I was afraid to look and see how long it's been since I've truly worked on my novel. (I added "truly" there to distinguish my past, substantiative efforts to increase my novel's word count from the the three or four tiny edits I performed in the "most recent" chapter during my vacation.)
Ouch. And with good reason, as it appears the last time I truly wrote anything in the novel was in mid-April.
As it turns out, my beloved characters have been stuck—and in undeniably unpalatable places at that—for TWO MONTHS. I don't want to tell you exactly where, but I can tell you that if I were in their places, I'd be very upset with whatever Powers That Be for permitting such an abuse of the space-time continuum, rather than, say, having a two-month orgasm.
(Though, like the infamous medicated four-hour erection, a two-month orgasm might also be too much of a good thing. A bit, right?)
So you'd think I might be feeling badly, and oh, I don't know, doing something like THINKING of how these poor, lost souls might GET ON with things, and if you have reached that conclusion, you are correct in your reasoning. But it turns out that—as with most things in life—merely considering them, even with good intentions and deep sincerity, is largely irrelevant. I can sit and think and feel as charming as the ass end of a representative of the equine family until the bovines come home, but that won't get My People out of their stuckedness.
No, the only thing that will save my characters and my story is for me to quit listing mammalian species and gazing at my attractively bejeweled navel and pointless ponderings and WRITE. Just ... write. Right, well, at least I have to write SOME of the time—clearly I am too far gone to give up my obsessions like the proverbial shivering Thanksgiving fowl.
The thing is, when I started this entry, I didn't know what I know now about what's happening next ... I knew a little bit, sure, but yesterday, in the unexpectant and creativity-sterile waiting room at the car dealership—my Stealth Saturn was undergoing a long-overdue oil change and demystification of the Service Engine Soon light—bits of the far and near futures of my characters dumped over me like Noah's floodwaters and there I was, arkless and drowning.
There's some not-nice things that are going to happen, and I don't think they're prepared. I can't see how they could be, since I'm not, and I really should be, seeing as how they wouldn't even exist without me—a fact which, I should add, I certainly do not hold over their heads, or demand that they never forget, as I prefer to be an anonymous behind-the-curtains chess-player, and I have not admitted any Totos into this little alternate reality that will expose me otherwise.
But where I was two-months lagging for lack of understanding about what would happen next, I now find myself reluctant to continue for what WILL happen next. While it is, at its root, a matter of connecting to my characters in particular and tender-heartedness in general, it's oddly illusionary how little control I seem to have about these characters and what happens to them—you'd think I'd have ALL of the control. But I don't; I just don't.
Instead, all I can do is choose the words that describe the actions, rather than plot and replot the actions themselves. I can decide the way the story is revealed, but not so much the elements of that story. These most integral components of fictional reality come from somewhere else: somewhere subconsciousional, somewhere dreamtasmical. The point is not whether I can accurately name it, but instead that I whole-heartedly understand that it is determined not by me—the "me" sitting suddenly alert in the Saturn dealership's cookie-scented waiting room—but by some other part of me that has, indeed, already completed the task, unbeknownst to the "me" with which I am, by day, familiar.
(It's a bit disturbing how closely fiction mirrors reality, really, when you get right down to it. Control is mostly illusion, and the mirror doesn't show you the truth so much as it shows you what you expect to find ... albeit with left and right reversed.)
Mysterious and half-baked as it sounds, I am not interested in the potential for Scooby-Snacks nor the problem with the oven—all I want to know is when, or if, I'm going to get on with this writing thing. The path of my characters is set, I believe, but they won't know it until they start walking, and they can't do that until I start writing.
I guess only time will tell if I do.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
July 1, 2008
May 28, 2008
The Summer of My Not Understanding
Having done so relatively little writing over the past few months, and having such a sloppily replete pile o' writing notes from which to choose, it is irritating—like the niggling itch left behind a few days post-blood donation—that I would feel most drawn to a scrawled generated writing prompt. It's like going to a dessert buffet and selecting the vanilla pudding.
That being said (with apologies to The Righter for that horrid phrase), today's prompt—generated a long series of yesterdays ago—is this: Something nobody knows about me is ...
Now, it's difficult enough, when I've confided everything from how much I loved The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to my (many) issues with hypothyroidism-induced constipation and some other disturbing and/or odd things in between, to think of something ELSE ... specifically, something else that NOBODY knows about me. Also, something else that nobody knows about me that I don't mind sharing with THE INTERNET. Sure, it's easy to do with stuff like the unexpected flight of a feminine hygiene disposal unit, because that JUST HAPPENED, but I did share that story with several people IRL before going relatively-anonymous-blogging with it.
And? To be something that NOBODY knows about me, wouldn't I have to think of something even I don't know about me, thereby disqualifying that thing as a criteria-meeting fact or incident at the very moment that I think of it?
(Overthinking it? Really? Huh. Well, you might be right.)
Anyway, if we do—for the sake of completing this post before the end of the month and the duration of any poor, lingering potential reader's last remaining nanosecond of patience—assume that by "something nobody knows about me," what is actually meant is "something nobody, excluding myself, knows about me," then I think I may, after a day and a half of on-and-off pondering, have a little something. And the only other thing I have to say is THANK GOODNESS the prompt didn't also include the word "interesting."
FINALLY, here it is: Something nobody knows about me is ... late one summer night, when I was sixteen or so, I snuck out into the kitchen, opened the knife drawer, and removed one of the sharpest knives from the drawer. I remember a light, cool breeze pushing in through the kitchen window, which was often open a bit during the summer, since we had no air conditioning, and the summer heat could be stifling.
I remember, too, the perfect stillness of the night—not windless, as I said, nor silent, either—but still, like a dream, where things are not quite real, but you know you're not dreaming, either. It was an offset, misplaced sort of stillness, with bugs chirping their odd symphonies and the scent of green life everywhere more pungently aromatic than fabric softener could ever wish to be.
And I remember the way the knife felt when I drew it across my upturned left arm—light, because I had no intention of harming myself, but heavy, because I had an intellectual understanding of how some people my age really could hear the dark, internal whisper that told them that hope was nothing more than a concept, and things would only get worse. So I skimmed the knife slowly across the very surface of my skin—hard enough to feel it, but not even close enough to the force required to break that fragile barrier—but even then, I could not fathom the depth of the ache that could propel the force required by the knife to slice through skin, much less cut into arteries.
The summer could be stifling, but I shivered when I put the knife away. It was, I think, the first time I understood how very fortunate one can be to not understand something.
That being said (with apologies to The Righter for that horrid phrase), today's prompt—generated a long series of yesterdays ago—is this: Something nobody knows about me is ...
Now, it's difficult enough, when I've confided everything from how much I loved The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to my (many) issues with hypothyroidism-induced constipation and some other disturbing and/or odd things in between, to think of something ELSE ... specifically, something else that NOBODY knows about me. Also, something else that nobody knows about me that I don't mind sharing with THE INTERNET. Sure, it's easy to do with stuff like the unexpected flight of a feminine hygiene disposal unit, because that JUST HAPPENED, but I did share that story with several people IRL before going relatively-anonymous-blogging with it.
And? To be something that NOBODY knows about me, wouldn't I have to think of something even I don't know about me, thereby disqualifying that thing as a criteria-meeting fact or incident at the very moment that I think of it?
(Overthinking it? Really? Huh. Well, you might be right.)
Anyway, if we do—for the sake of completing this post before the end of the month and the duration of any poor, lingering potential reader's last remaining nanosecond of patience—assume that by "something nobody knows about me," what is actually meant is "something nobody, excluding myself, knows about me," then I think I may, after a day and a half of on-and-off pondering, have a little something. And the only other thing I have to say is THANK GOODNESS the prompt didn't also include the word "interesting."
FINALLY, here it is: Something nobody knows about me is ... late one summer night, when I was sixteen or so, I snuck out into the kitchen, opened the knife drawer, and removed one of the sharpest knives from the drawer. I remember a light, cool breeze pushing in through the kitchen window, which was often open a bit during the summer, since we had no air conditioning, and the summer heat could be stifling.
I remember, too, the perfect stillness of the night—not windless, as I said, nor silent, either—but still, like a dream, where things are not quite real, but you know you're not dreaming, either. It was an offset, misplaced sort of stillness, with bugs chirping their odd symphonies and the scent of green life everywhere more pungently aromatic than fabric softener could ever wish to be.
And I remember the way the knife felt when I drew it across my upturned left arm—light, because I had no intention of harming myself, but heavy, because I had an intellectual understanding of how some people my age really could hear the dark, internal whisper that told them that hope was nothing more than a concept, and things would only get worse. So I skimmed the knife slowly across the very surface of my skin—hard enough to feel it, but not even close enough to the force required to break that fragile barrier—but even then, I could not fathom the depth of the ache that could propel the force required by the knife to slice through skin, much less cut into arteries.
The summer could be stifling, but I shivered when I put the knife away. It was, I think, the first time I understood how very fortunate one can be to not understand something.
May 18, 2008
Caution: Contagious
I don't think I'm going to actually do it, but it did occur to me that my blog could use a new name. Something like, "Erratic Digressions of the Boring Kind" or "Occasional Depressed Digressions." (That last one has the bonus of acronyming down to the simple but appropriate "ODD," but it's a little too far away from the established pattern to be tolerable in the anti-change corner I do so adore inhabiting.)
The other thing I've been wondering in my blogging absence—well, ONE thing, as there are many things that I wonder, not the least of which is WTF is WRONG with Corporate's many bathrooms, because I seriously do not believe my trials there will cease until or unless they decide to become the third company to lay me off, not that I'm obsessing about that or anything, although, yes, I AM—is why "catching up" sounds so much like a noxious disease, at least in my head, and/or when applied to blogging.
As you can kind of tell from the title of this here blather, I've concluded it is simply the obvious, literal root of the beast that has struck me so—not unlike, perhaps, the SCARY-ASS TREES that totally stole the battle scene in Prince Caspian, which I just saw on opening day with The ListMaker, because HELLO? when ELSE would two long-time fans of The Chronicles of Narnia see the next movie in the series EXCEPT on opening day?—and not anything deeper or more profound than that.
Which doesn't make for much of an interesting blog entry, perhaps, but excuse me, since when is this blog about entertaining the masses? Right. Pretty much never.
Anyway, it's not that nothing's been happening here in wyo's world—quite the contrary, in fact. Alas, it appears that nothing more enthralling than an average, ordinary mid-blog crisis has kept me from blogging, and it's only moderately less boring that my mid-blog crisis has extended fat tendrils of tenatitivity into my other writing endeavors as well. (It's not even "just" my novel that's been affected ... the limited writing that I do by day at Corporate has been liberally coated in the contagions, too, like a peanut-butter sandwich assembled by a three year-old, using his fingers as the spreading implement.)
However, I haven't been petrified by fear of failing, or flummoxed by inability of interesting. No, not this or any other mixed-metaphor of blended alliteration has stymied my ability to get the heck out of bed and pound the keyboards on a semi-regular basis—I just haven't done it. I've been obsessed with my apathy and I've been SO into not-caring that I haven't even questioned why I don't care ... because I just don't care!
(I'm not even embarrassed to admit this, which is almost embarrassing in and of itself.)
How DO you—the "general" you, unless a particular "you" has some significant or perhaps amusing personal insight to offer, in which case, please feel free—convince yourself to care about something that you do not care about? You may well be able to give a fair performance of caring, but I'm not sure it's possible to invent an honest interest in something. Even if an interest has previously run rampant—like a raging fever that burns up all other considerations in its own egomania and self-centeredness—it's a difficult proposition, at best, to reconjure it up where it has vanished.
I have to think there's some magic involved behind the scenes when it comes to interest and drive: some unquantifiable, precious, LIVING magic. You can wish for it all you want, but it rarely responds to your wishes, preferring to arrive unannounced and unexpected.
And that is, perhaps, exactly why you can't stop preparing to receive it, even when it deserts you, even if such desertion comes at a very painful time ... a time when you might say you need it the most, and you are left alone, bereft, and echoingly empty. Creativity of any sort is a great boon at such a time; it doesn't ease the pain but at least it keeps it company, while apathy only serves to invite greater pain, with longer echoes.
(Just so you know, I kind of thought this entry would be funnier than it's turning out to be. Because I really did fully intend to discuss how "catching up" is a bit of disease, firing up like a rash on one person and spreading to the next, and the next, and then the next thing you know, ALL the kids are wanting to jump off the same cliff, although because the vector is electronic, it's only a virtual cliff.)
I do feel better now, though. And I will agree—however grudgingly—that it's better to write without motivation than not to write at all. But I will not even begin to suggest that it's better to read something that was written that way.
The other thing I've been wondering in my blogging absence—well, ONE thing, as there are many things that I wonder, not the least of which is WTF is WRONG with Corporate's many bathrooms, because I seriously do not believe my trials there will cease until or unless they decide to become the third company to lay me off, not that I'm obsessing about that or anything, although, yes, I AM—is why "catching up" sounds so much like a noxious disease, at least in my head, and/or when applied to blogging.
As you can kind of tell from the title of this here blather, I've concluded it is simply the obvious, literal root of the beast that has struck me so—not unlike, perhaps, the SCARY-ASS TREES that totally stole the battle scene in Prince Caspian, which I just saw on opening day with The ListMaker, because HELLO? when ELSE would two long-time fans of The Chronicles of Narnia see the next movie in the series EXCEPT on opening day?—and not anything deeper or more profound than that.
Which doesn't make for much of an interesting blog entry, perhaps, but excuse me, since when is this blog about entertaining the masses? Right. Pretty much never.
Anyway, it's not that nothing's been happening here in wyo's world—quite the contrary, in fact. Alas, it appears that nothing more enthralling than an average, ordinary mid-blog crisis has kept me from blogging, and it's only moderately less boring that my mid-blog crisis has extended fat tendrils of tenatitivity into my other writing endeavors as well. (It's not even "just" my novel that's been affected ... the limited writing that I do by day at Corporate has been liberally coated in the contagions, too, like a peanut-butter sandwich assembled by a three year-old, using his fingers as the spreading implement.)
However, I haven't been petrified by fear of failing, or flummoxed by inability of interesting. No, not this or any other mixed-metaphor of blended alliteration has stymied my ability to get the heck out of bed and pound the keyboards on a semi-regular basis—I just haven't done it. I've been obsessed with my apathy and I've been SO into not-caring that I haven't even questioned why I don't care ... because I just don't care!
