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.

October and Beyond

Sweet Zombie Jesus, it's October!

Summer has officially ended. The leaves are turning gold, red and brown from their once vibrant verdant. The air is growing chillier by the day; there's already snow in Anchorage, Alaska. Autumn brings with it two things.

The first being fucking pumpkin spice EVERYTHING.

EVERY. THING.

But more important by far than the drug of choice for every white girl ever is, of course, that October signals the beginning of the writing season for myself and a myriad of others. Okay, obviously people-- by which I mean actually dedicated writers-- write all year round. I try to as well, but let's be honest: I'm not good at doing what's best for me, writing included.

But Fall is different. The vigor and energy of summer has waned; the crisp, chill air brings with it an instinct for introspection and contemplation. Fall makes me want to curl up in a warm blanket, with a good book in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. And for me, it also signals a desire, nay need, to put pen to paper-- or in my case, fingers to keyboard.

Hold the fucking pumpkin spice, thanks.

One reason for that is that the day light hours- and that wretched ball of brightness-- sink below the horizon earlier and earlier as we push on towards winter. For reasons I can't explain, I can't do any serious writing during the day; it's not the noise or the desire to get outside. I just... can't focus properly. Only when the sun has set can I finally work on anything seriously. Even as I write this, the sky is dimming.

October and beyond will be fairly busy for me when it comes to writing. In the next month, I need to finish the first, very rough draft of the book I've been slogging through for the past year. It needs to be done by the 31st because next month, November, is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), in which I will be participating again this year. Last year I reached the coveted goal of writing 50,000 words in 30 days, something I fully intend to do again this year.

everythingeverythingeverything

So in addition to finishing my rough draft, I also need to begin preparations for my next project. The rules for NaNo-- such that they are-- being that you can't work on a project you've already started, I'll need something new to write. Fortunately, I already have what I think will be a fun idea.

Last year's NaNo was basically me dicking around on a computer with a very loose idea for a plot. There was no character development, no plot outline, and no real direction. As a result, it was more difficult writing  than it needed to be. This year I'm going for a different tack and actually working on a plot outline and character bio's before NaNo starts, rather than near the end of a horrid rough draft.

So, for the month of October I'll be:

~ Finishing the first draft, which will be anywhere between 20,000 and 70,000 more words by my estimate.

~ Researching for the book I'll begin in November, including making a plot outline, character outlines, and probably a bunch of other stuff I haven't considered yet.

~ Trying to either squeeze in some more hours at work, or find a very part time job which offers supreme flexibility and the option of only working 10 to 15 hours a week. Yeah, I'm not holding my breath on that one.

EVERYTHING.

And all that is in addition to the ongoing goals of trying to get more acting work, and developing a social life. So it's very likely I'll either be a sleep deprived zombie or an actual zombie because I'll have worked myself to death.

My Friend Lives

After careful consideration,  my Mom has decided not to have our dog Turo put to sleep.

With some input (tearful pleading) from my brothers and I, we convinced her that something might be wrong with him and he should visit the vet before any rash decisions were made. He could have doggy dementia, or been in some kind of pain. She agreed, having no desire to Old Yeller him anyway. I spent several days in quiet anguish, hoping there was some sort of medical explanation for his actions.

Alas, Turo is just a dick.

As far as his doggy doctor could tell, he's a perfectly healthy specimen. Other than his advancing age, he's fine. The vet recommended that my Mom not put him down, but advised that she keep him away from my nieces and nephew (who are 8, 3, and 2 respectively) until they were older, in case he did it again.

So Turo gets to live after all!

It is with much relief that I write this, as his imminent demise was causing me a large degree of heartache. The downside for poor Turo is that he will be wearing a stylish muzzle whenever he's around the kids, or outside of the house.

But it's much better than the alternative.

Birthday Introspection

As much as it pains me to say it, today is my birthday. I hope somebody had the foresight to get me a walker as a birthday gift, because I am old. 

"How old is he?"
"He's so old, he's using us to make a joke!"

I'm thirty three now. The number sounds...odd (get it?). Like a pair of brand new shoes, it just doesn't fit right. No doubt in time I'll get used to the idea of being thirty three. Right around a few weeks until my 34th birthday. 

I'm having a poor time adjusting, if I can be honest. When my 30th birthday rolled around I handled it in the best way possible: I used it as an excuse to take a week long trip to Vegas in the hopes that I would conveniently forget the fact that my twenties had withered and died, only to rise from the ashes as my thirties, not unlike a phoenix. An older, decrepit, crotchety phoenix that needs to invest in some Depend Underwear.

You see where I'm going with this, right?

The point being, I entered my thirties full of hope, of aspirations of awesome. Because to be honest, my twenties weren't all that pleasant- other than that whole youthfulness thing. I spent all of my twenties miserable and broke. I had hoped that by the time my thirties crept up, I would have overcome that little hurdle and figured shit out. 

Fast forward to today, the beginning of my third year of my third decade, and I have come to one conclusion: I cannot adult. I'm still broke, and still miserable. Except now I have a mountain of debt to go along with the standard all purpose misery that buzzes angrily in the background of my day to day world like white noise. But I've bitched about that often enough; at this point, what can I say that's any different from bitching I've already been doing since I started writing this thing?

