The Chicago Writer

Assignment guidelines:

Write a memo to the CMO of Target describing an opportunity using digital and traditional marketing strategy to improve ROI for a specified demographic. 

1. Use social listening tools. 

2. Keep memo to two pages or fewer.

3. Show examples of research.

“Take a place. 

Listen for far off sounds. Now listen for closer ones.

What are the smells? Tastes? Tactile sensations?

Now take a moment. What do you see?”

This is the abridged version of how John Schultz, fiction writing professor at Columbia College Chicago, started every class. He wasn’t just a mentor--he wrote the book on it; Writing from Start to Finish: The ‘Story Workshop’ Basic Forms Rhetoric-Reader. Story Workshop--if it doesn’t sound familiar, it wouldn’t hurt to bone up on it. That’s what he taught. Unlike other methods of teaching writing, it encouraged students to write without inspiration, to just work through the babble of our thoughts and build better habits through writing. It’s this method that made me the writer that I am today.

Twice a week, I would take the elevator to the 12th of 624 S. Michigan Ave, the fiction writing department, to attend his class. Back then, I had this blue, felt bag that I had bought a few years earlier--only after my first couple of years in Chicago, the bag had received numerous tears and abrasions, tethered together with stickers and pins, and jury-rigged with carabiners to keep the strap attached. It smelled both musky and bitter, due to cigarette smoke and loose tobacco respectively. I was thinking about trashing it, one day while waiting for the elevator, when John Schultz came up beside me.

“I like your bag, Behn,” he said in his deep, throaty candor. He was well-groomed, in a sweater and a sports jacket--but back then, I just looked like a DIY punk. I don’t think I even owned a shirt without some permanent stain on it.

“I think it’s time to get a new one,” I responded. “This one’s run its course.”

“You should keep it. It has character.”

So I dragged it to class, day-in and day-out. I was working on a terrible short story most of that semester. It was about a dog who tried to protect a boy. But with every class, it was John who kept moving it forward--he asked, “Why does the dog want to protect the boy?” “Why is the boy in danger?” “Where is the boy’s family?” He asked every question that I had ever considered and too many that I hadn’t. 

It was at our student conferences, where he met with me alone, that he asked me the most important question of my entire college experience in the study of writing. He said, “Why do you want to tell this story?”

I had never asked myself that--I just wanted to write, knew that I had to, couldn’t sleep without it. But it was at that moment that I knew that I hadn’t really found my voice yet. You know, voice? The stylistic and thematic minutiae that separates your work from everyone else’s? But that was just beginning.

On Sunday, John Schultz died at the age of 84. Today, we buried him. It had been nearly ten years since I started at Columbia College Chicago’s fiction department, and many peers that I lost touch with dressed to the nines to see John out. Looking around the chapel, that had quickly grown into a standing-room-only situation, while his students and family spoke beautiful truths of him, I felt as though I was once again at home.

Y’see, I’ve never had much of an extended family. They’re either very rural or very religious, neither of which strongly appealed to me. Besides, the loss of my father splintered my immediate family in my teens and the domestic issues that resulted were only just being mended when I moved to Chicago. But it was at Columbia College Chicago, in the program that John Schultz had built, that I first discovered what a home was supposed to feel like. All the professors looked like aunts and uncles that I hadn’t seen in ages, the other students like my bigger brothers and sisters. But John Schultz and his wife, Betty, were our patriarch and matriarch, our ancestors who accepted us, regardless of what we were. And it’s through us that their story will live on.

I never finished that story from John’s class, but I wrote several more after I had found my voice. I even discovered myself through those writings. I never threw out that bag either. After all, it has character.

Reposted from Fourteen East Magazine, written by Sameera Ahmed.

Behnam Riahi’s cornflower blue dress shirt pairs well with black pants and a vest. Rimless glasses rest on his face. A gray tie with white polka dots and wingtip shoes, the color of the iced coffee he is just finishing up, brings together a professional look.

Stepping out into the summer air, the 30-year-old creative writer makes his way from Osmium Coffee Bar to the artist’s loft where he resides. An oversized metal door, almost disguised to any passersby, provides entry to Riahi’s residence in Chicago’s Lakeview neighborhood. He lives with a few other creatives, mostly visual artists, in an unassuming brown corner building above a Japanese restaurant.

