The Great Escape!

Today, August 1st, would have marked the third year anniversary of my being hired at my job. I say "would have" because my being employed at the job is not a thing anymore. That's right, the job and I have broken up! Much like a that awkward couple who only stayed together because they fear being alone more than making each other miserable, the job and I sort of leaned on each other in a decidedly unhealthy manner; I needed the thin sheets of green paper hat it provided in order to survive, while it needed someone to answer phones and do busy work.

We stuck it out for a while, tried to make things work; there was even couples therapy involved, but in the end, we just couldn't handle it.

It happened on another Monday a couple of weeks ago, July 18th to be exact. I came into work, anticipating a standard Monday: too much work and not enough people to do it. Monday's, for some strange reason, is always to busiest day of the week. Starting at 5 pm, everyone up and decides that they just have to visit the ER-- apparently it's what all the cool kids do.

Quick, to the ER!

When I walked through the doors, I was expecting the usual: work nagging me in the form of blinking lights and the infernal screeching of phones ringing off the hook, hospital staff on the other end convinced that their phone call is the most important thing going on at that moment, and I need to drop whatever I'm doing to handle their problem for them. I'm not bitter. Nope.

Instead, I found work waiting for me with a call, patiently serious look on its face. Uh oh, that's never a good sign; the irrational screams I can deal with, but when work is quiet...

"We need to talk," Work said in way of greeting as I prepared to take my seat. Never a good sign.

"Sure," I responded. I moved to set my backpack down at my desk, but work was motioning me to follow it.

"Bring your bag with you," Work said.

Well then.

I followed Work out of the office and down the hall, making small talk along the way. I was led into a small conference room and bid to take a sit. Work left and returned a moment later with a lady. "This is HR," Work said, introducing us.

Work and HR sat down with me and began to speak. The long and short of it was that the company, due to business needs, was eliminating all of the part-time shifts, of which mine was one. They had three open shifts for me to choose from. Looking over them, I quickly concluded that none of them were desirable; each was a full-time morning shift. Working morning shifts would pretty much erase any ability to audition and get acting jobs; most take place downtown, a good distance away even if the traffic gods show mercy. With only a 30 minute lunch break, I couldn't even use that to try and squeeze one in every now and again. Even worse, working mornings would mean less pay, because the evening shifts receive a pay bump to make up for working god awful hours and murdering your social life.

But when it got down to it, I just couldn't work there full-time. The Job and I couldn't be around each other for that much time; the stress and anxiety would cause me to put my fist through one (or several) computer screens.

So I did the only logical thing, and turned down the offer. Job, knowing me as well as it did, understood and had anticipated my decision. And so I was officially laid off.

I couldn't be more jubilant.

This is me. All of them are me.

The break up was amicable. We each expressed mutual hopes for each others well being and left it at that. I'm shocked to say that I left without any residual venom in my system, and even stranger, with a clean job record and no bad references.

Real talk, I've spent years griping and complaining and bitching about the pressure and stress the job brought me. It started out pretty well, but it quickly spiraled out of control, until I began to hate it and dread going. For the average adult, work is the place you tolerate in order to not have to invest in prime real estate on a street corner with a fancy card board box. It's not a place they enjoy going to, but it balances out. Very few of us get to work our dream jobs and exist in that blissful mind state of actually enjoy working. Some of us are in my position, where you actively loath your work.

I can finally put that feeling behind me. And damn, does it feel amazing. For the longest time, I felt as if there was a massive weight pressing down on my chest, as if Donald Drumpf's ego had suddenly decided to us my ribs as a sofa.

So I now find myself in a situation that the average working adult dreads more than visits from the in-laws; laid off and on unemployment, spending hours of the day looking for work, wondering how I'll make ends meet. But I'm honestly not worried. I feel a strange sense of... optimism?

No, that can't be right. Optimism and I are an oxymoron, like tall dwarf, cold fire, and intelligent Trump voter. But somehow, there it is.

