art

"'Cause we all know art is hard
young artists have gotta starve
Try, and fail, and try again..."
-Cursive, Art is Hard

"Art is not the world, art is in our hearts..."
-Showbread, Stabbing Art to Death

"Let me ask you something, what is not art?"
-Unknown

I used to draw.  A lot.  My childhood was spent with a Slim-Fast in one hand and a pencil in the other.  I often sneaked into my sister's room and pulled out her charcoal sketches of dragons and Axl Rose she kept underneath her bed.  And I copied them.  I learned about lines and shading sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by the waxy smell of drugstore makeup and wall-to-wall posters of hair metal bands.

An artist was born.

I devoured sketch pads and ground colored pencils into stumps.  As much as I loved toys, I loved drawing utensils equally.  I couldn't wait to try a new type of marker or a new color of crayon.  I drew my favorite superheroes and created my own action figures out of paper.  But I was never incredibly creative.  My artistic endeavors were derivative of the enormous amount of Saturday morning cartoon I consumed and my eventual discovery of anime, which I was into way before it became so huge here in America.  I was ahead of the game back then.

I learned to shade and highlight.  I learned about depth and perspective.  All from doing it on my own, from observing, from drawing, from constantly creating.

I was good at copying.  Any attempts to be original were mediocre at best.  But when I was younger, I wasn't preoccupied with being original or unique.  I just genuinely enjoyed drawing and having fun with it.  I was good.  It gave me pleasure.

But sadness and insecurity crept in and my mind became poisoned and I became a perfectionist.  People noticed my talent and were impressed.  And somehow, people began to inflate my abilities.

"Brannon drew a picture of my daughter and it looks just like her!"

"Brannon doesn't even use an eraser!"

"I heard Brannon doesn't need to draw from pictures, or from life.  He can draw from memory!"

"One time, I saw Brannon sneeze on a piece of paper and then when I looked over his shoulder, his snot was in the shape of Mona Lisa!"

None of this is true, of course.  But for some reason, in some people's minds, I'm better than I actually am.  And that was a part of the insecurity.  I felt I could never measure up to people's outlandish expectations.  I was my biggest critic.  Eventually, nothing I drew matched the image I had in my head and it frustrated me.  I knew I was better, more capable, but for some reason, I couldn't translate the image from head to paper.

There were times when I got away with reaching people's expectations, or at least that's what they told me.  I did a few commissioned drawings.  But eventually the stress became too much and I stopped charging because my art was not worth anyone's money.  And eventually I stopped doing drawings for people all together because I couldn't afford to jeopardize the reputation bestowed upon me by others.  I never lived up to the hype, never went along with the adulation and as much as I tried to downplay what I could do, no one believed me and I suddenly I was a small town art prodigy.  And wanting to please everyone, I didn't want to produce low-quality work and prove everyone wrong.   

I had been painted into a corner, so to speak.

Art became a source of frustration instead of pleasure and so I stopped drawing as much.  And then I went to college to study art.  No one had any preconceived notions of who I was or what I was capable of and suddenly I was a clean slate, an out of practice clean slate.  And I felt like I was starting from zero while all my classmates were already prodigies themselves.  I was in over my head and terrified I had made a huge mistake.

But I finished college, got a degree, and graduated with honors.  I guess that means something to someone but it doesn't mean anything to an animation company.  They want to see your demo reel and it doesn't matter how great your grades were in college, if you don't deliver mind-blowing art, you're done.  There's hundreds of other wide-eyed kids in line behind you who have dedicated themselves to their art.  They didn't hide behind rumors of grandeur.

I abandoned art after college.  I didn't feel good about my abilities and wanted to go in a different direction.  I just wasn't sure about the direction I wanted to go in.

Let me let you in on a little secret I've been keeping about my relationship with art:  I DON'T FREAKING GET IT.

book notes #12: cutting

As I previously mentioned, I have been hard at work on the second edit of my book.  I've made a lot of progress since the new year.  I've found doing a little bit at a time really does add up to large chunks of accomplishment.  It feels good to look at my Post-it bookmark and see it slowly but surely (and consistently) moving toward the end of my black binder.

Throughout the course of my book, I chronicle my encounters with hipsters, douchebags, bitches, sluts, tweakers, and kimono wearing opera singers.  And I talked about how much they, and my classes, sucked.  And to be fair, I talked about how much I sucked as well.  You'd think after reading about that much sucking, the reader would come out a little more satisfied, eh?

I already had a suspicion I should reel back on the reaming of others but after going over the book again and again, all the constant complaining is unappetizing.  So, I cut out a lot of the negativity in regards to other people and even myself.  Don't get me wrong, there's still plenty of self-loathing (it wouldn't be Bran's book without one) but I have definitely scaled back on the bad attitude.

I've also cut out a lot of repetition.  I used my blog as a reference while writing my book and the way I wrote my entries was I often gave a lot of back story and repeated information for new readers who had just come upon my blog, allowing them to catch up on the happenings before they dived into a new entry.  But all that extra information doesn't translate well to a book because it's one reader, not a slew of people coming and going.  Once I've established all the info to that one reader, there's no need to rehash any of it.  Taking all that excess background noise has helped lighten the book considerably.  Or at least I hope.  I look through all my pages and most of the text is crossed out.  I've got at least 89 pages to cut so getting rid of the repetition and cutting out all nonessential information and some of the negativity will help me do that.

