The writing process isn't an easy one for me (at least when I'm sober). It requires a lot of sitting and staring into empty space, a huge chunk of motivation, and a ridiculous amount of willpower. I know the willpower things seems weird; after all, I like to write, so why is willpower involved?
Well, the answer is simple. I have about a dozen OCD-like tendencies I need to hammer down if I want to be able to sit down and write, regardless of how, what or where I'm writing. Every paragraph is like a battle with my own brain, not to mention the internal struggle of what to do with it when I'm done.
For starters, I have a mild (read: massive) obsession with efficiency. Efficiency translates different to me than others, however; most people--well, ok, most Americans--see efficiency as the least amount of effort in order to accomplish a task. In most situations, I see it as the most direct or least-time-consuming way of accomplishing something, regardless of how much effort it will take. There's a reason why I refuse to wait on parking spaces and will park WAY down the aisle if there's already a space open, as opposed to the asshole who will block 30 other people to get the space right next to the handicap spot, and it's definitely not because I'm considerate or nice.
Now internally, that takes a bigger twist. Not only do I prefer to do things in ways that use less time, I also feel the need to make the most effective use of every moment. Effective being a very relative term, of course; I don't want to necessarily get things done, but when I'm not getting things done, I should be relaxing, enjoying myself, calming my nerves or otherwise keeping entertained. Staring off into space attempting to brainstorm something out of nothing riddles me with guilt, as it feels like I could be making more effective use of my time, since nothing comes from it for a long period of time. Also invoking guilt for bad-use-of-time: rereading my own work, writing on anything in any format that is slower than 60 wpm (i.e., not a desktop computer, e.g. paper, tablets, phone), smoke breaks during writers blocks.
Oh, hold up a second. Have I explained that yet? That the vast majority of my OCD-like tendencies stem from deep rooted guilt that I have no control over? Yeah, that is AWESOME. I hate my brain sometimes. I mean, I say "OCD-like tendencies" because I feel guilty trying to say I have OCD when I don't have a degree. Hell, I feel guilty posting about getting shit done because I feel like I don't have the authority to tell people to do shit. To be honest, if this gets posted, I'm going to be amazed.
So that's my first internal hurdle to get over. To be honest, I'm writing about this right now because I couldn't come up with something else to write about and I started to feel bad about wasting time thinking about it. So blame having read this far on... well, everything explained so far. Holy crap, I think I just made my own brain implode.
The next hurdle I normally have to deal with is the whole perfectionist bent. I will correct every friggin' grammar and spelling mistake (except friggin', I love that non-word) as I go, assuming I notice it. Should I use parentheses to much, like this, in a paragraph, I must go and find another way to write that sentence before I can even finish the sentence I'm on. I did it just then. Seriously. Only because I thought the joke would be funnier if I didn't use a second parenthetical, but still. I can't stop it.
Finally, there's the defeatist bent. I'm constantly under the impression that most of the stuff I do in writing, or pretty much anything creative for that matter, gets me nothing and nowhere. I couldn't really explain why; I've had fairly consistent positive feedback, and at least a few writings have actually (supposedly) helped people out. Crap, see what I did there? I went back and put in "supposedly" after I finished the sentence. I can't beat the attitude out of me with a stick.
The good thing is, that is the point of these exercises. One of the things I'm slowly teaching myself is that writing is slowly becoming something I do for me, and not with this grand idea of necessarily doing something with it in the future. Don't get me wrong, I would LOVE to do something with one of my stories, or maybe a collection of the shorter works, sometime in the future. The thing is, I need to convince me that doing so is not my reason or motivation, just a pleasant side effect should I succeed sometime down the line.
Almost ten years ago, I hit a real low point in my life. I had hurt a few people that were really close to me, and I was unsure why. I had driven away some people that were having a negative effect on who I was, or at least who I wanted to be. It wasn't anything against them; they've each gone on and made someone else very happy with who they are, and in turn have become happier with themselves than they were with me. My problem was that I didn't understand my reasoning as to why I felt I had the right to cut people out of my life, to pick and choose my friends when it wasn't exactly an easy task to make new friends to begin with. I was more alone than I had been in a long time, and I only had myself to blame.
