Alive! ...and writing again

Any of you who have still bothered to check the site over the past several months of my absence have probably wondered where I’ve been. Well, I’ll tell you.
On a whim, I joined a Uruguayan rugby team. You know- for shits and giggles. Well, wouldn’t you know that right on the eve of the first big match our plane goes down smack dab in the middle of the Andes mountains. A whole butt load of people died and those of us that survived did so by resorting to acts no human being should ever dream of, let alone perform. Oh, and it was freakin’ cold, too! But, I survived. Safe to say, I’ve quit rugby.
So, that’s what I’ve been doing…. Or it may be some book I read a while ago. Whatever.
Either way, I’m back. And it’s getting to be that time again. Time to gear up for my favorite holiday and for the biggest writing challenge I’ve taken on in my life thus far. No, not the Pulitzer Prize but NaNoWriMo! I live with the belief that if I did it last year I can do it again.
But, it’s only a month away and I’ve got a lot of warming up to do if I expect to be able to pump out well over 1,000 words a day! So, towards that end, I have selected a warm up challenge for myself to perform over the next month.
It starts with the aid of a favorite site of mine, Dictionary.com. Despite having gone to a good school with some of the most intelligent and well-read people I’ve ever met my vocabulary is still limited. So, in order to improve my vocabulary I signed up for Dictionary.com’s Word of Day in which they send me a random word and definition every single day.
Since it’s common knowledge that you have to actually USE a word in order to absorb it I plan to use each “Word of the Day” for the month of October. One word, everyday, for the next 31 days.
In order to give myself room to experiment and to warm up writing muscles which have atrophied from inactivity I will attempt to use more than just one sentence to house each word. I’ll do random blog entries about various observations or thoughts, try to throw some short stories in there, some non-fiction, some outrageous fiction, some holiday-based entries (it is October, after all) and maybe even a poem or two.
I promise nothing about quality or clarity, simply to use the word in a way that demonstrates my understanding of it. I’ve added a link on the side so you can check the definition and judge whether or not I’ve used it correctly.
Should I complete this task I should be in pretty good shape to start NaNoWriMo on November 1st and actually stand a chance at crossing the 50K word mark by the end of the month.
So, if you’re at all interested, stay tuned! You can be literary judges, hecklers, cheerleaders, whatever. I’ll happily read any comments you post (and promptly delete them if they are links to Japanese porn sites*_*).
Wish me luck, everybody!

Yes, It is Better to Laugh at Yourself

A dear friend of mine, who is largely why this blog still exists despite a writer who believes that she is incapable of writing anything worthwhile, sent me an article recently published in the Huffington Post. I’ve never read the Huffington Post so I have no idea what kinds of articles they publish in general, but this seemed to be a bit of an editorial on the danger of taking ourselves- and our work- too seriously. It’s by Thomas Moore, and you can read it here.

Anyway, in the article, Moore says that “Seriousness without fun is the sign of an exaggerated ego.” Now, I’ve never seen myself as having any kind of an ego because I always associated ego with narcissism and I have more self loathing than you can fit into a football stadium. But if I remember what one of my mentors Freud said about ego being simply an extension of self, one that houses conscious awareness, than I can see Moore’s point.

I am definitely aware. Ridiculously aware. Of my mistakes, my downfalls, my failures, my shortcomings. So aware, in fact, that I often lose sight of everything else. I get stuck there, I live there, I set up house there. And all the facts that may contradict that little dark hole I’ve dug myself into go by without notice.

I’ve been reminded of some of those facts recently. Not by huge, grandiose events but rather by small, simple reminders. Reminders of “Yes, your friends are pretty damned cool.” And “Yes, you are very loved.” And “Your house is pretty nice and your car has working AC.” And “Isn’t it nice that you can afford to go to the Ren Faire and buy a few of the pretty tinkets there without breaking the bank?” And “Hey, how about the fact that you can get into and out of the car, walk up and down the stairs, even do a jumping crescent kick half-way decent without any significant pain or discomfort- unlike that nice woman who can’t even open a jar of jam on her own. How about that?”

I do not believe that I am unique in having dug myself into this hole. I know that we all do it, that it’s part of human nature. That if we look at the adversities we have to face and lose sight of the things that we have to keep us going we can get dug down in the seriousness and self-pity and hopelessness of it all. And I know myself. I’ve been here before, many times.

One of my favoirte poems about change is Portia Nelson’s “Autobiography in Five Short Chapters”. I’m sure you’ve all read it. Well, my epiphany for today is that I am in the hole again. And I’ve been here for a while. And I know better. And I need to get the hell out. Thank you, John.

Losing Faith

I was ten years old when I found out there was no Santa Clause. I used to be terribly embarrassed by that fact because all of my wiser, more mature friends had known long before they hit double digits. But now I look back at that- that ten years of believing so fiercely that whatever doubt may have been introduced in my mind by my peers was almost instantly dismissed because I refused to let go of something so magical- and I am proud of who I was. I was a little girl who didn't just love fairy tales and magic creatures and science fiction and fantasy and all the other things of that nature. I was a little girl who believed.

