Bedtime stories for the Tolkien children.

On one hand, nothing new has gotten *done* done, nothing old's really been "finished." In fact, I haven't really done much work on old projects.

Still. Broken ground on a lot of new stuff though, which other than showing my inability to stay on task or make goals and complete them, is also writing, and just writing again at regular intervals - well, it feels good. If I had to estimate, I'd guess I've probably done about 30 pages in the past five days, all on different things, but... oh well. Baby steps. This has been sandwiched in with a lot of other work too... I keep telling myself output, focus will improve.

Worked out several pages on a new comic, came up with the ending which was until now ambiguous. I think the outlines done, all that really needs done is it need typed up in script form. It's a Calamity Cash story [re: Calamity Cash and the Nitro Kid]. I've been sitting on it for a while because I don't want Justin to feel pressured, but he knows about it, and we're still working on the first [re: Town with No Name], so this is just me scribbling on the page. I've had this idea for about a year, and have just been letting it work out at its own pace. I guess ultimately, the idea was to write a more manageable Calamity Cash comic, since my first was so complicated, and a lot of what I was trying to do was a bit outside of my skill level. Thankfully, Justin's been talented enough with the pencils to cover that fact, but still. Gotta up my game.

Going back and forth on whether or not to put my Goemon-inspired character in. Whole idea with Calamity Cash was to slowly build up a supporting cast of weirdos and throwbacks to other cultures, genres, generally I think it's better to make a big deal out of introducing characters. But just having them pop up where they weren't before makes and different kind of intrigue. Then again, the character wouldn't add a lot to the story - how important are people as window dressing? X-Men comics spoiled me - there was always at least one blue person in the background, not doing anything, just looking cool. My want to do that with someone in Chuck Taylors and a hakama.

Saw Justin last night. We've been trying to get together once a week - doing a solid hand of it, though some weeks we struggle with what to do. West Virginia is not a post-midnight kind of town. Still, hanging out regularly again, it's cool, much needed, I think. Also really calls back to the earlier days of all this, and the familiarity is good for reminding me I have this space, and I should use it. Plus, getting out, good company... it's all great. I forget the importance of it, sometimes.

Did fifteen pages on a story called "Alone in the Universe." It will not be getting a tag here, because it turned out awful, and I don't plan on pursuing it, at least not in its present form. But I indulged a little, brushed off some old bad habits and a guy in a baseball cap and sunglasses and just enjoyed myself a bit, and think maybe I at least got [emotionally] to a place where picking up "The Tagalong" will be a bit easier.

Few pages [no exact count - someone should find a way to auto-number moleskin and legal pad] done an old project I've only told a few people about - I call it "Nerd Love." Working on it was part of the reason I wrote "I Don't Miss the Green." Anyway, I finally wrote a beginning for it. A neat little screenplay idea that will never, ever, ever get made. But might be sort of high concept enough that if I enter it somewhere, it'll get noticed. It's neat having a beginning for it too. I just don't have my first line - the big entrance. The first thing said. Barring some swear words that I don't think count.

Also playing with something that doesn't have a name or a story yet. Just something I tend to entertain myself with on downtime, little bit of fantasy to lull myself to sleep. No, it's not porn. It's just this world, maybe an idea of a world, which I use kind of like meditation, something to keep the unsettled bits of my mind busy before I fall asleep - bedtime stories for the Tolkien children, I guess. I'm starting to think there might be something to them. For now, just a hunch.

Anyway, creatively, I feel pretty good about things. Practically, less so.

The Short Saga of Metales Pesados

Feeling a little discouraged right now.

Been on tear as of late, not that I've been doing a lot of good work or anything, but I've been writing fairly regularly, and have been pleased with the results. I think "I don't miss the green" [also, special thanks to Lauren and Emi for commenting, and the encouragement] is a bit of testament to that, and I've been enjoying writing everyday again, even if it's mostly just small stuff.

