Post NaNoWriMo report

My original intention was to blog about this in early December. But then I got the call my grandmother was dying, literally as I sat down to start writing. So yeah, this blog post is almost two months over due.

Waaaay back in November, I finally grew some balls and participated in something that I've been interested in for years, but could never bring myself to do. You know, because I lacked the aforementioned balls.

"You finally lost your virginity?"

That activity was NaNoWriMo.

For those of you who don't know what the hell I'm talking about, NaNoWriMo is an acronym for the National Novel Writing Month. It was created by a genius by the name of Chris Baty. He, along with 21 others in the San Francisco area decided to sit down and write a novel in a single month. And despite how crazy that sounds, they did just that. The next year, they decided to do it again, this time in the month of November, because other than nom of turkey during Thanksgiving, there's not much else to do during that time of the year.

"November is nothing without me!"

The rules for NaNoWriMo are fairly simple: you write 50,000 words in the span of the month, starting at 12:00 am on November 1st, and ending at 11:59 pm on November 30th. It can be any theme, any genre, and in any language. Fun, no?

Having had the strange yearning to write for some years now, but nothing to really write about has been a plight I've wrestled with for sometime. But somehow, I had developed the inkling of an idea for a book; apparently my muse decided to stay sober long enough to do her freaking job for once.

My muse.

So with inspiration for a story in my head and the grim determination of a would-be writer, along with some much needed encouragement from a few friends, I set out to play an epic game of chicken with my laptop.

NaNoWriMo was, if anything, a learning experience which presented a number of challenges and obstacles for me to overcome, such as:

1. The need for speed. In order to hit the 50,000 mark by the deadline, I would need to write an average of 1,667 words everyday. Which was a daunting prospect for me considering I'm a notoriously slow writer;even during those rare moments that I know exactly what I want to type, it takes me a few moments shy of eternity to actually get it written up. So you can imagine how slow going it was when I would have to pause and collect my thoughts or even think up a scene...

It doesn't help matters that I technically don't know how to type. I'm a certified chicken pecker; I only use two fingers to write, and my eyes never leave the keyboard.

I'm happy to say that my typing speed doubled over the course of the month; my average was around 500 wph before I started NaNoWriMo. Now, I easily hit 1000 wph without too much effort; during day 11, I managed 1300 words in just 49 minutes, which is the equivalent of the tortoise sprinting ahead and lapping the hare.

"Do you even run, bro?"

With this boost in speed, I only needed about two hours each day to hit my word requirements.

2. Shutting down the need for perfection. I can't speak for other writers, but I suffer from this idea that whatever I'm writing as to be perfect the first time, otherwise it's putrid garbage that has to be disintegrated for the sake of the world.

This affliction is one of the major reasons why, despite having the desire to write a book since President Obama was first elected, I'm only just now actually trying; why put so much effort into something that will undoubtedly suck worse than Dick Cheney's aim? Better to play it safe and let the dream live a bit longer.

Well, the great thing about NaNoWriMo is that in order to win, you don't need your novel to be perfect. Or even good, for that matter; this first draft is going to be uglier and grosser than a greased up Hutt.

So, a hutt...

The only thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is the word count. 50,000 of them, to be exact. You can write the biggest piece of garbage on Earth, and as long as it meets the word count, you're golden. With that in mind, I was able to suppress that horrible itch for perfection and hammer out 50,076 words of pure vomit. And it was glorious.

3. The need for a plot. The motto of NaNoWriMo is "no plot? No problem." While it certainly helps to have a plot outline, character biographies, and copious notes about the setting, it isn't necessary. There are two types of people who do NaNo, plotters and pantsers. Pantsers are the folks who "fly by the seat of their pants" and don't do any sort of planning. They just sit and write whatever comes to mind. Or whatever would be cool. Or whatever their cat tells them to write. I'm sure you can guess which group I belonged to.

"Dude, write about vampires. Everyone loves vampires."

Originally, the concern was that I would never be capable of completing the challenge; 50,000 is a lot of words after all, and I'm not very creative/smart/etc. The well of inspiration would run dry long before I reached the goal and I would be left floundering in the sand.