I know I keep on droning on about this stupid project and hardly seem like I'm making progress but since it's my first book, I want it to be as good as it can be.  Plus, I think all the time I've sat on it and waited and developed my writing skills has made the book stronger than it's ever been.  That's not to say it's even good at this point but it's miles ahead of where it was a year ago so I don't feel bad about not rushing it into publication.

I do want to have it published this year, though.

georgia on my grind

I'm still toying with the idea of going back to Georgia during my time off from work.  The only thing really holding me back is that 8-hour drive.  If I could just have someone chauffeur me around, that would be great because I'm pretty lazy and I'm not sure if it's worth the effort.  I also have to take into account gas money and the cost of a hotel.  I could manage but the money would be better spent elsewhere.  Then again, it is my vacation and I deserve to splurge a bit.

It would also be nice to at least have someone to go with me to keep me entertained and possibly halve the driving duties.  Work girlfriend said she'd go if she weren't...you know...the actual girlfriend of someone.  So, little good that did me.

Ideally, I'd go back to Forsyth Park and watch the puppies play as I wrote a masterpiece of some kind.  The problem is I have no ideas.  But going there could produce some.

It could help me with the memoir I'm writing.  Maybe taking a walk through the historic district would drum up some long forgotten (or repressed) memories.  I like the idea of walking next to those cobblestone roads once again, retracing my steps from when I was greener and impressionable, seeing things now through more experienced eyes.

I need to get away and I need some inspiration.  I also need someone to drive me.

I looked through several of the pictures I took while in Savannah and it depressed me.  I realized that I missed out on so much and made so many mistakes.  I wish I could go back and do it again (don't we all).  Sometimes I wish I had never gone in the first place.

2006.  My first day in Savannah.  I was very happy.

 

book notes #10

After yet another break (I don't even know why I keep stopping), I've picked up editing my book again.  I'm also more than halfway through so that's pretty exciting.

Although I get disappointed with myself because of all this stopping and starting, the good thing is when I take an extended break, I come back and feel refreshed, like I'm looking at my book with renewed vigor.  I also tend to be a bit more brutal with my red pen, which is excellent because I have to cut at least 80 pages, which will still make the book too long, but at least it'll reduce it to an annoying length rather than a totally unreadable one.

I've also finally decided to keep the book mostly about the college experience and less on my life as a whole.  That will help me cut out some of the length as well.  I realized I could shed more light on my life through subsequent books instead of trying to cram it all into one.

Yet, I'm also annoyed because when I pick the book up again after a long absence, I feel more and more separated from the story.  I originally decided to write the book in hopes it would be a therapeutic experience but over the years, I feel I've worked out most of the issues I explore in the book.  I thought writing it would help me work through things and it has but I suppose not as much as I had hoped.  Plus, because I have mostly accepted the events and resulting ramifications, I don't feel as much of a push to finish.

I probably will finish but I'm just not on fire for the project like I used to be.  I'm not exactly sure why.  As I mentioned, I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that it's not as healing as I hoped it would be.  And as I edit, I see it's whiny and repetitive.  Cutting out the repetition will also help shorten the book but how can I fix the whine?  That'll be harder to do.  I have a penchant for not finishing anything so I really need to see this one through.  Even if it is a complete disaster.

As much time as I've spent writing about writing the book, I probably could have just finished the thing already.

book notes #8

After writing, on and off, for about four years, I have finally finished the first draft of my book.  And when I say on and off, I mean I wrote for about two weeks, then took four months off, wrote for about 5 weeks, then took two months off, etc.   So it's not like I labored tirelessly for four long years straight through.

But I have written more in the past several months than I have in the past several years and it feels good to finally be finished.  Of course, I'm not completely finished but I've written the work and the real magic (or madness) begins with editing.

Speaking of, the book ended up being 589 pages!  That's way too long.  And you all thought I was long-winded with my entries.  Imagine them all crammed together and bound into a book.  Although, to be fair, it does cover an entire school year.  A lot of stuff happened.  But I'm going to have to make some difficult cuts to trim the size a bit.

The bad part is I already left some things out that I didn't think were important and I even rushed the last section because I thought the book was running too long.  But hopefully I can even it all out after a few edits.  Once I cut out enough stuff, I'll feel more comfortable going back to the last several chapters and fleshing them out a bit more.

After I finished, I went to print out the book so I could really go in and start marking it all up with my red pen.  But after about twenty pages, my printer ran out of ink.  The next day, I picked up some more ink and went home and changed the cartridge and after about 200 pages, I ran out of ink again.  Maybe I'm not an ink expert but does ink really run out that fast?  Trying to print this thing out is already becoming annoying and costly.

I hope the editing won't take more than two months and then I'll send it to a few people for more editing/content and just to get a different perspective.

It's going to be weird when I really am finished.  Like I said, I've had this project close to me for four years now, even if it has been on and off.  But when I put it out there and no longer sit down and revisit those memories and events, it's going to be strange.  Might even be like a part of my day is missing. 