To preface, first I have this fascination with lucha libre, and luchadors, Mexican professional wrestlers known for their masks, and almost super hero-like personalities, which probably doesn't surprise anyone since I'm a pretty well outed pro-wrestling fan. But lucha libre in particular is interesting to me, largely in my youth most of the masked wrestlers I came across were American or Japanese, or worse, Mil Mascaras [so awful], but as I got older I begin to be introduced to these dynamic and interesting looking masked athletes on Monday night television, and thankfully a fellow movie and wrestling nerd turned me on to the films of El Santo. El Santo was probably the most popular luchador in Mexico, save perhaps for the current WWE superstar Rey Mysterio [to hear some tell, Rey is one of the most recognizable figures in all of Mexico - ironic, for a masked man], and "The Saint's" popularity didn't end in the ring, and he also starred in a string [at least 50] of what I guess we'd call B-movies today, where he fought not only other rudo [bad guy] luchadores, but also ninjas, mobsters, and monsters like werewolves and vampires.

I have a pair of luchadores I created, sort of in tribute to that, and sort of just so I could play with the conventions on my own time, a tag team called Metales Pesados, or Heavy Metal, who I occasionally write silly little things for, or, more often, make edits and CAWs of on various wrestling video games. They're a little ridiculous, but I think trying to get across the prestige of these two figures in something slightly more serious - but still fun - would be something that I've occasionally aspired to do.

Anyway, Thursday, I was out running errands, and I got a pretty good idea for a story in the same spirit as "I don't miss the green"... but starring one of my two masked warriors. The story hit me pretty fast, and even though it was quite a bit more light-hearted than "I don't miss the green" I still felt like I could make it work, and sort of dropped everything while out to get it down - this flash of inspiration clearly being of the "have to get this out now, or I may never get the chance" kind. I found myself sort mock punching as I wrote, thoroughly enjoying the experience of getting the story on the page, but more importantly, just enjoying writing the story. When I finished, I had what felt like a pretty unique tale, and even if it wasn't, it was so much fun to work on, I was all smiles - and quite anxious to get it back home to type it out, and work through any problems so that I might post it, or use it for something.

Still, stopping everything to write put me pretty well behind on... well, everything, so I didn't really get to sit down with my story, "Dia de la Vida," until yesterday, and I found myself really disheartened that the short which had brought me so much joy the day before seemed awkward, and fumbling. Repetitive too, not to mention a little lighter on the word count than even I expected [stuff in the moleskin is always shorthand, and always shorter - "I don't miss the green" was literally half its length, originally]. It's the first real stumble since I've gotten started again, so I'm sure it's just stinging more now than it would under normal circumstances, but I'm just... ah, bummed about it. I think what I ended up with after a little proofing isn't all that bad, but with the connection it has, even fleetingly, to a much better story like "I don't miss the green" I didn't feel okay posting it. I might still, in the future, I might actually do more work on it. But it would be a disservice to the better story - and that's hitting me as more important than any disappointment I have about not getting to do right by a couple of Santo-inspired characters.

Which, actually, I think is saying something.

I have been wondering if maybe "Dia de la Vida" might be better suited to be a comic book - sometimes when my prose is this descriptive, yet still clumsy, it's a good sign that what I'm working on would be better suited for a more visual medium. Looking at it now, I can't really tell what sort of commitment that would be, how much work that would be. I guess it really doesn't matter... despite my final call, I still want to do right by Metales Pesados. More importantly, I'd like to get back that big smile I had when I finished writing the damn thing the first time.

Otherwise, I'm feeling good about my work output. Again, I'm writing every day, it's not as much of a struggle as it was before the hiatus, and I'm just generally feeling like I'm getting better at managing my time. There are a few things on the horizon that could upset that particular apple cart, but I'm going to do my best to keep that from happening.

I wrote something today, a rant on a topic that I feel like I've been thinking about a lot lately, and have been wanting to address in a lot of different ways. What I ended up with was a fairly artless, straightforward essay that was basically an airing of grievances, which also almost got posted here. But I'm holding it back too because I feel like there might be a more clever way to deal with some of my angst regarding the topic. Also, it's possible being so overt about my feelings might just piss people off. And if you're going to do that, there is something to be said for trying to be clever.

On the side, I've been looking at an early draft of a Cheri Borgstrom project [some might recall I wrote some scripts for her webcomic a year or so back] and trying to help get her notes back on that as quickly possible, and Justin and I have been meeting once a week, with comic talk happening there [re: Calamity Cash and the Town with No Names]. I've also gotten back in touch with Ander, but he's naturally swamped [he and Eric's Moonstone work is really picking up steam], though even when busy I never expect to go too long without hearing from him - he's just that damn good a friend. I've had a lot of ideas for VHS Generation related projects, all revolving around the father figure depicted within.