I believed in magic. Maybe not with wizard hats and magic wands- but in the quiet, invisible kind. That electricity underneath the static of life that you could only hear humming if you stopped listening to all the people telling you to pay attention. That possibility of something extrodinary, something oustide the bounds of reality that only the true believers can see.

I believed in love. Maybe not TRUE LOVE like in The Princess Bride or love at first site. But in the humble, almost unnoticeable kind that exists between two people who choose to spend their lives together. Who grow and change together. Who become better people because of each other.

I believed in greatness. Maybe I wouldn't grow up to become the famous author I dreamed of being when I was really young. The one who would write a book so good that not only would it remain famous for centuries after its publishing, but it would even crack its way into High School lit class cause no one could argue that it didn't need to be taught. But I would do something. Something important. Something that would last in some way long beyond my years of life and have a bigger impact than I could foresee while living.

I believed in these things so wholeheartedly that I refused- vehemently, passionately, rebelliously refused- to give up on them. Even after my family started to unravel when I entered adolescence. Even after High School proved far more rejecting than any of my childhood imaginings could have possibly prepared me for. Even after my first relationships proved that all the ideals I held about being in love had nothing- NOTHING to do with reality. Even after life got hard.

I still believed, I still held out hope. Partially because I went to a college that encouraged its students to hold onto those beliefs. We were supposed to be great. We were supposed to be artistic. We were supposed to be revolutionarily creative. SO many that had come before us were, why couldn't we be?

I entered my adult life with some fear, but a lot of hope. Hope that my dreams could still come true. Not the way I imagined them. More real somehow. But that they could come true.

I'm losing that hope now. I'm losing those beliefs. Magic? Only in the movies, only in stories and books and graphic novels. That's why that fierce creativity is so damned important- because being able to live in that world long enough to write it takes a willful forgetting of everyday life. Love? Sure, it happens. But it happens with palimony agreements and mortgage payments and years without sex while you raise kids and lots and lots of therapy. And that's if you're lucky. Greatness? Read my past few blog posts and you'll see that that belief is firmly dead, replaced by a generalized moroseness that I can't seem to shake.

Sometimes when I'm walking out among the trees, listening to the wind, feeling the hairs on my arms pick up the temperature so I can feel it deeper than skin level I remember that little girl. So full of dreams, so firm in her beliefs, so full of potential. I remember her, but I don't feel her anymore. I can't lose myself in that childhood world view and allow myself to fantasize the way I used to. There's always something pulling me back to reality and a voice chastising me for being so silly and wasting time when there's work to be done.

I work with crazy people. Not neurotic "I have relationship issues" or "I drink too much" people but "I think you have a camera implanted in your forehead to record my thoughts" kind-of people. My boss talks about how scary it must be for them. To lose touch with reality, to be unable to distinguish what is real. Part of me- the logical part- agrees with her. I can't imagine how frightening it is. But another part of me can't help but wonder if maybe, in some ways, they're the lucky ones. Sure, they'll never have what we call a normal life- jobs and mortgages and marriages and teacher conferences. But they don't have that voice telling them that this can't be real, either. They can be lost in that other world. Scary at times, isolated, uncontrollable. But maybe, just maybe, magic.

Reality Bites? Yeah, sorta

You know that movie Reality Bites? Back when Winona Ryder was a big star and didn't need to shoplift because everyone wanted to cast her? And before Ben Stiller was famous in his own right for being the hysterical man he is so he had to recite other people's dialog? When Ethan Hawke was still young and hot and pulled off the tortured artist oh so well?

Well, i'm sure it comes as no surprise to you that when I was younger I absolutely LOVED that movie. I related to Winona Ryder (even though I was still in high school) and I, like every other young teenage girl watching that movie, had the biggest crush on Ethan Hawke. And I thought Ben Stiller was a yuppie schmuck.

I loved their passion, their fierce devotion to a life less ordinary, their struggle to stay creative and original in a world full of standardized expectations and planned-out lifestyles. They were messed up and they were somewhat naive but they were true to their inner selves and they struggled on. I ate it up with a spoon.

Now? Now looking through the eyes of a jaded, cynical, downright hateful person I see stupidity where I saw creativity. I see a common tale of post graduates rather than originality. I see a few dumb kids getting their butts kicked by the world which has no interest in letting them continue on with their ideals intact.

And Ben Stiller? The intelligent, well off yuppie with a great career that pays him enough to buy a big house and live a traditional lifestyle? I envy him. And I don't feel bad that Winona Ryder dumps him for the artsy Ethan Hawke because I think HE is too good for HER. Because she's unemployed, and naive and will inevitably end up overwhelmed with debt, breaking up with her artsy boyfriend because they fight about money all the time and eventually moving back in with her stupid parents who don't understand her.

I no longer want to be her, I want to be him. Monotonous job, maybe. Maybe you have to wear a suit and tie and suck up a little. But living well off, advancing in his career, surviving? That's what I want.

I went into my career thinking that because I loved the field and felt passionate that would be all I needed. Now i'm so jaded that I couldn't care less about passion. It's not even on my list of things I want in a new job.