Riahi in front of his apartment (Sameerah Ahmad, 14 East Magazine)

Art is everywhere. Paintings and wall sculptures lay wait, as if longing to be seen by the world.

When Riahi is not writing, he works at a restaurant or is in class as a public relations and advertising graduate student at DePaul University. He keeps busy and appreciates the space and his roommates. “These people are non-binary. And they’re my kind of people. Ones and zeroes—binary means there are only two types of people. White and black, man and women, whatever is societally acceptable,” Riahi says.

Riahi identifies as a “creative” with the caveat that he is not a visual artist. Unlike his cohabitants, Riahi’s art lives in his small metallic laptop or written down in a journal.

In many ways, Riahi’s work spans beyond the written word. He occasionally reads his pieces aloud at writer gatherings. He used to run a reading series called “Reading Under the Influence” and was an editor at the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography. He has been a coordinator for Criminal Class Press and Windy City Story Slam. He’s even edited two books.

Riahi twists through the loft and stops in his bedroom to change from business attire to eggplant-hued sneakers and a turquoise tank that reads, “No Rules.” He passes through the shared living area and then heads up a set of stairs leading to a vast rooftop.

On top of the roof, Riahi and friends chat (Sameerah Ahmad, 14 East Magazine)

His roommate Ryan, a 33-year old painter, chats with a young auburn-haired woman. Riahi and Ryan smoke cigarettes and the trio eventually wade into a more philosophical conversation concerning biological theory on the aging of the brain and how it affects music appreciation over time.

Eventually the woman gives her goodbyes and Riahi and Ryan saunter back down under roof. Olivia, a smart 4-year-old with golden locks, attempts to balance chess pieces into a black and white tower. She’s the daughter of one of the artists who lives in the loft. Riahi gently encourages her and patiently watches the child carefully stack the figures.

Riahi watches Olivia build her chess piece tower (Sameerah Ahmad, 14 East Magazine)

White rook. Black rook.  White rook. Olivia places a tiny figurine on top, a calico cat, who paws at the sky and crowns the whole structure. Olivia’s mother Sarah smiles and summons the young builder to a nearby grocery store.

Riahi challenges Ryan to a game of chess.

Ryan liberally pours vodka into a glass mixed with a fluorescent yellow energy drink. The men concentrate on the game and groove to the Velvet Underground. The artworks surrounding them patiently witnesses the match. Riahi points to a painting on the ground. Ryan made it. Riahi is seen in a tiled bathroom with a syringe in his mouth. His hand clutches the band that strangles his left arm.

Checkmate.

Riahi and Ryan face-off in a chess match (Sameerah Ahmad, 14 East Magazine)

The roommates decide to head down the street to a tavern, but not before Ryan gulps down the rest of his drink. Delilah’s provides a dark, cool, and comfortable setting for this Thursday summer evening. Drinks arrive and the two strike up a conversation about masculinity and clothing choices. They both sport skinny jeans and loose tanks.

Riahi and Ryan talking inside Delilah’s (Sameerah Ahmad, 14 East Magazine)

“There’s a new masculinity. You show you’re a man by not displaying your peacock feathers. You can feel like men dressed like f**s because you’re confident enough in your mental abilities. Without being like,” Ryan argues, his voice deepening. “‘I’m strong and I want to shoot people. I have a gun and f**k the brown people.’ You can just be a dude and girls find that highly attractive. Society has changed. We don’t live with a hunter gatherer mentality anymore.”

Riahi bristles at the “f” word.

“The way I dress is about feeling confident. If I don’t, I’ll feel vulnerable. It’s not about masculinity for me,” he says.  

A conversation ensues about the flippant usage of the derogatory term. The two take opposing sides. Calculated statements are traded back and forth. It’s as if they are still in the loft sliding around queens and pawns.

Riahi and Ryan step outside for a cigarette. Ryan seems overtaken by the cocktails and sits on the ground. His long skinny legs sprawl across the concrete. Eventually Ryan heads home and Riahi walks to a nearby shop to purchase some cheap wine. On the stroll back to the loft he searches for monsters. Pokemon Go.

Back at home, Riahi drinks wine and converses with his roommate, another visual artist. Abdel’s website explains “much of his art is inspired by the intricate geometric patterns that blanket his Moroccan homeland whether through architecture, interior design, tapestry, or fashion.” At some point in the conversation Riahi mentions that he inherited a blouse from his deceased father. Abdel gently urges him to try it on.