That's not to say there will be an empty space.  I already have plans for a follow-up book and then I want to participate in National Novel Writing month coming up in November and I have the book I wrote two years ago for National Novel Writing month that I would like to mold into something nice.  So other books are in the works and I should keep busy. 

But for now, this one means the most to me.

book notes #7

I underestimated how drugged out and nauseous I would be from the surgery so I wasn't able to get as much work done on my book as I would have liked.  I thought I'd be able to get a lot done because I would be off work for a good seven days but I spent most of the time in bed and in pain.

But despite being dizzy and general feeling of grossness, I was able to complete the second part of my book.  Well, the majority of it.  The last chapter took me this past week to do, partly from my fractured concentration and partly because I just wasn't sure what I wanted to convey with that particular chapter.  But I was able to squeeze something out and so that's good.  I can always go back later and polish it up but I can't keep writing if I'm stuck on that one part so I'm glad I was able to finish it and now I can move on.

I have about twenty-something more chapters to go and the third part will be finished and the first draft of the entire book will be done.  Finally.  After working on it on and off (mostly off) for years now, it's finally looking like it's coming together.

Then, the rewriting and editing and rereading will start but I hope it won't be as time consuming as writing it all out from scratch.  With the material right there in front of me, I should be able to work at a faster pace.  I just have to make sure it makes sense, conveys what I'm trying to say, and is entertaining.  We'll see how it goes.

I have some concerns regarding my story, though.  As we all know, I'm long-winded and I feel it's going to be a long book.  I could cut some stuff out but I hesitate to do that because I want to present the full picture to the reader of how everything went down during my time at college.  I could shorten it and make it a bit easier to read but it might not be as enjoyable.  Then again, it might not be enjoyable to read a 500 page book, especially with people's short attention spans these days.

And what if I'm only good in short bursts?  There's only so much alliteration and whiny emo bullcrap one can take before it's not fun to read anymore.  I might be able to crank out a decent essay every once in a while but is my writing strong enough to carry an entire book?  I'm not so sure.

As much as I would love to be the next Amanda Hocking or J.A. Konrath, I'm not sure it'll happen for me.  I shouldn't expect as much, especially considering I've been here for three years and have a very small readership.  And so sometimes I think I should just write the book how I want to, as if I'm the only one who will read it, because it's quite likely that will be the case, and just use it as a cathartic tool to deal with the troubling times I had at college.  I hope that, if I can make a good book out of it, something creative and beautiful, it will help me cope because it's still a painful time for me to think about.

In fact, while writing the book, I had to relive a lot of memories and it forced me to examine my actions and behaviors and frequent outbursts and it's really embarrassing now to see how I fell apart so easily and how I still haven't fully recovered, even after all of these years.

I hope to be done with the third part in the next month or so.

loans & groans

When the store manager called me into his office, I assumed it was for another one-on-one meeting we had every week or so to discuss how my department was doing.  But, when I sat down, he told me that the company was phasing out my position next year.  I was a little taken aback.  He told me it wasn't because of my performance and that he had no control over the decision.  I sat there, trying to process what was going on.

"I'm sure you want to go back to your former department," he said.

I thought about it for a minute.  While I didn't exactly love my new position, I thought back to my old position and realized I didn't miss it at all and wasn't thrilled to go back.  But, if I had no choice...

"Yes, I'd prefer that," I responded.

"I thought so," he said with a bit of a sigh.  "Well, you know I can't really promise you anything.  The only thing I can say is you'll get to keep your rate of pay but as you know, we've already moved everyone around to replace you, so..."

What was he trying to say?

"You still have five months," he added.  "Who knows what could happen in that time.  Some people might find other jobs.  Others will go off to school, so we might be able to fit you in somewhere." 

Might be able to fit me in somewhere?  That was reassuring.  If you'll recall, I wasn't exactly clamoring to take on supervisor of a new department and after only being given one day to decide, I went ahead and said yes.  Then, I went back and told him my concerns about the new position and that I wasn't sure I really wanted it after all.  To that, he told me he had already shifted everyone around to replace me and that I would be "putting him in a bind."  Well, now he was putting me in a bind.  After guilting me into taking the job, he was now saying that I wasn't going to have it anymore, after only two months of doing it?  I felt hot.  I took the job because I felt bad that everyone else had been moved around to compensate for the hole I made when I left.  I didn't want to disturb anyone else's new placement and definitely didn't want to disappoint my boss.  So, I tried to be a good employee and go with it, to ride out the mess I had put myself in.  Once again, trying to be a good person ended up biting me in the butt.  If I would have just told him no when I had the chance, I wouldn't have to worry about where I'd end up, like I'm doing now.  Even though I'm going to get my same pay, he can't guarantee I'll get the same hours.

And if that wasn't a big enough blow to the balls, I got a letter from my student loan provider informing me they are going to raise my payments up three hundred dollars starting this month.  After working nearly ten days straight, I was excited to come home and enjoy my three day weekend.  I was happy to pull into the driveway, knowing that long stretch of work was behind me and I had a semi-long stretch of rest ahead of me.  That is, until I saw that letter.  The next day was spent trying to sort the mess out.  Unfortunately, it couldn't be.  Turns out, private loan lenders are pretty much a-holes who don't work with low income losers such as myself.  I had already exhausted all of my deferments, forbearances, and interest only payment options.  The lady on the phone said my only other course would be to try consolidation.  So, after she patched me through to someone else, the guy on the phone calculated what my payments would be if I consolidated.  The payments would be two-to-three hundred dollars more a month.  Didn't exactly help my situation or provide any sort of comfort.