It was REALLY easy to get depressed. But getting depressed makes me feel guilty, because it's an enormous waste of time. So I did something about it: I started "dating myself." I went out to movies, took myself out to a nice dinner, went and did some touristy shit in Gatlinburg. Mostly, I just showed me that I'm cool to hang out with, and that I have every right to put actual, conscious effort into who I want to be friends with, and not just accept every person who ever nice to me, regardless of how they treat me or change me.
See? Sometimes the crazy works out for the best.
Anyway, it's that same principle I'm applying now. Typing this out actually has made me feel a little better; it's an expression of me that I don't do very often, mostly because I'm often uncomfortable talking about myself in much depth in person. When I do creative writing, especially when it's work or chapter or whatever I finish, I get a feeling of accomplishment; it's also why I set some goals for myself, to help facilitate that feeling. If I can keep that up, and establish in my head the benefit of everything I do here and on my other writing projects, I hope to eventually start writing without having to beat my own conscious brain down with willpower. Or liquor; that's worked quite well in the past too.
I just fixed the word "want" three paragraphs ago because I decided I wanted to be italicized instead of bold. I really think I have a problem.
Maybe I should just start drinking 30 minutes before I want to start writing. I'm too sober for this shit.
P.S. I think I've actually managed to actually write an entire rant that addresses the audience directly without using the pronoun "you" to refer to the audience. I know that seems so small, especially to people who normally write from the first person perspective, but I feel super accomplished right now, so shut up, you.
... I did it just then, didn't I? Sunavabitch.
No Place Like Home
It's been longer than I like since the last time I sat down to write. Admittedly, it's at least partially a good thing, since the reason I haven't written is because I've been out and social a lot lately, something I've been lacking lately. Still, it's frustrating. I really hadn't realized how important writing was to me until I stopped doing it for so long. Now that I've gotten used to it again, I feel like my sanity somewhat hinges on taking the time to put something down in words, even if it's just some observations or sharing ideas.
I haven't got a new story idea today (not that that has stopped me in the past, most of those flash fiction thingies were made up on the spot without any planning), but I do have a few things I want to talk about. There have been quite a few strange occurrences and observations over the last few weeks. For instance, I've noticed an inordinate number of people still confuse the terms "introverted" and "shy." Well, not just shy; sometimes it's confused with introspective, other times with intellectual. That one really gets me, personally, but then it's not the only trait that is applied to that idea. They're assumed to be close-minded, dismissive atheists as well, so I guess I shouldn't be upset about shy.
I could talk about the car, and about driving, and the thousands of frustrations that have resulted from that. There's the strange occurrences lately involving uncharacteristically irrational reactions from many people close to me over the last few weeks, which has caused me to wonder if it's somehow my fault. There was the sudden realization there are a few things happening in my life right now that should be very upsetting to me, and yet somehow I don't have the capacity to actually be upset at things that directly affect me and only me right now.
Despite all of this weirdness, I feel compelled to talk about a singular occurrence, something that just came up and I simply can't stop thinking about. And that is this strange neighborhood here in Seattle that I just arrived in for the first time. Seriously, my brain is farting more than my butt, and I've got worse gas than that 76 station of the interstate in the middle of Bumfuck, Kentucky.
For starters, I think this neighborhood is the inevitable epitome of every single stereotype about Seattle. There are 4 coffee shops on a single block, everyone looks like they're trying out for a Nirvana lookalike contest, and there's the weird air of "We're not poor, just broke" coming from everyone I pass. Despite the fact that I've scene pretty much every race of human here that I'm aware of, they all seem to be getting along fabulously (in both senses of the word), and looking around outside just feels like you're looking not at reality, but in fact at Instagram, specifically someone's profile who is of the firm belief that the sepia filter makes everything seem "gritty" and "real."
Seriously, everything I had ever heard about Seattle is right here. No air conditioning everywhere, pretentiousness practically oozes from the very walls, not to mention the people inside them, and there isn't a person here who hasn't been accused of furthering the liberal agenda. There's more tattoos then you can find at a Grateful Dead concert, and the number of hippy skirts is only outnumbered by the Jesus sandals and (admittedly kickass) light leather boots. It's tucked away in this little corner in the middle of everything, and yet somehow it seems like you can only access it by foot. God forbid you take a car here; if you somehow survive the tiny roads filled with buses and trucks, make it up all of the hills (and yes, it seems like every direction is always uphill from where you are currently), and finally navigate through the myriad of one-ways and pedestrian-only streets, hopefully you've figured how to park your car vertically, because every space is taken by q vehicle that looks like it hasn't been started in at least five years. Not out of neglect of course, but as a statement against the audacity of our culture forcing the need for environment-destroying, gas guzzling monstrosities.