Riahi emerges from his room wearing the intricate garment. Primary colors dance on the dense, sand-hued blouse. It fits him like a glove. There’s both pain and pride in his demeanor. Riahi’s father died in Shiraz, Iran on August 31, 1999.

“It’s beautiful,” Abdel says, “Excuse me but I’m going to be an Arab for a second.” He walks over and feels the fabric. It’s the real deal.

The details of Amir Riahi’s death are sensitive. A memorial was held for Riahi ’s deceased father on September 11, 1999 in Oswego, Illinois. The body was not shipped. There was no funeral in Iran.

Exactly two years later the towers fell and Riahi ’s life changed.

He remembers his classmate Matt stopping him in a stairwell at school and saying, “Your people did this. Better watch your ass.” When people would inquire about his ethnicity, Riahi would sometimes just say he was half Asian. “I avoided terms like Persian or Iranian or Middle Eastern; terms that expressed The Other. The bad people.” He got in a few fights with bullies. Fights he didn’t start.

“Most of the time I was punished,” says Riahi.

Riahi ’s mom asked him if he wanted to change his name to something more “white” but he refused. “It had only been a couple years since my father had and passed and I wanted to hold onto that,” he says.

“We’re all extraordinarily depressed,” Riahi explains.

Late into the night he shares his thoughts about being a young creative in Chicago:

“Many of us are driven to make art because of an automatic sense of defeat, born from our difficult upbringings, which cyclically creates more self-defeat. It’s like my roommate—he’s a painter, and a good one too, but because he’s unconfident as a result of his upbringing, his own sense of defeat, he’s not comfortable marketing himself. The lack of success in sales and reputation has a created more defeat for himself, which births less confidence. Not all of us face this issue, but it exists heavily in a culture where art is less frequently appreciated. We can’t make a living off our work—some of us can live with that, taking comfort in alternative careers. Some of us just dig ourselves deeper into our defeat until there’s nothing less of us to kill anymore.”

Reblogged from Culpwrit.com

Q: How did you start LimeGreen?

A: 12 years ago, I was at the McDonald’s Corporation. My wife and I were getting ready to have our first kid and we just bought our house. I then decided to leave my great job McDonald’s to start my own business . . . basically to make less money, and she said, “Let’s give it two years. If it doesn’t work out, you should take another corporate position.”

With my wife’s support, I partnered with Mike Stratta to start LimeGreen. Initially, we operated from home basement working on video content for Ford Models, Inc. and planning events for the University of Chicago. It was just us, marketing ourselves as this big organization. I pitched the business and Mike worked on sourcing the manpower to complete the assignments. We started alone from scratch. No investors.

What influences evolved LimeGreen Moroch?

I’m from Chicago. When you think of iconic brands, they were created by agencies here. We should brag more about this fact. At LimeGreen Moroch, our objective is to elevate brands that elevate people. That desire was influenced by Tom Burrell, who started his agency in the 70s when there weren’t many people of color in advertisement. He understood that there were so many stories to be told about the multicultural consumer. He understood the buying power that this group possessed. There is a great responsibility that comes with providing multicultural marketing services.  I am aware of the responsibility that comes with engaging multicultural consumers from a social responsibility and financial perspective. We take it seriously. We’ve evolved because we only want to partner with companies and brands who appreciate this consumer enough to engage in a meaningful and memorable manner. This allows us to truly lead our client partners.

What are LimeGreen Moroch’s strengths?

We believe in diversity of thought. Imagine 10 people with diverse backgrounds all coming together to solve a business problem or develop a new marketing communications campaign. That’s some serious brain power all focused on one task. Our client partners gain a competitive advantage in the marketplace because of our approach. Our offices reflect a truly multicultural lifestyle. I want you to be who you are, because that’s what makes us authentic. It creates the right environment where people feel like they belong, have value, and their diversity is celebrated. I have all these diverse minds and it’s a special thing to see. “Elevating brands that elevate people,” is our tag. We work on projects that influence lives in a positive way. LimeGreen is about creativity and doing good through mentorship, job opportunities, championing causes, and giving a voice to people who don’t have one. We don’t want to paint over the graffiti.

How has LimeGreen changed you?