(I'm not even embarrassed to admit this, which is almost embarrassing in and of itself.)
How DO you—the "general" you, unless a particular "you" has some significant or perhaps amusing personal insight to offer, in which case, please feel free—convince yourself to care about something that you do not care about? You may well be able to give a fair performance of caring, but I'm not sure it's possible to invent an honest interest in something. Even if an interest has previously run rampant—like a raging fever that burns up all other considerations in its own egomania and self-centeredness—it's a difficult proposition, at best, to reconjure it up where it has vanished.
I have to think there's some magic involved behind the scenes when it comes to interest and drive: some unquantifiable, precious, LIVING magic. You can wish for it all you want, but it rarely responds to your wishes, preferring to arrive unannounced and unexpected.
And that is, perhaps, exactly why you can't stop preparing to receive it, even when it deserts you, even if such desertion comes at a very painful time ... a time when you might say you need it the most, and you are left alone, bereft, and echoingly empty. Creativity of any sort is a great boon at such a time; it doesn't ease the pain but at least it keeps it company, while apathy only serves to invite greater pain, with longer echoes.
(Just so you know, I kind of thought this entry would be funnier than it's turning out to be. Because I really did fully intend to discuss how "catching up" is a bit of disease, firing up like a rash on one person and spreading to the next, and the next, and then the next thing you know, ALL the kids are wanting to jump off the same cliff, although because the vector is electronic, it's only a virtual cliff.)
I do feel better now, though. And I will agree—however grudgingly—that it's better to write without motivation than not to write at all. But I will not even begin to suggest that it's better to read something that was written that way.
January 17, 2008
Doubt
It's been a full week since I've written anything in novel or blog. That this unseemly lack of productivity was due more to physical than psychological inability does little for my morale, as the end result is the same: a glut of words in my brain, crowding my low-functioning synapses in their abruptly arrested stampede to escape.
They sit there, gibbering and cross-breeding in unnatural ways, their offspring happily sterile and sadly far less interesting than a liger. If I wasn't already feeling the effects of bitter cold January, dark and lingering and multiplicative with the sheer inelegance of a back rendered throbbingly sensitive by a wrongfully-directed sneeze—with an innocuous little SNEEZE, I caused myself this week-plus of posture-warping back pain ... a SNEEZE ... WTF?—then I should certainly be brought down by a clogged mental pipe of unraveling, unreleased thought.
As in most cases of depression, albethey minor and major, I found that stacking just a few less-than-ideal blocks upon one another resulted in a skyscraper of pointlessness. It wasn't just my back and midwinter that sucked, see, it was everything, and in the deep sea of craptasticness, I more-or-less willingly drowned, spending my heating-pad-relegated time in crushing despair, reiterating every little thing that is wrong in my life and berating myself for it, whether I was solely, mostly, minorly, or not at all responsible.
(Except for most of Saturday, where I was wrapped up in the warm thrall of The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, the latter two books in the series that begins with The Golden Compass ... THAT time was deliciously and quickly spent, and not even the odd angle at which I was forced to extrude myself from my chair could warp my spirit during those lovely, escapist hours. DAMN, but I liked those books quite a lot!)
Anyway, you get the idea, my back is a giant wuss and my brain is into self-mutilation, and the past week without writing was largely unpleasant, like mental constipation with cramps. Or something. The one productive—if I may glamorize it by calling it such—thing I did was get to the root of my "I hate my job" issue. I can't say it was so much of a cheery "A-HA!" experience as it was a gloomy "Ohhh" moment, but at least I finally got out of that particular thought-circle and onto the downward spiral away from it and on to the next one.
What happened was this: I was getting ready for another day on the job, and the dread welled up like whines out of the most recently ousted team on The Amazing Race and I paced around my usual depressive loop while barely retaining sour tears. But then it occurred to me to consider—to really, deeply ponder—the WHY of the loathing, rather than simply flop around in my sweltering unhappiness like a fish voluntarily leaping from water.
It seems like an obvious thing to do, I'm sure, but remember the frozen January mire in which I am trapped, please, and top that dreary, sludgy sundae off with the great, big, maraschino-cherry nastiness of stabbing, labor-esque back pain. Mmmm, tastes just like ipecac!
So I finally dug to the root of my problem, and oddly enough, it wasn't just corporateness and having to dress like a grown-up and bland, day-after-day routine and repetitiveness. No, past all that and the mourning of faded on-the-job friendships and the griping of all-executives-are-really-backstabbing-bastards, under the doom and gloom and a thousand other surface complaints, what I found a tiny little pea of a problem that was the root cause of my discomfort under the lovely padded mattresses of regular paychecks and my very own cubicle just down the hall from a double-doored bathroom in which people feel comfortable enough to talk on the phone whilst relieving themselves. And HUM! Yesterday I heard someone HUMMING while she pooped!
But I digress—in an obvious procrastinatorial attempt to escape this self-dictated confessional—so here it is, the truth: I don't like to work hard.
Not satisfied with being a mere lazy slob, I went from the main root to the first branches of it, and there I found that I don't like being challenged. I don't mean because of my many mental impairments either, but rather because of being assigned tasks that are outside or even just hanging off the edges of my warm little ring o' comfort. I don't like having to work hard because I don't like trying to rise to a challenge, and all of that is, of course, because I am afraid that I won't be able to, which means, of course, that I'm as full of the title of this entry as a political debate is full of calculation and blather.
Ouch. The realization of the depths of my lack of personal fortitude struck me like a 2x4 between the eyes, and left a mark in the shape of an "L."
It shouldn't be a surprise, and it's certainly not unique. I don't know anyone who doesn't have their doubts, often about even their own most well-documented strengths. Even an elite marathoner realizes s/he might not finish any given race, and when one isn't a top-level competitor—say, in going on down to the grocery store to purchase a little Gerber® jar of pureed ham for one's much-loved, very ill Old Lady Cat who has refused to eat anything else—there is no guarantee of success. I could have broken my leg after slipping on the flurry of "Winter Storm Warning" flakes outside the store (I didn't), someone could have stolen my wallet (no), or the store might have been flat-fucking OUT of that one variety of sloppy goo (oh yes, they were).
(Thankfully, Old Lady Cat seems to like the fine-ground chicken just as well. And I think what she's got is just a cold, although when you're roughly 92 in people years, there's really no such thing as "just a cold.")
So. Doubt. It would appear that this crafty beast is actually worse than depression. It feeds on anything it can, of course, discriminating not between physical disabilities and mental ones, and it loads every worry with more than its own weight, making it more ferocious and intimidating—as in panic and anxiety—or more inflated and crushing—as in weakness and depression. That I'm no exception to the general rules of human existence should be encouraging, I expect, but with doubt as my monkey on my already-aching back, I cannot be expected to believe that which I so glibly spout into cyberspace.
Really. As if I could just get over it and find my grown-up panties, which I DON'T EVEN LIKE, much less put those things on.
Still, I remain of the opinion that knowledge—however apparently pointless—is intrinsically powerful, I must conclude that as hopeless as my work mood and my general attitude seem, the fact that I've glimpsed their awkward ass ends is, I think, a good thing. Now that I know the true extent of the problem, I have increased my chances—however slight—of putting these bloated issues on a crash diet, so that I can send them packing with one well-placed kick. Or maybe 40 or so of them, like at the end of that GOD-awful Tae Bo® video that I still dredge out on increasingly rare occasion.
Maybe.
They sit there, gibbering and cross-breeding in unnatural ways, their offspring happily sterile and sadly far less interesting than a liger. If I wasn't already feeling the effects of bitter cold January, dark and lingering and multiplicative with the sheer inelegance of a back rendered throbbingly sensitive by a wrongfully-directed sneeze—with an innocuous little SNEEZE, I caused myself this week-plus of posture-warping back pain ... a SNEEZE ... WTF?—then I should certainly be brought down by a clogged mental pipe of unraveling, unreleased thought.
As in most cases of depression, albethey minor and major, I found that stacking just a few less-than-ideal blocks upon one another resulted in a skyscraper of pointlessness. It wasn't just my back and midwinter that sucked, see, it was everything, and in the deep sea of craptasticness, I more-or-less willingly drowned, spending my heating-pad-relegated time in crushing despair, reiterating every little thing that is wrong in my life and berating myself for it, whether I was solely, mostly, minorly, or not at all responsible.
(Except for most of Saturday, where I was wrapped up in the warm thrall of The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, the latter two books in the series that begins with The Golden Compass ... THAT time was deliciously and quickly spent, and not even the odd angle at which I was forced to extrude myself from my chair could warp my spirit during those lovely, escapist hours. DAMN, but I liked those books quite a lot!)
Anyway, you get the idea, my back is a giant wuss and my brain is into self-mutilation, and the past week without writing was largely unpleasant, like mental constipation with cramps. Or something. The one productive—if I may glamorize it by calling it such—thing I did was get to the root of my "I hate my job" issue. I can't say it was so much of a cheery "A-HA!" experience as it was a gloomy "Ohhh" moment, but at least I finally got out of that particular thought-circle and onto the downward spiral away from it and on to the next one.
What happened was this: I was getting ready for another day on the job, and the dread welled up like whines out of the most recently ousted team on The Amazing Race and I paced around my usual depressive loop while barely retaining sour tears. But then it occurred to me to consider—to really, deeply ponder—the WHY of the loathing, rather than simply flop around in my sweltering unhappiness like a fish voluntarily leaping from water.
It seems like an obvious thing to do, I'm sure, but remember the frozen January mire in which I am trapped, please, and top that dreary, sludgy sundae off with the great, big, maraschino-cherry nastiness of stabbing, labor-esque back pain. Mmmm, tastes just like ipecac!
So I finally dug to the root of my problem, and oddly enough, it wasn't just corporateness and having to dress like a grown-up and bland, day-after-day routine and repetitiveness. No, past all that and the mourning of faded on-the-job friendships and the griping of all-executives-are-really-backstabbing-bastards, under the doom and gloom and a thousand other surface complaints, what I found a tiny little pea of a problem that was the root cause of my discomfort under the lovely padded mattresses of regular paychecks and my very own cubicle just down the hall from a double-doored bathroom in which people feel comfortable enough to talk on the phone whilst relieving themselves. And HUM! Yesterday I heard someone HUMMING while she pooped!
But I digress—in an obvious procrastinatorial attempt to escape this self-dictated confessional—so here it is, the truth: I don't like to work hard.
Not satisfied with being a mere lazy slob, I went from the main root to the first branches of it, and there I found that I don't like being challenged. I don't mean because of my many mental impairments either, but rather because of being assigned tasks that are outside or even just hanging off the edges of my warm little ring o' comfort. I don't like having to work hard because I don't like trying to rise to a challenge, and all of that is, of course, because I am afraid that I won't be able to, which means, of course, that I'm as full of the title of this entry as a political debate is full of calculation and blather.
Ouch. The realization of the depths of my lack of personal fortitude struck me like a 2x4 between the eyes, and left a mark in the shape of an "L."
It shouldn't be a surprise, and it's certainly not unique. I don't know anyone who doesn't have their doubts, often about even their own most well-documented strengths. Even an elite marathoner realizes s/he might not finish any given race, and when one isn't a top-level competitor—say, in going on down to the grocery store to purchase a little Gerber® jar of pureed ham for one's much-loved, very ill Old Lady Cat who has refused to eat anything else—there is no guarantee of success. I could have broken my leg after slipping on the flurry of "Winter Storm Warning" flakes outside the store (I didn't), someone could have stolen my wallet (no), or the store might have been flat-fucking OUT of that one variety of sloppy goo (oh yes, they were).
(Thankfully, Old Lady Cat seems to like the fine-ground chicken just as well. And I think what she's got is just a cold, although when you're roughly 92 in people years, there's really no such thing as "just a cold.")
So. Doubt. It would appear that this crafty beast is actually worse than depression. It feeds on anything it can, of course, discriminating not between physical disabilities and mental ones, and it loads every worry with more than its own weight, making it more ferocious and intimidating—as in panic and anxiety—or more inflated and crushing—as in weakness and depression. That I'm no exception to the general rules of human existence should be encouraging, I expect, but with doubt as my monkey on my already-aching back, I cannot be expected to believe that which I so glibly spout into cyberspace.
Really. As if I could just get over it and find my grown-up panties, which I DON'T EVEN LIKE, much less put those things on.
Still, I remain of the opinion that knowledge—however apparently pointless—is intrinsically powerful, I must conclude that as hopeless as my work mood and my general attitude seem, the fact that I've glimpsed their awkward ass ends is, I think, a good thing. Now that I know the true extent of the problem, I have increased my chances—however slight—of putting these bloated issues on a crash diet, so that I can send them packing with one well-placed kick. Or maybe 40 or so of them, like at the end of that GOD-awful Tae Bo® video that I still dredge out on increasingly rare occasion.
Maybe.
November 22, 2007
A Real Turkey of a Post
I had a couple of personal revelations—"personal revelations," in case you didn't know, are like "real revelations" in that they are insightful epiphanies, often sudden and striking seemingly at random, but unlike their BIG cousins, they don't tend to have any relevance outside of the very tiny sphere of one's own silly self—regarding my novel yesterday. I would discuss them both in gruesomely thorough and dissectional detail, but the one occurred to me just as I was drifting off to sleep, and I don't really remember anything about it except vowing to make sure that I wrote that down in the morning.
*sigh* So. Typical. And convenient! If, that is, the revelation was actually pure crap and I was too sleepy to realize it. Otherwise, not remembering it just sucks.
Anyway, so I have been writing more into the novel, and am now well into the third chapter in a sequence, although as I mentioned earlier, these three chapters are not the first three chapters. Probably. The point is, it's coming along in between ridiculously vague babbles like this one, and hopefully it's more coherent and enthralling, although how the hell would I be a good judge of my own writing, particularly when I routinely produce run-on sentences that are going so far astray from the germane here that I'm quite about to forget my other revelation in the process?
*ahem*
So it's well-established that not very much of this is coming out the way I thought it might, when I began my spur-of-the-moment impulse-novel. Granted, I didn't have a complete outline of plot sequence and development to guide me, but I did take the time to outline some of the characters and make notes about their nature and behavioral tendencies. I wrote down snippets about everything from hair color (where I "knew" it) to key things these characters were going to do in the story, and I did this quite considerately, if not systematically.
