive, if a bit unhinged. Another character is William’s next-door neighbor Claire Javernick, a blind redhead. Then we have Lorenzo, who’s a sentient triceratops for no justifiable reason. You can download the first two albums of this story through this link.

Here’s the second version of “Knife-Beard Dreams,” this time a mix of psychedelia and indie folk. I’m very impressed with how this one turned out. While the other three songs I’ve produced for the fourth album are unnerving to some extent (which sometimes the subject matter and/or vibe require), this one is so pleasant-sounding and groovy that I see myself listening to it over and over. Add to it Udio’s improved sound quality and my growing mastering skills, and even the MP3 version of this song sounds fantastic.

Lyrics below, same as the other version:

The words on the page,
They’re too plain.
I can’t read.
I have no clue what anything means.

The man in the heavens had a plan
To prove I’m insane.
He sent the sky crashing down,
And it crushed me into dust.

Deep down, the darkness whispers;
It calls and calls, and I must heed.
I can’t take my life,
But I can’t live the one I have.

Why the hell am I singing?
Nobody’s around to listen.
I should just shut up
And go back to sleep.

Maybe I’ll dream about a giant worm
With a beard made of knives.
Maybe I’ll dream of homicide,
And wake up with a big smile.

Remastered “St-a-b Ya-self” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 3

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Inteligencia artificial, MúsicaLeave a comment

Ever since Udio released the ability to download the songs in parts (drums, bass, other instruments, and voice), I knew I would end up remastering every single song I believed done before. And I’m glad I’m doing it, because this awesome psychobilly song “St-a-b Ya-self” sounds fucking amazing now: growling bass, crystal-clear voice, crunchy distorted guitars and drums.

What happened to psychobilly, anyway? There should be far more of it out there.

Why not, here’s a psychobilly song by an actual band made of humans:

Song “Knife-Beard Dreams (progressive metal version)” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Inteligencia artificial, MúsicaLeave a comment

In case you don’t know, I’ve been obsessed with producing songs lately by exploiting the amazing AI service Udio. I’ve already made and released two full albums based on a strange story I wrote back in 2021, named Odes to My Triceratops. It follows the adventures and misadventures of a trio of friends who live in a town lost in the map. The main dude is a songwriter named William Griffin, who’s passionate and sensitive, if a bit unhinged. Another character is William’s next-door neighbor Claire Javernick, a blind redhead. Then we have Lorenzo, who’s a sentient triceratops for no justifiable reason. You can download the first two albums of this story through this link.

I’ve made this weird little song about having to keep living when you don’t know how. Part progressive metal, part motown soul. It exploits Udio’s improved audio quality, that joint with the ability to download the song in stems, has resulted in my highest quality song yet.

The singer’s voice right at the end sounds almost exactly like Tim Cameron, leader of late 1999’s, early 2000’s amateur British band Colours Run. That’s one hell of an obscure reference, particularly because the guy disappeared about seventeen to twenty years ago, and I haven’t come across anything new of his since. Hey Tim, I’m a middle-aged dude now, but I still remember how eagerly I clicked on the songs you posted on that forum ages ago. Your music was among my favorites.

Anyway, lyrics below:

The words on the page,
They’re too plain.
I can’t read.
I have no clue what anything means.

The man in the heavens had a plan
To prove I’m insane.
He sent the sky crashing down,
And it crushed me into dust.

Deep down, the darkness whispers;
It calls and calls, and I must heed.
I can’t take my life,
But I can’t live the one I have.

Why the hell am I singing?
Nobody’s around to listen.
I should just shut up
And go back to sleep.

Maybe I’ll dream about a giant worm
With a beard made of knives.
Maybe I’ll dream of homicide,
And wake up with a big smile.

Remastered “Burying the Beast” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 3

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Inteligencia artificial, MúsicaLeave a comment

Hey, remember the garage-rock song “Burying the Beast,” that I’ve remastered like five fucking times already? Well, now that Udio lets you download the drums, bass, other instruments, and voice of any song separately, I had to try and master the best possible version of this song. I really, really hope it has been the last time. This song has a high amount of distinct parts for its length.

In any case, the end result is far, far punchier and clearer than all my earlier attempts. If you liked this song already, I suppose you’ll really like this version. If not, well, suck it.