Posts Tagged ‘personal experiences’

Oh, I have neglected this blog. Friends and readers, I apologize.

I have really enjoyed keeping this blog for the past few months, tossing up a variety of fiction, worldbuilding/critterbuilding, meta-writing, and slice-of-life posts. I have no intention of letting myself linger into infinite idleness. I confess, however, I have a bit of a quandary. You may have even tackled this one before, or you might be in the process of doing so now.

As a totally unknown author who’s trying to build a community of readers and creative folk, I can’t afford to walk away from the computer for weeks at a time. Networking via blogs, forums, Twitter, and other virtual gathering-places is vital to getting my name out and meeting great people. I’m a certified internet marketer, to boot – I know the ins and outs of self-marketing and social media, even if I happen to shun certain venues (like MySpace). If I want any kind of online community, I need to be interactive, dynamic, genuine, and present.

However, I want to unplug.

I’m finding myself feeling a little ungrounded these days. I’d love little more than to acquire an old electric typewriter – the new ones are too computer-like for my tastes – and an mp3 player that can hold some 20,000 songs, and simply turn the computers off for a week. The typewriter will let me continue to write, journal, and worldbuild, and the mp3 player will let me have all my music outside of my overloaded harddrives. My cell phone can keep me in touch with my good friends and family. I want, and need, a break from the overwhelming virtual side of my life.

I want to go outside, bundled up, and walk through the falling snow at dusk. I want to pick up the training sword that’s leaning against my bo in the corner of the room and practice until my arms want to fall off. I want to have hard copy of my creative works, and I want to hear the solid click-click-thud of a typewriter again. (I started on a manual typewriter, later got an electric, and got my first computer in 2000.) I want to play my guitar until my calluses are tough again. I want to sprawl in a pile of sleeping cats and read new books.

Ultimately, I just want to feel a little more real.

I’m not sure how to balance my authorly, internet-based goals with this desire to unplug and step away. This blog will not be abandoned, and I’ll return to my neglected Twitter account soon. But I need to live in order to write about living, and if I feel like I’m drifting, that’s only going to handicap my ability to create.

A healthy compromise must be found.

How have you managed to balance your internet activity with the rest of your hobbies and responsibilities? I’d be happy to hear about any tips or tricks you’ve found to be helpful.

I have a confession: my brain has been scattered to the sixteen winds lately.

I’ve been doing NaNoWriMo, which has been a blast, but I am unbelievably far behind. This is actually rather typical. I can recall at least two years where I had 20k left in the last week and still managed to finish before midnight on the last day. This month is looking to be similar.

I have been privately attempting to strengthen my flabby, fragile poetry muscle by taking on a friend’s challenge: 100 poems in 100 days. I even raised the bar a notch and found specific prompts to use for each poem. I am far behind on this, as well, but – like NaNoWriMo – I will probably get a surge of inspiration (or just stubbornness) towards the end and finish reasonably on time.

I have been moving. Oh, glorious moving! J and I are the proud new renters of half a duplex – two bedrooms, one bathroom, and one hefty kitchen with enough room for a for-two dining room table. I alone have enough junk to populate a two-bedroom apartment, and J has enough for half a small house, so getting all of our collective stuff moved and unpacked has been an adventure. To my shock, I am actually just about done, barring some pictures that need put up and some knicknacks that need distributed among the places where cats don’t go. I even got all our furniture, books, and DVDs arranged. J, on the other hand, has laid waste to a large portion of the living room and Spare Oom with stuff he has yet to sort and settle. But he put up light-killing curtains, so I forgive him. Still, moving and unpacking have been an enormous time-sink.

(It’s been truly wonderful to have a kitchen to ourselves again, though. I am no chef, but I like being able to have some homemade meals on occasion. I made mediterranean shrimp pasta! J made seafood pizza! There will be chicken stirfry soon!)

I have been job-hunting. Having come to the frustrating and saddening conclusion that communication between myself and my bosses was no longer salvageable, and my abilities did not mesh with their expectations and needs, I cut the cord. I took a few days to busy myself with moving stuff and NaNoWriMo, then leapt into job-hunting again with what might resemble fervor if you tilt your head, close one eye, and squint the other. I’m still incredibly tempted to get a job at the local Trader Joe’s, but I’m being responsible^TM and looking for something with a higher salary first. (Even though our lovely duplex is so affordable that I could pay all my bills and my part of the rent and utilities with a minimum-wage job. I’m trying to forget that fact…)

See, I am not a person who lives to work. I work to live; I spend my energy and time doing what I love. If I can do something I enjoy at work, great! I’ll throw all my passion and enthusiasm into it and happily so – I’ve been known to voluntarily work unpaid overtime just to do right by a company. If I can’t find a passion at my job, I don’t really mind – I’ll find happiness wherever it sprouts, including at a “base-level” job. I surprise people with company loyalty because, unless things are really unpleasant on an interpersonal level, I’m happy to stay at one place and do what I can. And, as a jack-of-all-trades, I don’t mind working outside of my “field,” if one considers professional geekery web and graphic work my field. Honestly, the more I can enjoy myself and have energy for my own pursuits – like this crazy writing gig – the happier I am at any given job, whether I’m the marketing director or a cashier.