The worst part was that I tried to get my mom involved and she's just about as clueless when it comes to financial matters as I am.  The first huge mistake was when she didn't get involved in my initial loan application.  Being the typical dumb-ass redneck family that we are, none of my relatives had moved on to higher education.  Hardly any of them graduated high school so the concept of student loans was something that had never crossed anyone's minds.  And being the naive twenty-year old that I was at the time, I had no idea what I was doing.  I knew about checking and savings accounts but that was about the extent of it.  So when I asked Mom to help me find a good place to apply to, her response was, "Just apply to whoever will take you."  Thaanks.

I looked up a couple of companies my college recommended and randomly selected one.  I didn't know it was a private loan company.  I didn't even know there were different types of loans to choose from.  So, I went with the same company all three years I attended college, never truly realizing how much debt I was racking up.  My mom and I always assumed we'd just be able to pay back whatever we could.  Another dumb assumption.  Doesn't work that way.  These people are pretty ruthless and have no sympathy for unemployment or crappy retail jobs.  It's not like I'm not trying to pay back the money.  I've been paying on it for over a year now.  Never late.  Never less than what I owed.  But the increase will drain me of what little money I already have and I can't live like that.  But it doesn't matter to them.

The most frustrating aspect was when I asked my mom to listen in on my conversation with the loan people, just to make sure they didn't rope me into some plan that sounded good at first but ultimately would force me into repaying them with a goat sacrifice and my left testicle.  She ended up doing more harm than good, asking inane questions that served to anger me more on top of my already short fuse after learning there was no way I could back out of the increased payments.  And at one point, when the guy put me on hold, mom said she was going to take that time to use the bathroom.  But she took the phone in there with her.  So, I'm sitting in my room listening to soft jazz when I start to hear a soft sprinkle.

"Mom, I can hear you PEEING.  On the phone!"

Splash, splash.

"Oops, sorry."

I'm surprised the guy didn't come back on the line mid-stream.  That would have made the whole interaction all the more disastrous.  So, I spend the first day of my three day weekend trying to sort out the loan stuff but it was fruitless.  I was left feeling worse than when I started.  And as for now, I'm stuck paying nine hundred dollars a month when I don't even make that much.  I kind of don't know what I'm going to do. 

It just sucks because when I got my raise, I really thought that I'd be able to build my checking account back up and maybe even try to start saving.  I thought maybe I could catch up on my finances and feel comfortable with my money but even with my raise, it was still a bit of a struggle to save.  Then, I heard I'd be demoted and that my hours might be cut and then I hear my loans are increasing.  It's the perfect storm of screwing me over.  I can't see any way to get out of this.  Unless I win the lottery.  Or finalize my death.  But even if I did that, my parents are cosigners so if I bite the big one, they'll be stuck paying for my bad choices.  I'd be responsible for them living under a bridge and eating dirt to pay off my loans.  I don't want to do that to them.  I can't escape it.  Even in death, I can't run from the ramifications of my terrible decisions.  I can't seem to get anything right.

Disqualified

Went to the college yesterday morning to figure out what I wanted to take and if I could pay for it.  First, I talked to the drafting teacher.  My mom has been pushing drafting on me for years.  "With your drawing talent, it would be a great choice for you!  They say they always need people and everyone who graduates gets a job!"  Firstly, drafting doesn't necessarily interest me that much.  It's more about technical drawings than creative ones.  Plus, after talking to the drafting teacher, I realized it definitely wasn't something that interested me.  He started talking about mechanical drawings and fractions and my eyes kind of glazed over as I stared at his salt and pepper goatee.

Secondly, I went to talk to the office administration adviser.  I understood the program to be general office administration with a medical option you could tack on if you wanted.  Well, when I sat with her she said it had changed into entirely medical.  It threw me off a little bit since I realized drafting wasn't for me and so I had my mind set on the office admin.  Then, she randomly asked me if I'd be interested in computer science.  As my eyes glazed over again, I told her I didn't even know what that was.  She then sent me to the computer science adviser who I actually knew.  I went to high school with her daughter.

She then explained what the program entailed and I sort of understood what she was talking about.  I asked her what kind of jobs I could get and she said anything from general office work to IT to networking or something like that.  When she said general office work, I stopped listening.  I mentioned that I was interested in the administration as well and she said that computer science would be a good option because it basically is office administration while going deeper into computers.  She said I'd be more marketable, which is what I wanted to hear!  I decided that would be the best program for me because I could still hopefully find a general office job or I could maybe find something else that has to do with what the program teaches.  She mentioned I'd learn how to write programming in Java and learn basic HTML and that sounded pretty interesting.  I mean, there will always be computers and every company uses computers so I'm sure there will always be a demand for people to be able to fix them and maintain them.

So, I'm feeling pretty good about my decision.  I go to the financial aid office and wait in line for an hour.  All the chairs were taken up so I had to stand the whole time.  My spine started to tingle in the most uncomfortable way.  I shifted my weight from foot to foot every five minutes and glanced at the clock every two.  Maybe only two or three people came in after me so as the line dwindled down, I was finally able to get a chair to sit in.  Two minutes later, I was called in.  Of course.