Instead, let's review the last year.

Surprisingly, Year 32 had some not-too-terrible moments to add spice to the otherwise bland Suck Soup I subsist on daily. 

1. I met a pretty lady who would become one of my closest friends. Okay, that technically happened at PAX last year a few weeks before my 32nd birthday, but I'm still going to count it. The point being, she has been someone whom I could talk and vent at all year without worrying about being judged. True, good friends are hard to find in this world, and I'm happy to have found another to add to my small collection.

2. With some encouragement (nagging) from another friend, I finally got off my hump and got back into acting. With her assistance (nonstop flailing of the arms as she lectured at me), I even managed to get represented by one of the best talent agencies in the Seattle area. 

3. I finally gave in to my aspirations at becoming a professional writer and began the arduous process of writing a book. While there have been numerous twists and turns (a lot of whining,procrastinating, and binge watching of netflix), I'm happy to say that the first, really rough draft is near completion. 74,478 words of word vomit sit on my computer-- and a few usb drives to be safe (paranoid). While it is still unfinished, and nowhere near being anything remotely resembling good, it is technically a novel. 

4. I got to meet one of my idols (someone whom I look upon with great envy in addition to respect). 

As I reflect on this past year, I'm forced to acknowledge some painful events-- the passing of my grandmother being the worst. I lived in an awful area for most of that time, under cramped and uncomfortable conditions. I've had my stuff stolen multiple times. I suffered through difficult financial burdens-- which still haunt me like an overly handsy Ghost of Christmas Past. 

I can't shake the disquieting sensation that my life just continues to slip by, like fine sand through half-numbed fingers. While I'm probably still a little young for a mid-life crisis, if I keep up in my current direction, I may get an early start on one.  Another year past is another year gone forever, one in which I didn't do so many things that I want to do. For instance,  I've still never left the country-- not counting the three or so hours spent driving through Canada to reach Anchorage. 

So this year, I'm going to work on doing all those little things. 

I don't know how well things will go, but I will declare this: by September 18th of next year, I will either be a published author, or well on my way to becoming one. The silly little word document of verbal excrement I've written thus far is just eight or nine chapters away from completion. Then comes the editing, the shameful tears and fits of explosive rage. Then more editing. Repeat until complete. 

That way, when I'm writing next years birthday reflection, I'll be able to describe in great detail how awful writing is and bemoan those life choices.

Assuming I haven't given up writing all together and accepted my fate as just another listless drone shuffling from one crap job to the next until the Grim Reaper comes along and offers sweet, sweet release.

Happy Birthday to me. 

The Passing of a Friend

My dog is going to die today.

Not because of old age, though that would have been the likely cause if we fast forwarded a few years; despite being eleven or twelve years old, with a black coat more and more peppered in gray, he's as spry as a puppy, full of bouncy energy. Whenever I see him, he prances around the room in a display of doggy joy, ignoring all commands to sit and behave. He'd jump up and desperately try to cover my face in saliva as he lavished dog kisses.

Nor is disease the cause; horses would envy his health.  His visits to the vet always revealed a healthy, happy dog who is aging well and not suffering the indignities of the time ravaged.

And accident isn't the cause either. No horrible story about a clueless animal running in the streets, ignorant of oncoming traffic.

Part of me wishes it were because of one of the those causes. Because the reality is far worse.

My dog is going to die today, because he made a mistake.

I should clarify. Turo isn't my dog personally. He's my mom's dog, but we all love him. He's been a part of the family for ten years now. He was there for the good times and the bad. My late grandmother fondly referred to him as her "body guard dog," a role Turo relished as he trailed her where ever she would go around the house when she visited us.

I don't know much about what happened. What I do know is that I received a text from my mom a little past midnight, as I was heading home from work. Turo had bitten my mom, and wouldn't stop growling at her. My heart sank as I read it, for my mom and for Turo.

I'm having a hard time articulating how I feel. There's too much. My heart aches for my mom, who is shocked and dismayed. Once Turo calmed down, he seemed to realize what he had done, because she says he looked sad and ashamed. But the damage has been done. She can no longer trust him.

I feel so bad for my mom, for what she's going through. For what she has to do. Despite what happened, she loves Turo. She doesn't want to hurt him or see him suffer, but what happens if he attacks her again? What if he attacks my nieces and nephew when they visit her? It's understandable that she can't risk that. And simply taking him to a shelter wouldn't work; if he bit her, the woman who had raised him from a puppy, no one else would be safe.

I feel so terribly sad for Turo, who knows that he messed up, that he crossed a line that can't be uncrossed. He's going to spend his last day on Earth knowing that he hurt the person who loves him the most. And the sadness will be mixed with stark terror as he's carted off to be put to sleep.

I feel so helpless. They are both in so much pain, and there's nothing I can do to help either of them. I'm going to miss Turo so very much; I can't express my grief. I just feel...heavy, as though a mountain has settled on my heart.

Goddammit. This sucks.