Thank pity for daddy issues.

Not to jinx myself, but I feel back in the game. Current plans are loose, but finishing "The Tagalong" feels like where I'll be headed next, and I've got an old, old, old, old, almost pre-dates "Sulk: The Morning After" script that I'm going to dig up, and see if it's as funny as I remember [re: probably not]. And there's still "Cherry Stone" and a bunch of little ideas I had over my hiatus. A lot of this is going to depend on some things I can't really talk about here, but I'm hopeful life will be stable enough that I can make headway on some of these projects. Of course, right now, it's all just talk.

If you're one of my northeast friends, be safe. I tried to reach out to as many people as possible, but lack of sleep makes me a pretty absent-minded friend. I generally dismiss weather-related worries, especially these days when everyone thinks everything is a sign of the end times, but I'll admit seeing the coverage of Hurricane Andrew in my youth left me with a touch more trepidation as it concerns this particular kind of natural disaster.

Besides, it's New York. Say what you will about the city [I'm kind of fond of it], but when things happen to New York, it always feels a little bit like its happening to the entire country.

I don't miss the green.

I don't miss the grass.

I know I should. A better man should. A poet would probably be able to sit here, and write about that, about how much he missed the green grass, just missed the green, the way it waved in the wind, and the softness of it under his feet. Yes, a poet would miss it. He'd lament it. Yes, that's exactly what he'd do. Lament.

But I don't. I never cared much for it back when we had it. Or the trees, for that matter, or even the blue of the ocean. Back before the shit got in it. Sure, now, the water's all still and dead, all black and gray, and I guess that's pretty depressing. They say if you get in it, that'll even kill you now - but I always figured that was pretty likely before. And anyway, the horizon's still there, and that's all I ever really cared for - out there, endless, encompassing. It hasn't changed - everything else has, but it hasn't changed without the green.

I just wasn't made for this. Being a survivor. I mean, sure, I get along okay, and everyone says getting food here, clean water, that's hard, but it's not - it's just tedious. Right click, save as, right click, save as - that was tedious! And that was fine, and it's the same movement, more or less, to start a fire. Just a little further away from yourself - little more oomph behind it, a little harder. But I miss bad food, you know, takeout, and my anti-depressants. And I miss fizzy soda, with ice, and caffeine. Caffeine! And cable, and electric lights. You know, reasons to stay awake after the sun's gone down. Midnight showings. And IHOP. And reruns of Cowboy Bebop.

God I miss Cowboy Bebop. And staying up too late to see it, or rather, to see it again. And I miss having someone to talk about it with, even if just in an IRC chat, and bitch about how nothing's ever been as good as that, and won't ever be again. And talk about what could have happened next, about where Faye might have gone, or if Jet Black would have cried. Someone to argue with about whether Spike's really dead or not.

I met a guy for that, once. After everything went down. Like me, he lucked out, never got any of that shit in him. Unlike the grass, or the ocean, or the trees. He said his name was Diesel, and I knew he was lying, but he'd seen Cowboy Bebop, at least, and seemed up for talking about it, and that was all I wanted. And everyone now wants so much, they want everything, I think this skinny kid appreciated that, me just wanting to talk. Which for a while was cool, plus, you know, there were other things too, he'd seen both versions of Blade Runner, made jokes about things looking like Mordor, and he'd collected comics, and toys, and we'd both left a lot that stuff behind. And liked talking about who had left more.

But, I don't know. Diesel liked talking a lot.

Like, too much. And about everything, and not just Cowboy Bebop. Sure, sometimes it was interesting, but he'd just get started and go on. And on, and on, about this happening, or that happening, and all the what-ifs about what it was that cause all this. What if it was the government, man? What if someone did this one purpose? What if we were all that's left? Diesel was actually okay with that, he was actually pretty okay with everything that had happened. Something about his old girlfriend breaking up with him, just before, and then with everything going on, he thought he'd go see her first, before he left, giver her another chance. Maybe save the day. But it was too late. She'd gotten that shit in her too. Oh, man. And what if that happened?

What if one of us got that shit in them?