And, lastly, I have been doing some personal digging – self-observation and constructive analysis to work towards improving who I am, what I’m doing, and where I’m going. This time of year, during the sun’s descent before the longest night at winter solstice, is always a period of introspection and truths for me. While this is hardly the place to detail such personal work, it deserves mention as something I’ve given my energy and time to and one of the major things occupying my life.

This has been a lengthy and somewhat rambling explanation for why I’ve not been posting regularly. I will probably cook up some posts and back-date them later, just to fill in the gaps, but for now, bear with me – November is a scarce month for more than one reason!

You’ve heard about the daze of my life – what have you been up to recently?

This is a writing blog, so this post doesn’t really belong.

But if it weren’t for the heart behind what I’m writing here, this blog wouldn’t exist.

Welcome to the roots of the tree giving you air.

In early October, I discovered the Freak Revolution, a change-the-world project headed by two self-professed freaks, Pace and Kyeli. They were trying to get a million people to read their Manifesto. I downloaded it, read it, and promptly spread it among my friends. You already know I’m not your normal writer – if such a thing even exists. I could identify with being a freak, especially with the term reclaimed in a more positive and dynamic light.

That site, along with Tiny Buddha, got my wheels spinning. What’s it worth to you to be yourself? What would you give? How hard would you work?

Do you even realize it’s possible?

It took me most of my life to realize that, if I wanted to be truly happy, I needed to stop trying to be some theoretical ideal and start being me. We’re all inherently imperfect – perfection is an impossibility in a dynamic universe – and it felt like defeat to no longer strive to be flawless. As though I should be able to be perfect, and the fact that I wasn’t made me worth less than some anonymous other person who had managed the feat.

Bull.

In truth, the choice to be me instead of trying to be perfect was not failure, but success. I had to acknowledge that who and what I am, with all my quirks and flaws, is not a bad person to be. Instead of going against my own grain, I could strive to be the best me I could be. I had to realize that I’m not responsible for other people’s expectations and perceptions; I’m only responsible for my own actions, words, path, and happiness.

Man, what a load off. I could stop trying to be interested in political history? I didn’t have to pretend to care about pop culture? Suddenly, I felt free. I could opt out of most things considered “the norm” in this society, since the majority of what’s me and mine isn’t in the general pool of common interests and characteristics. I could stop apologizing for being me, once I realized it wasn’t a bad thing to be so individualized. Acknowledging my imperfection, letting go of unrealistic expectation, and looking within to see where I wanted to go – not should go, but wanted to go – have made even the hard things possible.

I let myself believe that it’s not just okay to be me, but that I have a right to it, and I can step up to defend my right to be me, while letting myself be nebulous and transitory, mid-evolution between birth and death.

I’m still imperfect. I still fall back on old habits, outmoded assumptions. I still take the easy way out. I still forget the new and remember the old in its place.

But I surround myself with brilliant, creative people for a reason. I hear them talking, and I remember where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going. I remember that I’ve already opted out of the negativity and stress and obligations plaguing me. I have more personal power than I’m laying claim to in this moment.

So I think free, and the burring noise of happiness (a hum, a purr) starts thrumming in my chest again.

And I keep writing, because I want to, because I can, and so I will.

Image Credit: Royalty Free Images.

I am a private person. I have locked and filtered my livejournals in the past and used an alias to firmly separate my name from my online presence. I’m still taking measures to keep that alias separated from this online presence, although anyone with some Google-fu could figure me out fairly easily. (No, that is not an invitation, thank you very much. I’m still talkin’ here! Put the search engine down and step away slowly…)

I’m a marketer, among other things. I understand personal branding, which is why my alias is so hard to cleave cleanly. I’ve been online since 2000. My fiction and worldbuilding is spattered all over the place, cohesively branded as me and mine – but I don’t link that name to this one.