So I guess maybe I still relate to Winona Ryder. My butt got kicked by the world and my ideals are no longer intact. Reality does bite.

An L.A. Story

No, this is not an ode to Steve Martin (although I do believe him to be the single funniest writer I’ve ever read). This is a story of a trip. A story of how uncomfortable a person who is, at heart, an east coaster can be in southern California. And of one terribly comforting moment in a strange city.

I was recently in L.A. for a wedding. As much as I complained to everyone before I left that I had no hope for enjoying anything about the trip due to the short period of time we had out there and the activities of the wedding that would dominate our few days I had some hopes for an escape of some kind. Not a real vacation, but comfort in the knowledge that work and all if its stress were over two and half thousand miles away. It was not the escape I’d hoped for.

We did have one good day, I must admit. I can’t say for sure that the La Brea Tar Pits are the only worthwhile tourist attraction in L.A. but I can’t help but think that they might be. They are, without a doubt, the most remarkable geological encounter I’ve ever had and I’ve never seen so many fossils in one place. But if given the choice would I plan a trip out there just for that? No.

And the rest of the trip was as bad as I could have anticipated- cocktail parties with strangers and my unending inability to make small talk with them. More activities than I could have predicted which kept my boyfriend occupied for hours while I sat back in the hotel room wondering how much I could hate one wedding. (Being the date of a best man is not as fun as it might seem.) And the characteristics that make up L.A. smacking me in the face every other minute.

I know that some people love L.A. I met a few of them. They had a fierce defensiveness for their home and loved all of the things about it that drove me crazy. The constant sunlight, the endless urban sprawl, the landscape (which I must admit is remarkable in comparison to what grows out here), the new-agey consumerist vibe of everything, even the Hollywood back street seediness. None of it’s for me.

And this hatred of all things L.A. dominated most of my thoughts while I was there. Especially one long afternoon when I ventured out into downtown L.A. because I wasn’t about to kill the hours I had to spend alone while my boyfriend was at the church rehearsing the ceremony stuck inside the hotel room watching bad t.v. So I went down to the street and started walking.

I knew my way around to some extent because our non rehearsal dinner diet had consisted almost entirely of sandwiches from a 24 hour Subway which was a few blocks from the hotel. (The one fast-food edge L.A. has over the east.) And my boyfriend had pointed out the small used bookstore on the way, so I figured I’d check it out.

I love books. Ever since I became able to read (which took special education in the second grade for me to master and thus did not come easily) I’ve loved losing myself inside the mind of a character. Not murder mysteries or stories about things or events- I could never get into those. No, I prefer first person narratives that allow you to see the world through another person’s eyes. I lose myself in them so much that years after I’ve read them I still hold a fondness for them. Like old friends.

It is for this reason that I never really got into libraries. Why, after connecting with a story- loving the characters, feeling their emotions, bonding with them- would I want to let them go? I can’t bear the thought of it. This is why I am a book buyer. It doesn’t matter if I ever read the thing again- knowing it’s there, sitting on my shelf, waiting for me to come back and reconnect- is comforting.

Thus, I am attracted not to libraries but to Barnes and Nobles, Borders, and small, independent bookstores. And the used bookstores? They are a treasure like no other. Where else can you find out of print pulp fiction novels and collections of short stories from the sixties and seventies written by truly brilliant writers way before their time? And where else can you find that smell? The smell of old, used books.

I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if the glue in the rib breaks up and decays, I don’t know if paper ages like cheese, I don’t if the dust on the shelves collects in such a way as to release that odor but I love it. To me, the smell of old books is the smell of knowledge, the smell of creativity, the smell of words themselves. Whatever it is, I love it.

It is partially because of this that I was so taken with this particular small bookstore- that smell greeted me as soon as I walked in the door. The Caravan Bookstore on South Grand Avenue in L.A., specializing in “Old & Rare Curious Books” and a member of the Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America was a treasure. Not just because of the smell and the volumes of old books ranging from classic literature to non-fiction on everything from African cooking to Russian history. But because of what I found there.

It caught my eye as soon as I walked in the door- the only brightly colored cover in a sea of dark green and dark blue books with faded gold print on the covers. Strange to find a new hardback on the front table of an antique bookstore, but there it was. The title struck me like something I’d seen in a billion redundant romantic comedies: Love, or Something Like It. But I opened a few pages in and read a paragraph and instantly loved the writer’s style. I could get inside this character’s head and stay for a while. Forget about my overpriced hotel room or how long it would be till I could go home and get a good night’s sleep. It was exactly what I needed.

I tucked it under my arm and went on perusing the rest of the books. It was a small store so it didn’t take long. Plus, as much as I’d like to pretend that I am really interested in nautical history or the political tactics of the Third Reich I’m not really that kind-of girl. I love history, yes. But I’m not about to spend 46 dollars on an out-of print historical account of Stalin’s right-hand man, no matter how good it may smell.

I lingered mainly because of that smell, and because I didn’t want to miss an unexpected treasure hiding in the back of the store behind the globes and other dusty antiques. And because the only thing waiting for me was an empty hotel room. The only other thing I found that I wanted was another new book: Michael J. Fox’s Always Looking Up exploration of optimism which I’d been meaning to buy ever since he did his special about it on ABC a few months back. So I grabbed it, jumped at the shockingly low price, and made my way to the register.