Just like that he'd be off again. What if weren't all that's left? He loved that one. What if we found a girl, you know? What if she was hot, what if we just didn't know what hot was anymore, what if we just didn't care? What if you couldn't be hot now that all this had went down? But mostly, what if we found a girl? Because if we did, Diesel said, even if she wasn't into us, we'd pretty much have to do her. Wasn't that rape, I asked. No, he said, because look at the world! Look at the shit, in everything. We'd pretty much have to.
It was about the survival of the species, man.

I crushed Diesel's head with a rock after that. It was pitch black out, and he was asleep, and I'd have never found one if there'd been grass.

My So-Called Attempts at Flattery and Other Embarrassments

In life we sometimes do things that embarrass us in such a way that our best judgment tells us to bury it. We can, because in the grand scheme these mistakes are not game changers, they do not alter our lives, or greatly affect how people treat us. So we push them down, shove them into some dark space inside ourselves, and do our best not to think of them. They’re a private, but common shame; the stupid thing said to the pretty girl, the malapropism defended too hard on correction, the wives’ tale presented foolishly as fact. The things we think about in front of our mirrors, staring at ourselves as we realize we should have said this, we should have done that – oh yeah, that’d show them. That would save face.

We feel safe doing this. These are not great failings, and on their own they do us little harm. And contrary to popular belief, not dealing with a problem is indeed a way to not deal with the problem.

But so is dragging those embarrassments out into the light.

One thing I try never to be embarrassed about is my influences. Growing up in the 1990s, I felt like nearly all aspects of the decade, both good and bad, became an important part of my identity. In the annals of popular culture, one of the best remembered and oft-cited 90s hallmarks was the ABC teen drama "My So Called Life." Created by screenwriter Winnie Holzman, the show ran for only a single season, a mere 19 episodes, but still managed to become something more than a cult hit. Even compared to other teen dramas of the time "My So-Called Life" was unique, a show reaching out to the very youth it was attempting to portray and forgoing tidy, last-minute solutions for more realistic, less satisfying endings.

I was barely in the double-digit age range when it premiered, but that hardly mattered. Since I was able to sit upright, I was fascinated by teen melodrama, and to this day the still-living members of my family, and probably a babysitter or two could attest to my fondness for the original "Degrassi High School" on PBS, a show that would often follow the usual, age-appropriate fare of my youth - "Sesame Street," "Mr. Roger's Neighborhood," and "Reading Rainbow." I couldn't possibly have understood those Canadian teens and their problems, yet their plight held me at such rapt attention that I'd start bawling if someone changed the channel before the show was over. I was hooked, never to wander far from the strange allure of teenage angst.

So naturally, in 1994, I found myself planted in front of the television set to watch "My So-Called Life." Like most television watched in the first ten years of my life, I don't remember particulars of plot, or stories. But I do remember the imagery, still photos in my head of a sharp curiosity framed by beautiful red hair, shallow blue eyes working in tandem with strategically non-strategic plaid patterns, regular looks of shock, and a shock of blonde cascading down a particular face. Sounds too, but less so, the contrast of the echoes of the hallways of Liberty High with the unnerving silence of Angela's home. And ironically, I wasn't even as into the show at the time as my mother was [it would famously fall to what came to be known in our family as the Robin Nichols/Grindstaff curse - any show truly loved by Mom was canceled swiftly], and yet, the show imprinted on me, and working together with a few other pop culture mainstays of the time period, flannel and misanthropy followed.

In college, I was blessed with a close-knit group of friends, as well as a relaunch of the show from my salad days which started it all - "Degrassi." Thankfully, the former were tolerant of the latter, and some even became, or already were, as obsessed as I was. One of these was a brilliant young lady by the name of Savannah Dooley, not only a fellow writer but a fellow Degrassi fanatic as too, and a legacy wordsmith, her mother being...well...

Winnie Holzman.

I kept my awe to myself.

I have probably been called an ass-kisser once or twice. I have on occasion been able to endear myself to older people, figures in positions of power [at least academically speaking], and anytime someone older takes counsel from someone younger you're going to have whispering, and I think honestly the most common assumption there is "what a brown-noser." I've probably made they same assessments at times. But generally speaking, I have enough trouble with voicing sincere praise, so shameless flattery that isn't obviously tongue-in-cheek [I'm talking four-speed, Hoover-style sucking-up] just isn't something I do. And even expressing admiration is difficult for me, and sometimes the actual feeling is so close to jealousy, I can't imagine the train wreck which would ensue if I tried.