So, I sit down with the financial aid lady and after an hour of waiting, it took her all of ten seconds to tell me I didn't qualify for a pell grant because of my four year degree.  She said there were a couple of options I could try, such as a technical voucher which is almost like a scholarship and there's another option that's based on my income.  She said those options were probably already used up since it was so late in registration.  She sent me to a lady who gave me a form to fill out.  She also told me it was probably too late to apply this semester but I could try again for next.

I left a little sad, a bit disappointed but overall not entirely upset or anything.  I was excited to go back to school but because I wasn't sure what I wanted to do and if my financial aid would go through, I didn't get my hopes up too much.  Plus, I figured since I had to get up early and wait in that line, I pretty much knew there wouldn't be any good news at the end of that experience.  And maybe I'm at a point where I'm just desensitized to disappointment.  I suppose I could have paid for the semester.  I have been saving up for animation software and equipment but I figured if I could get one of those waivers and go to school for free, that would be the best option 'cause I'd still be able to buy the cintiq and programs to continue with my art.  Plus, I have been looking forward to getting a cintiq for the longest time and all the money I've been saving up has been geared toward that so I think I'll just buy one and then start all over and begin saving for classes, assuming I can't get any financial aid.  Meanwhile, I can still work on my art and animation and heck, if I can manage to throw some stuff together and send it off to companies, I might be interning or working and won't even need to go back to school.  Who knows!

School Nazi says, "No school for you!  Come back, one semester!"

Work and School Symbiosis

Work:  Still sucks but I've been trying to get by.  The hours are long, the paychecks are small and the customers/co-workers are annoying.  I've contemplated trying to look for something else while I work there except I don't think I'll find a job that pays as well as this one and is as close to home as this one.  So, I'm kind of trapped and I'll be sticking around until I can find another job or.....

I'm fired.

The queerest thing has been happening lately.  The cash drawer has been coming up short multiple times.  This latest case was a large, heart sinking amount of money.  When the drawer came up short the first time, I immediately thought to myself what am I doing wrong?  There haven't been any situations in which I think I might have messed up with a customer's transaction and I always count my money back to the customer so I can't really see it being my fault.  Of course, it's entirely possible I did screw something up.  See, in this particular store, all associates share a register so it could be anyone's fault and the store wouldn't have any real way of knowing who's mistake it was.  But, it's only been happening since I started back.  Naturally, that doesn't look too good for me.  At the same time, these people know me.  I worked there for two years prior without any incident.  And just because I left and went off to college and it made me a cold-hearted snake doesn't mean it made me a thief.  I would hope they aren't suspicious of me but I'm a very paranoid person and I am worried that they are.

There are a few possibilities here.  First, maybe I am screwing something up without realizing it.  Secondly, someone else is screwing up without realizing it.  Lastly, and I hope the least unlikely, is that someone is messing up on purpose so as to get me terminated.  The reason why?  I'm taking all the good hours.  The reason why?  I'm a great worker.  Once again, this is where the paranoia kicks in and I wonder if a certain someone has it in for me.  I know exactly who it is, too.  And I honestly wouldn't put it past this person.  Because while we all share the same drawer, the drawer only come up short when me and that one particular person work together.  Coincidence or conspiracy?  I can only hope that the situation resolves itself and I'm cleared of any accusatory thoughts.  Still, I will worry because, in the end, it really could be my fault.  Just not on purpose.  It just doesn't make sense that anyone, especially me, would take money from the company.  Everything we do is tracked so if a drawer comes up short, they'll come after everyone who used it, which would include me.  And since there's only two or three people that work there at a time, that puts a large target over me.  Plus, with me being new and it just now happening, that doesn't help my case.  And since it has happened twice before, why would I push my luck with a third time and by taking such a large amount of money?  And as I said, because jobs are hard to come by and because I do have such high expenses, why would I put my job in jeopardy like that?  It's almost like those red herrings you see in movies where the evidence mounts so highly against one person that they couldn't possibly be the killer.  I am not the killer, guys.

I just hope they realize that.

In other news, I might be going back to school in a few weeks.  It all depends on how much financial aid I can get and whatever I can afford after that.  I also have to pick a program.  I'm leaning toward either drafting or office/medical administration.  My mom really wants me to do drafting because she thinks I'll be good at it because of my drawing ability.  I think it will be boring because I think all you draw is buildings, right?  Plus, I hear there's math involved and I am terrible at math.  I would rather do the administration thing because I got a taste of it working in an office years ago and really enjoyed it and would like to work in that kind of office environment (i.e. not working with the public) again.

I have a few reasons for wanting to go back to school.  First of all, I don't want to work at this retail store anymore.  The sooner I can graduate and find a job in my field of study, the better!  Of course, that's easier said than done because I had high hopes I'd be able to find an art-related job after graduating from SCAD and that didn't work too well but at least I'd be working with two degrees instead of just one.  Hopefully my opportunities would be increased, if even by a fraction.  Second, if I'm going to school my hours at the retail store will be reduced, which is also a good thing.  The less time I'm there, the better I feel.  Plus, maybe that other associate will get their hours back and won't feel the need to (allegedly) dip into company funds and hope the blame falls on Bran.  Lastly, if I'm in school, I won't have to pay my exorbitant student loans until after I graduate.  I can't depend on getting another forbearance because the first one only lasted a month and a half after they told me it would last six months and so they might not give me another one at all.  I don't understand how all that works but I know I can keep them at bay if I'm in school.