While I'm not so much bothered by the fact that my characters are deviant little nutballs who can't even hold to the sketchiest of plot-lines—they are, in that sense, not unlike their Big Momma (yes, that's me)—I am concerned that this tendency to run off and do stuff I didn't know they'd do might easily result in gaping plot holes and stringy loose ends. Not unlike, for example, if A. A. Milne had initially described Tigger as having plush peacock-like butt-feathers, and then Tigger had just wandered off on his own and developed that bouncy tail in a later chapter.
*pssst* It's completely random. Don't go looking for confirmation that A. A. Milne ever intended for Tigger to have an avian—rather than Slinky-esque—appendage on his tuckus. If there IS such evidence, I don't even want to know, because it would imply something scaryier about the workings meanderings of my brain than I already know. And that's just too much, even for me. Like, there's not enough wine in the world to deal with THAT, you know?
So. My personal revelation—specifically, the one that I remember, because I had enough sense to write it down—was that rather than keep a list of things a character was going to do (my first choice, as you might recall, had I not managed to lose every last one of you invisible friends o' mine in that last, terrifying digression), I should simply keep lists of what they had done. Not every little thing, of course, because that's what the novel itself is, but things that allude to other things, or imply certain points, or seem contradictory. Because then I would have an abbreviated record of what was going on to refer to! Yaaaaay, me!
Yeah, well, we can't ALL have tremendously powerful revelations. Mine are more of the DUHHHHHHH variety. As I have just demonstrated. *curtsy*
Despite the fact that this is so far removed from realizing that light has properties of both waves and matter that it's less similar to a revelation than it is to a rutabaga, I nonetheless promptly implemented my plan, and now I have a file descriptively named—and sadly typoed—points-for_conflict_avoidiance that resides in my novel directory, right under my now-pretty-much-totally-useless characters-<name> files. And I am disproportionately thankful for that.
Speaking of which, Happy Thanksgiving! May you have much proper and improper proportions of thanks for every big or little thing that makes you even the slightest bit happy today. And may there be a whole lotta that—and stuffing!—to go around, for all.
*sigh* So. Typical. And convenient! If, that is, the revelation was actually pure crap and I was too sleepy to realize it. Otherwise, not remembering it just sucks.
Anyway, so I have been writing more into the novel, and am now well into the third chapter in a sequence, although as I mentioned earlier, these three chapters are not the first three chapters. Probably. The point is, it's coming along in between ridiculously vague babbles like this one, and hopefully it's more coherent and enthralling, although how the hell would I be a good judge of my own writing, particularly when I routinely produce run-on sentences that are going so far astray from the germane here that I'm quite about to forget my other revelation in the process?
*ahem*
So it's well-established that not very much of this is coming out the way I thought it might, when I began my spur-of-the-moment impulse-novel. Granted, I didn't have a complete outline of plot sequence and development to guide me, but I did take the time to outline some of the characters and make notes about their nature and behavioral tendencies. I wrote down snippets about everything from hair color (where I "knew" it) to key things these characters were going to do in the story, and I did this quite considerately, if not systematically.
While I'm not so much bothered by the fact that my characters are deviant little nutballs who can't even hold to the sketchiest of plot-lines—they are, in that sense, not unlike their Big Momma (yes, that's me)—I am concerned that this tendency to run off and do stuff I didn't know they'd do might easily result in gaping plot holes and stringy loose ends. Not unlike, for example, if A. A. Milne had initially described Tigger as having plush peacock-like butt-feathers, and then Tigger had just wandered off on his own and developed that bouncy tail in a later chapter.
*pssst* It's completely random. Don't go looking for confirmation that A. A. Milne ever intended for Tigger to have an avian—rather than Slinky-esque—appendage on his tuckus. If there IS such evidence, I don't even want to know, because it would imply something scar
So. My personal revelation—specifically, the one that I remember, because I had enough sense to write it down—was that rather than keep a list of things a character was going to do (my first choice, as you might recall, had I not managed to lose every last one of you invisible friends o' mine in that last, terrifying digression), I should simply keep lists of what they had done. Not every little thing, of course, because that's what the novel itself is, but things that allude to other things, or imply certain points, or seem contradictory. Because then I would have an abbreviated record of what was going on to refer to! Yaaaaay, me!
Yeah, well, we can't ALL have tremendously powerful revelations. Mine are more of the DUHHHHHHH variety. As I have just demonstrated. *curtsy*
Despite the fact that this is so far removed from realizing that light has properties of both waves and matter that it's less similar to a revelation than it is to a rutabaga, I nonetheless promptly implemented my plan, and now I have a file descriptively named—and sadly typoed—points-for_conflict_avoidiance that resides in my novel directory, right under my now-pretty-much-totally-useless characters-<name> files. And I am disproportionately thankful for that.
Speaking of which, Happy Thanksgiving! May you have much proper and improper proportions of thanks for every big or little thing that makes you even the slightest bit happy today. And may there be a whole lotta that—and stuffing!—to go around, for all.
November 4, 2007
Almost Honest
The novel I'm writing actually started in a session of the writing group I attend. Our fearless Leader has taken it upon herself to see us through the development of an article/short story/first chapter of a novel/other writing thing, all the way to writing a letter of inquiry to a literary agent. Although what I produced when we free-wrote about what we wanted to write about was not at all what I came up with when we free-wrote about a tiny little moment in time, I did arrive at the point where I knew, somehow, that this was the first chapter of a my novel.
Anyway, in our most recent exercise—which I didn't feel went particularly well for me—we were to expand on our tiny little moment using three senses to develop the piece more fully. Again, I deviated somewhat and went into another chapter, which was fine, except that when I read my effort aloud to the group, I had to first provide the background of the preceding chapter. Because, they had only heard the small portion of the first chapter that I'd written some weeks earlier, and had no idea about the other chapter that I'd written in the interim.
I found it was very difficult to summarize that chapter, and moreover, I found myself quite embarrassed by the things my characters had done therein. I felt—without acknowledging the feeling so much in words—that my characters weren't interesting, their actions weren't believable, and the whole chapter I was describing was, in fact, dreadfully silly and not at all engaging. Which made it even worse to try to stumble through the new words I'd put on the page; sure, I'd worked with some senses, but precious little action had occurred.
In retrospect, it seems completely clear that my reticence was a result of the affection I was already developing for my characters—characters that I didn't have much of a plan for, who weren't doing much of anything that I thought they'd do, and who weren't even following a chronological order of events, for crying out loud! But these people from my imaginings were already real to me, and I wanted to know what was happening to them, and how they felt, and why they behaved the way they did ... and I wanted other people to want to know, too.
When I read to my group—a group I've been with for about four years now, so you'd think I'd be comfortable enough at this point—it is never easy. Even when I think I've done reasonably well, when all eyes turn to me, my heart goes for a brisk jog and it pounds the pavement of my chest so hard that I really do believe it is audible to the other writers in the room, and perhaps even visually apparent. There is often a bit of a buzz in my ears and frequently a quiver in my fingers; I don't usually hold my notebook up for this reason, but read off of it on the table, even though that can be problematic, too, because my handwriting is more sloppy than that of a doctor on tranquilizers—even I have trouble reading it.
But as it always does, my turn to read came, and so I read. My heart pounded and my pages shook and I tripped over my own words, legible or not. And I didn't so much look at anyone when I set the notebook down, not because I thought what I had written was horrible—though it certainly wasn't excellent—but because I didn't want to see if they didn't care about the people I was writing about. I didn't want to know if they didn't think there was anywhere to go from this beginning—this messy mix of oddity and mundanity—or worse, if they, unlike I, knew where I was going and knew it was a silly, silly road to nowhere.
What they did say was only slightly less jarring than my worries, and naturally, I worried considerably over all of it anyway. One funny, evocative lady told me—completely of her own accord, I must note—that my descriptions were so vivid that she felt she knew my characters, and she already cared about them. I was surprised and pleased, and instantly concerned as to how I could possibly sustain this interest throughout the entirety of a novel. My crafted wording and twisted metaphors were neatly praised, with the long-standing caveat that I would not dream of arguing against: I am going to have to do a lot of chopping when it comes time to edit.
Verbose? Me? It's hard to imagine, even if you squinch your eyes tightly and think so hard that your hands clench without you realizing it, and you slam the white elephant out of the way repeatedly, determined to see—REALLY SEE—how it could be even remotely possible that I use SO many words that I should, in fact, have to cut some out to add to the clarity of a piece, rather than add them in ... yeah. Exactly. It's as ridiculous to consider as the idea that I would be the least bit sarcastic, isn't it.
But then our Leader addressed "narrative voice" and dedication to a story, and while my worry neither abated nor fattened, my confusion erupted, a hot rush of "WTF?" with a light aftertaste of "Who, me?"
She said I had a strong narrative voice, and if I could sustain that through the pages of a novel, I would do very well. Although she added that I should take care that my voice did not overwhelm my characters, and that I needed to trust them—and their stories—and let them tell me about themselves.
I nodded, even if I'm sure I looked like a dumb deer caught in bright headlights, and between listening to the others and offering what suggestions I could, I repeated these words in my head. Not because I didn't want to forget them, but because I had to remember them, to figure out what they meant!
Narrative voice, as it turns out, is a tricky thing to define, and of all the Googlicious information that I turned up later, this lengthy discussion between Victor Lavalle and Amy Minton made the most sense, although it's not exactly an easy read. According to these two, and mostly according to Victor, there's a component of personality to narrative voice—how the story is told—and a certain level of honesty, too. Honesty as a component of narrative voice was a foreign concept to me as it applied to a fictional story: how could any of it be honest when it's fiction?
I think that's where the characters come in, and what my writing group Leader was saying about having trust in them and letting them tell their own stories. While "pure" fiction seems impossible to me—I don't see how anyone could ever keep all facets of their own experience or personality out of all of their characters—when I look at it from the point of view of the honesty of the characters, I understand it a little better.
It's not that everything the characters do is things I've personally done, or someone I know has done, and I maintain that it would be impossible for me not to infuse my characters with some tiny portion of myself, even if it's only in one character's hair, or another's tendency to ramble. These are things, after all, that we identify with other people in real life—commonalities we see and seek out.
If I understand and recognize these things in my characters as I would in a friend, that's fine. But if I let the fact that I "get" this very well overshadow the parts that are more difficult—the parts of a character that I don't necessarily like, for example—then I'm bringing myself into the story, and reducing its integrity by making it about ME instead of my characters.
I have to believe what I say about everyone having a story worth hearing—I have to believe that even of people that are purely of my own imaginings. I have to stop getting interested in things about them that remind me of other people or other situations and realize that no one is that much of an individual. Relatability—and people do find it in the darnedest places—is going to happen, and should happen, for the characters to come as much to life on the page as they are in my mind.
No one said this would be easy—quite the contrary. Which, to be honest (since that's such a big deal now), is probably why I've avoided it for so long, even though characters have been telling me their stories for almost as long as I can remember. I started my first novel in the sixth grade, and my second in high school. In between, I wrote countless short stories, although I could probably count them if I ventured up into the Attic of Doom and scrounged around until I found the box that they are in, assuming they haven't been consumed by bugs or rodents in the intervening years.
I didn't stop telling those stories because it was hard, but neither did I not continue because it wasn't easy. Rather, I think that I stopped being honest, because I stopped liking myself quite so much as I did when I was younger, and didn't see that there was stuff there that wasn't likable. Oddly, I never stopped liking other people for the same reason, and I certainly have seen bits that aren't likable in the slightest.
Maybe, if I can be honest for a novel length of time, I can get back to telling stories again. Hell, maybe I can even get back to me.
Anyway, in our most recent exercise—which I didn't feel went particularly well for me—we were to expand on our tiny little moment using three senses to develop the piece more fully. Again, I deviated somewhat and went into another chapter, which was fine, except that when I read my effort aloud to the group, I had to first provide the background of the preceding chapter. Because, they had only heard the small portion of the first chapter that I'd written some weeks earlier, and had no idea about the other chapter that I'd written in the interim.
I found it was very difficult to summarize that chapter, and moreover, I found myself quite embarrassed by the things my characters had done therein. I felt—without acknowledging the feeling so much in words—that my characters weren't interesting, their actions weren't believable, and the whole chapter I was describing was, in fact, dreadfully silly and not at all engaging. Which made it even worse to try to stumble through the new words I'd put on the page; sure, I'd worked with some senses, but precious little action had occurred.
In retrospect, it seems completely clear that my reticence was a result of the affection I was already developing for my characters—characters that I didn't have much of a plan for, who weren't doing much of anything that I thought they'd do, and who weren't even following a chronological order of events, for crying out loud! But these people from my imaginings were already real to me, and I wanted to know what was happening to them, and how they felt, and why they behaved the way they did ... and I wanted other people to want to know, too.
When I read to my group—a group I've been with for about four years now, so you'd think I'd be comfortable enough at this point—it is never easy. Even when I think I've done reasonably well, when all eyes turn to me, my heart goes for a brisk jog and it pounds the pavement of my chest so hard that I really do believe it is audible to the other writers in the room, and perhaps even visually apparent. There is often a bit of a buzz in my ears and frequently a quiver in my fingers; I don't usually hold my notebook up for this reason, but read off of it on the table, even though that can be problematic, too, because my handwriting is more sloppy than that of a doctor on tranquilizers—even I have trouble reading it.
But as it always does, my turn to read came, and so I read. My heart pounded and my pages shook and I tripped over my own words, legible or not. And I didn't so much look at anyone when I set the notebook down, not because I thought what I had written was horrible—though it certainly wasn't excellent—but because I didn't want to see if they didn't care about the people I was writing about. I didn't want to know if they didn't think there was anywhere to go from this beginning—this messy mix of oddity and mundanity—or worse, if they, unlike I, knew where I was going and knew it was a silly, silly road to nowhere.
What they did say was only slightly less jarring than my worries, and naturally, I worried considerably over all of it anyway. One funny, evocative lady told me—completely of her own accord, I must note—that my descriptions were so vivid that she felt she knew my characters, and she already cared about them. I was surprised and pleased, and instantly concerned as to how I could possibly sustain this interest throughout the entirety of a novel. My crafted wording and twisted metaphors were neatly praised, with the long-standing caveat that I would not dream of arguing against: I am going to have to do a lot of chopping when it comes time to edit.
But then our Leader addressed "narrative voice" and dedication to a story, and while my worry neither abated nor fattened, my confusion erupted, a hot rush of "WTF?" with a light aftertaste of "Who, me?"