An elderly man wearing a pair of glasses that looked to be about as old as I am asked me a polite “Did you find everything ok?” as he made his way to his antique print-out calculator. I said yes, and that I loved his store to which he gave a quick ‘thank you’ without looking up. He must have been able to tell that I wasn’t a real enthusiast based on my selections, but what did I care? It’s not like I was ever going to see him again.

He rang me up and pulled off a sheet of brown paper which he began to wrap my books in as I signed my receipt. And I walked out with a neatly wrapped brown package of books, marveling at how I’d never had such an interesting shopping bag. I got a kick out of walking around downtown L.A. with what appeared to be a package of shirts wrapped by a woman in a New York apartment in the forties who ironed and starched white collared shirts for her wealthier neighbors.

The book, it turned out, was better than that first paragraph would have suggested and I plan on finding other stories by Deirdre Shaw when I’m finished. But the book was not the treasure of the afternoon, only a token of it. The treasure was that in the city of L.A. which I’d judgmentally concluded had nothing to offer me, I found a reprieve in a small, dusty bookstore tucked in among the Starbucks and Jamba Juices and over-priced clothing outlets. In a terribly large, terribly discomforting city- I found a friend.

Vital Information

You know that feeling that you have when you're absolutely sure that there is vital information that you need to know if you have any chance of surviving and you're not sure what it is or how to get it but you're positive you don't have it? That feeling of doom that comes from the understanding that not having this knowledge is guaranteed to make you incapable of either performing the duties you're expected to perform or successfully navigating a tricky situation? That old metaphor of the lack of instruction manual when it comes to life?

Well that's the feeling I've had for the duration of my adult life.

When I was growing up, I lived with the assumption that someday, somehow, I would become an adult. There would be some transition wherein I would become a capable, independent, intelligent woman who was able to successfully navigate difficult life situations with wisdom and acceptance rather than stupidity and panic. I would learn, perhaps magically, to balance a checkbook, to hold my temper, to take charge of a chaotic situation, to respond calmly to people who were out of control, to do basic household maintenance by washing the dishes and doing the laundry and going grocery shopping on a timely, regular schedule.

This was what being an adult was to me. And I believed, whole heartedly, that it would happen. I didn't know how or why exactly, but I trusted that if I made responsible choices I would reap the rewards of an organized lifestyle.

Nearing the end of my twenties I can no longer make the excuse that perhaps I'm just in prolonged adolescence. The belief that I was just like everyone else because so many people nowadays do not accomplish basic adult milestones until later in life. The hope that I was simply a little late in gaining an understanding of the rules I need to play by. I don't think that anymore, it's just been too long.

Especially because, unlike a lot of other people from my generation, I didn't take time off from school to backpack around Europe or move to an exciting city to "discover myself" or take so many drugs that it took me a few years to emerge from the haze and start living. No, I was responsible. I went straight to college after high school and straight from college to grad school and straight from grad school to a job. I studied a skill, started my career- no pause, no break. I had one big trip- after grad school, and I did back pack around Europe. But my job was already set in stone with a return date before I left and that three weeks passed by far quicker than I could have realized it would.

Now, five years later with an educational background that firmly places me in the felid that I've been working in I feel more lost than ever before.

This is not the life I thought I was working towards. I hate my job on a level I thought was reserved to those who burned out after twenty years in the field. After only five years I have become so jaded that I no longer believe in my career path. I would happily go back to working in a boring office if it meant more money and less stress and the saddest thing is that despite 6 years of college and over $40K in student loans and five years of work experience I think that I could easily make more as an administrative assistant and have a fuck of a lot less stress.

And that naive belief that I had before that the money meant nothing in comparison to the knowledge that I was helping people? I don't have that anymore. I've become so cynical that I would happily say "Fuck off" to every client I've ever had if I could earn a decent living and go home at night without a billion worries on my mind.

And all those adult skills I thought I'd have learned by now? Balancing a checkbook, staying calm and rational in chaotic situations, handling drama with wisdom and composure, maintaining a household? I don't have any of them. Am I as bad as I used to be? Hell no. But am I nowhere near what I envisioned? Ions away from it, it seems.

And I don't think there are any other adult milestones that might suddenly bring that knowledge I seek. A career? We've already covered that disaster. A relationship? I'm with the man I'm going to stay with for the rest of my life. We just went to a wedding (not ours, obviously). People talked about the bride groom like they were "adults" now because they were considering another person's needs as importantly as their own. I couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for them to become as dysfunctional and miserable as most married couples. I certainly don't think they're any less stupid than I am, probably a lot more so because they actually believe it'll work out. And kids? If my belief system isn't jaded enough to convince me that bringing a child into the world would be the biggest mistake I could possibly make then I don't know what is. I'm messed up enough, I don't need to mess up anyone else. So there's no other milestones I'm expecting to magically transform me into a responsible adult.