Memo To: Behnam Riahi cc: Jill Stewart From: Behnam Riahi Date: May 24, 2016

What You’ve Learned:

Through my experience in PRAD 515, Writing for Public Relations, I augmented my existing writing abilities for a communications profession. Through trial and error, I honed a voice for each exercise. I even learned a few things that only the experts are taught, like including personality in cover letters. Due to my undergraduate years when I majored in creative writing, I excelled in terms of creative verb-use and forced myself to write without the stimuli of inspiration. Without this teaching, I don’t know that I’d make a place in PR.

However, learning to write for public relations differs from generic prose, and I learned the value of minimal word count, something I took for granted in my “flash fiction” exercises prior. In addition to counting the words which I now use with sparsity, I learned the fundamentals of AP style and how to grow as an AP expert through supplemental materials recommended by the class. I even built a network as a result of relative in-class exercises and I continue to engage with them in an academic and professional settings while I refocus my skills for this new career excursion.

I grew most with the forms though. When writing for short stories, we analyzed numerous genres, including the how-to, the suspense thriller, and the model telling. We even parodied Kafka’s Metamorphosis to adapt our language to Gregor Samsa’s close third-person point-of-view. However, these forms are not nearly as practical as the news release, the pitch letter, and the fact sheet that I learned to craft in my graduate PR writing class. Though most fundamental in the public relations profession, the attributes I have learned from these exercises have empowered me to take the next hike toward beginning my career in public relations.

The following is a sample pitch letter, not meant to be used for any actual communications purposes:

Title: News tip per “Getting High with One You Love” story From: Behnam Riahi To: David Bienenstock Date: May 10th, 2016

Hey David,

At VBMC, we loved your articles on cannabis in GQ magazine, so we’d like to invite you to reach for a Van Buren. Van Buren Marijuana Cigarettes, founded by Kyle Ruge, is the first premium medicinal cannabis product for a luxury market. Sold in 24 states, Van Burens are cultivated from the finest organic sativa strains and packaged in Raw 70 mm, unbleached papers with its signature crutches.

Van Burens are sold in packages of ten and come in three varieties: Ruby (or full flavor), Amber (cut with a pinch of Santa Fe Natural Tobacco), and Platinum (equal measurements of tobacco and cannabis). Starting this summer, all varieties will be available at a dispensary near you.

“There’s a lot of products for squandering away your day, but there’s only one way to backstroke through a nebula. Reach for a Van Buren.” Kyle Ruge

The following is a test of writing prowess for my class, Writing & Public Relations:

Nine months ago, I received the first and last rejection letter for my first novel. I sat in a bar, dwindling the hours away with one craft brew after another, when my publisher emailed me. It was a small, local publisher: Curbside, as known by most writers around town. But they had a reputation in Chicago for publishing quality authors like Megan Stielstra and Samantha Irby, and I needed to be their next choice to finally strike ground as a novelist. Except, I wasn’t.

Author is a distinguished title: one with weight, like celebrity or hero. I know about a dozen authors and I’ve read their books; books that I found flawed. But these authors held MFAs in notable literary programs and I held a service industry job. Two options remained: I could start an MFA program too, and if it didn’t culminate in a novel, I could teach, though I abhorred the notion. Or I could wield my writing for a better cause. I could serve more than academia by serving people, via public relations.

The following is in response to Benjamin Busch’s article, the Twinkie Barricade:

The Twinkie Barricade tells a story that arcs through generations. Benjamin Busch begins by easing us into his childhood, to the era of the Cold War—one where students had hid beneath their desks during air raid siren warnings. Even in my own youth, we did the same. But Busch’s youth was marked by another great tragedy: the assassination of Harvey Milk, gay politician. Dan White, Milk’s killer, blamed the sugar rush resulting from Twinkies for his heinous hate crime, what he called, “The Twinkie Defense,” and it made national news.

But in spite of the conflict that year, in a young Busch’s perception, the Twinkies were too mouth-watering to pass up. By biting through the soft, obedient tissue of one and slurping its creamy innards out, he couldn’t help but have another. When his father arrived home, Busch took to the snow to hide, the same way he was taught to hide under desks. But Busch’s crime failed in comparison to that of Dan White’s. Guilt, nonetheless, does not keep ratio based on the size of a person. It was guilt that drove Busch into the snow to hide—a generation’s weight in guilt brought on by the ever-present danger of war. White, however, escaped the condemnation of a murderer and instead was sentenced to committing manslaughter. White got off easy. His homophobic malice remained only a secret in the eyes of the state. Busch, however, never ate another Twinkie again.