Besides, Savannah had no end of people wanting to talk her ear off about "My So-Called Life" and I naturally just imagined not hearing about it might be a tad more refreshing for her. Still, I was hugely curious, and more than willing to piggyback and eavesdrop other people's conversations with her about the show, which managed to keep my "too-cool-to-bug-someone-about-something-that-might-bug-them" douchebag persona intact.

Still, I had to admit to being hugely envious of Savannah, not just because of her own talent, but because of the atmosphere she must have grown up in. I couldn't imagine what it was like to have another writer in the house, let alone someone as supportive as Ms. Holzman was of Savannah. My own parents always pushed me, but as with any push it was done at arm's distance, and even today there are few members of my family willing to look at anything I've written. Plus, Ms. Holzman was a writer I knew [a rarity - most writers I knew back then wrote comics, or English novels, or were Quentin Tarantino], and I admired her work and the projects she'd been connected to. And parents visited their kids at college. Which meant... I could get to meet her.

Later, the following exchange happened with a "friend":

"You should get her to mentor you."
"I think... she's taken."
"What, like married?"
"No. Well, yeah she is. But I mean, if she's going to mentor someone, I imagine it'd be her daughter."
"But you get to meet her. It's important to make connections."
"I don't like using people like that."
"Just saying. Brown-nose a little. Maybe she'd look at your stuff."
"Why would I do that? Besides, I could probably just ask her."
"Would you?"
"That's not the point."
"I'm telling you. There's nothing wrong with sucking up a little. Besides, you actually like her stuff. It's not like you'd be lying just to get something out of it."

It was a point. A bad point, from a bad friend who I have since excised myself from. But just the suggestion of it seemed to taint things, and it was the last thing I wanted on my mind before Savannah's parents took the lot of us out for dinner in celebration of our senior year. I mean, I certainly had things I wanted to say to Ms. Holzman, had questions I wanted to ask, and compliments I wanted to give. But thanks to the genius advice of my winner of friend above, anything that left my mouth in either of those veins were going to feel like total self-serving bullshit to me. So I spent the bulk of the dinner glued to my plate, letting everyone else talk.

It wasn't really out of character at the time - senior year, I was pretty taciturn anyway, and I liked listening to everyone, probably more than the self-centered art student in me was comfortable with back then. But it was difficult, and it was nice hearing about another writer, a successful writer, her projects, her struggles, things she'd accomplished. One of Holzman's other credits, a fairly large one, was her adaptation of popular retelling of Wicked for Broadway, having written the book for the musical version that had just recently toured Japan. As Holzman talked about the musical going to other countries, and continuing its strong business, and getting to witness that by joining the crowds around the world as the watched it, she seemed legitimately humbled and surprised by how well received it was, even when presented to other cultures.

There was a silence over the table when she expressed. As if everyone was mulling over the achievement of it, and just what that meant. I knew, but I was torn about saying anything. When I did finally speak, I didn't recognize my voice. Honestly, I remember it coming out kind of as a squeak.

"Well. I guess that just speaks... to the ah, quality of the work. That it has such a wide... ahem. Appeal."

The silence returned. My friends let their eyes drop to their plates now, which was kind, I thought. Ms. Holzman looked... embarrassed, but mostly for me. A cliché about flatulence in a holy building ran quickly through my head. And in fairness, I had sounded reticent, even pained when I spoke - like a parroting flatterer in a Shakespeare play, speaking to someone who had never heard an unkind word, so that even a hollow compliment would sound sincere.

And the worst part of it all, I was sincere. I wasn't kissing ass - I really meant what I said, and wanted to say it. Hell, after years of foreign films and anime, I felt kind of like the guy at the table who should say something, about how amazing it was to do something that could survive crossing culture lines, that wasn't slighted by translation and the language barrier. Because it was! But I didn't trust myself. I was still in that mindset that anything nice I said was only to serve me. It made no difference that I wasn't sucking up - it sounded like I was, it felt like I was, and really in the moment, that was all that mattered.

I was mortified. Not only did I come across as some undergrad apple-polisher, I did it in front of my friends, to a writer whose work I actually respected. And all with so little confidence that it left me looking completely scummy and transparent.