She said I had a strong narrative voice, and if I could sustain that through the pages of a novel, I would do very well. Although she added that I should take care that my voice did not overwhelm my characters, and that I needed to trust them—and their stories—and let them tell me about themselves.
I nodded, even if I'm sure I looked like a dumb deer caught in bright headlights, and between listening to the others and offering what suggestions I could, I repeated these words in my head. Not because I didn't want to forget them, but because I had to remember them, to figure out what they meant!
Narrative voice, as it turns out, is a tricky thing to define, and of all the Googlicious information that I turned up later, this lengthy discussion between Victor Lavalle and Amy Minton made the most sense, although it's not exactly an easy read. According to these two, and mostly according to Victor, there's a component of personality to narrative voice—how the story is told—and a certain level of honesty, too. Honesty as a component of narrative voice was a foreign concept to me as it applied to a fictional story: how could any of it be honest when it's fiction?
I think that's where the characters come in, and what my writing group Leader was saying about having trust in them and letting them tell their own stories. While "pure" fiction seems impossible to me—I don't see how anyone could ever keep all facets of their own experience or personality out of all of their characters—when I look at it from the point of view of the honesty of the characters, I understand it a little better.
It's not that everything the characters do is things I've personally done, or someone I know has done, and I maintain that it would be impossible for me not to infuse my characters with some tiny portion of myself, even if it's only in one character's hair, or another's tendency to ramble. These are things, after all, that we identify with other people in real life—commonalities we see and seek out.
If I understand and recognize these things in my characters as I would in a friend, that's fine. But if I let the fact that I "get" this very well overshadow the parts that are more difficult—the parts of a character that I don't necessarily like, for example—then I'm bringing myself into the story, and reducing its integrity by making it about ME instead of my characters.
I have to believe what I say about everyone having a story worth hearing—I have to believe that even of people that are purely of my own imaginings. I have to stop getting interested in things about them that remind me of other people or other situations and realize that no one is that much of an individual. Relatability—and people do find it in the darnedest places—is going to happen, and should happen, for the characters to come as much to life on the page as they are in my mind.
No one said this would be easy—quite the contrary. Which, to be honest (since that's such a big deal now), is probably why I've avoided it for so long, even though characters have been telling me their stories for almost as long as I can remember. I started my first novel in the sixth grade, and my second in high school. In between, I wrote countless short stories, although I could probably count them if I ventured up into the Attic of Doom and scrounged around until I found the box that they are in, assuming they haven't been consumed by bugs or rodents in the intervening years.
I didn't stop telling those stories because it was hard, but neither did I not continue because it wasn't easy. Rather, I think that I stopped being honest, because I stopped liking myself quite so much as I did when I was younger, and didn't see that there was stuff there that wasn't likable. Oddly, I never stopped liking other people for the same reason, and I certainly have seen bits that aren't likable in the slightest.
Maybe, if I can be honest for a novel length of time, I can get back to telling stories again. Hell, maybe I can even get back to me.
October 31, 2007
A Novel Sort of Nuttiness
I've always thought writing about writing was a funny sort of exercise. Not to say I've ever been opposed to it, mind you, because goodness knows I've indulged in it myself, and it can be quite the interesting exercise. But it's like talking about talking and a very few other things that can be dissected by the very same means by which they are practiced ... a little bit like cannibalism, in a way—inherently raw, and fraught with danger.
I know. Nice analogy, isn't it?
Anyway, so I've been working on my novel! Yes, really! ME! Writing a NOVEL! With a plot and a plan and ... well, okay. Not so much a plot, and not so much a plan. I know two of what I thought were four main characters, but I haven't gotten the other two figured out much yet. In fact, one of the other two may not be a main character, and might not even be a supporting character. Heck, I'm starting to think that's true of both of those "others," but I guess time will tell on that. Meanwhile, there are other issues.
For instance, I know how my novel will start, but that very first chapter happens to be, for me, an incredibly difficult segment to write. I worked on it quite successfully one day—producing three entire paragraphs!—and it was interesting how it did come out, so very clearly a FIRST chapter, rather than somewhere down the line, where I'd figured it to be. But every time I've come back to it to work on it since, I've written less and less in it. It didn't take too many of those quantity (and quality) slashings for me to realize that I should work on something else, like, say, the next chapter.
However, the next chapter did not at all come out the way I thought it would. I knew the second chapter, too, you see, although I initially thought that the second chapter WAS the first. So I suppose it shouldn't have been too shocking—although it was—to find that the second chapter wasn't the second chapter, either, but rather a tiny incident I thought would just come up in conversation, somewhere; instead, it turned itself into 2,738 words ... the second chapter, in fact.
In case I've confused you—along with myself, and hey! welcome to the party!—here's what I've got: a page or so of a first chapter that I actually had figured for a mid-novel chapter, and a lengthy and spontaneously-generated second chapter, which rose like a Phoenix from what I'd thought was a memorable, though minor, event in one of the character's lives. Which, when you think about it, is about as much of a "plan" as spinning a wheel with numbers on it to decide what to do next, and then, winding up going with another option anyway.
I know. That comparison was not nearly as elegant as the one about cannibalism, even if it was somewhat easier to digest.
What I am finding most interesting about my novel-writing process so far—and do let me call it a "process," because otherwise it sounds like I'm just blathering a novel instead of blathering a blog, and who needs a book like THAT?—is the fact that although I can't imagine how some of these bits and pieces that I've thought of or gotten around to writing are going to fit together, I'm not worried about it. For a chronic worrier, you understand, not worrying is a bit of a troublesome concept, even if it can be rather easily resolved by intensely wondering why you're not worrying, at which point you feel just like you ARE worrying, and the world feels "normal" again.
The single most reasonable explanation for not worrying about how my novel fits together is that deep down, I don't actually think it WILL, so it does not concern me to be unable to visualize it doing so. And yet, when a chapter pours out ... that's enough of a wondrous feeling that even though I've not got a drop with which to begin the next one now, I feel strangely optimistic that I will before long.
Hmm. I hope I don't get much more of this weirdly relaxed sensation; it could be the start of my (deeper) descent into insanity.
I know. Nice analogy, isn't it?
Anyway, so I've been working on my novel! Yes, really! ME! Writing a NOVEL! With a plot and a plan and ... well, okay. Not so much a plot, and not so much a plan. I know two of what I thought were four main characters, but I haven't gotten the other two figured out much yet. In fact, one of the other two may not be a main character, and might not even be a supporting character. Heck, I'm starting to think that's true of both of those "others," but I guess time will tell on that. Meanwhile, there are other issues.
For instance, I know how my novel will start, but that very first chapter happens to be, for me, an incredibly difficult segment to write. I worked on it quite successfully one day—producing three entire paragraphs!—and it was interesting how it did come out, so very clearly a FIRST chapter, rather than somewhere down the line, where I'd figured it to be. But every time I've come back to it to work on it since, I've written less and less in it. It didn't take too many of those quantity (and quality) slashings for me to realize that I should work on something else, like, say, the next chapter.
However, the next chapter did not at all come out the way I thought it would. I knew the second chapter, too, you see, although I initially thought that the second chapter WAS the first. So I suppose it shouldn't have been too shocking—although it was—to find that the second chapter wasn't the second chapter, either, but rather a tiny incident I thought would just come up in conversation, somewhere; instead, it turned itself into 2,738 words ... the second chapter, in fact.
In case I've confused you—along with myself, and hey! welcome to the party!—here's what I've got: a page or so of a first chapter that I actually had figured for a mid-novel chapter, and a lengthy and spontaneously-generated second chapter, which rose like a Phoenix from what I'd thought was a memorable, though minor, event in one of the character's lives. Which, when you think about it, is about as much of a "plan" as spinning a wheel with numbers on it to decide what to do next, and then, winding up going with another option anyway.
I know. That comparison was not nearly as elegant as the one about cannibalism, even if it was somewhat easier to digest.
What I am finding most interesting about my novel-writing process so far—and do let me call it a "process," because otherwise it sounds like I'm just blathering a novel instead of blathering a blog, and who needs a book like THAT?—is the fact that although I can't imagine how some of these bits and pieces that I've thought of or gotten around to writing are going to fit together, I'm not worried about it. For a chronic worrier, you understand, not worrying is a bit of a troublesome concept, even if it can be rather easily resolved by intensely wondering why you're not worrying, at which point you feel just like you ARE worrying, and the world feels "normal" again.
The single most reasonable explanation for not worrying about how my novel fits together is that deep down, I don't actually think it WILL, so it does not concern me to be unable to visualize it doing so. And yet, when a chapter pours out ... that's enough of a wondrous feeling that even though I've not got a drop with which to begin the next one now, I feel strangely optimistic that I will before long.
Hmm. I hope I don't get much more of this weirdly relaxed sensation; it could be the start of my (deeper) descent into insanity.
October 16, 2007
To Write or Not To Write
Something very strange happened to me after reading Thud's post the other day about NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)—I actually, for no fathomable reason, thought that I should try it myself. In and of itself, this was a ridiculous idea, but the really odd thing is that rather than fade away like most other ideas I have that include the time-draining and stress-producing phenomenon known as "work," the idea has not only stayed with me, but has grown to include characters, and even a semblance of a plot.
If you're thinking that something like NaSiOnYoAsAnDoNoMo (National Sit On Your Ass And Do Nothing Month) or NaHaDaCriAnBiAbTheInYoBloMo (National Have Daily Crises And Bitch About Them In Your Blog Month) would be more my style, you're probably right, but I've already mastered these things, and frankly, my need to FAIL MISERABLY sometimes overwhelms me. That must be my motivating factor, too—why else would I even think of writing a 50,000-word novel in a month? Or, rather, TRY to do that? Do I not have enough tasks I cannot complete? Or enough headaches? Or enough papers piled up on my fragile little writing "table" here?
It's been about a week since I started this post, even—see what I mean about the time factor?—but the idea has yet to go away. It is still developing, growing, and making itself increasingly more substantive, with more and more of it seemingly conjuring its own self into being at the most inconvenient moments ... generally, when I'm stuck in traffic. And I am almost incensed that those appear to be my most creative times of late, because I despise the cross-city traffic here with a seethingly aggravating loathing that begins to rival that with which I hate eggplant (don't even start with me), country music (ditto), and the scent of mothballs. That I should seem to be inspired by something so annoying is abhorrent, so of course I've developed an alternate rationale for it.
But I digress.
I've decided that there are too many good, sound, and thoughtful reasons lined up against my participation in NaNoWriMo, chief among them my fragile sanity, for me to ignore. With a similar—and unusual—clarity, I find that there are too few creative options available to me in my new job to support my lack of development and nurturing of this emerging interest in writing the novel that has been gently prodding me for the past two weeks. While I am quite good at what I do, I was also been increasingly frustrated by the incredibly dull technicality of my job, and that was my OLD job—this new one, while it certainly has many positive points, is even duller. It seems glaringly obvious that I need another outlet for whatever passes as my creativity now; blogging is no longer enough.
So I think that while I cannot accept the massive challenge posed by NaNoWriMo—an excellent and interesting challenge, to be sure, and best wishes to Thud and everyone else who goes for it—I will still be taking careful and extensive note of these ideas that keep introducing themselves to me in random order but consistent theme. And I will write this novel, worthless-waste-of-a-driver's-license-damnstupid-idiots-on-the-road or not.
If you're thinking that something like NaSiOnYoAsAnDoNoMo (National Sit On Your Ass And Do Nothing Month) or NaHaDaCriAnBiAbTheInYoBloMo (National Have Daily Crises And Bitch About Them In Your Blog Month) would be more my style, you're probably right, but I've already mastered these things, and frankly, my need to FAIL MISERABLY sometimes overwhelms me. That must be my motivating factor, too—why else would I even think of writing a 50,000-word novel in a month? Or, rather, TRY to do that? Do I not have enough tasks I cannot complete? Or enough headaches? Or enough papers piled up on my fragile little writing "table" here?
It's been about a week since I started this post, even—see what I mean about the time factor?—but the idea has yet to go away. It is still developing, growing, and making itself increasingly more substantive, with more and more of it seemingly conjuring its own self into being at the most inconvenient moments ... generally, when I'm stuck in traffic. And I am almost incensed that those appear to be my most creative times of late, because I despise the cross-city traffic here with a seethingly aggravating loathing that begins to rival that with which I hate eggplant (don't even start with me), country music (ditto), and the scent of mothballs. That I should seem to be inspired by something so annoying is abhorrent, so of course I've developed an alternate rationale for it.
But I digress.
I've decided that there are too many good, sound, and thoughtful reasons lined up against my participation in NaNoWriMo, chief among them my fragile sanity, for me to ignore. With a similar—and unusual—clarity, I find that there are too few creative options available to me in my new job to support my lack of development and nurturing of this emerging interest in writing the novel that has been gently prodding me for the past two weeks. While I am quite good at what I do, I was also been increasingly frustrated by the incredibly dull technicality of my job, and that was my OLD job—this new one, while it certainly has many positive points, is even duller. It seems glaringly obvious that I need another outlet for whatever passes as my creativity now; blogging is no longer enough.
So I think that while I cannot accept the massive challenge posed by NaNoWriMo—an excellent and interesting challenge, to be sure, and best wishes to Thud and everyone else who goes for it—I will still be taking careful and extensive note of these ideas that keep introducing themselves to me in random order but consistent theme. And I will write this novel, worthless-waste-of-a-driver's-license-damnstupid-idiots-on-the-road or not.
September 12, 2007
Continuing My Grade-School Tradition Of Inexplicable Misspellings
Before I created my little blogging "system"—in which I write while stationary-biking, using a very old, extremely short-memoried laptop computer and my sister's moderately-old, converted street bicycle—my ineffective and largely randomized method for getting Babble A out of my head and into digitized format consisted of, well, nothing much in particular. And that went double for my spell-checking habits.
See, when you're writing in Notepad to save space—Microsoft® Word documents being far too space-consuming to utilize in conjunction with the laptop's 1.26 GB hard-drive—you don't have a lot of spell-checking options available. Oh, I had my out-of-date but trusty copy of Merriam & Webster's 9th-edition tome at the ready, but I didn't use it with words I didn't know I didn't know how to spell ... which is to say, I didn't use it with words I mistakenly believed I knew how to spell.