So in the past, I’ve primarily used this blog as a record of my literary exploits, including literary readings, book reviews, and a record of my experiences in the publishing industry. However, as I’m changing my career direction, I’d like to refocus this blog on my new expectations: public relations and advertising.

As most of you have already read, I’m now currently a student at DePaul University! Hooray, as much as one kid can, right? Either way, DePaul University holds classes quarterly, meaning that I have about two new courses every four three and a half months. In fact, I just finished two classes:

Foundations of Advertising (PRAD 553): In this class, taught by Dr. Yeuseung Kim, we held discussions about advertising and worked on a big project for the Echo College Marketing Challenge, where we made a campaign for our client, Facebook Custom Audiences. I’ll post a little from there as I start to build this blog, but address each different entry as a stand alone process about my investigations into the world of advertising.

Foundations of Public Relations (PRAD 555): Here we got down to the ins-and-outs of Public Relations. Taught by Jim Motzer, former publicist at Fleishman Hillard, this class was a combination of graduate students and undergrad students (who actually had the class listed as Advanced Public Relations) and focused on the different roles in public relations, from things you can do at an agency, careers in which you can practice PR, and different necessities an organization/client needs from a publicist. I’ll post plenty of stuff from our campaign for this class: State Optical Eyewear.

Currently, I’m in two different PR classes, for which I’ll post work I do on different assignments as they come up:

Writing for Public Relations (PRAD 515): Writing is an important part of PR, and though this class is optional, writing is what I do best! Taught by Jill Stewart, this class focuses on the fundamentals of professional writing (with AP style, as opposed to the MLA style that literature tends to be published in), and the different uses writing takes for the role as a publicist.

Research Methods (PRAD 585): Just as important as writing is, research is just as important to PR. Taught by Matt Ragas, this class focuses on how to conduct primary and secondary research in order to build a strong, solid information base in order to best address the needs of each client. In fact, we’re also working with our own special client this quarter, and if my professor permits it, I’ll get into the nitty gritty about how I conduct work over the course of the quarter. 

Plenty of great stuff to post! Of course, I’ll still post my book reviews on Goodreads and my Book & Brews on Facebook. So if you’re curious about following those, just send me a message and I’ll send the links your way.

Here’s the playbill:

Coraline, written by Neil Gaimain and published by Scholastic, is a third-person novel told from the point-of-view of Coraline Jones, a 12-year-old girl with a penchant for curiosity to subdue her immense boredom. It’s not as though she has an attention disorder, but more so that her boredom is an extension of her loneliness, living in a home with two parents who are constantly working and giving little, if no, attention to her. As a result, Coraline borders on having depressive disorders and finds solace in a mysterious door that carries her to an alternate reality, where her “other” parents really do devote all their time to her--only her other parents have buttons sewn over their eyes. As Coraline becomes absorbed in their generosity, her curious nature leads to uncovering the deep, dark secrets of these new found beings, who look and sound exactly like her own parents, but aren’t.

I found this book mysteriously left upon the end table next to the front door to my apartment. Apparently, my roommate’s ex-girlfriend had left it there, and for no other reason than because it was there, I chose to read it. I’d heard of the animated film, but I had no idea that Neil Gaiman wrote it, and with two Neil Gaiman books under my belt already (Good Omens and Stardust), I thought I’d immerse myself into another one of his mysterious little fables. Here’s a trend that I’m beginning to notice about Neil Gaiman--he likes to write from the point-of-view of children. A lot. Whether it’s Tristan Thorn of Stardust or Adam Young of Good Omens, Gaiman likes to envelope us in the perceptions of precious youth in order to, by my best measure, manipulate the suspension of reality. After all, if you throw an adult male into fantastical circumstances, profanity won’t be the only thing that takes the magic out of it--adults just don’t have that same hopeful, insistent curiosity as the naive do. And with each story baring the narrative arc of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, it only makes sense to follow in Carroll’s footsteps by creating characters who are, intrinsically, curious, longing, and somewhat unhappy. Take, for instance, Tristan Thorn, who is driven by loneliness, by a sense that he doesn’t necessarily belong. Or Adam Young, who sees the havoc left by adults and is compelled to “fix” the world, immersed in all its forgotten curiosities. Coraline’s no different--though she’s spoiled, she’s lonely, and it’s that loneliness that drives her into her own adventure, one that simply reeks of Gaiman’s fabulous invention.