Needless to say, I LOVE it here. The book store I'm sitting in is fantastic. I only looked at the drink menu in the cafe for a minute before I was pretty much told to hurry the fuck up so she could close in fifteen, the old shelves look like they're going to fall on me any minute, and there's a cacophony of voices that seem to be telling me that they're better than me, simultaneously but all in their own, unique way. There is a line that practically wraps around the store simply to get thirty seconds of face time with a celebrity whom I can only describe as internet-famous, and the walls are lined with tiny, self-developed color photos of local street signs and sights, priced as if they were shipped in from Italy. Even the store owner seemed snarky and at least mildly emotionally abusive.
I think I'm in love.
Thoughts in a Food Court
This was done in Evernote, as that's what I had and I was trying something new. Let's see how it works. :)
Perkie and the Steel Forest, 1
It had been days since she had anything to eat. Gathering food in the wood had always seemed so easy, and the few times she had a rough time of it, she could always rely on her friends to help her out. It hadn’t worked that way since she stumbled into this steel forest; none of the trees seemed to produce their own food, and the only things she could find to eat seemed to be carefully guarded by humans or kept strange, bright baskets that prevented her from getting to them.
She came to the steel forest almost two weeks ago. It seemed like fun at first: there were stories about the humans who would come to the wood from there, but no one had gone to where they were from. Well at least not any that she was aware had come back.
The dare seemed innocent enough, but she soon lost her way among the giant trees and the criss-crossing pathways. No matter where she wandered, she never good find even a glimpse of her beloved wood. Sometimes she would see something she thought was it in the distance, but it was never it; the steel forest seemed to have its own small places of green and grass, but there was no hope of finding food or shelter among the small copse of trees.
She had resorted to stealing the human’s foods from their kitchens. She only learned that word a week ago, but it seemed terribly familiar now. The humans dedicated entire rooms to the process they apply to animal fats and vegetables to make it “palatable” to them (which was another word she recently learned, but she still didn’t quite understand what it meant). Until recently, she was able to still find berries or nuts that hadn’t been processed by the humans yet, but that seemed to be next to impossible the last few days.
She found herself staring at some slices of what the Cook had called “white cake.” They were some that were small enough to grab and sneak away without the humans noticing, but she found herself hesitating. She had taken a piece of the human’s changed food before, back when she first arrived, but she had regretted it ever since. Flying was so much harder after eating it for almost a day. She felt heavier, and although she eventually got used to flying again, she never managed to shake the feeling that she had been changed by the experience.
There was little else to be done right now though. If she didn’t eat soon, she’d faint; if she fainted, a human were surely find her, and if that happened, she would certainly be killed, or worse. They didn’t seem to like anything that came from the wood, and tended to chase off, hunt or kill everything they found that wandered into their steel forest from her home.
Many raccoons would come back from the steel forest, talking about the great food they would steal from the bins of scraps they kept by their trees, but these raccoons were always fat and lazy; not many lived for much longer after bragging about their conquests, either dying from the dangers of the wood or from the humans when they try to gather more food from the bins.
Still, she could remember the taste of the last meal she had stolen like this. The strange vegetables that had been dipped in some sort of oil and turned crispy-brown were strange, but good. They did little to compare to the sweetest berries she once had back home, but she could not find them anywhere here. Her stomach would not allow her to go much longer right now, and this smelled so much sweeter than the strange “fries” she had sampled before.
The Cook turned his back. With a flutter, she raced in, grabbing the slice from the leaf upon which it sat. She could lift it; she pulled as hard she could but only managed to break off a piece. She fell backwards onto the leaf, which surprisingly didn’t make the strange “clinking” noise she was used to hearing when she fell on them.
It took her a moment to realize that the leaf had been lifted, and was racing towards the same corner she had just come around. She saw the tiny, stubby fingers of one of a young human, seemingly holding the leaf above their head as they raced out of the room.
The leaf and cake stopped suddenly around the corner. She tried to come up with a plan, but wasn’t able to think of anything. The plate was lowered, and she found herself looking directly into the eyes of a young, female human.