Granted, the solution of copying a finished blog blather into Word to check spelling without saving should have presented itself much sooner, because even if it was wasn't quite "all that," it was vastly more effective than checking only those words for which I lacked spelling certainty. But at that point—several months into the blogging experience—I wasn't about to go back and check my older posts to fix spelling therein. For one thing, the blogging service I was using as a host at the time wasn't exactly friendly for such purposes, and for another thing, I considered myself a good speller, unlikely to have brutalized the clean, crisp spelling sheets of their Internet bedding with dirt and debris.
And then, a few weeks ago, I had trouble spelling "desiccate" yet again—yes, there's a word that comes up routinely—and decided that perhaps I should try to keep a list of words that I persistently misspell, because that could be interesting in a decade or so when I amassed more than ten words on it. (All kidding aside, I really thought that tracking my "problem words" might help me to familiarize myself with them, and thereby eliminate each as a problem. For your information, thus far, that idea has proven to be utter crap.)
Imagine my chagrin when the list swelled, bloated and uncomfortable, in very short order, and even if (most of) the words on it were not precisely commonplace—most of them, anyway—it certainly did illustrate the point that no matter how good you think you are in whatever arena you think it, there's always room for improvement. So don't get complacent, because you'll look like an idiot, even if you're just looking at your own silly self, blearily reflected in the window in front of you as you pedal exhaustedly along, traveling the endless, nonexistent road to nowhere in particular.
Anyway, because I have nothing much new in mind to write about this morning—or, rather, TOO much new in mind to isolate anything that might be even vaguely interesting—I decided to go back to that file and share (parts of ) it with all one of you imaginary friends of mine. Including my messily butchered and apparently strongly-ingrained misspelled translations of each, too:
See, when you're writing in Notepad to save space—Microsoft® Word documents being far too space-consuming to utilize in conjunction with the laptop's 1.26 GB hard-drive—you don't have a lot of spell-checking options available. Oh, I had my out-of-date but trusty copy of Merriam & Webster's 9th-edition tome at the ready, but I didn't use it with words I didn't know I didn't know how to spell ... which is to say, I didn't use it with words I mistakenly believed I knew how to spell.
Granted, the solution of copying a finished blog blather into Word to check spelling without saving should have presented itself much sooner, because even if it was wasn't quite "all that," it was vastly more effective than checking only those words for which I lacked spelling certainty. But at that point—several months into the blogging experience—I wasn't about to go back and check my older posts to fix spelling therein. For one thing, the blogging service I was using as a host at the time wasn't exactly friendly for such purposes, and for another thing, I considered myself a good speller, unlikely to have brutalized the clean, crisp spelling sheets of their Internet bedding with dirt and debris.
And then, a few weeks ago, I had trouble spelling "desiccate" yet again—yes, there's a word that comes up routinely—and decided that perhaps I should try to keep a list of words that I persistently misspell, because that could be interesting in a decade or so when I amassed more than ten words on it. (All kidding aside, I really thought that tracking my "problem words" might help me to familiarize myself with them, and thereby eliminate each as a problem. For your information, thus far, that idea has proven to be utter crap.)
Imagine my chagrin when the list swelled, bloated and uncomfortable, in very short order, and even if (most of) the words on it were not precisely commonplace—most of them, anyway—it certainly did illustrate the point that no matter how good you think you are in whatever arena you think it, there's always room for improvement. So don't get complacent, because you'll look like an idiot, even if you're just looking at your own silly self, blearily reflected in the window in front of you as you pedal exhaustedly along, traveling the endless, nonexistent road to nowhere in particular.
Anyway, because I have nothing much new in mind to write about this morning—or, rather, TOO much new in mind to isolate anything that might be even vaguely interesting—I decided to go back to that file and share (parts of ) it with all one of you imaginary friends of mine. Including my messily butchered and apparently strongly-ingrained misspelled translations of each, too:
- cemetery—I really think that last "e" should be an "a," which is a bit odd, considering how often I've listened to Pantera's "
CemetaryCemetery Gates." - certainty—Why I continue to believe that there's another "i" in there (certainity), and even thought so earlier in this very piece defies all understanding.
- desiccate—I continue to believe it's spelled "dessicate," and still can't figure out that second "c" AT ALL.
- exorbitant—I've spelled this one "exhorbitant" more than once, and even though it does look stupid? I still think it's right. But, it's not.
- hurriedly—This correlates nicely with "hurried," which I can spell, but I continue to type "hurridly" instead.
- hygienic—I understand that "hygiene" is spelled like it is, but because hygienic sounds like "hygenic," that's how I spell it.
- inadvertently—I was going to go off on how this one is just stupid, because how could inadvertent even exist as a word when advertent doesn't, and if it did, I surely would've learned to spell it correctly! But Merriam & Webster have just informed me that advertent IS a word, so I'm a double-doofus for spelling it "inadvertantly." Huh. Foiled again.
- inoffensive—This is particularly appalling, because I'm way off with "unoffensive."
- irresistible—Look, irresistible doesn't rhyme with "kibble," it rhymes with "capable." Okay, at least in MY world, and that's why I write it as "irresistable."
And now for a brief intermission, just because I loved our costumes THAT MUCH ... here's me and The ListMaker as part of Robert Palmer's band, courtesy of the Ghost of Halloween Past:
We now return you to our list of bungled spellings, already in progress. - judgment—This one illustrates another issue of mine, because while Word 95 is absolutely convinced that my preferred spelling, "judgement," is JUST WRONG, Merriam & Webster, who I clearly did not consult on this particular problem, say it's secondarily okay as an alternate spelling. So *pppphhhhbbbbtttt!* to Word.
- paraphernalia—That second "r" is silent, so it's entirely understandable that it throws me off. And if I'm wrong, please don't tell me, because my delicate little microscopic ego will disappear altogether if I have to start an accompanying list of my mispronounced words.
- quandary—WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SECOND "A" DOING THERE? Seriously. This has to be the single most annoying word I've ever misspelled. And it makes me wonder, if Merriam & Webster make a mistake (and if that was ever more a possibility than with this word, I don't really want to know), who would catch it? I mean, these dead dudes are the authority on spelling! And meaning! They're like spelling GODS! Except that they're dead. Anyway. Who's got brass ones big enough to correct them, dead or not? NOT ME! *ahem* Moving on ...
- Scandinavian—Another example of how hucked on fonicks didn't wurk fer me, I guess, as I continue to spell it "Scandanavian."
- substantive—This version looks choppy and inelegant compared to my liltingly lovely "substantiative." Which, actually, IS a word (outside of Word 95), although it's not quite the word I thought it was, confusing me so badly when I perused the page in the dictionary on which both of these words reside, that I have decided not to use either of them again. Ever. Or at least until next Tuesday.
- succumb—I cannot defend myself here. I thought it was "sucuumb" and I don't know why, unless I was trying to use three "u"s the last time I played the tormentous game of SCRABBLE®, a long, long time ago in a dorm room far, far away.
- sympathize—I'm probably pronouncing this one wrong, too, because I think it's "sympathsize." I think that so much that I just looked it up again, and now I'm rolling my eyes at myself.
- vengeance—This is so embarrassing. I just don't know why I spell it "vengenance," 'cause it doesn't look right to me either way.
- villain—I spell it "villan" and I don't know why anyone would not. Except for that whole "but that's not how it is in the dictionary" thing. *sigh*
September 10, 2007
Chapter 574, In Which I Kinda Sorta Follow Directions
Granted that it's been a long, long time since I've purchased what are, for me, "fancy pants," so perhaps I should have been prepared for what I found in a pair of such pants, but me being me, you know I wasn't. So what did I do? I made a big deal out of nothing much and now I'm blogging about it.
OF COURSE.
The pants in question, while very nice and even fairly budget-friendly, were not even all that fancy. The Exotic Neurotic helped me find them for my first in-person interview of the summer, which is also known here in the sad, sad world of MY BLOG as the hideous sweat-fest. They were very nice pants, mind you, but just basic black and neatly straight-legged.
I noticed the scratchy tag, of course, because it's difficult not to notice anything that scratches against one's heiny. But I presumed it was something unremarkable, detailing the composition of the fabric or perhaps the country of its origin. Thus, it was not until I arrived home and attempted to dewrinkle the pants from their bagged journey that I discovered that the tag said only this:
-----------CUT HERE-----------
REMOVE
BEFORE
WASHING
OR WEARING
And as you might guess, instead of just reading that and following the effing directions? I proceeded to consider several highly unlikely and entirely ridiculous reasons WHY such directions were being given in the first place.
Maybe it undergoes some gruesome decomposition if it gets up to body temperature, or if it gets wet. Maybe it's like an anti-mattress tag, so it's not even supposed to make sense, but at least it provides balance to the tag removal/non-removal quandary. Maybe it's a misprint but they used up the tags rather than just have them go to waste. Or maybe it's the fashion world equivalent of an Easter egg!
I had dumber ones, too, but I'm shy and reserved, and would rather not share those here, which is totally obvious, because shy and reserved types always go on and on about SWEATING. No, really, I forgot them. On purpose. With wine. But I digress, so nevermind.
Eventually, I did get a scissors and follow the directions, and when I held the tag up to the light, I could see what appeared to be a computer-style circuit, which I presume to be a somewhat sneaky improvement on the GIANT plastic alarm-setting-off tags that more traditionally—and clunkily—attached to clothing to prevent its being stolen. And while that totally took the fun out of my speculation, at least it had the virtue of actually making some sense. Except ...
... while I can see the logic behind removing the tag before wearing the garment out of one's home—lest one return to the store from which one purchased the garment at therein SET OFF THE DAMN ALARM—I can't see the harm in washing the little bastard. What would that do to it, make it NOT WORK? Umm. So what? Also, I can't help but comment that whilst trying these pants on, I was, in fact, wearing them, so if I'd been paying attention, I would have had to CUT THE TAG OFF IN THE STORE to follow the instructions to the letter. And you know what that means, don't you?
Yup. The tag really should have said, "REMOVE AFTER PUCHASE." (I know what you're thinking, and while I do think too much, that's really not the point. Good, succinct directions ... THAT'S the point. Well, it's my point, anyway.)
OF COURSE.
The pants in question, while very nice and even fairly budget-friendly, were not even all that fancy. The Exotic Neurotic helped me find them for my first in-person interview of the summer, which is also known here in the sad, sad world of MY BLOG as the hideous sweat-fest. They were very nice pants, mind you, but just basic black and neatly straight-legged.
I noticed the scratchy tag, of course, because it's difficult not to notice anything that scratches against one's heiny. But I presumed it was something unremarkable, detailing the composition of the fabric or perhaps the country of its origin. Thus, it was not until I arrived home and attempted to dewrinkle the pants from their bagged journey that I discovered that the tag said only this:
REMOVE
BEFORE
WASHING
OR WEARING
And as you might guess, instead of just reading that and following the effing directions? I proceeded to consider several highly unlikely and entirely ridiculous reasons WHY such directions were being given in the first place.
Maybe it undergoes some gruesome decomposition if it gets up to body temperature, or if it gets wet. Maybe it's like an anti-mattress tag, so it's not even supposed to make sense, but at least it provides balance to the tag removal/non-removal quandary. Maybe it's a misprint but they used up the tags rather than just have them go to waste. Or maybe it's the fashion world equivalent of an Easter egg!
I had dumber ones, too, but I'm shy and reserved, and would rather not share those here, which is totally obvious, because shy and reserved types always go on and on about SWEATING. No, really, I forgot them. On purpose. With wine. But I digress, so nevermind.
Eventually, I did get a scissors and follow the directions, and when I held the tag up to the light, I could see what appeared to be a computer-style circuit, which I presume to be a somewhat sneaky improvement on the GIANT plastic alarm-setting-off tags that more traditionally—and clunkily—attached to clothing to prevent its being stolen. And while that totally took the fun out of my speculation, at least it had the virtue of actually making some sense. Except ...
... while I can see the logic behind removing the tag before wearing the garment out of one's home—lest one return to the store from which one purchased the garment at therein SET OFF THE DAMN ALARM—I can't see the harm in washing the little bastard. What would that do to it, make it NOT WORK? Umm. So what? Also, I can't help but comment that whilst trying these pants on, I was, in fact, wearing them, so if I'd been paying attention, I would have had to CUT THE TAG OFF IN THE STORE to follow the instructions to the letter. And you know what that means, don't you?
Yup. The tag really should have said, "REMOVE AFTER PUCHASE." (I know what you're thinking, and while I do think too much, that's really not the point. Good, succinct directions ... THAT'S the point. Well, it's my point, anyway.)
September 4, 2007
What Makes Me Happy
I stumbled over to David McMahon's blog, authorblog, from the much-linked-to Mattress Police and spent enough time perusing it to stick it right into my list on Google Reader. Good, thought-provoking, and punny writing? What's not to like?
And, handy enough for my current state of hesitant, unfocused blathering, there was this blogging prompt: What makes you happy? My apologies in advance for wherever THIS may take my generally depressive mind. Also please be forewarned that there's a disturbingly large chance of this turning into a parody of "My Favorite Things." (Also? I can't sing.)
With all of that uncomfortably in mind, I shall now make an attempt at answering this seemingly simple question:
My daughter's smooth, relaxed features and flushed cheeks as she sweetly sleeps after a long, sour sugar-rush. A shaft of light breaching the clouds after a long drought of sunshine. A brand new book by a favorite author, unlimited potential in an unassuming, pocket-sized package.
The expectant "Mrrrt?" of a loosely twisted cat as she presciently wakes, impossible to surprise. A friend's instantly-recognizable voice and highly contagious laugh. The unmistakable call of pine trees when the wind gives them the means to speak.
The carmelized, fire-heated, sugary decadence of a marshmallow Peep® roasted over an open fire. Freshly baked, melt-in-your-mouth cornstarch cookies, prepared from a family recipe that has already touched its fourth generation. Ice cream doused with maple syrup and buried underneath ridiculously abnormal quantities of ambiguous "whipped topping."
Arms unexpectedly wrapped around me in a warm, spontaneous hug. The incomparably soft fur just behind a cat's ear. The velvet, buttery smoothness of rich, new leather. The ethereal caress of amorphous morning fog.
A broken branch of sun-ripened, weather-roughened sagebrush drowning out the dust with the pungent scent of life interrupted. Light spring rain drizzling over freshly cut grass. Spun honey as it whirls out of the combs and into the extrator, coating the air with sticky, warm sweetness.
