Seriously?

The title of my last post made me giggle in the saddest way.

I wrote about writer's block and then didn't post on here for almost two weeks.

Anyway, anything I could update on here would be really upsetting so I'm just writing here to write. Life goes on and the hope is that it eventually works out.

We'll see.

Writer's Block

Lately I've felt a little held back by myself. I'm tempted to call it writer's block but I think it's so much more than that.

My writing for NaNoWriMo is stalling somewhat. I assumed it would by this point, by I didn't think it would be this bad. I knew going into this where my story began and how it would end. I assumed I would just be able to throw a lot of descriptions and rich visuals into the middle of my tale and that would carry it through to the end. Now I'm realizing I have a long way to go and no idea how I'm going to get there.

I keep telling myself that the greatest journey starts with a single step, in the hope that this will inspire me to keep pushing a little further each time. Write one more paragraph. Just finish up this chapter.

So far this is doing me no good. Life is full of distractions. Some of them voluntary, others are necessary. I'm doing a pretty good job blowing off the voluntary ones, but it seems the more I do, the more I feel like I need to take care of the necessary ones.

But in the end it's all the necessary distractions that get us to that last chapter. It's taking care of all the little pieces that gets us to the big reveal at the end of the story.

I know how my story began, and I like to think I have a pretty good idea how it ends. In the mean time I guess I just keep taking the steps, finishing each chapter and each day get a little closer to the goal.

And I still have no idea, neither allegorically nor literally, how I'm going to get there.

On Second Thought

After thinking more about that last post I realized that the memory often works in the other direction.

Did you ever have a relationship that ended badly? And afterwards, whenever you thought about that relationship, all you could remember were the bad things?

The human mind has way of compartmentalizing everything. Politicians know this, that's why they fixate on one issue they can use to make everything else seem black and white. That's the way the human brain likes it. Black and white. Right and wrong. Good and bad.

No nuance, no shades of gray.

That's not to say the mind is incapable of sliding on the scale, it just rather wouldn't. And do you think you'd want it to? Millennia of evolution have dictated that your good memories stay good, and your bad memories stay bad.

Why do you suppose that is?

Did you ever have one of those days?

In the last few years I can honestly say that I have had few days that I would say were perfect from start to finish. I don't count vacation days because first, I haven't been on many, and second, those aren't real life days.

I remember having to take night school classes in high school to make up for a semester spent daydreaming in my Freshman English class. (Confession time: I had a huge crush on Stephanie Kozlowski, our resident Goth. I never told anyone about that, but she and I sat by each other in English class and she was the sweetest girl I knew.) Anyway, in this night school class I was often given really simple busy-work assignments. One such assignment was writing a description of our perfect day.

I recall going to great detail about starting the day at sunrise with a killer breakfast, spending the bulk of the day on an Oregon beach just staring out into the ocean under an overcast sky, and then enjoying the company of friends in the evening. (As I said, I went into great detail in the assignment, so I'm not going to here.)

Looking back I think I was lying to myself when I wrote that. My perfect day as a high school kid probably involved me sitting in my buddy's basement playing guitar, stopping to get food from the Bell, then coming back and playing a game of half-court basketball in his back yard. And in the interest of full disclosure, the perfect day also would have involved copious amounts of make outs with whichever girl I was currently infatuated.

The truth is, aside from the involvement of any girls, that was exactly what every day of high school was, and I loved it.

Today was a terrible day. Nothing went as I planned and work was one disappointment after another. It's days like this that make me think about that dream day on the beach, or days jamming with the band in the basement, or being aroused and confused by the way Stephanie's overdone eye makeup really made her bright blue eyes pop against her painted white skin.

But then I think back and realize that those carefree days were surely peppered with bad ones, the worst ones ever, even.

I guess the point here is that time marches on, and our wonderfully erratic brains have a great way of giving us selective amnesia. I am still coming down from my rage high today and I know that in as little as a week I probably won't remember what happened. But years from now I'll look back at this period and surely only remember the days spent playing in the park with the kids. The quick weekend getaways that we poor people call vacations will seem, in my memory, to be as big as a destination cruise.

The actual perfect days are happening all the time. The truth is you can't plan for them. So let them come and risk having a few bad ones. In a few days you won't remember anyway.

Puppetry

I grew up under the influence of Jim Henson's many creations.

Since I was a kid I have wanted to make and play with puppets. Any list I made of my favorite movies would include Labyrinth and the Dark Crystal right at the top.

Tragedy struck me the night I discussed with my wife the desire, now that I have the means and wherewithal, to make my own puppets. She quickly informed me that adults who like puppets are creepy.

Now I can see how someone who hangs out with a creepy Charlie McCarthy-esque ventriloquist puppet might put people off. But I'm talking about making felt and foam Muppets.

Apparently there is no room for nuance in the realm of judging old men as creepy.

The only leeway my wife would give me was that if I could find a way to make a living by my puppets, a la Mr. Henson.

So that's where the discussion lies now. How can I make a living with puppets? It feels like a reasonable question for a grownup to make.

Right?

NaNoWriMo

For anyone who doesn't know, November is National Novel Writing Month. This was actually news to me, but the more I read about it, the more I wanted to be a part of it.

I haven't done much writing since finishing school last fall. I wasn't sure this was having much of an effect on me, but recently I have discovered it really has. I have had a strong feeling the last little while there was something I just wasn't getting. Like there was something missing, even though I was sure it was right in front of me.

As part of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo for short) a community of writers commit to writing an original work of fiction (at least 50,000 words) in 30 days.

I read about the challenge and I was hooked. I signed up for the task and as of last night have been engaging in the age old practice of novel writing.

After one day I could feel the difference. All I want to do is write now. Even the writing I do at work, which I admit is less than fulfilling, has seemed less cumbersome.

One day spending my time doing what I love rather than distracting myself as I normally would (I'm so sorry TV, please don't think I've abandoned you all together) and I feel like a different person. I don't feel like a frustrated or stymied creative person. After an evening or two of creating I am starting to feel like a real artist. Could this have been what I was missing all along?

When I'm not writing I think a lot about how great it would be to just write books for a living, but when I am writing I think about how I don't care if anyone ever paid me or not to do it. I just love doing it.

The point is, I am taking this month as an opportunity to recommit myself to being in charge of my own destiny. Of acting upon life, rather than reacting to it. I refuse to be a sucker for circumstances (as Morten Abel puts it) any longer.