“Whoa,” it said slowly, as its pupils widened. With only a moment’s pause, but without taking her eyes off of the faerie sitting in front of her, the girl grabbed a handful of the cake and began eating. She continued to carry the leaf out of the building, cake and faerie in tow, and sat down in a well lit but unpopulated alleyway and began eating more. All the while, she kept watching and smiling.
“Hi!” the girl said finally. “My name is Carrie. What’s yours?”
The faerie gulped visibly. She stood up on the leaf, bowing formally. “I am Percilla Piper. But please, call me Perkie.”
“Hi, Perkie!” The girl grabbed another handful of food with her stubby fingers, but instead of stuffing more into her face, she instead extended it to the faerie. “Cake?”
Perkie took a bite. It was sweeter than the sweetest berry in the wood.
She came to the steel forest almost two weeks ago. It seemed like fun at first: there were stories about the humans who would come to the wood from there, but no one had gone to where they were from. Well at least not any that she was aware had come back.
The dare seemed innocent enough, but she soon lost her way among the giant trees and the criss-crossing pathways. No matter where she wandered, she never good find even a glimpse of her beloved wood. Sometimes she would see something she thought was it in the distance, but it was never it; the steel forest seemed to have its own small places of green and grass, but there was no hope of finding food or shelter among the small copse of trees.
She had resorted to stealing the human’s foods from their kitchens. She only learned that word a week ago, but it seemed terribly familiar now. The humans dedicated entire rooms to the process they apply to animal fats and vegetables to make it “palatable” to them (which was another word she recently learned, but she still didn’t quite understand what it meant). Until recently, she was able to still find berries or nuts that hadn’t been processed by the humans yet, but that seemed to be next to impossible the last few days.
She found herself staring at some slices of what the Cook had called “white cake.” They were some that were small enough to grab and sneak away without the humans noticing, but she found herself hesitating. She had taken a piece of the human’s changed food before, back when she first arrived, but she had regretted it ever since. Flying was so much harder after eating it for almost a day. She felt heavier, and although she eventually got used to flying again, she never managed to shake the feeling that she had been changed by the experience.
There was little else to be done right now though. If she didn’t eat soon, she’d faint; if she fainted, a human were surely find her, and if that happened, she would certainly be killed, or worse. They didn’t seem to like anything that came from the wood, and tended to chase off, hunt or kill everything they found that wandered into their steel forest from her home.
Many raccoons would come back from the steel forest, talking about the great food they would steal from the bins of scraps they kept by their trees, but these raccoons were always fat and lazy; not many lived for much longer after bragging about their conquests, either dying from the dangers of the wood or from the humans when they try to gather more food from the bins.
Still, she could remember the taste of the last meal she had stolen like this. The strange vegetables that had been dipped in some sort of oil and turned crispy-brown were strange, but good. They did little to compare to the sweetest berries she once had back home, but she could not find them anywhere here. Her stomach would not allow her to go much longer right now, and this smelled so much sweeter than the strange “fries” she had sampled before.
The Cook turned his back. With a flutter, she raced in, grabbing the slice from the leaf upon which it sat. She could lift it; she pulled as hard she could but only managed to break off a piece. She fell backwards onto the leaf, which surprisingly didn’t make the strange “clinking” noise she was used to hearing when she fell on them.
It took her a moment to realize that the leaf had been lifted, and was racing towards the same corner she had just come around. She saw the tiny, stubby fingers of one of a young human, seemingly holding the leaf above their head as they raced out of the room.
The leaf and cake stopped suddenly around the corner. She tried to come up with a plan, but wasn’t able to think of anything. The plate was lowered, and she found herself looking directly into the eyes of a young, female human.
“Whoa,” it said slowly, as its pupils widened. With only a moment’s pause, but without taking her eyes off of the faerie sitting in front of her, the girl grabbed a handful of the cake and began eating. She continued to carry the leaf out of the building, cake and faerie in tow, and sat down in a well lit but unpopulated alleyway and began eating more. All the while, she kept watching and smiling.
“Hi!” the girl said finally. “My name is Carrie. What’s yours?”
The faerie gulped visibly. She stood up on the leaf, bowing formally. “I am Percilla Piper. But please, call me Perkie.”
“Hi, Perkie!” The girl grabbed another handful of food with her stubby fingers, but instead of stuffing more into her face, she instead extended it to the faerie. “Cake?”
Perkie took a bite. It was sweeter than the sweetest berry in the wood.
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