Patterns, reminiscent of constellations in their obscurity, in soil, bark, and stone. Sudden harmony rising out of screaming, discordant chaos in a melodic death metal composition. Ice cold water rushing out of the old spigot next to the decrepit windmill, served in an old tin cup. Braille numbering on an instant cash machine in a drive-through lane at the bank. Layering shades of ink as the printer tray slowly fills with copies of my Christmas letter.
Beauty addressing any of my senses makes me happy. And so does writing.
And, handy enough for my current state of hesitant, unfocused blathering, there was this blogging prompt: What makes you happy? My apologies in advance for wherever THIS may take my generally depressive mind. Also please be forewarned that there's a disturbingly large chance of this turning into a parody of "My Favorite Things." (Also? I can't sing.)
With all of that uncomfortably in mind, I shall now make an attempt at answering this seemingly simple question:
My daughter's smooth, relaxed features and flushed cheeks as she sweetly sleeps after a long, sour sugar-rush. A shaft of light breaching the clouds after a long drought of sunshine. A brand new book by a favorite author, unlimited potential in an unassuming, pocket-sized package.
The expectant "Mrrrt?" of a loosely twisted cat as she presciently wakes, impossible to surprise. A friend's instantly-recognizable voice and highly contagious laugh. The unmistakable call of pine trees when the wind gives them the means to speak.
The carmelized, fire-heated, sugary decadence of a marshmallow Peep® roasted over an open fire. Freshly baked, melt-in-your-mouth cornstarch cookies, prepared from a family recipe that has already touched its fourth generation. Ice cream doused with maple syrup and buried underneath ridiculously abnormal quantities of ambiguous "whipped topping."
Arms unexpectedly wrapped around me in a warm, spontaneous hug. The incomparably soft fur just behind a cat's ear. The velvet, buttery smoothness of rich, new leather. The ethereal caress of amorphous morning fog.
A broken branch of sun-ripened, weather-roughened sagebrush drowning out the dust with the pungent scent of life interrupted. Light spring rain drizzling over freshly cut grass. Spun honey as it whirls out of the combs and into the extrator, coating the air with sticky, warm sweetness.
Patterns, reminiscent of constellations in their obscurity, in soil, bark, and stone. Sudden harmony rising out of screaming, discordant chaos in a melodic death metal composition. Ice cold water rushing out of the old spigot next to the decrepit windmill, served in an old tin cup. Braille numbering on an instant cash machine in a drive-through lane at the bank. Layering shades of ink as the printer tray slowly fills with copies of my Christmas letter.
Beauty addressing any of my senses makes me happy. And so does writing.
August 17, 2007
Potentially Meaningful
I went so far off on my unemployment haikus the other day that casual readers—if there even is such a thing in this backwater blog of mine—might think I'm a big loser in the employment game, and sadly ungrateful for the opportunities that DO come my way. And while there's nothing really wrong with that interpretation as far as personal perceptions go, I didn't exactly convey the full spectrum of my unemployment rainbow, either.
Inasmuch as I would like to immediately convert to Discordianism—many thanks to Thud for directing me into the chaotic lighting spread by Eris's followers, and I do hope to have the opportunity to de-re-ex-communicate myself one day—and embrace the mess that is life, I can't quite bring myself to adhere to the fifth holy law of the Pentabarf and eat hot dogs without buns on Friday, even in solemn observance of The Original Snub. Likewise, I can't get into celebrating the mess things have become here in the summer of my unemployment.
Little Girl hasn't gotten to spend as much time with my parents, we didn't get to take her to any amusement parks, I haven't gotten to see any concerts—which really sends my musical soul on a tour of Hell, because Dream Theater and RUSH are both touring the U.S. right now—and I haven't gotten to purchase any CDs. And that's just the stuff that cramps my STYLE! I'm not even going to get into the more pedestrian restrictions that have locked this summer down tighter than a ... well, an appropriately comparative metaphor eludes me at the moment and I'm almost out of blogging time for the day.
The point is, if it seems like I can't fully embrace the humor of the situation—and it's there ... it's always there, somewhere—it's because I'm already exhausted from the effort of keeping my spirits up enough to appear like a desirable potential employee, and I'm frustrated by my innate pessimism because, as usual, it's preventing me from making accurate assessments of how I'm doing each time I present myself on the telephone or in person. I can hardly even consider what I want to do because I'm too burdened by the knowledge of what I have to do.
These particulars—and others like them—make it hard for me to celebrate the generalism of life, or give its uncertain, orderless potential a great-big, warm-fuzzy hug.
But that's exactly what I should do, and it's not even about discordance or anything else I've mentioned. It's a mess, yes, but it's MY mess, and it's the only mess I'm going to get, unless I can find a chaos-based religion that also includes reincarnation, and then get past my own abhorrence and into it. But I digress.
The sun is shining gold rays through the trees to the east that I cannot see, spreading streaks of shadow and bright, bright light over the field of flowers to the south that have tormented my sinuses with a vengeance over the past few days. The gray fog hovering over the hill is thin enough to hint at the radiant blue behind it, and the deer that spazzed out for no apparent reason and then tried to hit Warp 9 as it crashed through wild grasses and allergen-laden bitch-whore plants alike was pretty damn funny. And it all served to remind me that there's something in every day to celebrate, if I can look far enough outside of myself to see it.
I can't always channel that into writing, but "always" isn't the point. Fair enough.
Inasmuch as I would like to immediately convert to Discordianism—many thanks to Thud for directing me into the chaotic lighting spread by Eris's followers, and I do hope to have the opportunity to de-re-ex-communicate myself one day—and embrace the mess that is life, I can't quite bring myself to adhere to the fifth holy law of the Pentabarf and eat hot dogs without buns on Friday, even in solemn observance of The Original Snub. Likewise, I can't get into celebrating the mess things have become here in the summer of my unemployment.
Little Girl hasn't gotten to spend as much time with my parents, we didn't get to take her to any amusement parks, I haven't gotten to see any concerts—which really sends my musical soul on a tour of Hell, because Dream Theater and RUSH are both touring the U.S. right now—and I haven't gotten to purchase any CDs. And that's just the stuff that cramps my STYLE! I'm not even going to get into the more pedestrian restrictions that have locked this summer down tighter than a ... well, an appropriately comparative metaphor eludes me at the moment and I'm almost out of blogging time for the day.
The point is, if it seems like I can't fully embrace the humor of the situation—and it's there ... it's always there, somewhere—it's because I'm already exhausted from the effort of keeping my spirits up enough to appear like a desirable potential employee, and I'm frustrated by my innate pessimism because, as usual, it's preventing me from making accurate assessments of how I'm doing each time I present myself on the telephone or in person. I can hardly even consider what I want to do because I'm too burdened by the knowledge of what I have to do.
These particulars—and others like them—make it hard for me to celebrate the generalism of life, or give its uncertain, orderless potential a great-big, warm-fuzzy hug.
But that's exactly what I should do, and it's not even about discordance or anything else I've mentioned. It's a mess, yes, but it's MY mess, and it's the only mess I'm going to get, unless I can find a chaos-based religion that also includes reincarnation, and then get past my own abhorrence and into it. But I digress.
The sun is shining gold rays through the trees to the east that I cannot see, spreading streaks of shadow and bright, bright light over the field of flowers to the south that have tormented my sinuses with a vengeance over the past few days. The gray fog hovering over the hill is thin enough to hint at the radiant blue behind it, and the deer that spazzed out for no apparent reason and then tried to hit Warp 9 as it crashed through wild grasses and allergen-laden bitch-whore plants alike was pretty damn funny. And it all served to remind me that there's something in every day to celebrate, if I can look far enough outside of myself to see it.
I can't always channel that into writing, but "always" isn't the point. Fair enough.
August 16, 2007
Poetry Is As Poetry Does
I was headed towards working up a bit of a snit over a certain phrase I heard on the news this morning—though it's far from the first time I've heard it—but then I realized this is my 550th post! And even though the 555th might be a little more fun to try to say, somehow my 550th post, like the 450th, seemed like it rated something slightly less than serious.
I put a considerable amount of thought into what sort of frivolity, stupidity, or other -ity I should use to mark this unremarkable occasion. The fact that by "considerable amount," I mean "the 35.6 seconds it took me to pour a glass of liquid caffeine" notwithstanding, it's sometimes difficult for me to make the quantum leap from serious introspection to silly extrospection, so after my glass was full, I decided I'd have to compromise and go with silly introspection.
And so I present to you the following collection of unemployment haikus ... they pretty well suck—up to and including my (in)ability to count syllables—so if you're pressed for time, just read the ones that are almost funny (shown here in RED):
"orientation"
under penalty of law
now I'm really screwed
no "unemployment
insurance," please—employment
assurance instead!
quote: "crime does not pay"
close, I say, but not right, try:
"UI does not pay"
"we are here to help"
thanks but no thanks, no more "help"
go the fuck away
"enjoy your time off"
it's not "time off" when you don't
have a way back on
moving on is hard
when resumes recollect
"that place" every day
huh? what do you mean
my old company is not
spelled "H E L L?"
jobs, jobs, everywhere
they love me, they love me not
CALL ME NOW, DAMMIT!
job skills, people skills
hard skills, soft skills—it all sounds
like bullshit ... or SMUT!
electronic forms
are not so good during storms
when power goes out
six weeks gone, hello?
I am perfect for that job!
on to the next one
they asked, "if you could
change two things about you, what?"
I thought, "hips and butt"
they asked, "describe a
tough time at work" but work's all
easy when it's gone
when trying to speak
well, smooth, and educated
I turn idiot
prepare, research, think!
having a "real" job was not
ever this much work
"what do you mean when
you say you are 'technical'?"
help! Magic 8 Ball!
interviews are like
my first junior high school dance
PICK ME! PICK ME! Nuts.
"Job Service" is an
oxymoron except that
THEY all have a job
what good does it do
when JS resume class
is four weeks too late?
inappropriate:
driving your new Mercedes
to Job Service class
at home days at last!
but I can't afford to buy
that box of bon-bons
haikus are very much
challenging ... unemployment
now seems not so bad
I put a considerable amount of thought into what sort of frivolity, stupidity, or other -ity I should use to mark this unremarkable occasion. The fact that by "considerable amount," I mean "the 35.6 seconds it took me to pour a glass of liquid caffeine" notwithstanding, it's sometimes difficult for me to make the quantum leap from serious introspection to silly extrospection, so after my glass was full, I decided I'd have to compromise and go with silly introspection.
And so I present to you the following collection of unemployment haikus ... they pretty well suck—up to and including my (in)ability to count syllables—so if you're pressed for time, just read the ones that are almost funny (shown here in RED):
"orientation"
under penalty of law
now I'm really screwed
no "unemployment
insurance," please—employment
assurance instead!
quote: "crime does not pay"
close, I say, but not right, try:
"UI does not pay"
"we are here to help"
thanks but no thanks, no more "help"
go the fuck away
"enjoy your time off"
it's not "time off" when you don't
have a way back on
moving on is hard
when resumes recollect
"that place" every day
huh? what do you mean
my old company is not
spelled "H E L L?"
jobs, jobs, everywhere
they love me, they love me not
CALL ME NOW, DAMMIT!
job skills, people skills
hard skills, soft skills—it all sounds
like bullshit ... or SMUT!
electronic forms
are not so good during storms
when power goes out
six weeks gone, hello?
I am perfect for that job!
on to the next one
they asked, "if you could
change two things about you, what?"
I thought, "hips and butt"
they asked, "describe a
tough time at work" but work's all
easy when it's gone
when trying to speak
well, smooth, and educated
I turn idiot
prepare, research, think!
having a "real" job was not
ever this much work
"what do you mean when
you say you are 'technical'?"
help! Magic 8 Ball!
interviews are like
my first junior high school dance
PICK ME! PICK ME! Nuts.
"Job Service" is an
oxymoron except that
THEY all have a job
what good does it do
when JS resume class
is four weeks too late?
inappropriate:
driving your new Mercedes
to Job Service class
at home days at last!
but I can't afford to buy
that box of bon-bons
haikus are very much
challenging ... unemployment
now seems not so bad
July 23, 2007
More Than a Feeling
Editing the blurb I babbled about my keepsake color reminded me of the time I took the writing prompt about describing something while specifically focusing on just two of the five senses and ran straight to my beloved heavy, heavy metal. But it occurred to me this morning while running—like I need more time to be alone with my impending doom of a thought-storm, d'oh!—that while I've certainly written bunches of stuff about how death metal affects me, it's most often about how it makes me feel and not about how it my senses are fully involved in the process of converting music to emotion.
Hell, I'm not entirely certain that I've ever composed a proper metal tribute "hearing" at all, and I've probably only skimmed the surface of "touch," too. And while I'm certainly not one of those rare people who can physically SEE music—I get a harsh red flaming flush of envy just thinking about how incredible that must be—I do have moments where I can almost see a song materialize visually out of the invisible auditory realm. And I can inhale the barest whispers of the scent, and I can feel my mouth watering for the taste of it.
Of course, it's hard to type with all that going on, but what the hell—I'll give it a shot. I'll be using "Day of Your Beliefs" by Amorphis for my inspiration this morning:
The soft, melodic introduction appears as a gentle mist that rises after a spring rain. It's rich and filling, like cheesecake, but unlike cheesecake—so often served at the end of a fabulous meal—I know that there's something more and better yet to come. It smells like rain, too, but rather than a post-rain scent, it's the somewhat subtle, lightly electric odor that precedes an unexpected storm, building gradually but quickly, and heralding the end of a long drought.
Just before you expect it to, it strikes. The wind-like touch of the song on my skin is deeper than the caress of a breeze, but falls short of the slap of a dangerous maelstrom—it's the perfect thrill of the perfect storm, washing the sweat-stench out of the air and replacing it with crisp lightness.
And it's bright! It's bright like a fresh-struck match, stunning and unexpected, and flaring for too brief of a time. The smell is that of a match, too. There's a hint of sulfur—unpleasant to be sure—but I am reminded by that smell that without that combustible chemical, the light and warmth of the match is not possible. The clean burn of the wood beyond the match is a soothing smell, like a summer campfire surrounded by friends, and it blends with the initial sting of the scent, filling, too, in its own way.
The flavor is unbearably sweet to me, with tartness carried over the layers of melodious and proudly declarative guitar right onto the tangy topping of the lyrics, blending in harmony that even a musical illiterate like myself can read. I long so strongly to be a part of the song that I join in despite the fact that my voice is better suited to silence than singing.
