Patterns and Ruts

I woke up today with an intense feeling of melancholy. It wasn't difficult to get out of bed or anything like that. I just felt sort of scattered, as if I couldn't muster up the energy to focus on any one thing. Rather then simply succumb to the fogginess, I actually slithered out of bed, had some caffeine, and did some cardio. Amazingly, that helped shake off the worst of it. But I still found myself feeling like congress: old, withered, and as useless as a screen door on a submarine.

Don't look at me!

After a bit of thinking, I hit upon the problem currently vexing me.

As a child, I was a huge Calvin and Hobbes fan. I owned all of the books, and would read them back to back, weekly. Surprisingly, I didn't pick up any of Calvin's bad habits. I'd like to think it was because even at a young age, I had a good head on my shoulders and realized that it was a simple comic character. But I know that sure as shit isn't true; I was a hard headed little hellion.

No, the real reason is because unlike Calvin's parents, my mom would have beat my ass every single time I tried to run away when it was time to go to the bus stop for school, or sling a bucket of mud at her because I was bored, or any of the countless brilliant ideas he had. Strangely, I had an aversion to blisters on my bottom, and so avoided the totally cool antics that I not-so-secretly wanted to inflict on...everyone.

Mischief aside, I think one of the things I liked- and still like- about the comic is that Calvin was wise for his age, and had a pretty good idea of how the world functioned. And he had the common sense to be outraged by a lot of it, especially when it came to subjects like the abuse of the environment and the futility of joining the rat race.

One particular strip has stuck with me for many years now, and not simply because of the humor.

As a kid, I thought it was pretty funny. In fact, I remember showing it to my mom at some point and pointing out the similarities between Calvin's tormented father and her. But as bright as I thought I was, I didn't grasp the underlying tragedy that it represented.

Only now that I'm an adult and have seen the last of my care free summer vacations that I truly understand how cruel Calvin- and by extension, myself- was. The only form of solace I have is that I don't have a child. A child who would no doubt grow to be a real life version of Calvin, complete with the ability to animate deranged mutant killer monster snow goons.

Okay, I lied. That would be pretty cool.

12 year old me laughed at the comic, only seeing things from Calvin's perspective. But jump forward 21 years, and now I'm stuck in that very same trap that Calvin's poor, poor father dealt with.

It's my understanding that life is mostly about patterns. Routines that you follow day to day, with very little deviation. Without intending to, most of us do the same things, in the same order, everyday. Wake up, go to work, come home from work, and sleep. And that's fine for the most part; without these sort of routines, civilization would probably fall apart.

But what happens when the pattern you weave, that routine you constantly follow, just brings you misery? What do you do when the pattern is akin to a gigantic spider web, and you become the fly?

Guess which one I am.

I was thinking about that comic strip today, and how much it hits home for me. You see, I don't like being stuck in a boring routine; some people find comfort in it, but I don't. I think that's one of the reasons I never held a steady job in my 20's. And now that I'm in my 30's, I find that I'm staying in the same job, not because it's good or fulfilling or any of that, but because there isn't any other option.

When I was a kid and read that particular Calvin strip, I told myself that that wasn't going to be me when I got older. I would rather be poor and happy than wealthy and miserable. Well, I'm poor and miserable, so I fucked up on both accounts.

Corporate Asshats and Weight Gain, Oh My!

I went into work today on one of my precious days off, because I wanted to help out.

Okay, you got me. I went in because my wallet was making all sorts of growling noises at me whenever I looked at it. Figuring it was feeling a little on the thin side, I felt it was prudent to put some extra hours in. When I arrived, a coworker revealed to me this horrid sight.

That's right. All of the dishware was replaced with this bullshit. Some corporate upper management fuckwit decided that rather than have folks take the 10 seconds to rinse off a plate and toss it in the dishwasher--which sits conveniently next to the kitchen sink in our break room-- it would be simpler to just ditch all of the plates, cups, and bowls. And replace them with fucking disposables.

Being the environmentally conscious individual that I am, I naturally was just a little bit absolutely livid.

Angry Black Man powers activate!

If you've been paying attention to my past rants on the subject, you'll know just how I feel about my employers. I didn't think that opinion could creep much lower, but by golly they proved me wrong. This fine example of "convenience" is just another example of what's wrong with this country, and people in general; let's just sacrifice more of the natural world-- the one we all depend on to sustain us while we stare zombie-like at our phones eagerly awaiting the next opportunity for Kim Kardashian to thrust her overly hyped, plastic body in our screens-- for the sake of expediency. As always.

So now I have to bring my own plates and bowls and fucking spoons-- because yes, they even tossed the non-plastic spoons and forks-- because I'll be damned if I end up contributing to the needlessly slothful disaster that is now the company break room.

"What's wrong with being a sloth?"

Sorry about that. Didn't mean to get all environmental in this bitch. Just had to get that off my chest. Because no doubt I'm the only one who cares in that train wreck of a business.

In other news, I bit the bullet and hired a personal trainer to customize a workout regimen for me. Why? Well, let me answer your question with a joke: what's black, bald, and currently the size of Jabba the Hutt's morbidly obese cousin?