Thankfully, I was very much wrong about that. While 50,000 words sounds fairly daunting, it's not quite as bad as it seems. At the end of November, much to my surprise, I found myself meeting the word count goal with my book still incomplete. As it stands, it isn't even the fully formed skeleton of a story; half the bones have been stolen by wild animals, who have proceeded to suck the marrow out.

And I still have much to write before this first draft is done.

In the end, I managed to complete the word count goals and "win" NaNoWriMo. It was a truly awesome feeling, because I'm not used to winning at anything; I mostly fall flat on my face in the mud. Being able to sit back in my chair and exalt over a hard won victory is a rare thrill. These days, I am in desperate need of any sort of win, and completing NaNoWriMo was like a balm.

With that victory came a rush of hopes and ideas for the future. Maybe I can do this thing. Maybe I too will make the New York Times Bestseller list. Perhaps people will one day compare me to the greats, like Stephen King or Jim Butcher or Terry Pratchett.

Perhaps, perhaps. We shall see.

New Year, New Goals

You guys smell that? That's the scent of a brand new year, fresh out of the box. Notice how pleasant the aroma is? It's a stark contrast to last year, which smelled like rancid, three day old moldy diarrhea near the end. So with that wonderful mental image firmly implanted into your mind, I bid everyone:

Let's get right down to it, shall we?

I want to talk about this years goals. But before I get to that, I want to clarify something: I fucking hate New Years Resolutions. And yes, I know I made a few last year, which I may or may not have actually gotten around to (I didn't), and that's my point. For most of us, a New Year Resolution is made the moment that fresh clean New Year smell hits your nose like a perfumed soaked brick. You proudly puff out your chest and declare to the universe that this time, this year, you'll finally accomplish some obstacle you've been grappling with. Maybe you want to finally quit smoking- and more power to you, because smoking is gross, and smokers smell worst than 2014. Or perhaps you want to shed that extra weight. Something I also support, because I would love to see less morbidly obese women running around in yoga pants this year. Pretty please? With sugar on-- never mind, no sugar! You've had enough.

Regardless of what your resolutions are, you grit your teeth and plow forward with the grim determination of an action hero out to slay the dragon. For about two weeks.

You see, the vast majority of people give up after those first two weeks. There are no doubt countless reasons, but the biggest one is they discover that accomplishing stuff actually requires work, and fuck that! This is 'Murica, the land of instant gratification where all of your answers take the form of a pill. After two weeks-- three if you're one of the stubborn ones-- you wake up and discover that you haven't dropped those fifty pounds and don't look like Chris Evans. Or you find that you still have that awful craving, and the overwhelming urge to suck on that cancer stick.

This should take 10 days, tops

Hey, I get it. That stuff is really hard to shake off and overcome. Change doesn't come easy, to any of us. I know I've been battling my fair share of bad habits for years, with few successes and many failures.

My issues with New Years Resolutions are:

1. They are made out of tradition rather than a desire to change and grow. Think about it: if that resolution was so important to you, why did you have to wait until this fresh, shiny new year to go about doing it? Why wait until the new year to stop smoking, when September would have been even better?

Because much like fire works, the Times Square celebration, and getting absolutely smashed beyond recognition or hope of recovery, it's what is done during the new year. It's all part of the routine. And people are always slaves to routine.

Happy New Year!

2. Everyone is making them. There are times when it's good to have a morale boost in the form of your friends, family and coworkers working toward a resolution. The problem is you've got a few assholes shy of everyone doing this. At the same time. In the same space that you're doing it. Having a hard time with that smoking thing? Find yourself cranky, irritable, and looking for the slightest reason to punch a motherfucker out? Well, guess what: there are likely hundreds, if not thousands, of other cranky, irritable quitters also wanting to introduce your nose to their meaty fists.

And even if there's no violence-- which would be a pity, I know-- you have to keep in mind how easy human beings are swayed by the group. We're a social species. If you get together with a group trying to quit smoking, you are just as likely to convince each other that it's a futile effort and start lighting up on the spot as you are to keep going.