As an aside, it has taken me a couple of weeks to actually get this down; initially, I was going to post this the night of the Great Escape-- I mean the layoff. But I've had a bitch of a time getting the words down in my characteristically hilarious manner. I pointed this out to a friend of mine, who promptly responded, "Well yeah. Your humor is self-deprecating and acts as a defense mechanism. Since you're actually happy, you don't know how to write it." Well, to my friend, I say have this retort:

"You face is a defense mechanism! What, what!"

Return of the Pork Patrol

A couple of nights ago, I staggered out of work, another repetitiously frustrating shift over and done with. I decided it would be prudent to channel that simmering puddle of anger and stress that always sits in my gut toward something more productive than a few hours of binge gaming and ranting at my television. Instead, I went to the gym next to work and hammered out a decent workout.

Afterwards, I hopped on my trusty steed and ride off into the night, my muscles trembling with exhaustion. At this point, I was sweaty, tired and hungry; my fridge beckoned and my shower was shouting crude cat-calls, telling me to get my sexy ass inside of her. 

"I'm soooo wet."

Eagerly, I peddled. For about 50 feet, before a car with red and blue flashing lights pulled over just ahead of my position by the sidewalk. Good grief, here we go again...

A little over two years ago, I was accosted by an overly eager police officer as I was riding through the Alderwood Mall parking lot, heading for a late night gym session. I even wrote about in this very blog. 

As you can imagine, I was suffering from a crazy sense of deja vu as the cop climbed out of his car and said, "Kind of late for a bike ride, isn't it? Where you headed?" in an intrusive tone that no doubt was meant to be casual.

My eyes rolling back so far I was certain I could see grey matter, I responded tersely, "Home, officer. How about yourself?" Normally it's my policy to be as polite as possible to anyone with a badge; it may be 2016, but anyone who thinks that law enforcement looks past color is a fuckwit. I get at least one suspicious look from a cop anytime I find myself in downtown Seattle. At this point, I had worked a full 8 hour shift at a job that in the best of times leaves me short tempered and then spent another hour lifting weights. I wanted to be home, in my room. And this ass-hat was standing in the way of that goal.

By this point, he was standing a few feet away from me on the sidewalk, shining his flashlight in my face. Never you mind the fact that we were standing under a bright streetlight; I guess pigs don't have good night vision. Since I couldn't see the name on his badge, what with the blinding glare, let's call him Officer PigFace McBaconsnout.

I snapped a quick pic of him for you.

"Do you have a license on you?" McBaconsnout asked, his tone was so overly friendly I knew it had to be fake.

Before I could stop myself, I snidely replied, "Why would I need one? Have bikes suddenly become motorized vehicles?" Even as I said this, I was pulling out my I.D. I handed it to him and he mumbled into his radio, giving my name and number.

"What are you doing out so late?" He asked.

Not harassing people minding their own fucking business. Out loud, I said, "I just got off work."

Officer McBaconsnout raised an eyebrow. "Where do you work that's open this late?"

"In that red brick building just up the hill," I said, pointing behind me. "I'm a teleradiology imaging assistant. Hospitals are open 24/7, and so are we."

And of course, he looks frankly disbelievingly at me and asks if I have some form of I.D. Biting back a nasty comment, I point down at the badge hanging around my neck, complete with the company name and my oh so handsome mug smiling on it.

McBaconsnout mumbled into his radio again, no doubt seeking confirmation that such a company actually exists. He then proceeds to engage me in small talk for the next twenty fucking minutes. Yes, you read that right. Twenty minutes of the kind of bland conversation one reserves for uncomfortable and awkward visits with the relatives you never speak to. He asks about the gym I go to, what sort of bike I have, the works. 

"Sorry about the delay," he says about 10 minutes in. "We seem to be having some kind of hiccup in the system. It's running a little slow this evening." Translation: We are digging as deeply as we can in an effort to find some kind of dirt that we can stick to you.

Well, sorry fuck-face, but you're in for disappointment. My record is spotless.

Finally, the pork patrol gave up. Officer PigFace McBaconsnout wished me a good night, trotted back into his car, and drove off.

Now, I try to give people the benefit of the doubt about these things. I'm not the sort of guy who automatically screams racism whenever something like this happens, but come the fuck on! To review, I was riding a bike with bright lights on both ends, complete with helmet and bright clothing so I could be seen more easily by oncoming traffic. What exactly was I doing that warranted pulling me over, interrogating me for almost half an hour, and treating me as though I was guilty of some vaguely defined crime?