And I feel like I am, for the alarming, unfair brevity of the lightning flash and the scent of sulfur and the sound of the transitional burst of power, incorporated into music, transported beyond my body and my very being, and inexplicably elevated beyond my feeble senses ... all by the very sounds that I know are struggling to break free of their single sense into the realm of the other four, or even more.
I sometimes cry when it's over, and the lingering warmth and salty taste and foundation-streaking, brazen emptiness of the void that the music filled is the last thing I hear before the painful silence of the ordinary world pulls me back into it.
Hell, I'm not entirely certain that I've ever composed a proper metal tribute "hearing" at all, and I've probably only skimmed the surface of "touch," too. And while I'm certainly not one of those rare people who can physically SEE music—I get a harsh red flaming flush of envy just thinking about how incredible that must be—I do have moments where I can almost see a song materialize visually out of the invisible auditory realm. And I can inhale the barest whispers of the scent, and I can feel my mouth watering for the taste of it.
Of course, it's hard to type with all that going on, but what the hell—I'll give it a shot. I'll be using "Day of Your Beliefs" by Amorphis for my inspiration this morning:
The soft, melodic introduction appears as a gentle mist that rises after a spring rain. It's rich and filling, like cheesecake, but unlike cheesecake—so often served at the end of a fabulous meal—I know that there's something more and better yet to come. It smells like rain, too, but rather than a post-rain scent, it's the somewhat subtle, lightly electric odor that precedes an unexpected storm, building gradually but quickly, and heralding the end of a long drought.
Just before you expect it to, it strikes. The wind-like touch of the song on my skin is deeper than the caress of a breeze, but falls short of the slap of a dangerous maelstrom—it's the perfect thrill of the perfect storm, washing the sweat-stench out of the air and replacing it with crisp lightness.
And it's bright! It's bright like a fresh-struck match, stunning and unexpected, and flaring for too brief of a time. The smell is that of a match, too. There's a hint of sulfur—unpleasant to be sure—but I am reminded by that smell that without that combustible chemical, the light and warmth of the match is not possible. The clean burn of the wood beyond the match is a soothing smell, like a summer campfire surrounded by friends, and it blends with the initial sting of the scent, filling, too, in its own way.
The flavor is unbearably sweet to me, with tartness carried over the layers of melodious and proudly declarative guitar right onto the tangy topping of the lyrics, blending in harmony that even a musical illiterate like myself can read. I long so strongly to be a part of the song that I join in despite the fact that my voice is better suited to silence than singing.
And I feel like I am, for the alarming, unfair brevity of the lightning flash and the scent of sulfur and the sound of the transitional burst of power, incorporated into music, transported beyond my body and my very being, and inexplicably elevated beyond my feeble senses ... all by the very sounds that I know are struggling to break free of their single sense into the realm of the other four, or even more.
I sometimes cry when it's over, and the lingering warmth and salty taste and foundation-streaking, brazen emptiness of the void that the music filled is the last thing I hear before the painful silence of the ordinary world pulls me back into it.
Keepsake Color
I'm not really all about neatness, minimalism, and order these days, because in all the cleaning and paperwork reduction that's transpired lately, I have come across some things I think are worth saving. Of course, I'm second-guessing the merits of about 90% those things, 100% of the time. But I'm still keeping some of the stuff.
For instance, in a folder crammed with miscellaneous whatnot, I found a folded wad of paper from an exercise I did in the women's writing group to which I belong. I'm not quite sure how long ago this chicken-scratched missive was let out of the dark recesses of my mind, but it's been awhile. At least.
But I clearly remember the incident that came to my mind when we were presented with the challenge of describing a certain color, even if I forget whatever other instructions might have accompanied the prime directive. And I remember the feature color enough that I decided to flush it out just a little, and save it here in spaceless cyberspace, even if it doesn't mean anything to anyone but me.
Maybe especially because of that.
But he needed to check something on the background color, he said, and I was stuck on my current project anyway. He said to try something bright, and he said that when he tried it, it switched back to black. I supposed it would be okay, this "other color," as long as it was short-lived. Much like a good mood.
But when I set the screen to pink, it stuck. Stubborn, like my favorite bubblegum on the wrapper when I forgot a pack in my car during the summer. Bright, like flash of lightning caught on film. Annoying, like a bill you didn't expect. He wasn't expecting that, either, and so he came to see for himself, the flush of pink radiating into the gloom of my cube, clashing with the orange pumpkin glowering above my monitor.
It was a really glorious pink, I unwillingly reflected as I waited. It was a pink so clearly girly and obviously chipper that my seven year-old would surely approve. She might even want it for curtains, it was that pink, and it practically seemed to be fabric already, flowing rather than sitting still and drab in the background where it had be so casually dropped.
The one thing the pink did not do was flicker back to black. A pink mystery, that's what it was, and I was interested in solving it in spite of myself.
For instance, in a folder crammed with miscellaneous whatnot, I found a folded wad of paper from an exercise I did in the women's writing group to which I belong. I'm not quite sure how long ago this chicken-scratched missive was let out of the dark recesses of my mind, but it's been awhile. At least.
But I clearly remember the incident that came to my mind when we were presented with the challenge of describing a certain color, even if I forget whatever other instructions might have accompanied the prime directive. And I remember the feature color enough that I decided to flush it out just a little, and save it here in spaceless cyberspace, even if it doesn't mean anything to anyone but me.
Maybe especially because of that.
In The Thrall of The Pink
Change the background color of the application to pink? Absurd. Black was so much more appropriate, and not just because Halloween was approaching. Black was my mind, dark and dreary like the room, despite the garish orange Halloween fluff that decorated its fringes.But he needed to check something on the background color, he said, and I was stuck on my current project anyway. He said to try something bright, and he said that when he tried it, it switched back to black. I supposed it would be okay, this "other color," as long as it was short-lived. Much like a good mood.
But when I set the screen to pink, it stuck. Stubborn, like my favorite bubblegum on the wrapper when I forgot a pack in my car during the summer. Bright, like flash of lightning caught on film. Annoying, like a bill you didn't expect. He wasn't expecting that, either, and so he came to see for himself, the flush of pink radiating into the gloom of my cube, clashing with the orange pumpkin glowering above my monitor.
It was a really glorious pink, I unwillingly reflected as I waited. It was a pink so clearly girly and obviously chipper that my seven year-old would surely approve. She might even want it for curtains, it was that pink, and it practically seemed to be fabric already, flowing rather than sitting still and drab in the background where it had be so casually dropped.
The one thing the pink did not do was flicker back to black. A pink mystery, that's what it was, and I was interested in solving it in spite of myself.
February 12, 2007
Run Away! Run Away!
In just about 36 hours, I shall partake of my very first writing retreat! Okay, technically, it's my second, but I only got to attend the first three hours of that one, so this really feels more like my first.
I'm nervous and excited, and I even had a dream about it. It wasn't much of a sense-making dream—are they ever?—but it was clearly about the retreat. Fueled by a cold-medicated mind and broken up by bathroom breaks every two hours, it spanned several sleep-wake cycles, and was big and broad and daring in its scope. Of course, I can't exactly remember the STORYLINE, but I do remember the heroism and bravery that was demonstrated in the face of what I'm certain was a highly improbable and totally unlikely adversary.
I've said before that writing is a challenge for me. Okay, not so much the writing as what it reveals. I think that no matter how fanciful the tale, nor how unlike the author who creates them the characters are, both the story and its populace are inextricably tied to their author. Telling a story means revealing the inner workings of one's mind—demented or otherwise—and that can be a Very Scary thing.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling like I might have some grander purpose than the mundane-grand ones I believe in and understand, I imagine that all of this blogging is a necessary sort of preparation for telling OTHER stories, like those I used to imagine, and tell, throughout my teens. These often heartsick tales of LUV and ANGST are surely so bad that I have long ago buried them in the deepest, darkest corner of my attic and really have no interest in revisiting them, for likely not even the fancy-exotic names I selected for my characters would seem salvageable to me now.
But there were SO many stories. Variations on a theme, grandiose flights of Star Wars-esque science fiction fantasy, love and intrigue (such as I was capable of envisioning), and even ethical dilemmas, albethem tainted with teenage perception. I don't think about it often—frankly, I don't LIKE the bewildered and slightly hurt feeling pondering it leaves me with—but sometimes I do still wonder where all the stories have gone; where all MY stories have gone.
Did I lose what little bravery I possessed? Did I lose my ability altogether? Did I just forget what it was like to CREATE without wondering if what I created was "good enough?" Did I fall out of love with my imaginings, because the "real world" was hard enough to write about? Did I retreat in a way that, unlike tomorrow's retreat, contracted the storyteller I was rather than expanding her?
These questions are hard enough. But I'd rather think about stuff like this than WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO WRITE ABOUT TOMORROW?
*Run away! Run away!*
I'm nervous and excited, and I even had a dream about it. It wasn't much of a sense-making dream—are they ever?—but it was clearly about the retreat. Fueled by a cold-medicated mind and broken up by bathroom breaks every two hours, it spanned several sleep-wake cycles, and was big and broad and daring in its scope. Of course, I can't exactly remember the STORYLINE, but I do remember the heroism and bravery that was demonstrated in the face of what I'm certain was a highly improbable and totally unlikely adversary.
I've said before that writing is a challenge for me. Okay, not so much the writing as what it reveals. I think that no matter how fanciful the tale, nor how unlike the author who creates them the characters are, both the story and its populace are inextricably tied to their author. Telling a story means revealing the inner workings of one's mind—demented or otherwise—and that can be a Very Scary thing.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling like I might have some grander purpose than the mundane-grand ones I believe in and understand, I imagine that all of this blogging is a necessary sort of preparation for telling OTHER stories, like those I used to imagine, and tell, throughout my teens. These often heartsick tales of LUV and ANGST are surely so bad that I have long ago buried them in the deepest, darkest corner of my attic and really have no interest in revisiting them, for likely not even the fancy-exotic names I selected for my characters would seem salvageable to me now.
But there were SO many stories. Variations on a theme, grandiose flights of Star Wars-esque science fiction fantasy, love and intrigue (such as I was capable of envisioning), and even ethical dilemmas, albethem tainted with teenage perception. I don't think about it often—frankly, I don't LIKE the bewildered and slightly hurt feeling pondering it leaves me with—but sometimes I do still wonder where all the stories have gone; where all MY stories have gone.
Did I lose what little bravery I possessed? Did I lose my ability altogether? Did I just forget what it was like to CREATE without wondering if what I created was "good enough?" Did I fall out of love with my imaginings, because the "real world" was hard enough to write about? Did I retreat in a way that, unlike tomorrow's retreat, contracted the storyteller I was rather than expanding her?
These questions are hard enough. But I'd rather think about stuff like this than WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO WRITE ABOUT TOMORROW?
*Run away! Run away!*
One Step Closer to The Whole Truth
It's probably too late to score myself another chance at randomly-selected prizes by linking to http://www.whydoyoublog.com, but being slow has never QUITE stopped me before, so I'll do it anyway. Plus, this morning? I am actually inspired to beat this particular dead horse again (I know, and so soon after haphazardly trouncing this here other dead equine).
It was a fun little survey, by the by, so if—by some inexplicable quirk of fate and/or time—it's NOT over yet, I highly suggest that any other bloggers who stumble onto it by way of my blog here go ahead and fill it out ... you know, after you're done cursing about whatever you hurt when you stumbled. And, once again, THANKS to The ListMaker for letting me know about the survey, and in a timely fashion, too.
Way back in November of '05, I speculated that I blog simply "because I can"), and about a year after that, I got around to admitting that I feel compelled to find meaning in pretty much everything), so I am then driven to communicate it. Naturally, I didn't say either of those things succinctly, but that's a whole 'nother blather, and I am NOT going to digress. Much.
Anyway, so then there was this survey, and I basically said I blog for my sanity. (Yes, yes, such as it is. I DO have to try to retain what little I've still got, you know.) But as usual, I guess, I was not telling the WHOLE story.
As an entirely valid, non-digressive aside, I don't think it's uncommon for people to avoid telling the whole story. When you compliment someone on their new home, which they clearly love, you might leave out the bit that YOU would never want to live there. Like, EVER. In a million, billion, sesquicentennialzillion years. That would, in fact, be part of the whole of the story—specifically, YOUR story—but it's not necessarily relevant, and would be almost certain to cause hurt feelings, or at the very least, make you look like an ass who just HAS to make it ALL ABOUT YOU. I mean, really, save it for the blog world, where it really IS all about you.
And that, I think, is part of my compulsion to blog. There are things I don't discuss in my daily life—not because I don't want to, necessarily, but rather because I am not certain of and/or am rightfully fearful of how they would be received—that I still WANT to talk about, and my blog permits me that indulgence ... even if it is an awful lot like talking to myself.
There are also things that I might be too embarrassed to discuss in real life—and, sorry, not going to link to the many and sundry examples of THOSE—but that I still think make a funny or at least memorable story, and by writing them down, I preserve them in as much completeness as I can, before time and other memories bump them out of the way. Some seemingly insignificant stories that feature Little Girl fall into this category; they're not so much embarrassing to ME, but might be to her one day, and I'm sorry, but in what "real world" situation can you imagine I'd get the opportunity to relieve, in exquisite detail, the time she named a pair of mealworms "Flower" and "Crystal?"
I am seldom possessed of the assurance that I am interesting enough, or tell a good enough story, to assert my blatherings and potential witticisms into a conversation without a direct invitation to do so, and EVEN THEN, I tend to find other people more fascinating and possessed of more desire—and possibly more need—to tell THEIR stories. But on my very own blog, for whatever skewed little reason, I see fewer constraints and fewer obstacles to telling MY stories, and elaborating on MY opinions. Whatever rejection may come will be coated in obscurity and anonymity, and BY GOLLY, if I had to? I could DELETE comments that offended my delicate sensibilities!
(That is, if any did appear. No, I'm NOT askin' ... I'm just sayin'.)
Anyway, having relaxed my inhibitions—which are apparently quite closely related to constraints and obstacles, rather than, you know, morals and ethics—I find I can be more direct, and more WHOLE on my blog than I might be in real life. Which is not to say that I'm dishonest or secretive in real life, just indirect and partial. I don't know many people who aren't, either. We all have our lines that we will not cross, or can not cross easily, and they don't pertain only to ACTIONS, but also to topics we will discuss, stories we will share, and detail we will reveal.