And that thought- that I don't know something I really need to know in order to survive- it plagues me. I feel more naive now- with my years of experience and lessons learned- than I did before college.
Then again, maybe that's what's wisdom is. Knowing enough to know that you really don't know anything. That you're only as smart as the smart people you parrot. That you only have half a chance of any given situation ending well, despite how many times you've done it before. That no matter how hard you try to prepare and organize there will always be a billion factors beyond your control that can easily fuck things up irrevocably and all you can possibly do is try not to drown in the mess left over.

I don't know. I'd like to think not. I'd like to think that that wisdom, that composure, that ability to handle the things that come my way will grow over time. Maybe it's not an "adulthood" thing. Maybe it's a "mid life" thing or even a "senior" thing. I don't know. All I know is if I lay on my death bed many, many years from now and I still have that feeling that I didn't know vital information I really needed- I'm going to be pissed.

A Different Landscape

As I was driving home from work the other day I passed a park with a line of trees bordering the edge.  They were all decently big, relatively old-looking trees but they were all equally spaced along the road.  I realized that not too long ago (earth wise, not my lifetime wise) they were just little saplings newly planted.  They probably were no different than the little ones you'd get at Home Depot or something like that.  And yet here they were, undoubtedly a few decades old and growing.  I wish I could've counted the rings and known how fast that growth was.

I found my mind wandering in the way that it does when driving home from work and I wondered what that stretch of road might have looked liked back then.  Or even longer ago.  I doubt that a hundred years earlier there was a road there, there was probably a forest.  Miles of trees where that small line of them was.  And I found myself thinking what that whole chunk of land that was now a well established town looked like.

I've read a little bit about the earth's history.  I understand the basics of geology.  I can wrap my mind around the fact that deserts used to be oceans, mountains used to be shores and almost none of the plants, animals or other familiar sights I take for granted used to be around.  I get all that, on an intellectual level.  But I can't for the life of me begin to imagine what it all looked like.

No urban sprawl, no suburbia stretching out for a radius of fifty miles around any city, no farm land splitting up the vast landscape into multi-colored squares like pieces of construction paper, no grass spreading as far as the eye can see.

The idea that almost 90% of the plants and animals that dominate the landscape now are, basically, weeds that sucked up all the natural resources and outgrew all the original inhabitants is mind-boggling.  And yet, that's all I know.  It's all most people know.

It's amazing how much we take for granted that is so incredibly recent.

Loss of Perspective

What if you'd never seen a thunderstorm before?  The world suddenly darkening, the wind blasting you in the face, the sky rumbling over head as black, ominous clouds blocked out the sun... what would you think?  That the world was ending?

What about a sunset?  If you didn't know that light would come back?  If you watched it creep back towards the horizon and disappear leaving you in utter darkness.  Wouldn't you abandon all hope?

What if you didn't know there was a tomorrow?  If this day- today- was suddenly all you had?  And you spent it as you did- paying bills, working at a soul-sucking job, doing dishes, laundry, mowing the lawn, cleaning your bathroom... how cheated would you feel?

See, that's the problem with Carpé Diem.  It goes in direct contradiction to what we have to do in order to survive.  In direct contradiction to responsible (and often dull, stressful and completely un-enjoyable) living.  And yet, that's what we wish we could all do.

All I know is, if today were suddenly the last day of my life- I'd be pissed.

The Price of Becoming a Master Multitasker

I recently began a job as a program manger.  I quickly learned the meaning of being a manger: problem solving, fire extinguishing and never ending multitasking.  Given that I was thrown head first into a relatively sink or swim position I quickly adapted and although it's only been a short time I'd like to think that I've significantly improved my ability to multitask.  It's great in some ways.  I cover a lot of different tasks and switch back and forth based on what's going most wrong at the moment.  It helps with crisis management.

The drawback is the mental strain of doing such an activity all day long.  At the end of the day, sitting in my car and taking the long drive back home I find myself suffering from ADD.  Just the like the commercials: "It's like you're watching a broken t.v. that changes channels every five seconds."

What am I going to make for dinner?  Did they fix the stupid construction on this road?  Whatever happened to Tiffany, anyway?  Oh yeah, like you're going to get there any faster than I will, you douche.  That's the car from that Adam Sandler song- how did it go?  "Piece of shit car..."  Way to go, buddy- the muffler louder than a Harley really makes you cool.  Maybe I should make meatballs.  What do I have at home?  Oh, I gotta call Nicole in the morning and ask her how to fill out that form.  Shit, did I fax in that incident report?  God, I gotta get some sleep.

I can feel my head spinning and I can't grasp any one thing.  And it's odd because as exhausted and completely fried as I am I'm also horrifically keyed up and racing with ideas that might be really good if I could hold onto any one long enough to actually take action.  Like this entry, for example.  It sounded a heck of a lot cooler in my head.

The Beveled Edge is Back!

I know what you're thinking: It left?  I'm pretty sure there were only two people reading this thing before, and I'm pretty sure they were doing it out of obligation for a friend.  Not just because my crap wasn't all that impressive, but because I started writing less and less.  You could log on once a month and catch up on everything new within a minute.  So why re-vamp it?  For my own selfish reasons.  Maybe I feel like writing down the random stuff in my head instead of just thinking it.  Maybe I like the medium.  Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment.  I don't know.  Whatever the reason, though, it's back.