Not a damn thing.

At most, he could have bothered me about riding on the sidewalk; some counties allow that sort of thing, and some don't. But it was not once brought up in our inane conversation, so clearly that wasn't it. Nor did he ask me about seeing or hearing anything suspicious in the immediate area.

I'm forced to conclude that he pulled me over because I was riding while black, which as you all know, is a punishable offence in this country.

The worst part is that I hardly fit the stereotypical appearance of those "criminal minorities;" my skin tone is so light that most people assume I'm mixed (I'm not), and I certainly don't "talk black"- whatever the fuck that even means. I'm probably the least intimidating black man you've ever seen; I make Wayne Brady look like Huey P. Newton.

If you don't know who he is, I suggest taking a visit to your local library or search the interwebs.

But the joke is ultimately on him. Because the next day, when I went grocery shopping, I went to the self-checkout and totally rang up my Honey Crisps as Red Delicious. That's right, bitches, I technically stole about $4. You might as well start calling me Michael Jackson, because I'm a smooth criminal.

My Superpower

Generally one of the benefits of doing something over and over and over and over again is that with enough time, practice, and failures to learn from, you tend to get better at whatever you happen to be doing, whether that be learning a new language, practicing the violin, or masturbating with your non-dominate hand. 

That's how it works for most people. I seem to be the exception to that rule, because I've noticed that the longer I do something, the worst I get at it.

This baffling bit of fuckery has been demonstrated to me in a variety of arenas over the years; I first noticed it when I was a snot nosed, know-it-all teenage shithead. I liked to go bowling with friends during my high school and early college years. I noticed that my first game would go swimmingly; my accuracy was spot on, and if I didn't win, I'd be a close second. But after the second game, I'd progressively get worse and worse; by the time we left the alley, I'd be about as useless as a cross-eyed stormtrooper* with Parkinson's.

So, a regular stormtrooper.

It wasn't just bowling either; whatever sport or activity I'd get involved in would start out okay, but quickly turn into shit. And I don't mean your average, "I just had my morning cup of coffee" shit. No, I mean it became a massive line to the bathroom because everyone had food poisoning kind of shit. The kind that could kill everything within a five mile radius.

Behold, the end results of Taco Tuesday

Shitty metaphors aside, this entropic cock-twisting anti-power of mine has reared it's ugly head once again. I've been getting involved in the pvp (player vs player) aspect of Destiny, the FPS (First Person Shooter) game developed by Bungie. Now, as a rule, I hate pvp, especially in a game like Destiny; Bungie tends to cater to all the fuckwits who want to pwn noobs, and it shows in their pvp arena the Crucible. But I also dislike being bad at an aspect of a game that I invest a significant portion of my time, so I've become determined to improve my game enough that I can stop feeling like I'm avoiding pvp because I'm scared of it, rather than just hating it on principle.

(Funny side note, my computer believes "entropic" is a misspelling, but ignored "pwn.")

After playing a few matches a day for the last few weeks, I have found that I'm actually worse at it than before. My scores are getting lower and lower, and my K/D ratio (Kill-Deaths) is getting ridiculously lopsided. Somehow, with all this practice, my accuracy has turned to week old dog poop, and I'm dying left and right.

Needless to say, I've been very, very close to living up to every fat nerd stereotype on the net; I've screamed all sorts of obscenities at my PS4 for wronging me and thrown my controller across the room in a fit of epic nerdrage (it now bears a nice crack along the right handle). If I had a table in my room, I would have flipped that shit at least two dozen times already. Take a look at this.

This is the results of my last Crucible match. My gamer tag is Tazzenkaff, and as you can see, I'm almost last. I was holding back frustrated tears as I snapped that little picture; this is the end result of weeks of consistent practice. I'm not improving at all, and it is demoralizing because Destiny is just the latest in a long line of things I work on but continue to suck at. And I can hear you saying now: "Chill out, it's only a game." I honestly wouldn't be so upset about it if it weren't for the fact that this kind of nonsense is a constant for me.