"Well, we tried. Maybe next year."

So to summarize, I don't like resolutions because they're done out of a sense of tradition rather than a genuine desire to change, and every schmuck is doing them. I guess I could have just said that and moved on, instead of that blatant display of verbosity. Meh.

Anywho, I'm going to list my goals for the New Year. Goals, not resolutions. These are things I've been working on all along, not something I decided to do because it's January. They, like me, are a work in progress; some will take longer to accomplish than others, and some will be discarded. In no particular order of importance:

1. Acquire a vehicle. As much as my tree-hugging, hippy side rebels against the very notion of a car, I fear I am forced into a corner; my job recently moved to a new location, and I now spend roughly 43 minutes biking home from work each night; on holidays and Sundays, I also have to bike to work. While this is excellent cardio and ties into another goal of mine, it's also time consuming and not a little exhausting. And I have to bring an extra set of clothes to replace the sodden mess I rode in with.

2. Become healthier. Personal wellness should be on the forefront of everyone's mind. You truly only have you health going for you, and should something happen to it, you have nothing. My goal is to cut back on the garbage, eat more veggies, and get plenty of exercise. Should some of the belly disappear from around my waist, that will be a bonus, not the goal.

3. Go to War. For years, I've been tormented by crippling debt, thanks to foolishly being convinced a college education was the way one advanced in this country. I'm 32 years old, and I have nothing to show for the thousands of dollars I've spent on college; I have no house, no car, and no savings; I'm living pay check to pay check. I'm one emergency away from true disaster.

For the past year, I've been just managing to make the minimum payments. At this rate, I will be paying this debt off into my 40's. Once paid off, I'll be 42 and broke, with no savings or retirement plan set up. Trying to do normal things like starting a family-- should I suddenly go insane and actually desire such a thing-- or vacations will be out of the question.

Enough is enough. I'm tired of having this debt hanging over my head, a veritable Sword of Damocles just waiting for the right opportunity to strike me down. I'm sick of the nagging worry of missing a payment and having my credit score suffer, or to experience the dozen or so phone calls from collection agencies at all hours of the day demanding my blood.

I'm sick of having my life limited by what the debt will allow me to do. It's like I'm a slave, and the debt is adamant chains held by monstrous, diabolic overseers. Every move I make is met with a cruel tug of the chains.

This is your life in debt

Starting now, I'll begin to wage war against this debt; I will no longer be a slave. I will begin to pay them off in earnest. It will be difficult, and the coming years promise to be exhausting, but it has to be done.

I plan on a two pronged method of attack. I'll reduce my spending to the bare minimum by going with a smaller phone plan, ditching my netflix, and the like. And I'll need to get a second, part time job. If I can pay an extra $500 on top of the minimum payments I've been making, I can be completely out of debt in roughly 6 years, even faster if I can scrap together more.

4. Finish my book. Back in November, I participated in NaNoWriMo for the first time. I plan on detailing that wackiness in another blog, but the point is I have the skeleton of a book written; 50,000 words on paper, with much more left to do. My goal is to finish it, edit it, rewrite it, and repeat a few more times until, by the end of the year, I have a book ready for publishing.

5. Learn to like myself. It's no secret that I don't think too highly of myself. I don't know where I got the idea that I'm animated garbage in human form, but it isn't healthy, and so I'm going to toss that mindset into the nearest landfill.

A self portrait

There are more than likely others, but I can't think of them. But since these aren't resolutions, there won't be any problem with me adding them to the list down the way, rather than putting them in my back pocket until the end of the year.

Death and the Family

Season's Greetings to all!

I hope that everyone has had a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, and any other Yuletide holiday I may have missed. I wish I could say I have, but that would be a lie.

On December 5th, at 6:05 pm central time, My grandmother passed away.

She was 75 years old, and had been battling cancer for the past 12 years or so. Despite the fact that it eventually claimed her life, I can honestly say she won that fight; she endured far longer than many would have; there was not a single remission the entire length of her battle, and yet she maintained a strong spirit throughout. I know that the only reason she fought for so long was because of us, her family.