But what if I can't afford it?

It's possible that any grants I might receive will not be processed in time.  I have to apply to the school on Thursday and declare a program and then register for classes on Friday.  My financial aid won't be processed until my SCAD transcript is sent to them and that won't get there until tomorrow.  I don't know if it'll be done in time.  And even if it does get done in time, I might not be eligible to receive any money.  I have been saving up from work but I really wanted that money to go toward animation software and equipment.  I think I just have enough to use that for school but then I'd have to start all over for the animation stuff.  And if I can't go back to school, I guess I could go ahead and purchase the animation stuff and then once I get that paid for, start saving up for school, which will be hard to do with those monthly student loan payments.  And that's assuming I'll still have a job if this money thing doesn't resolve itself.  I mean, I'm sure I'll be okay about the job because they really don't know how the money got shorted.  They won't wipe out the entire department over this.  But, still, I'm sure people will form their own opinions and look at me with scrutiny.

Ugh, all this after working seven days in a row, seven hard days of huge back-to-school sales and a tax free weekend on top of that.  I'm wiped out and now I have to spend my two days worrying about this money thing.  But, what if it's already been resolved?  All this worry for nothing.  But, what if it hasn't been?  I hate that nagging unease, especially when I'm trying to recover from such a long week of work.  Such is my life.  There will always be something to worry about.  But, I digress.

Going back to school (so to speak), I suppose I could just take a few classes here or there.  It would be easily affordable and maybe I'd still have enough free time to maintain enough hours at work so my paycheck won't take such a hit so I'll still be able to pay the student loans and save up whatever's left for the animation software and such.  I guess I have a few options.  I just don't know which option is the best.  I know the best case scenario would be if I didn't have to pay for school at all and I could take all my money to buy the animation stuff and get all those expenses out of the way so that what little money I earn from the retail store can all go into saving for the student loan payments I'll eventually have to make after graduation.  By that time, hopefully I'd have enough saved up to make those payments comfortably.

If my blog was more popular, I might would ask for donations.  I don't think I'd be able to squeeze five bucks out of my current "barely noticed" status.  Maybe I should pimp myself out to every social network or maybe create an incentive.  Hey guys, donate now and I'll include you in the acknowledgments in my first book or I'll create a short animated film just for you!

Hm.. I wonder if that would work...?

Writing Reservations

Right after posting my last entry, I began to hesitate. I’ve been planning on turning my diary entries from my first year of college into a book ever since I finished that awful experience. That was approximately two years ago. It wouldn’t be too terribly hard. It’s not like I’d be writing the book from scratch, relying on my failing memory for material. I wrote it all down as it happened. If anything, all the entries need is a little editing and then some extra writing to tie everything together. Doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. I guess I’ve been too lazy and too scared to actually make it happen. A part of the hesitation lies in how I want to approach the book. Do I want it to be strictly journal style or do I want to make it have a novel feel? I suppose it doesn’t matter which way I go about it because there is still a ton of things to consider, like character development and pacing and conflict. Where’s the rising action? Where’s the engaging dialogue? I didn’t record very much so I’ll have to rely on memory for that. And lastly, where is the resolution? I don’t really have much of one. If anything, I learned that everything sucks. I’m just worried the book will fall flat. It will contain no redeeming value, just some jilted kid complaining for three hundred pages. No one wants to read that. And that’s where my fear comes in. I fear no one will care, no one will want to read it, and most terrifyingly, no one will think it’s good.

When I think about it, it’s not like my college experience was exactly interesting. Nothing crazy actually happened, at least externally. Most of the drama came from my head, which means the book would very much be a slow burn, a psychological portrait of one young man’s descent into disappointment and eventual emotional death. Who wants to read that? No one. No, people nowadays are more interested in high-class cocaine scandals and bisexual orgies. People want to read “Gossip Girl” material, something Perez Hilton would post on his website on any given day. I’ve kept tabs on what titillates the audience and mostly it’s anything that’s shallow and juicy, situations like insignificant struggles, like who's the richest out of a group of friends, a Prada bag battle and surface concepts of love that last a week at the most are what make ears ring. Pretty people with problems. Well, I had a lot of problems but they sure weren’t pretty. And neither was I.

And then the question of who I want to write the book for comes up in my head. I always struggle with walking that fine line of creating things mainly for myself while making it appealing to others. Everyone wants to be able to make a living doing what they love. I love to write and would very much love to be a full time writer. But you can’t just write for yourself. You have to make it relatable. You have to invite the audience in instead of shutting them out and I feel if I wrote the book exactly how I want to, no one would want to read it. I feel I’ll have to punch it up a bit to make it more interesting. Now, that doesn’t mean to lie but to just provide more facts that I wouldn’t exactly share in my vision of the book. I would very much like this book to be a success, despite the fact that I’m self-publishing it and I don’t have a lot of contacts or connections to spread the word that my material is even out there. And because I would like this to work out, I’m feeling extra pressure to make sure it’s nearly impeccable. And there’s just so much to consider. I don’t want it to just me whining all the time. No one cares about whiners. I started reading the reference materials and in the first few pages, I nose-dived into a depression and the rest of the writing is just me sinking further and further into sadness. How can I reconcile that? By having some grand moral at the end of the book? To let the audience know that I came out of that experience stronger? No. I can’t do that because that’s not how I feel. In fact, I feel worse than ever.