(Coraline, as depicted in the film of the same name.)

Gaiman’s strengths begin with establishing why Coraline is unhappy--she’s just moved, she has no friends, no peers, and only a spattering of adults to keep her company, in addition to a snooty black cat. She’s creative, yes, but she’s outgrown her toys and videos, and has little to no interest in television. Her parents are relatively distant, workaholics, and her neighbors are strange, but not in a comforting sort-of-way. Besides, they constantly mispronounce her name. Her father likes to cook unique meals, but out of rebellion for her parents more than disinterest, Coraline wants nothing to do with them, wishing they’d make traditional foods, wishing she had a traditional family dynamic. Instead, she wanders, she explores, and when all-else fails, she invents repetitive counting games in order to occupy the long stretches of down time. This isn’t a girl who’s just bored--this is a girl with no one to express herself to, no one to listen to her pleas for companionship, during a time when she’s developing into an individual. She’s maladjusted, which results in a spoiled attitude where she throws a fit whenever she doesn’t get what she wants, no matter how ridiculous it might seem to want it. It’s an extension of her desire for attention, her development as a unique individual, and without any means of expressing herself, it’s no surprise that she follows her exploratory discoveries at the cost of leaving her family behind, though it’s not as though she doesn’t love her mother and father--it’s only because she doesn’t realize how much she loves them and she’s forgotten how much they love her.

The use of children isn’t the only thing that ties Gaiman’s work together. He likes to give organic traits to inanimate objects too. Tristan Thorn, upon entering Faerie, finds himself among living forests, and while some trees attempt to devour him, others help him in his travels. Oh, right, and he dates a fallen star. In Good Omens, Newt’s car, the Wasabi, almost has a personality of its own, while trees (again) grow violently in conflict against humanity. However, these are small aspects, compared those found in Coraline, where the tunnel between the mundane world and the other world has a life of its own.

“Whatever that corridor was was older by far than the other mother. It was deep, and slow, and it knew she was there...”

Even Coraline’s toys in the other world take life of their own.

“...wind up angels that fluttered around the room like startled sparrows, books with pictures that writhed and crawled and shimmered; little dinosaur skulls that chattered their teeth as she passed.”

Even marbles and snow globes in Coraline’s other home have souls. This sense of mysticism, by giving life to otherwise inanimate objects, doesn’t just give this fable its own unique sense of magical realism, but characterizes Gaiman’s style in his dream-like perception of reality, creating yet another theme that encompasses his work.

(It ain’t just fun and games anymore.)

A strength of this work alone is Gaiman’s use of opposites. Normally, most authors will place a protagonist against an opposite of the protagonist. In this case, however, Gaiman uses opposites of other characters in Coraline’s world. Though the other mother is more affectionate than Coraline’s own mother, she’s also manipulative, controlling, and (frankly) demonic, where as Coraline’s own mother is, at worst, simply condescending and neglectful. Coraline’s father is distant, but he’s also creative, and in fact, strong, willing to face all odds to protect his daughter, while her other father is submissive, focused on engorging Coraline as opposed to protecting her. These extreme differences are not necessarily full on opposites, but distortions of characters that define their personalities, each pushed to the extreme, twisted, and given violent edges in an effort to unmake Coraline in her exploration of the other world. Likewise, the mice are transformed into rats, her elderly neighbors are given theatrical youth, and the house, itself, is built on weaker foundations, almost to the point where it could vanish in an instant. The other world isn’t just an opposite world, but a world where everything is the same but different, reshaped to create a macabre perception of the regular elements in Coraline’s ordinary life, as a way to create a conflict that not only pushes the story forward, but engages its audience to guess at the transformations before they come into the story, and re-imagine unique elements in their own life that they give little thought to and twist them into a nightmarish doppelganger of their mundane experience.