The scale says that I am sitting not-so-prettily at 220 lb, a number that is horrifying to me. Never in my life have I EVER weighed this much. It's so bad that bulk of my clothing doesn't fit anymore; I have at least 4 pairs of jeans that yell "NOPE" anytime I approach within five feet of them. If I get any bigger, I'll develop enough of mass to pull stray objects into orbit around me.

So with that ugly truth reflecting back at me from my mirror, I felt drastic times called for expensive measures. Vanity aside, there are all sorts of health reasons for me shelling out $250 for a trainer; too much more of me inhaling whatever looks sweet in a futile attempt to fight off the frankly depressing state of disaster that my life is in will result in a heart attack. Or heart disease. Or the beetus.

Which is scary shit.

On a more positive note, the trainer is very sure that the regimen he prescribed will correct a lingering irritation of mine: my left knee. Last year I went to see a doctor about the painful soreness I was experiencing and learned that I had a patella tracking disorder resulting from all sorts of muscle imbalances and genetically tight hip flexors. A lot of stretching was proscribed, but it didn't solve the issue. My personal trainer, on the other hand, identified what muscles were tight and weak, and how to solve the problem, within 15 minutes of our meeting, all by simply watching me perform some basic exercises.

And so it's back to the gym I go! This time with someone knowledgeable about these things holding me accountable for my shit. That and my wallet's helpful reminders that I starved it for this very purpose, and I better not fuck this up or it will cut me.

So there we have it. The desire to fit in my cloths plus body image shame and death threats from my pitifully empty bank account equals Fit By Summer. 

Future Darren

I'm back, bitches

Wow, so what was originally intended to be a short break from blogging- for the purpose of working on my very first book- became several months of me doing anything but writing. My bad.

But after much soul searching and a few epic quests, I'm back in the saddle and ready to once again pound the key board like that bitch owes me money. Because it really does; I give it so much of my attention and affection, the least it can do is loan me a few bucks every now and again. Being poor and black ain't easy, ya know.

To review, my plan was to spend the entire month of October finishing the rough draft of my book, which had been sitting on my hard drive neglected for months. I wanted to get it finished before November and NaNoWriMo began. And I achieved that goal. That's right, I have an actual novel sitting on my computer, just over 96,000 words long. It ain't pretty- in fact, it is probably the ugliest thing I have ever had the misfortune to look at. I mean, we're talking hideous shit here; I'd rather stare lovingly at the brown, puckered up asshole of Donald Trump than look at this thing.

Pictured: Donald Trumps asshole

And that's where I hit a snag. Once I completed the rough draft, I gave it some time and then read it from beginning to end. Wow, it is bad. I don't mean that it needs a lot of work- which it does, it being a rough draft- it needs to be set on fire. Every aspect of it, from character development (or lack thereof), plot, subplot, tension, pacing, and all the rest of the things that makes a novel a novel were basically absent. What I found was I had 96,000 words of me blindly rambling.

So that was depressing. But not entirely unexpected; being new to the novel writing gig, it wasn't entirely surprising that my efforts would be...amateurish. Inept. God fucking awful.

Ahem. Moving on.

When November 1st arrived, I began this new novel with a surge of excitement; this time, I had the makings of a good story, with a (mostly) solid plot, character development, and a clear idea of how it would end. And for the first week, that was enough to propel me forward. But then something happened, something that I didn't expect. Something that caused me to go from happily typing away with pure fervor to gritting my teeth in frustration. Like sprinting through a quagmire of liquid shit, I forced myself onward through sheer stubborn tenacity. That lasted for another week, and then, after just breaking the 20,000 word barrier, I ran out of steam and stopped. Just stopped.

And I haven't written anything since, until now.

It wasn't from a sudden lack of interest; my mind was still churning out story ideas and scenes and fun character designs near constantly. Nor have my goals changed; I still want- need- to become a professional writer and published author. The drive, the pure desire, was still there, but I couldn't muster up the will to actually do anything. It took me many weeks of staring blankly at my computer screen to figure out the problem.

I wasn't having fun.

Creative writing is supposed to be fun. It's basically like being a kid and using your imagination to create all sorts of fun adventures, only turned up to 11. And while there is going to be a helluva lot of effort involved, the entire process should still be fun. And I wasn't having any. That fact ended up killing ability to churn out stories. The entire process slammed face first into a wall, not unlike Wile E. Coyote after falling victim to his own overly complicated schemes to catch the Roadrunner. That avian bitch.

Smug bastard.

To summarize: All work and no play makes Darren awful at things he wants to do.

And we all know what happens next.

Having figured that out, I am doing my best to focus on the process, rather than the end result. Don't get me wrong, the end is very important to me; writing for a living instead of doing someone else's bitch work would be a dream come true. But I can't get tunnel vision and miss the scenery on the journey towards my eventual career.

I don't like to write, but like to have written. That phrase was used by George R.R. Martin and numerous others over the years to sum up the experience of being an author. Well, I say fuck that noise. I'm not going to go through life dreading and hating 99% of writing a book, just so I can have that small 1% of joy at the end. From now on, I'm going to devote my efforts to finding joy in as much of the process as I can. And yes, I'm not at the level George R. R. Martin is, not even close. All I have is a horrendous rough draft. But it's a start.

And the sky's the limit.

As long as gravity and roadrunners don't interfere.