Ultimately, no one really cared, and when it came to my friends at Bennington, every personality at that table was so dynamic that it didn't take any time at all for someone else to speak up, say something interesting, so we all could move on. But I felt sort of awful, embarrassed by the execution and failure of my half-effort. I wasn't even without sympathy for my faux pas - Savannah's dad, a bona-fide movie star in his own right and former West Virginian who'd manage to escape the state, took me aside and told me some old jokes about our shared homestead. It was nice, and helped me feel just a little less like a jackass. And I had so much fun otherwise, that I loathe having to tuck that entire dinner away, just to keep from reliving this one embarrassment.

Had it happened between close friends or one of my peers, a fellow writer, perhaps I'd get the chance to talk to them about it later. Apologize, and explain myself. But when it comes to those we respect, those who produce work we admire, that opportunity so rarely presents itself, and I've just sat on this for a long time, hoping for second chance, if not with Ms. Holzman, then with someone else, someone who has had similar impact on me. To not screw it all up again, and get it right this time.

But what is that, other than me in front of another mirror? Rehearsing what I should have done.


Where do you put a mountain made out of a mole hill? This was intended as an exercise, a little memoir to get working again. Is this just me rambling about myself, ala "Busted" or "You're Chasing Amy", or is there something here more reminiscent of "Dante Hicks is Dead"? Or is it crap? Feedback warmly welcomed. With apologies to the Dooley-Holzman clan for the gratuitous name-dropping - it was a lovely dinner, and I am a basket-case. - The Management.

Hiatus.

I'm taking a hiatus from the blog. My plan is to be back on here and posting regularly around the time of August 10th-12th. The reasoning is pretty straightforward - I'm not writing a lot, and the writing I do have to do is mostly private in nature [reviews, letters, other correspondence, etc]. I'm also having someone come and visit me soon - a rare occurrence in the post-college years, and I'm treating it a like a vacation

I wouldn't normally do this, and I might not stick to it. But for those who do check this space and support me, I want you to know that the two weeks or so that I'm gone aren't indicative of anything, and that I will be back. I can still be reached by all the usual methods, and don't take this as a sign to not bother me with things - I'll still be available, I'm just taking the pressure off myself here while I apply it to other areas.

This is probably all for the best. I'm clearly struggling with some things as far as my creative output goes, and even though I'm not the optimistic sort, this seems like the right move to make to help fix that. I'm big on saying the obvious things - my previous post was all about saying what I didn't want to say, that I was dealing with writer's block. This post is me saying that I need some time to get other things done, regroup, recharge the batteries, and then come back serious about getting into a groove with my work again.

I'll be back soon. Promise.

The Doldrums

Just polished off a book review. I have taken way too long to do this one, considering the book was finished ages ago, and getting out ahead of these things tends to be how I like to operate. Also, I get paid more. Which is plus.

Let's talk about accomplishments. Back in January, I had kind of a moment. I was watching an episode of "Always Sunny..." where The Gang wanted to buy some cocaine... actually, I think they wanted to by some pills, to sell, so they could afford some cocaine... which they actually sold to the guy they were trying to buy it from in the first place. Anyway, there was this moment where they needed to come up with the money, and Mac, Charlie, and Dennis didn't have any to chip in, prompting Sweet Dee to chime in with "How do three men in their thirties not have eight hundred dollars between them?"

I don't know why that bugged me, because I am neither three men [despite the rumors] nor am in my thirties yet. But at the time, my bank account was not what you'd call... ah, flush, and a couple of other things came up that made me realize building up a little money to have in the bank was not the worst idea for a New Year's resolution. So, the boy who never made New Year's resolutions made a couple, and that was one of them. I didn't announce any of them, not "officially" and if I have mentioned them, I'm sure I haven't mentioned them in this context and I won't.

Anyway, my point. And about a month and a half ago, thanks to a little luck, I achieved that resolution and then some, which is really no small feat if you're like me and you lack full time employment or the hustle which allows good freelancers to make full time employment money. I set a goal, and I accomplished it, and I feel better for it. A little padding. A little protection. Not a lot. But definitely enough.

And I feel okay.

Now, why am I mentioning this now? Hell, why am I mentioning finishing a book review, when that too usually does not make the blog in any significant way.