The difference is, I guess, that I would LIKE to discuss, share, and reveal more "out there," as I feel I do "in here," but for some reason, either I don't, or I just don't think I do.
(Possibly because there's already WAY more than enough ambiguous bullshit in the real world. See above for more.)
It was a fun little survey, by the by, so if—by some inexplicable quirk of fate and/or time—it's NOT over yet, I highly suggest that any other bloggers who stumble onto it by way of my blog here go ahead and fill it out ... you know, after you're done cursing about whatever you hurt when you stumbled. And, once again, THANKS to The ListMaker for letting me know about the survey, and in a timely fashion, too.
Way back in November of '05, I speculated that I blog simply "because I can"), and about a year after that, I got around to admitting that I feel compelled to find meaning in pretty much everything), so I am then driven to communicate it. Naturally, I didn't say either of those things succinctly, but that's a whole 'nother blather, and I am NOT going to digress. Much.
Anyway, so then there was this survey, and I basically said I blog for my sanity. (Yes, yes, such as it is. I DO have to try to retain what little I've still got, you know.) But as usual, I guess, I was not telling the WHOLE story.
As an entirely valid, non-digressive aside, I don't think it's uncommon for people to avoid telling the whole story. When you compliment someone on their new home, which they clearly love, you might leave out the bit that YOU would never want to live there. Like, EVER. In a million, billion, sesquicentennialzillion years. That would, in fact, be part of the whole of the story—specifically, YOUR story—but it's not necessarily relevant, and would be almost certain to cause hurt feelings, or at the very least, make you look like an ass who just HAS to make it ALL ABOUT YOU. I mean, really, save it for the blog world, where it really IS all about you.
And that, I think, is part of my compulsion to blog. There are things I don't discuss in my daily life—not because I don't want to, necessarily, but rather because I am not certain of and/or am rightfully fearful of how they would be received—that I still WANT to talk about, and my blog permits me that indulgence ... even if it is an awful lot like talking to myself.
There are also things that I might be too embarrassed to discuss in real life—and, sorry, not going to link to the many and sundry examples of THOSE—but that I still think make a funny or at least memorable story, and by writing them down, I preserve them in as much completeness as I can, before time and other memories bump them out of the way. Some seemingly insignificant stories that feature Little Girl fall into this category; they're not so much embarrassing to ME, but might be to her one day, and I'm sorry, but in what "real world" situation can you imagine I'd get the opportunity to relieve, in exquisite detail, the time she named a pair of mealworms "Flower" and "Crystal?"
I am seldom possessed of the assurance that I am interesting enough, or tell a good enough story, to assert my blatherings and potential witticisms into a conversation without a direct invitation to do so, and EVEN THEN, I tend to find other people more fascinating and possessed of more desire—and possibly more need—to tell THEIR stories. But on my very own blog, for whatever skewed little reason, I see fewer constraints and fewer obstacles to telling MY stories, and elaborating on MY opinions. Whatever rejection may come will be coated in obscurity and anonymity, and BY GOLLY, if I had to? I could DELETE comments that offended my delicate sensibilities!
(That is, if any did appear. No, I'm NOT askin' ... I'm just sayin'.)
Anyway, having relaxed my inhibitions—which are apparently quite closely related to constraints and obstacles, rather than, you know, morals and ethics—I find I can be more direct, and more WHOLE on my blog than I might be in real life. Which is not to say that I'm dishonest or secretive in real life, just indirect and partial. I don't know many people who aren't, either. We all have our lines that we will not cross, or can not cross easily, and they don't pertain only to ACTIONS, but also to topics we will discuss, stories we will share, and detail we will reveal.
The difference is, I guess, that I would LIKE to discuss, share, and reveal more "out there," as I feel I do "in here," but for some reason, either I don't, or I just don't think I do.
(Possibly because there's already WAY more than enough ambiguous bullshit in the real world. See above for more.)
Any Excuse For A Party
It's a momentous morning here at the Temporary Digression of the Spotted Kind! I say so myself, because who else would? The chirping cricket joke doesn't apply well here, as all of the little bastards are frozen solid this time of year anyway (going to see above-zero temperatures today, though! along with much-accursed layers of WHITE CRAP), but I digress.
This here, my quieter-than-frozen-crickets reader/s, is BLOG ENTRY 450!I have NO idea what the term for this milestone is, but if I remember to look it up before posting, this sentence will be crossed out and replaced with something pretentious like I believe the term for this milestone is (*trumpet fanfare sounds in the distance*): sesquiquatercentenary. Yea, verily, that is how it shall be, and I shall also add, I have no idea how to pronounce that monstrosity.
In honor of thismillstone milestone, and inspired by some questions from my good friend The Righter, I decided to take a look back and see just how much I blather. I mean, more specifically than "a lot," which EVERYBODY already knows. Seriously. DUH. Take a look at what I'm doing right now!
Anyway, while specific dates elude me—thereby precluding me from ever accurately celebrating my "bloggiversaries" (and that's NOT a term that I made up)—I do know that I started this little diversion round about mid-August, 2005. A quick sum of the weeks from that time until the end of the year, plus 52 weeks for 2006, and however many we've endured thus far in 2007, yielded the rather unprepossessing total weeks I've blogged, which is 78. And 450 entries divided by 78 weeks means that I'm averaging right around 5.7692 entries per week (rounded to scientific-appearing four-decimal places).
Not bad! Not bad at all, considering I say VERY LITTLE WITH A WHOLE LOT OF WORDS in my 5.7692 entries each week! But wait, for as I examined my blogging history, I noted that because I was not employing my oh-so-efficient blog-n-bike method until (to judge by the swiftly rising monthly numbers at that time) mid-November of 2005, if I subtract the measly seven entries I did in August 2005, the only-slightly-more eight entries I did in September of that same year, the RIDICULOUSLY pathetic three I managed to pound out in October '05, and half of the modest 24 I did in the November immediately following (the numbers in the months after THAT rose to or just below the bloated total of 40), and then divide that there revised total (420) by the number of weeks during which it was accomplished (65), I get a bike-n-blog average of 6.4615 (the pre-multitasking average being a resoundingly lame 2.3077).
I would say that clearly multitasking serves me well, although were I to examine the pounds I gained during those earlier sessions—when I was far more focused on making sure that the laptop didn't fall off the HIGHLY unstable ladder-board-weight-counterbalanced contraption that ended up hurting my neck and shoulders because it required me to twist slightly to whatever side I had the ladder set up on—I am quite sure I'd be forced to conclude otherwise. Fortunately, a new, slightly more stable configuration of plastic tubs on either side of the bike and 2x4's laid straight across and directly in front of me permits me to focus more on my biking form. It also allows for a basically unrestricted stream-of-consciousness to flood directly into the laptop, which so far, has protested surprisingly little from all of the abuse it has sustained. But, again, I digress.
I should take the complimentary approach, and applaud myself on my dedication to my Method (however insane and/or inane it may be), but who amongst us thinks THAT is gonna happen? Well, you're WRONG, buddy, WHOEVER THE HELL YOU ARE! I am, despite the fact that I think it indicates that I really should suck it up and PAY for therapy—6.4615 sessions per week sounds about right—VERY PROUD of myself for ... well, whatever I'm doing here. At least I have been sticking to this! This! Oh, wait, I have the PERFECT word for it: PROLIXITY.
I can't remember how I happened upon this word in my massive paperweight of a dictionary here, but it's been flagged for some time now. I just KNEW I'd have the perfect use for it! Somehow, I sensed it's impending appropriateness, as if I were blessed with some intense and insightful sixth sense! Or, I read the definitions (pay attention in particular to the second one here, and praises be to Merriam & Webster, as usual, for providing me (yet again) with The Perfect Word For A Truly Obscure Occasion:
Actually, I think I'm going to compose a Really Bad Commemorative Haiku and leave it at that:
harder to say than
"sesquicentennial"
but! it's three times more
This here, my quieter-than-frozen-crickets reader/s, is BLOG ENTRY 450!
In honor of this
Anyway, while specific dates elude me—thereby precluding me from ever accurately celebrating my "bloggiversaries" (and that's NOT a term that I made up)—I do know that I started this little diversion round about mid-August, 2005. A quick sum of the weeks from that time until the end of the year, plus 52 weeks for 2006, and however many we've endured thus far in 2007, yielded the rather unprepossessing total weeks I've blogged, which is 78. And 450 entries divided by 78 weeks means that I'm averaging right around 5.7692 entries per week (rounded to scientific-appearing four-decimal places).
Not bad! Not bad at all, considering I say VERY LITTLE WITH A WHOLE LOT OF WORDS in my 5.7692 entries each week! But wait, for as I examined my blogging history, I noted that because I was not employing my oh-so-efficient blog-n-bike method until (to judge by the swiftly rising monthly numbers at that time) mid-November of 2005, if I subtract the measly seven entries I did in August 2005, the only-slightly-more eight entries I did in September of that same year, the RIDICULOUSLY pathetic three I managed to pound out in October '05, and half of the modest 24 I did in the November immediately following (the numbers in the months after THAT rose to or just below the bloated total of 40), and then divide that there revised total (420) by the number of weeks during which it was accomplished (65), I get a bike-n-blog average of 6.4615 (the pre-multitasking average being a resoundingly lame 2.3077).
I would say that clearly multitasking serves me well, although were I to examine the pounds I gained during those earlier sessions—when I was far more focused on making sure that the laptop didn't fall off the HIGHLY unstable ladder-board-weight-counterbalanced contraption that ended up hurting my neck and shoulders because it required me to twist slightly to whatever side I had the ladder set up on—I am quite sure I'd be forced to conclude otherwise. Fortunately, a new, slightly more stable configuration of plastic tubs on either side of the bike and 2x4's laid straight across and directly in front of me permits me to focus more on my biking form. It also allows for a basically unrestricted stream-of-consciousness to flood directly into the laptop, which so far, has protested surprisingly little from all of the abuse it has sustained. But, again, I digress.
I should take the complimentary approach, and applaud myself on my dedication to my Method (however insane and/or inane it may be), but who amongst us thinks THAT is gonna happen? Well, you're WRONG, buddy, WHOEVER THE HELL YOU ARE! I am, despite the fact that I think it indicates that I really should suck it up and PAY for therapy—6.4615 sessions per week sounds about right—VERY PROUD of myself for ... well, whatever I'm doing here. At least I have been sticking to this! This! Oh, wait, I have the PERFECT word for it: PROLIXITY.
I can't remember how I happened upon this word in my massive paperweight of a dictionary here, but it's been flagged for some time now. I just KNEW I'd have the perfect use for it! Somehow, I sensed it's impending appropriateness, as if I were blessed with some intense and insightful sixth sense! Or, I read the definitions (pay attention in particular to the second one here, and praises be to Merriam & Webster, as usual, for providing me (yet again) with The Perfect Word For A Truly Obscure Occasion:
pro·lix adj 1 : unduly prolonged or drawn out : too long 2 : marked by or using an excess of words syn see WORDY — pro·lix·i·ty n — pro·lix·ly advThe astute reader will notice that I left out pesky pronunciation information, and also some of that word history gibberish, but hey, if you're THAT clever (and care so darn much), you can look those things up for yourself! In the meantime, and in the Silence of the Frozen Crickets, I shall continue merrily onward, drawing nonsensical conclusions and celebrating my sesquiquatercentenary blog post without you. *tosses hair unconcernedly*
Actually, I think I'm going to compose a Really Bad Commemorative Haiku and leave it at that:
harder to say than
"sesquicentennial"
but! it's three times more
January 30, 2007
Surely a Step Up from "As Seen On TV!"
Believe it or not, there are times when even the idea of a return to insomnia—which plagued me quite viciously for seemingly endless months before I started exercising regularly—does not motivate me sufficiently to get me up and going at the ungodly hour of 4:30 in the A of M. I can think of the agony that insomnia visited upon me, of the specific pains of being unable to sleep, even when one is totally exhausted and desperately in need of a period of unconsciousness, and I STILL will contemplate skipping "just one day."
But the same past experience that dictates that MY insomnia, at least, will return brutally and unforgivingly if I should cease in my early-morning physical activities (no, not THAT; that doesn't cut it) also reminds me that I'm not very good at "just one" anything ... I'm greedy, and if I have one something, I think I should like to have—and DESERVE to have, dammit!—roughly eighteen thousand more, in as rapid of succession as I can muster. And so, despite the fact that I am quite often loathing the fact that I must, I get up, get dressed, toss back a tiny thyroxine pill on a wave of eight ounces of water, and make my straggling way to my designated Exercise Corner, packed with weights, a television and videos, a limping treadmill, and this stationary bike.
I read in my new thyroid bible about how writing can be an effective stress-reliever, but the book specifically counseled against using writing as a sort of therapy for more than 20 minutes a day. This undoubtedly sound advice caused my eyebrows to climb to wrinkle-inducing heights upon my forehead, because I seldom write for fewer than 45 minutes at a pop.
By the time I rationalized that the fact that not EVERYthing I write is linked to my various "issues"—okay, "neuroses," then—and also that the exercise I engage in whilst writing might similarly mitigate the otherwise excessive duration of my typewritten bulimic attacks, I was quite conten
But the same past experience that dictates that MY insomnia, at least, will return brutally and unforgivingly if I should cease in my early-morning physical activities (no, not THAT; that doesn't cut it) also reminds me that I'm not very good at "just one" anything ... I'm greedy, and if I have one something, I think I should like to have—and DESERVE to have, dammit!—roughly eighteen thousand more, in as rapid of succession as I can muster. And so, despite the fact that I am quite often loathing the fact that I must, I get up, get dressed, toss back a tiny thyroxine pill on a wave of eight ounces of water, and make my straggling way to my designated Exercise Corner, packed with weights, a television and videos, a limping treadmill, and this stationary bike.
I read in my new thyroid bible about how writing can be an effective stress-reliever, but the book specifically counseled against using writing as a sort of therapy for more than 20 minutes a day. This undoubtedly sound advice caused my eyebrows to climb to wrinkle-inducing heights upon my forehead, because I seldom write for fewer than 45 minutes at a pop.
By the time I rationalized that the fact that not EVERYthing I write is linked to my various "issues"—okay, "neuroses," then—and also that the exercise I engage in whilst writing might similarly mitigate the otherwise excessive duration of my typewritten bulimic attacks, I was quite conten