I’m a bit of a weird person. A freak, if you will. I’d rather not have my legal name associated with my personal quirks, especially when it comes to employers and coworkers wandering the internet and potentially discovering too much. (I’m not talking about anything illegal or sexual here, just so you know.) I am not mainstream when it comes to religion and spirituality, to interpersonal relationships and humanity, to worldview and philosophy, or to hobbies and interests. I am a perfectly functional adult who leads an awesome life and does some good for people, and I certainly don’t lie about who and what I am, but I also don’t blatantly advertise it in settings where people might not want to know that I have sworn by the Flying Spaghetti Monster before.

Starting this blog and taking the first step towards professional authordom is making that balancing act increasingly difficult. I’ve showed a coworker this site (she asked about conlangs!) and put this site’s design on my resume, so I have a vested interest in blending personality and professionalism. All the same, I refuse to not be me. I’m a writer, for godssakes, and my eccentricity and imagination are absolutely vital to any success I have in storytelling.

At this point in my life, I don’t think conformity is worth it for me. Certainly not here, as a fiction writer, and not really in the 9-5 workforce, either. I’ve come a long way, and I’m done apologizing for being my own person. I’m living my life my way, and I love it – and if I can serve as proof that it can be done, maybe more people will follow their hearts and put away the plastic masks so many of us wear. I’d rather be hated for what I am than loved for what I’m not, and I’m not afraid of whatever results my individualism earns.

This ain’t your mama’s fiction, kids, and I ain’t your typical author.

Image Credit: Royalty Free Images.

Myself, I really do prefer comedies.

This post is the seemingly-inevitable warning, from one writer to anyone else who stores their creativity in digital format, to back yo’ shit up.

Until this summer, my only flashdrive was one that I’d gotten with my first computer in 2000. It was a whopping 32 MB, and I used it sparingly at best. When I started moving around between Colorado and Nevada, between laptop and desktop and this-other-top computers, I decided I really needed something a little heftier. I picked up a 4 GB flashdrive and named it Switchblade for how it folded. I loaded it with all my writing – novels, WIPs, short stories, brainstormed ideas – and plenty of other day-to-day stuff, including the home study supplementary videos for my martial arts practice. It was awesome.

It was so awesome, in fact, that I deleted most of the documents – including all the writing – from my desktop harddrive.

I can hear the round of facepalms from here. You know where this is going, right? But there’s a twist at the end.

I was converting two new computers from Vista to XP Pro in the office and using my external harddrive and Switchblade to assist in the data transfer between old and new machines. I left Switchblade plugged in while clearing and recreating partitions for the fresh OS install. Somehow, I nuked its partition, too – and now it can’t even be reformatted and used again. The entire flashdrive is dead, dead, dead.

Last night, I discovered/remembered my folly in deleting the “Writing” folder from my computer. I had a moment of white-noise shock, then denial, then a hot shower, then resignation. (A hot shower is an integral step in the cycle of acceptance, after all.) I sat down before my dinky little monitor and began taking stock.

Well, I had almost all of my recent-and-decent stuff from the last five years archived on my various past livejournals. I had even converted it all to .php pages in preparation for putting it on my personal site. Okay, not too bad.

I looked further. The few longer, not-formatted-for-web works-in-progress (like my past NaNovels) had been uploaded to my server, since I’d been making efforts to HTMLize them to add them to the aforementioned site. Okay, good there, too.

Into Fang Wood, which was the primary cause for my primordial oh-god-no terror, was saved in my email. I had all sixty-plus thousand words of the story itself, although I’d lost almost all of the intensive brainstorming and plot-building that I’d done over the summer. But that was okay, too, because it’s still fresh enough in my head to be rewritten with minimal flubs and gaps.

Despite the situation trying its best to be a tragedy, I had probably only lost 10% of my work – mostly the stuff I had deemed unworthy of being reworked and/or shown to others. The good stuff I did lose can be replicated fairly easily. It was a minor accident instead of a cause for kicking myself repeatedly in the tailbone.

I got lucky. I am, however, going to take this as a very firm warning and be more zealous about protecting and backing up my work.

Take this story as your own warning, too. Don’t risk losing years of work just because you don’t want to bother taking five minutes a week to save your files to a different computer, email them to yourself, upload them to your website, or keep them on a disk.

(Maybe someday I’ll figure out this curious little feeling of liberation and relief that came even before I realized I had the bulk of my good work safely ferreted away in online nooks and crannies.)

It was 2 AM on a Saturday night (although some would consider it Sunday morning at that point) in early September in Nevada. I was in a bad spot and really needed some company, so I tossed myself into my car and started up the highway towards J’s work, thirty minutes away. He works in a 24/7 animal hospital as an emergency tech, and it was a quiet night – no emergencies and no coworkers. I would be safe to hang out with him a while and lend a hand where it was needed.