So why did the last version fail?  Well, many reasons.  Number one: I modeled it after the blog of a friend of mine who, unlike me, is an extensively educated, exhaustively practiced and frighteningly skilled fiction writer.  I came to the conclusion very quickly that it would take me years of practice and far more innate talent than I have to be able to write like him, and yet I still tried.  It's never a good idea to try to copy someone else's art.

Number two:  I held myself to a posting frequency standard that just wasn't feasible for me.  Which is why this time around I'm not going to make any claims to posting frequency.  If it happens once a week, great.  Once a month?  OK.  A few in a row?  Awesome.  But if I'm fried at the end of the day (which I am more often than not) and can't come up with anything, fine.

Number three, and most relevant to the new set-up of the blog:  Fiction isn't my forte.  Would I like to get better at it?  Sure.  But can I realistically expect myself to come up with something new and actually worthwhile every time I write?  Not a chance in hell.  I like fiction, I do.  But I've noticed a pattern in myself.  I tend to get into an idea, a story, and live there for a while.  Get to know the characters: their traits, their quirks, their failings, etc.  Plot is a secondary interest.  This probably doesn't make for good storytelling, but I've given up my dreams of being published.  I've also given up my dreams of coming up with short, interesting, funny, or in other ways worthwhile stories on the spot.  Doesn't work for me, so I'm gonna stop trying.

So what am I gonna do?  What the subtitle says: "Random musings".  My thoughts, my impressions of various things, my opinion, just random stuff.  Maybe every now and again some fiction will find its way in there.  But I'm not gonna force it.  I'm gonna write whatever the hell I feel like writing which is, quite arguably, what I should've done in the first place.

Will it be interesting to read?  I haven't the foggiest.  And for the first time, I don't really care.  Although I have not done the research to back this up I'm pretty confident that there are a lot of blogs out there containing much stupider shit than this one will.  Will it be as good as many?  Not a chance!  Will it be as bad as some?  I don't think so.  It'll be whatever the hell it will be and I will, for the very first time since starting it, leave it the hell alone.

If you want read it, have at.  If you don't, keep clicking to the next blog.  If you like it, awesome.  If you don't, oh well.  Maybe it'll evolve into something worthwhile.  Maybe it'll deteriorate into something so stupid even I can't stomach it.  I'm not gonna predict either way.  I'm just going to write, and see where it goes.  It worked for NaNoWriMo.  When I forced myself to let go of the idea of what I thought my story should be it actually started coming out.  When I tried to fit it to some ideal in my head it stalled, every time.  So I let it go, and I'm sure that in the pages and pages of crap there is actually some worth while stuff.  Maybe in the many blogs that are to come they'll be something else worthwhile.  I hope so.

A Brutally Honest Viewpoint on the Stages of Loss and Greif

By now popular psychology has informed most people that there are five stages of loss and grief.  I studied them relatively in depth in college and have used them in my practice more times than I can count.   But I've never actually experienced them myself, certainly not so acutely that on any given day I can quickly pinpoint that "Ok, today appears anger.  Alright then."  But that's where I am- and this is what it looks like.

Shock

You listen to the doctor explaining what the test results are and which diagnosis is likely (because apparently your PCP will never give you a definitive diagnosis, you need a specialist for that) and you focus on what the next step is.  Which appointments do I have to schedule?  Can I get someone to cover for me at work?  When I can I see the endocrinologist?  How am I going to afford all these co-pays?
You get way more information than you can really process and you do everything you're supposed to with a smile on your face: learn how to use your new devices, get all your prescriptions filled, go shopping for all the healthy food.  You show people your cool new medical alert bracelet and talk about the lifestyle changes you're making.  You tell yourself that you'll use this forced change as a perfect excuse to get healthy, which you need to do anyway.  You believe people when they tell you that in no time you'll be so used to it you won't even have to think about it.  You feel strong, capable, like you'll be better because of it.

Anger

You realize that finding things to eat is a lot more difficult than you thought it would be.  You resent the nice co-worker that brought cookies to work and put them on the table to share with everyone.  You wonder why traffic, supermarkets, insurance companies and the rest of the world won't accommodate you since you're having such a tough time.  You find yourself mentally cursing your friends for wanting you to be happy.  You wish death on the world in general because it's another really bad day. 

Bargaining

You listen to the people who tell you that once you've controlled your diet, you'll feel better and won't have to do all this anymore.  You think about how once it's under control you can go back to living the way you did and not worry about it.  You tell yourself that you can have that cookie or donut and it won't really do any harm.  You fantasize about the next big meal you'll have once everything is back to normal. 

Depression

You suddenly remember how much your life in general sucks and get hopeless about it improving.  You feel sorry for yourself and resentful at the same time because you know that so many people have it so much worse.  You hate yourself for feeling this bad over something so trivial in the grand scheme of things.  You overreact to everything and lose all perspective.  You cry all the time, for no reason.  You get sick of seeing your pathetically sad face every time you look in the mirror.