In the beginning of Judith Moore’s book Fat Girl, she states that there is no moral at the end of her book and that she did not intend for the reader to glean any lesson from her story. At the same time, she’s writing about something incredibly relatable. I read the book and all the while I was nodding my head and saying, “Yes, yes, I feel the same way.” So even though she never had a clear epiphany planned in her story, she was still able to capture my interest and my sympathy and I really enjoyed the book. And I think people can relate to my book. I don’t know anyone who had an amazing college experience all the way through. Everyone has had some rough patches, and if they haven’t, then they were incredibly lucky. So, even though my book may be relatable, it doesn’t mean it will be good or interesting. Because so many people do have bad experiences in college, what is going to make my experience stand out? What’s going to make it shine and be something that people will want to read and understand? I don’t think there’s anything outstanding about it. In fact, the whole book is terribly negative and depressing and it’s not my intention to depress anyone so it makes me question writing it at all. I’m just trying to show people where I’m coming from, trying to find some kind of validation and appreciation for what I had to endure. It felt like Judith Moore was venting in her book. I got the sense that the book was cathartic for her and that’s what I want for me. I keep thinking about the series finale of Roseanne and her final monologue. It perfectly articulates why I want to write this book and why I write in general:

I made a commitment to finish my story even if I had to write in the basement in the middle of the night while everyone else was asleep. But the more I wrote, the more I understood myself and why I had made the choices I made and that was the real jackpot. I learned that dreams don’t work without action. I learned that no one could stop me but me. I learned that love is stronger than hate. And most important, I learned that God does exist. He and/or She is right inside you, underneath the pain, the sorrow, and the shame. I think I’ll be a lot better now that this book is done.

Ever since I started taking writing seriously, I’ve felt it was healing. In fact, I feel all the writing I’ve done over the past couple of years have slowed my decline into insanity. And the Roseanne quote is so accurate. When you write about your life, you really are forced to examine the choices you’ve made and why you did what you did. If I can get this book written, it’ll force me to face my decisions and maybe I’ll finally get why I did the things I did so that maybe I won’t hate myself for making the wrong choices. Hopefully the process of writing through my dilemmas and sharing my story with the world will help me heal. Plus, having my own published book will just be awesome, even though it is self-published, which presents my other problem: I still question my talent. It’s not like some publisher contacted me and threw money at me to get this thing written. It’s not like it’ll ever be on the shelves. The best I can hope for is Amazon.com but even that sounds pretty neat to me. I guess I’m just worried that I’m not qualified enough to write something as challenging as a book. Sure, I can squirt out the occasion good essay and I get lucky with a decent poem now and then but a book? I feel like I might be writing off more than I can chew. I’d hate for someone to read it thinking, “This person has no business writing a book.” Then again, successful authors such as Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, Anne Frank and William Faulkner, just to name a few, were all rejected several times before someone finally said they were good enough. I guess that gives me a bit of hope when I inevitably get my own rejections and negative reactions to the book. I understand that not everyone is going to love me but as fragile as I am, I can have one hundred praises and one complaint and I’ll fall to pieces. Where does the acknowledgement of talent lie? Within a ton of readers, book sales, lists, awards, money, or within ones own self?

I guess all I can do is keep writing, keep working on the book and be proud of it no matter how it turns out. It is my first, after all, and I will no doubt make mistakes, mistakes that I can learn from when I work on the next book. Maybe as I write, things will unfold naturally and I’ll find a pace that will be appropriate and when it comes to some kind of grand revelation at the end, there might not be one just yet because my story isn’t quite over. At the very least, I think it will provide some much needed closure. I think I'll be a lot better once this book is done.

SCAB

Finally,

a SCAB is forming.

The Aftermath

I always got along with everyone but never fit in with anyone. In high school, I was the floater. I’d drift from friend to friend and from one circle to another and it was nice having such a diverse group of people around me but I still felt like I was lacking something. Unfortunately, I so desperately wanted to connect with a clique. Mind you, I never wanted to be anyone’s exclusively but there’s a certain kind of comfort knowing that you belong somewhere. I never belonged to a certain group. I had no specific place to call my own. Consequently, I felt pretty empty most of the time. I never had a best friend in high school, no single person I could always count on or call up and talk to about anything. I was awkward and quiet around some people and loud and silly around others. It always seemed like someone brought out a different something in me but no one ever let me be everything I was. I didn’t have anyone I could share my thoughts on love with one minute and tell a fart joke the next. I was torn between all of these different personalities and I was never able to pull them all together into one cohesive person. It didn’t help matters that I was completely fake in high school. Naturally, I wanted to be among the popular group, to feel that unity, to be loved and envied. And so I tried to do things that I thought would make me popular, such as dressing a certain way or listening to a certain kind of music. This desperate attempt at acceptance only led to more of an identity crisis. I lost myself somewhere in high school. And most unfortunate of all was the fact that no one shared my mind. No one in my grade was artistic like I was except for one guy but he was a major tool and I didn’t want any part of him. No one else equaled my passion for drawing, my love of animation. I had no one to share that part of myself with and I was very alone.