Like Gaiman’s habit of giving life to inanimate objects, Gaiman’s no stranger to anthropomorphism either. Tristan Thorn encounters a small, furry friend on his adventure into Faerie who had once sought shelter with his father. In addition to that, he’s given protection by a loyal unicorn after saving its life from a lion. In Good Omens, Adam Young is followed around by a hellhound who has been twisted and reinvented into a small, obedient puppy that follows him around and grows adept at chasing cats or its own tail. This hellhound, who comes to be known simply as Dog, reconsiders its own desire for the apocalypse as it grows closer to Adam, at some moments growing scared of Adam’s immense powers. Coraline Jones first encounters anthropomorphism when the mice in her up-stair neighbor’s circus try to warn her about entering the other world. After she does though, it’s the cat, who initially acts too haughty for Coraline, that pairs with her in order to defeat the other mother. Even the rats are given personality, and in some form, even given human shape as they pose as Coraline’s up-stair neighbor in order to prevent her from rescuing her friends and family from the other mother. Like giving life to objects, giving life and personality and even dialogue to animals creates a sense of magical-realism while also making the protagonist seem more empathetic, or in some cases, using those animals and their revolting nature to create further tumult. After all, it’s the lion in Tristan’s world that’s trying to kill the unicorn, and Adam’s hellhound came to earth with every intention to destroy it. Even Coraline faces intelligent rats and flying dogs in the twisted manipulation of her reality, and in this facet, Gaimain isn’t just making every furry creature in his story an empathetic character--after all, not all humans are good. Why should all animals be too? In that sense, it not only supports the strong magical reality the story is set within, but becomes an analysis on the human condition through animals and their interactions with humans.

(This cat is also the POTUS on Rick & Morty.)

I think what makes this book the most fun is how clever Coraline is. Tristan and Adam both showed the same sense of acute circumstantial wit to get out of rough situations, but Coraline does so differently. While Adam drew new conclusions or while Tristan made smart, spontaneous choices, it’s Coraline’s planning to get out of her desperate situations that makes her character so full and makes this story so engaging. She doesn’t just act on a whim to handle her problems, but she negotiates with her enemies, setting stakes as part of an elaborate, mental chess game against her opponents, who underestimate her with good reason, since she’s fairly powerless and still a child. When cornered, she doesn’t just react to get out of a situation, she uses the tools around her (including the cat), in order to escape or overcome obstacles. At one point, she even creates an elaborate show of pretend playing with the dolls she’d grown too old for, an act to be purposefully caught unawares so that she can spring a trap. Gaiman doesn’t go out of his way to tell us what she’s planning--he leads us with clues, but it’s the surprise of her plans, her schemes, that really make the payoff of this story. He puts us in her mind, a mind that doubts whether any of these ideas will actually work, and unveils them with varying successes depending on the circumstances surrounding her plan. But it’s that planning that makes this character so strong, so memorable, and makes this story so engaging.

As I read more of Gaiman’s works, it’s not simply the ongoing themes that keep attracting me back--it’s because of his continued evolution of his perception of the magical, the fabulous, and the mysteries surrounding the world and what we don’t know about it. With each new work, he strengthens it more and more, and as I continue reading on, I can’t help but wonder if all these stories are connected in some way, if some overarching magical force has touched the presence of all the lives of all of his characters. Either way, I have no intention to stop reading--just call it curiosity.

The Riahi Rating: ★★★★★ 5/5 stars.

(Yo’ mama is so scary...)

And there’s a movie!: Coraline was made into a feature-length, stop-motion picture, directed by Henry Selick, director of The Nightmare before Christmas. This film’s strengths are in its acting and animation--Dakota Fanning and Keith David can make anything work, and Henry Selick perceives everything so beautifully while capturing the dark, twisted tone of the original narrative. While these strengths are easy to recognize, Selick’s failures with the piece are even easier to notice. Much of the story is told outside of the chronology that Gaiman originally introduced, and though that’s not necessarily a weakness, it does weaken the overall tension of the story after Coraline gets trapped in the other world. The introduction of a male counterpart to Coraline, named Wybie (short for Why-Born?) demeans Coraline’s creative use to get out of trouble as he voices her thoughts and acts as a hero to save her from trouble, in spite of how inept we’re meant to perceive him. It screams of something misogynistic, really, in that Coraline needs this pathetic boy in order to rescue her, as a way to engage the audiences in a stunted, childlike romance that peters out and serves no purpose. Further weakness is the downgrade of how twisted the other world actually is. While Coraline is faced with amorphous blobs that represent the people she knew from her original world in the book, they’re given less macabre characteristics in the film, overall creating a weaker threat and a pitiable effort to capture what Gaiman wrote so goddamn well. Honestly, the film makes a decent supplement to the book, but it could’ve made a much better one had the director not endeavored to play it safe.