Even weeks later, I still don't know how I feel. It goes without saying that I love her and miss her; it boggles the mind to realize that I will never again hear her voice, never again speak to her. She'll never again call me her little "Honey-honey, Sugar-sugar." I'll never get to hug her and tell her I love her. That fact saddens me beyond measure.

But I also am relieved that it is over; she fought for so long, and I know how tired she was of the struggle. It comforts me to know that she can rest now, that she has moved beyond suffering.

So, I'm left with a strange mixture of grief and relief.

Up until now, I've been fortunate. My grandmother's passing is the first time I've ever experienced a death in the family. I know for a fact that most people cannot make the same claim. As bad as it is, I think the worst part is that I know that this is just the beginning. Death is inevitable; as I get older and  as time goes on, more people I love will die, and there's nothing that I or anyone else can do to prevent it. I've known this on an intellectual level for as long as I can remember; I think Bambi's mom dying was the big reveal.

But until now, I've never actually known it on an emotional level. I still don't know how I feel, or how to process. I haven't really had any time to grieve or truly process; I spent a week in Kansas City, visiting family and attending the funeral; between the time spent with aunts and uncles and cousins by the score, I never had a moment alone. And once I left, I immediately had to return to work and my normal routine, as if nothing had changed in my life.

Understandably, this has put a serious damper on the holiday season. The truth is Christmas was pretty much cancelled this year; there was no tree or decorations, no family meal, and no gifts exchanged. I think everyone is tapped out emotionally.

I know I am.

This year has been rough; there have been more defeats than victories, more loses than gains in my life as of late. Even though I knew it was coming, I can't help but feel as if my grandmother's death was the knockout punch for me. I'm bone tired, exhausted beyond measure. And I see no relief in sight, no light at the end of the tunnel. Just more of the same drudgery, minus my grandmother's presence.

What am I supposed to do now?

Black Musing's A Series of Unfortunate Events Part 3: The Store

Clearly, the wonderful city of Everett has decided I don't get nice things.

I was on a routine mission to the grocery store, a rundown shack of an Albertsons famed for the hoodlums which do a passable job of imitating Jay and Silent Bob by spending all hours of the day loitering outside its doors, doing who knows what. Knowing this neighborhood, probably selling crack to school children.

It was a quick in and out trip to pick up some melatonin; I've had trouble getting to and staying asleep for weeks now, and figured melatonin would be a better alternative to the more powerful sleep aids. I'm not a fan of the woozy, drugged sensation most sleep aids induce, especially since it usually lasts the entire duration of a work day. And as is apparent, I've been having enough troubles with work to add "drugged and drowsy" to the list. But that's a different rant entirely.

Upon exiting, I discovered that my bike, which I had locked up good and proper, had been vandalized despite my efforts. The seat post and seat were missing.

The seat and seat post.

The people in this wretched cesspool really know how to put the "petty" in petty theft. Perhaps I'm simply naive when it comes to the subject of criminal behavior, but exactly what can be gained from such an item? Unless you happen to be missing a seat post for your bike, what are you going to use a stolen one for? Is there a huge market in the seedy underworld for such items? How much money can you get at a pawn shop for a seat?

So, something has been stolen from me once again. I can't even go to a public area and park my bike for five minutes without something happening to it. I ask you, what does that say about this place? What does it say about the people that frequent it?

My lease is up in April. I count the days with bated breath.

Hunting

It begins yet again.

There are some activities that inspire nothing but dread from me. One of them is moving; packing up a bunch of junk, breaking a sweat along with your back hauling it to a new location, and then unpacking it feels like the biggest waste of time to me. I hate moving, if that wasn't clear.

The other activity I hate, the one that I am currently engaged in, is job hunting. Is there any process more demoralizing than looking for employment? Before my current nightmare- that is to say, my job- I was on unemployment for close to two years. In that period of time, I filled out close to 1000 applications, and sent my resume to countless businesses and organizations. I can count on one hand the number of actual interviews I attended. I fell into a deep funk that only the unemployed can experience. You feel a helplessness along with a bitter sense of uselessness as the days blend into weeks which blend in to months. It's a gloomy place to be in.