There’s a ten-mile stretch of empty highway between one town and the next. Just as I started down the lonely pass, I spotted a hitchhiker thumbing at the few passing cars. Like everyone else, I drove on, shivering as the night breeze seeped into my bones. Bloody desert – it can pass 90*F in the day and drop below 50*F at night. I don’t like the cold.

The next thing I passed was the sign that said I still had nine miles to go before even glimpsing civilization again. I frowned and thought of the hitchhiker. Nine miles is a long way to walk in the dead of night. I passed a few branching dirt roads where I could have turned around. My thoughts continued to dance around with stress and emotional upset from earlier that evening.

After about three left turn lanes had come and gone, I swung into the next one and rode the brakes to a smooth, swift stop. (Let it be known I love my car for her ability to not send me through the windshield.) I headed back the way I’d come, trying to remember which stretch of highway the guy had been on so I didn’t U-turn too soon. I wound up going back to the north end of town to turn around, just to be sure I didn’t miss him.

As I drove north again, I wondered if I’d find him at all. Maybe he’d gotten picked up already. Not two minutes passed before I spotted him in my headlights, empty hand jutting out.

I pulled over and rolled the passenger’s window down, watching him half-jog, half-run up to my car. He stooped down to peek in the window, and I took a glance and a breath to inspect him. He smelled like cigarettes but not alcohol, seemed to be a clean middle-aged man, and had a look of immense relief and gratitude on his face. I invited him in.

He collapsed into the seat, thanking me profusely, and I pulled back onto the highway. “Where ya headed?” I asked.

“Oh, I dunno. Utah. Maybe Colorado,” he replied.

I blinked. “Uh. I’m headed into south Carson, but I could get you as far as the north end… Probably not farther than that, though.” A pause. “What takes you out there?”

He asked to be dropped off in the middle of town, where this road intersects with an east-west highway. It would take me a little ways past my destination, but I didn’t care. Helping someone who seemed like he needed it was easing my internal turmoil, and I had no regrets about lost time.

The hitchhiker introduced himself, interspersing his sentences with continued thank-yous, and said he was leaving everything behind him. Twenty years at the same job and in the same marriage, a house in a nice suburb (ironically, where J and I live) and a couple of cars. He brought nothing with him – no phone, no cards, no cash, no supplies. He’d left just a few hours ago and had been walking ever since.

He was done, he said, just done with it all. “I’m not afraid,” he told me. “I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m going to start a new life from scratch. And I know I can do it.” He spoke with intelligence and clarity, and agreed with my observation that he probably should have gotten some cash from the ATM on his way out, but he had no regrets. I advised him to avoid trying to walk across Utah – that state is even more dry and barren than Nevada. He mentioned going to Canada as a possibility, and we talked about roadtrips (of which I’ve done many) and the crazy turns that life sometimes takes.

When we got to the intersection of highways, I pulled over at a gas station. “Hang on, bud, I have somethin’ for you,” I told him, parking and popping my trunk. I handed him the sleeping bag I kept in there – only used once – and a nice brown jacket that my dad had given me not a month earlier. It fit him much better than it did me.

He was surprised, and grateful, and told me that karma would repay me for this. I smiled and said I knew it would.

“Can I hug you?” he asked, and I nodded. We hugged and I wished him the best of luck, and I watched him walk east as I got back into my car.

Life as adventure. You always have a choice to change what you don’t like – and a choice to do some good.

On occasion, I think I’ll toss out slice-of-life blog posts. I have some pretty good stories to share, and not all of them fictional.

Sometime in the winter of 2007-2008, I got a bug up my *ahem* and started thinking that I wanted a motorcycle. This was crazy, of course – I knew all the risks, dangers, and fatalities. There’s no way I could justify the unexpected urge. I certainly didn’t need one – I had a great car – and I couldn’t really afford a second vehicle…

So, in keeping with my tendency to listen to instinct and emotion rather than intellect and logic, I attended and passed the two-day intensive Motorcycle Safety Foundation safety course on August 9-10. I’d never before ridden a bike. (For the record, I highly recommend that beginning riders take that course. It’s incredibly good information and experience, and it can give you enough practice to see whether you want to get your own bike. Plus, if you pass, most states will let you avoid the DMV tests and just get the M endorsement with your completion certificate from MSF.)

On August 28th, I purchased an old, scruffy, 1979 Honda XR 500 dual-sport motorcycle. I named him Comrade, which is an in-joke that only folks who’ve seen Enter The Kettlebell or heard Pavel Tsatsouline will get. (“Comrade!”)

Now, without further background, the story of my first ride.

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