Honest fact, I kind of need to look on the bright side a little, as far as achieving goes. Which is weird for me. I generally find "achievers" kind of sickening. Oh, look, Facebook status message about what I got done today. Oh, hey, Twitter post of my word count. Oh, here, blog post on how you can be as successful as me. Gag. Fist pumping for accomplishment I get, encourage, and do not begrudge [and trust me, if you are suddenly worried I'm calling you out, I am not, and you are in this camp that I get, encourage, and do not begrudge], but celebrating achieving instead of the achievement, just for the sake of showing how well you achieve is what keeps talented folk up at night worrying that because they don't work like you, they are not really talented folk. But today, exception. I've done a few things. Need to focus on that.

Why? Good question. I'm suffering here, and I've been avoiding using the term "writer's block" so much that I think it's safe to say that is what has afflicted me. I don't feel particular well, talented, or creative. I spend hours staring at the blinking cursor, getting to a paragraph and a half and deleting... well, utter, unsalvageable garbage. I can't get traction, and I haven't really even had much luck when it comes to transcribing notes, or even doing edits on old work. The people I tend to have creative conversations with are not around, and I have not been seeing much movement on the projects I do have going. There are good reasons for all of this.

But I am... discouraged.

My plan to "fix" this is pretty simple. Rachael has sent me a script of hers to check out, which I'm sure will be excellent, and I have a stack of unread books, and a lot of comics to get through. It has always been my philosophy that the work of others is the best inspiration. I've also got a stack of notebooks and moleskins full, or at least half full, that I'm going to pick through, while hoping something can get me excited and working again. I wouldn't mind getting "The Tagalong" into a few more hands, either.

Because let's face it, I have not accomplished much - this blog has a lot of dead or unfinished projects cataloged in it, but that fact is so much easier for me to stomach if I'm producing. And right now, I'm not. I want to write. I'm trying. It's not coming. That's right, the kid who could barely function when his dad died, but could still start penning "Nova" can't write when he wants to. No. I don't care for that.

I've looked back at the last couple blog entries, and seen myself falling into that cliche habit of apologizing for not posting more. It occurs to me now when I do that, I am forgetting what this space is for - as it was not just meant to be a chronicle for my process, but it was meant to stand as a public forum where I could hold myself accountable to the projects I decided to undertake. Blogging less has nothing to do with blogging - it means I'm working less, and therefore I have less to blog about. As defeatist as the whole end of this post may sound, I am kicking myself the most for not remembering that. I blog when I'm writing. Blogging keeps me writing. This is not a chicken or the egg kind of thing that I'm talking about.

If it were possible to just flick myself in the brain for that one, I would.

I needed the week.

Woke up from a couple hours sleep, realized I should really get back to this.

Yeah. A whole week not blogging is not great coming from the guy who gave the big speech about getting back into it. Baby steps? No real excuse.

There's also no good way to say that some things just came down the pipe on me, and I think I was more than a little exhausted from all the paying work, so the past several days have just been days which I haven't wanted to write, and when I tried [I had a really good angle on one of those essays, I thought], it really didn't come. And that's... just what happens. We have dry periods.

It's really fashionable with nearly all the writers I know to write no matter what's going on with them - whether they have writer's block, or don't, whether they're dealing with emotional shit or not. Some quote about how you find you won't be able to tell what you wrote when you forced it, as opposed to when it comes naturally gets passed around on Twitter more than chlamydia on college campuses, and it's probably valid but it's just not how I work. Maybe, if that's actually true, one day.

But until then.

Right now it's more about just getting back on track. I felt like I was on a tear before my grandmother went into the hospital, and since then I just haven't been as productive. I had a plan then, actually a couple. Getting back to "The Tagalong" should be priority one, but I've been looking a lot at my outline for "Cherry Stone" when I wake up every morning. It's probably just because that moleskin is easier to pull into bed than my laptop, but still. There's no reason I can't work on both. I just need to get motivated again.

Haven't heard from Ander, but again, I haven't really been talking to many people this past week. No link this post, his website is private at the moment, probably an indication he's shaking some things up again, as I'm sure he has a ton of new pieces to post from working with Eric. So no word on "VHS Generation" - though, honestly, he might be waiting to hear from me. I spoke to Justin the other day, he and his wife Staci had some amazing work in a gallery in Huntington, and I went to that [ran into Kyle too - always good to see him, he seems well]. Justin is currently doing some drawing for other projects, but he's also picked up the comic [Re: Calamity Cash and the Town with No Name] again, and things seem to be progressing. He also gave me something of his, a rough outline for a project he's been talking about doing for as long as we've been working together, and I'm going to take a look at it for him.