Consistently getting worse at things with practice can't be normal, so it must be my own unique superpower. Now I know how Rogue feels. Or Jubilee. Because Jubilee sucks at everything too.

Oh look, it's the Meg Griffin of X-Men.

*In retrospect, using Parkinson's Disease to make a funny quip was in poor taste on my part. Parkinson's Disease is a serious illness, and writing what I did was just messed up. So my apologies for comparing Parkinson's to being a stormtrooper. Nobody sucks as much as a stormtrooper. Except for possibly Jubilee.

My Writing Issues or Why I Should Start Drinking

During my tenure as an amateur writing struggling to get my first novel in publishable shape, I’ve observed a number of…funny characteristics dealing with what some writers refer to as their “process.”

Pictured: my process

1. My inner editor is a sniveling bitch who has no confidence in my abilities and does everything in his power to undermine me. Granted, this isn’t unique to just me; as far as I can tell, every single writer has one of these whining dicks constantly whispering in their ears, telling them all sorts of variations to a central fear: that what we have to write isn’t good enough and no one will ever want to read it. I believe Frank Herbert had something to say about fear.

2. The process in which I plot is not very efficient. Giving myself the benefit of the doubt, I’m going to blame it on my lack of experience as a writer rather than a general lack of creativity on my part; plotting, like editing and grammar, is a skill that is learned over time. And what I’ve learned is I need to work on this plotting thing.
When I first get an idea for a story, it almost always starts as a random scene, not connected by any other plot point. More of these lone scenes will blip into my head, and again, there will be almost no connection between them other than a character. The problem is, I can never seem to weave them together into a coherent story plot. They just drift there, each independent of the other, stubbornly refusing to make sense.
This causes my story ideas to be loose, unstable things with no foundation. It’s not unlike a game of Jenga played by a group of drunkards in the middle of a mosh pit. The story inevitably comes tumbling down. And then one of the drunks slips on the pieces and stumbles into his friends, causing a small domino effect of people tumbling to the ground. And then everyone in the Jenga group gets trampled by proper mosh pit participants who were actually paying attention to the concert instead of playing a damn game.

The inevitable results of my writing attempts.

3. Like a kid with A.D.H.D, I have a very hard time keeping focused on what bits of proper story survive the mosh stampede, because there are shiny things not related to my story littered about. Especially other story ideas. I generally like my ideas and want to focus my attention on them—until a new idea unrelated to the previous one slaps me in the face and yells “pay attention to me now!”
The previous story idea is still cool and intriguing, but this new idea is fresh out of the packaging and still has that new concept smell. Suddenly, I have a more difficult time keeping momentum on the original idea because the new idea is prettier and wearing a really hot miniskirt. It’s like wandering eyes for my brain, except story concepts rather than nubile ladies.

"Damn, look at the plot idea on her!"

4. The biggest problem, in my opinion, is what I call the Steak Dinner Conundrum. Let's compare my writing prep to a chef who is making a delicious steak dinner. As a writer, I tend to get distracted by all the little odds and ends-- the presentation, if you will. I'll spend a week worrying about what style of dinnerware to use, if the plates are flattering, and if I have enough salad forks. What I ignore, nay avoid, is working on the damn steak. I let it sit there, a raw slab of meat untouched as I fuss over what kind of butter to use on the potato or if the wine should be red or white. Never mind that the most important aspect of the meal is the steak.

Look at how fucking delicious this story looks.

I tend to get distracted by things in the story that are not the main entree rather than taking the time to get the steak prepped first and foremost. As a result, I usually never have an actual plot or character developed as well as they should be. Rather, I have some tasty croutons ready for the salad and some napkins that will look amazing under the right lighting. But no meat.
Now obviously, the potato, salad, and wine are also important to the meal. But they aren't as important as that steak. I'm almost certain that if I were a chef instead of a writer, Chef Ramsey would have my balls in a salad shooter within a day of my setting foot in the kitchen.

"You call this a story? Your write like Donald Trump looks: like shit!"

Together, these four issues combine and effectively stall the majority of my writing efforts. With the exception of writing blogs bitching about my writing, I tend to get very little done.

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.