Now, thankfully I'm only dealing with the job hunting aspect; I'm still employed as of the moment, so that's a plus. My loathing of my current job is eclipsed only by my fear of being incapable of paying the rent, so I must use a considerable amount of willpower each shift to prevent myself from either walking out or saying something that will get me fired. Or both at the same time.

Looking back, I can pinpoint just when the job became unbearable for me. You've heard the expression "listen to your gut," right? It comes down to trusting your instincts and listening to that tiny voice in the back of your mind that speaks legit advice. You know, that part of your brain that is getting an atomic wedgie from the bigger, stronger, stupid part of your brain that watches Fox news and believes that politicians have our best interests at heart.

My gut warned me from the get go that I could very quickly be burnt out if I over did it at this job; my original shift was only 24 hours a week, which amounted to three 8 hour shifts. From there, I had plenty of time to relax and distance myself from the stress and B.S. of the job. And between August 2013 and January 2014, that worked out splendidly. But then the added expenses of student loans reared its ugly bucktoothed face, and suddenly I found myself needing more money.

"Where's my money?"

Logically, I did what most reasonable, intelligent people do: I requested more hours. And for anyone else, that might have been fine. But not me; that precious little voice in the back of my mind was overruled by the rest of my brain and  getting a swirly of epic proportions.

It was a mistake to start working full time at this place; I knew the added stress would get to me, but I foolishly ignored my gut and jumped in the deep end, not realizing I wasn't wearing any floaties. Now I know that logically, I did the right thing; I gots dem bills to pay, ya'll.

But wasn't the right move.

My inclination was to get a second job. Why? Because then I could have a second source of income that was not dependent on one employer; if holding two jobs got to be too much, or if I found the other job intolerable, I could just quit and find another. It brings to mind that saying "don't keep all of your eggs in one basket." It would have been tedious and time consuming, but I likely wouldn't be in my current predicament had I just done that. But I was lazy and said "fuck it," and went along and moved to working full time. Which brings us up to date. All of my eggs are in one basket and in danger of some asshole fox snatching them from my coop.

Look at him. He's just waiting to fuck me over.

So now I'm job hunting once again. I've updated my resume, and will now spend much of my free time filling out application after horrendous application, all the while dealing with the stress and frustration that my current employment brings me. Honestly, if I wasn't such a manly man, I'd break down and cry.

ALL OF MY HATE!

I am so fucking done.

On Sunday, August 4th 2013, I posted a blog entry entitled "Lifestyle Upgrade." In it, I detailed an exciting new career opportunity and the benefits it would reap. I would like you to go back and read that blog. Seriously, it will take but a moment of your time. Go ahead, I'll wait...

Done? Good.

Having so read that post, I want you understand just how serious I am when I say what I'm about to say. Let it sink into your comprehension the way Artax sank into the Swamp of Sadness.

I was a fucking idiot. A simpleminded, naive idiot.

It's been a long time coming, but now I have to express a dreadful truth I've done my best to contain and suppress, not unlike fighting my gag reflex.

I hate my job. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate my job. 

I've been working since I was 15 or 16 years old. I've had crap jobs and not so crap jobs- calling any of them good would be a huge lie on my part. Throughout it all, I've done what most people do: suck it up, do my shift, and ache for the weekend. That's just a part of adult life. Unless, of course, you're one of those rare and lucky individuals who actually enjoy their work. In which case, I'd like to say "congrats!"

"And piss off!"

But in all of my years, I've never actively dreaded going to work. I've never had to stand in front of a mirror and stare down my own reflection, employing encouraging affirmations and desperately seeking to stem the tide of depression and rank cynicism that this job evokes. Over the past 14 months, I've dealt with depression, the constant second guessing of myself, and more sick days than I've experienced in the last 5 years previous combined; I once boasted having a rock-solid immune system, capable of beating down the meanest colds and most brutal illness. Those days are long gone, I fear. And I am firmly convinced that it is stress that is doing it to me.

Today was that tiny bit straw that laid low the mighty camel. After coming into work and having the first hour spent closeted in my bosses office, going over all the ways I suck, I believe I am well and truly done. I spent the rest of the day in the worst mood I've ever been in.