I have spent entirely too much money on myself the past few days - mostly what you'd expect from me, books and the like, but I also picked up a new tie, as my woven ones seem a little lowbrow for the wedding coming up, and also a new pair of shoes, not for the wedding, but more because my current pair are awful to walk in, and I'm trying to get a little more active. A lot of my best inspiration came while on long walks, and even though it didn't improve my physique, I felt a great deal healthier when I actually got out, moved around a little more.

The "big" purchase [the shoes cost more...ugh] was me biting the bullet and getting a webcam. I passed on it as an option when I bought this laptop originally, because it saved me somewhere in the era of eighty bucks which I could then put towards processing power. In retrospect, even with the few problems I've had with this machine, I've been wishing I wouldn't have went as budget as I did, and want to start buying a few items that will supplement it, make up for the shortcomings I've mostly just been working around, and one of those things was a web camera. I Skype with enough people that it's probably not the worst investment, and there are some projects I'm thinking about trying my hand at Kickstarter to fund - mind you, that last thing is more hypothetical at moment, but not having the camera, not being able to make a video and say "Hey, I'm Randall, and I'm working on this..." has been one of those little stopping points in my head that I just don't need there anymore.

Anything else that comes out of this is cake - I might even try video blogging. I'm not sure about that one, it was just suggested [suggested in a way that implied that video blogs are stupid, and just the fear that mine might be stupid was no reason not to try it, but still, suggested], though I never could stand the sound of my own voice played back to me. I feel a little like this is one of those things that I can sense the potential in, but might not be clever enough to tap into.

So I don't know. You ever have a time in your life where the things that come naturally suddenly seem hard? Where stuff you want to do, really want to do, feels like a chore? I have these moments. Like there's a barrier - a membrane, cutting me off from what I want to do, an obstacle that I need to push past, to break through. Which is possible, but not easy, and takes an effort great enough that I'm not always sure I can keep the momentum up once I can get through. Doubt. Doubt fucks with everything.

That's kind of topical if you know it.

One-Liners.

No, not the fun ones.

I'm not much for giving "writer's advice." Short of my big thing about outlines [seriously, kids. Write outlines], I don't think I've ever done that here. A couple of times I've even spent all night writing entries about various "rules" or "tips and tricks" that I ended up not pressing publish on, just because I just don't feel comfortable doing that right now.

But I really have to get this off my chest.

First, let me say, I don’t like prescriptivism. Trying to jam everyone into a single box, trying to make everyone play by the same set of rules, it doesn’t work. Now, true, people who are coping with stringent rules will often make great things, and some folks will even go so far as to put certain restrictions on themselves willingly in hopes it will push them to produce something they wouldn't normally. And if that helps, great. That’s completely, 100% your call. And if you don't want to take that on, if you don't need that - awesome.

All that aside, if you are writing a story, and you cannot sum that story up in a single sentence, then it is probably not a very good story. Is it filled with many, many great ideas? Possibly. Is the story you’re telling necessarily bad, if you can’t do that? Of course not. Are there stories that doing this would be very hard, if not impossible, and they still manage to be good? Maybe. I guess. Occasionally.

But probably not. And if there are, it’s definitely not good to assume that you are so great, that you're story is so great, that you are one of the exceptions to this particular rule.

Look. I get it. Your story is tip-top. You’re breaking boundaries. You’re tying things together that have never been tied together before [you’re not, but you feel that way, and that feeling is important]. You don’t want to be pigeonholed, and you do not want the nuance of your narrative stifled by trying to sum it up in only a handful of words. I've been there. But here’s the thing.

That one sentence? That short, to-the-point way of telling everyone else what you’re writing about, what your story is about? That’s the heart of your story. That’s what it’s about. Okay, maybe you don’t think that’s your story’s heart, but keeping with the organ theme, it is at least the skin of your story, it is what’s holding everything in there together, and inside, and keeping your messy narrative guts from falling out all over the place, and ruining the carpet, and distracting from all the great things that are in your story.

One line. One sentence. It can be a compound sentence if you must. God created commas for a reason, after all. But make sure you can do it. It’s important. Because it’s your story, and you should know what it’s about. And if you can’t sum your story up in a single sentence, then guess what? You don’t know what it’s about.

And that's a one-liner. And if you can’t do it, then you don’t know what your story is about.