Acceptance

You get better at remembering to pack your lunch and eat meals at around the same time.  You become skilled at administering your medication without hurting yourself.  You get accustomed to what you can and can't do and don't think it's so limiting anymore.  You remember that the rest of your life is far more important.  You go back to enjoying your time off, planing for the future, challenging yourself to do better.  And life, as they say, goes on.

At least that's the plan.  Right now I seem to be stuck ping-ponging between anger and depression.  One of the things I always hated about this theory is that there's no linear progression- you can cycle through a million times over, even hit acceptance one day then revert back again.  And there's no set time line of how long it's supposed to take.  Day by day I wonder if I'm done yet.  I think I am because I'll feel good when I wake up, optimistic that things are finally going back to normal.  Then my mood shifts and I'm back in one of the earlier stages.  I

I try to be patient, but it's hard.  I guess I'll see what it all looks like when I'm on the other side of all this.

NaNo No Go

In case you couldn't tell by the fact that I cowardly hid away from the blog over the past few days, I did not hit 80k on new year's eve.  Nor did I miraculously finish the novel in less than that.  No, it seems that I am no closer to being done now than I was a week ago.

I don't need to go into detail about the amount of mental effort required to keep that inner critic of mine quiet with so much fuel readily available for the fire.  Nor do I need to say how many times the word failure has floated through my mind only to be beaten back down by that optimistic champion of mine who endlessly defends me against the barrage of insults I usually hear on a loop in my head.  Because you all know me, so you can safely assume all that without me telling you.

No, what I need to say is that despite this set back, I'm not giving up.  That deadline was not actually a deadline because, let's face it: I'm not dead.  Nothing terrible happened.  I didn't delay the release of a paper or prevent myself from finishing the novel.  All I did was delay it.  As one of you simply asked when I reluctantly admitted my lack of forward momentum, "Will you finish it this month?"

My response?  I don't know.  I know there is still much more to be written and much more of the story to unfold.  More than i've even thought of yet, I suspect.  The more of this thing I write the more it seems to decide it's own path.  I started out with some pretty specific plot points and it hit those relatively easily and then went further, meandering down little side paths I didn't see at the start.  And now all I have is a vague idea of where I want to end up with no clear plan of exactly how i'm going to get there.  This will likely make the word count grow more than I planned, and I'm ok with that.

For a terribly brief time in high school (before I realized how much I absolutely despise running), I joined the cross country track team.  After a week on the team the regulars decided to initiate me by showing me the side paths through the park near the school.  The unpaved, publicly unused paths through the woods that they frequented.  I loved them.  The canopy of trees overhead, the quiet, the lack of people.  It was so much better than the main track on the school grounds we all had to do warm-up laps on.  I hated that track- the noise, the constant shouts to go faster, keep up, push it, whatever.  Give me hours on the trails in the park over that.

That seems to be what I'm going for here.  The finish line is there, somewhere in the distance.  I'm in no rush to get there.  I'm meandering, exploring, wandering around in the story and discovering lots of fun little facts along the way.  I will finish, someday. But for the first time since I started this thing, I'm in no rush.

I don't know if this is the right way to do things.  The threat of going off the path is that you might wander into quick sand, or trip over a log, or get bitten by something nasty and never reach your destination.  I'm sure there are pitfalls I could reach that could seriously injure me (metaphorically speaking) and possibly prevent me from finishing.  But I'm counting on being able to backtrack, re-write and move past those should I encounter them.  And I'm sure there's much to be learned from that.

So I'll keep writing.  Hopefully the story will move forward as it fleshes itself out.  Hopefully it'll stay at least vaguely readable.  Hopefully I won't want to kill my main character out of frustration.  And maybe, just maybe I'll end up with something worthwhile. 

And in the meantime, I'm way overdue to get back on track with the random little snippets of fiction that I originally started this blog to practice.  So stay tuned for those.

Status Update

I hoped to write 10k words yesterday.  I dreamed they would be funny, exciting, endearing, wonderfully descriptive words and they would push me so far forward in the plot that the end would practically write itself.  Shockingly, this did not happen.

However, I did manage to get out just under 4700 words which may be the second highest single-day word count i've had since beginning this madness in November.  (I can't be sure without the little graph from NaNoWriMo which I can no longer utilize as that part of the site is in hibernation until next November.)

I find it very doubtful that even half of those 4700 words were funny, exciting, endearing or any of the other characteristics I hoped for.  But they may have been at least vaguely interesting.  Our main character now has a pet chameleon (not the small animals people often keep as pets, no- in my crazy fantasy world they're sort-of like flightless dragons) because apparently it's not enough for him to learn magic, he has to do it while attempting to raise a baby chameleon which will soon be too big to fit in the house.  Interesting, yes?

And, becuase of this new unexpected story line with the chameloen I am no closer to pushing the plot towards the end.  In fact, it's probably going to be a lot longer now.  I try not to push away any ideas when they come, even when they require me to write much more than I wanted.  I wouldn't have gotten to this point if I did.