Let that last statement sink in...

Really? Again?!

Anyone who knows me well knows that I can be an angry person. Hell, "angry" is likely the understatement of this and last century. At its peak, my rage can level mountains and end the lives of thousands; I'm convinced it was my anger that caused the end of the dinosaurs. Maybe. Somehow. Shut up.

My rage

When I'm upset, I explode. It's a quick flash of furious annihilation. And then it's done, and there's peace once more. I don't hold grudges or retain hard feelings. Not usually.

But today, I was in a bad mood. No jokes, no smiles, no conversation that wasn't work related. I simmered and stewed like a cauldron. I don't think I've ever sat in one spot for 8 hours and just seethed. It just isn't my style. But that's what my day was. And more than likely, that's what most of my days will be like as long as I'm still working this job.

Don't get me wrong, the pay is good. I get benefits and PTO. I work with some pretty amazing people; with one exception, I like all of them. I'm doing work that actually matters, that impacts the lives of others in what I hope is a positive way. But if I'm being honest, and I'm always honest, that isn't enough anymore. The work load continues to rise and along with it, the stress. Stress begets ill feelings, ill health, and ultimately a poor style of life. I am so tired of spending my evenings after work depressed about the workday I just experienced and anxious about what the next workday will produce. I'm tired of spending my weekends dreading the following work week. I'm tired of being so worried that I lose sleep. I'm just tired of being tired.

This mesalliance has to come to an end.

I'm an Actor!

Well, where do I begin?

"Why not at the beginning, you dummy?!"

Oh, right. Why didn't I think of that?

So, a few months ago, a friend of mine went and had the nerve to get herself invited into a talent agency based here in Seattle. Seattle, it turns out, has a decent industry for commercials, short films, television, and especially voice over work; with a bunch of gaming companies having headquarters in the Emerald City, it stands to reason that they would need voice talent. My friend, who is an amazingly talented singer, is also gifted with one of those voices that should be heard in a myriad of mediums; once they're aware of her, Disney and the like will be pounding on her door, begging to have her voice one of their characters.

So, when she was prancing about her living room, informing me of the incredible news that she was now represented by a talent agency, I was quite naturally excited for her; I only turned the slightest shade of green, and managed to plaster a cheerful smile on my face that I'm sure masked my envious soul. I'm fairly certain I was successful, because I'm a talented actor with years and years of experience.

But then this friend of mine got it in her head that I should apply for a spot in the talent agency as well. I was reluctant; it's been more than five years since I've even looked at a monologue, let alone thought about getting back into performing. In addition, where would I get the money for head shots and resumes and the other expenses needed to advance an acting career? Being the perpetually destitute individual that I am, it wouldn't be the brightest idea to try and squeeze those added expenses into what I can only call a strained budget; some weeks, having enough money for food is a real issue for me. As far as I was concerned, my acting days were behind me. With that in mind, I politely informed my friend that it just wasn't possible, outlining the reasons I just mentioned.

She nodded, agreed with my faultless logic, and dropped it. For about 36 hours. And then she went right back to discussing (pestering) me about applying. I put up a good fight, but after two weeks of nagging, I finally gave in and applied.

And wouldn't you know it? I got in! After five long years, I am an actor again.

Naturally, I'm thrilled beyond words. Other than dealing with even more  financial strain and the stresses of auditioning, that is. My friend is no help, of course; every time I bemoan my situation- at least once every couple of days- she'll give me a smug little smirk, her eyes agleam with malicious delight, and say, "I'm not sorry."

How does that old saying go? "With friends like these, who needs enemies?"

Anywho, fast forward 9 weeks, and I've finished the acting workshop my agency offers. It was very informative and much needed; I have five years of rust to knock off my skills, and I know very little about acting in front of a camera.

So, that's pretty much it. I've been slacking on my blog- and writing in general- for the past couple of months mainly because I've suddenly found myself in this surreal circumstance. Now that things are a tad more stable, I plan on upping my posts as well and finally completing a few short stories I've been working on for the past several months.