I wonder if these are the lessons i'm supposed to learn.  To meander through the plot until something pops up and takes me in another direction.  To just let new ideas incorporate themselves into the story line without picking and choosing which to keep and which to toss.  To progress slowly in fits and bursts.  I know it's not how you're supposed to write on a deadline.  But maybe without one?

To let the story grow without judgement, without rushing it forward, without trying to change it into something ti doesn't seem to want to be.   Not brilliant, not concise, not perfectly constructed.  Just growing, like a mountain- layer by layer, spreading outwards as well as upwards.  It will, of course, be a mountain (and a nightmare) to edit.  But isn't that what editing's for?  You get this longwinded, crazy, spotty story and then have to pick and cut and poke at it until it forms something you want.  Like forming the giant slab of rock that you will later carve your masterpiece scultpture out of.

One way or another i'm writing, and that's gotta be good.  And hey!  Here's a shocker- I actually manged to come up with something not related to this novel and *gasp!* post it!  (See below.)  What a miracle that is, huh?

I don't know where all this is going to end.  I'm pretty sure it won't be tomorrow night, even if I do reach 80k.  And perhaps that will be disappointing.  To do NaNoFiMo and miss the Fi.  But maybe it will leave the door open for more.  I don't know yet.  But I'm going to keep writing until I find out.

Scene from some monster movie

Dual-disclaimer: 1) For those prone to nightmares from gory images, skip this one. (You know who you are.) 2) I find it hard to believe that I’m the first person to think up this particular scenario so if you’ve already seen in it some random horror movie, I apologize. No copyright infringement or any other theft is intended.


Mr. Fuzzles

Near dark interior of a typical bedroom, the only light we see comes from the clock on the nightstand next to a bed with a frilly comforter and bed skirt, casting a glow over the radius around the bed. From the corner of the room emerges what might be a snake, but is found to be a tentacle as it wriggles its way into the light. From the direction of the camera an old, gray cat enters the shot and crouches, clawing at the ground the way cats do right before they pounce. It leaps into the air landing on the tentacle and traps it in its mouth. A second later it is pulled violently into the darkness accompanied by a loud, panicked meow.

A hand emerges from the bed, reaching downward. It clearly belongs to an old woman with wrinkled skin, nails long and polished.

“Wha’s- what’s going on Mr. Fuzzles?” comes a groggy voice from the old woman. “Where are you?”

The cat’s head emerges from the dark corner, seemingly responding to its owner’s call. As it moves into the light we see it is actually impaled on the same tentacle which had snatched it away earlier, strands of muscle and gore hanging down where its neck should be. The tentacle pushes the head forward and the outreached hand pets it as a familiar pet owner would, gently stroking the head and ears.

“Oh, there you are,” she coos, “what happened to my little fuzzle-wuzzles? Did something scare you?”

She does not seem to see that her cat is no longer attached to the head she is petting. Perhaps she is not looking, perhaps she does not have her glasses on. For whatever reason, she does not respond with any alarm but goes on contentedly petting the head of her former cat.

We hear the sound of something moving across the carpet as the thing that the tentacle belongs to slowly enters the light. In the darkness we can see only part of it and it is unclear whether it is plant, alien or monster. It seems to have many black tentacles moving around it, pushing it forward on the carpet. As it nears the bed we can make out a pair of dark red eyes and a large, gaping hole with sharp teeth and thick saliva stretching across the widening gap of its mouth. Dangling from the mouth is the tale of the cat. It gapes towards the woman’s outstretched hand.

Miracle on Lawndale Ave?

Having received two observations about the lack of updates here from two of the blog's three followers, I decided it was about time to do one.  So here you go.

And just like that, the words escape me yet again.  So much to say, so little of it relevant or useful.  I could tell you about my holiday, all the baking and over-eating and family stress and cool presents.  I could tell you how much I enjoyed the quiet time after all the chaos ended.  I could tell you about how I'm feeling regarding the upcoming end of the calendar year.  I could make up something.  But none of that is where my mind is right now.

My mind is focusing on my complete and utter failure to produce a daily word count over the past couple of weeks.  It's focused on the lack of momentum in my story.  And, as always, it's allowing my inner critic to berate me with a loud, booming voice.  And I don't need to tell you how easy it would be to slip into a self-deprecating rant about how much I suck right now.  But that, too, is irrelevant.

At the start of this, before erasing and starting over, I started to say how (barring a miracle) I’d failed to hit 80k.  But then I remembered: I have four nights.  Can I actually produce 15k in four nights?  If I were a mathematician I’d say the statistical likelihood, given my averages this month, is incredibly low.  But then again, if I were a mathematician I’d know how to derive.  I don’t know how to perform that basic action nor the statistical likelihood of my success.

No, I’m a fantasy fan.  I know how to have grand, seemingly unobtainable dreams.  How to achieve those dreams?  Not so much.  But how to have them?  Definitely.  My grand, seemingly unobtainable dream is to hit 80k by midnight on December 31st.  I figure even if I fail, pushing myself for the next four days will be ten times more progress than I’ve had in the last two weeks, so it’s gotta be a good thing.  And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, I’ll give myself a miracle.

Wish me luck!