I endured two years of community college, which just felt like a Twilight Zoned version of high school with same drama, same pettiness, only more faces to add to the façade. I found some promise in my art classes. Because this was college, the kids that were in my class wanted to be there, for the most part. I met some interesting people and even made friends with a girl who dreamed of one day owning her own clothing boutique. She had the cutest speech impediment and she was pretty and she actually seemed interested in befriending me.

I thought, “Oh, if only SCAB were filled with these kind of people, I’ll absolutely love it there and I might even meet a girl like this who’d be interested in being more than just a friend.”

It was a dream of mine to go to that school, a rather blind dream now that I look back on it. I only looked at one other college while applying to SCAB. It’s just that I was told throughout middle and high school that SCAB was the place to go so I never bothered to look anywhere else. I took their word that I would get a great education there and make all of my artistic dreams come true. And as I got older, I hoped my dreams for a vibrant social life would also materialize. I had a lot of hopes and dreams for that school. I just knew things would be different, that not only would I be given a platform for my art to shine but I’d also meet like-minded people, people that were as passionate as I was, talented students that would enlighten and challenge me. I had wished so much that at last I wouldn’t ever be alone.

My first dream came true when I was accepted. I only later learned that at the time I applied, they pretty much accepted anyone. So any validation I got that I was a genuinely good artist was thrown out the window. I did receive a scholarship, though, so that fact only offered temporary satisfaction. I already had a healthy dose of low self-esteem before going to SCAB but it was only made worse when classes started. I was surrounded by phenomenal talent. It took me off guard and I had to realize I wasn’t in Alabama anymore. I had taken for granted that I was the best artist in high school. That’s not me bragging. It’s just fact but it’s not so much a fact to brag about because no one else was interested in art. I was the best one because I was the only one. But I was no longer the only one. I was one among many and I no longer stood out. Of course there were kids in class who were just phoning it in, just like any other school, but the difference between them was they sucked because they didn’t care while I sucked even though I tried. Although I felt lost in high school, felt like an unknown and unacknowledged outcast, I was at least known for my art. It was the only thing I had to cling on to and now I didn’t even have that anymore. I was hoping to find myself in college but I only felt more lost than ever. Any kind of identity I had, however small it may have been, was slowly stripped away from me.

And that dream I had about the school and being accepted also began to wilt. I realized the school was quite different than the picture it painted on the pretty brochures and fancy statistics. It wasn’t as high profile and glamorous as it portrayed itself. Many of the professors were failed animators. Many of them were bitter or didn’t know the first thing about teaching. They were hired to make the school look better, to boast names that all too briefly dipped their toes in the industry. The professors were impatient and unprofessional. The equipment, while state of the art, crashed frequently. After leaving a class, I never felt fully satisfied. There was always something missing, something lacking in their instructions, something about their careless nature that turned me off over and over again.

Slowly the veil dropped from around that place and I saw it for what it really was: a money sucking machine. They had my money and were slowly taking my soul and that’s all they cared about. They left me on the floor to flounder and I don’t think I ever fully recovered from the shock. What little talent I had began to shrivel, taking a backseat to my ever growing disappointment and neurosis. It seems perfectly normal now that no college is as great as it seems. I suppose it’s strange that I’m just now realizing how it all works, how I suppose I shouldn’t be so trusting of boastful advertising. Yet, back then I was so blinded by hope, so young and naïve that I never questioned the school’s authenticity. That was a lesson learned.

I was suffering academically, becoming consumed by my own insecurity, becoming overwhelmed and eventually shut out by the many talented students in the class, reducing my face to that of just another mediocre student that never stood out in any way. I shuffled along, never finding acknowledgment, never receiving recognition. I hardly missed a day of class, did all of my assignments on time and to the best of my ability (based on the fluidity of my mental capacities at the time) and was quickly forgotten in return. And things were no better socially.

I recalled all the friends I’d make, how I’d find a photographer friend that would take great pictures of me and make me feel handsome, boost my self-esteem and make me feel better about myself. I’d make friends with a musician and he/she would teach me how to play the guitar so I could express my thoughts through song. I’d hook up with a fashion major and she’d dress me and hold me and teach me about love. I’d meet people of different religions and ethnicities and soak all of their differences up like a sponge and become more cultured and more understanding of others. And most importantly, each one of these people would have a piece of me within themselves, that same fire and energy and passion for art and beauty and poetry and life. These would be the people who would understand and encourage. They would get me. I would finally find my lunch table group. I’d finally have someone to cover all aspects of life with. I’d finally belong.

It just didn’t happen like that. I in fact did make friends with a photographer but she never took pictures of me. I’d ask but she would never agree to it. I guess I'm not photogenic. I in fact did go on a date with a fashion major but after one date and a half dates and a boring viewing of Garden State in her dorm room, she found interest in another guy. Typical. I in fact did come in contact with a musician. He was my first roommate but he never taught me how to play the guitar. He only drove me crazy and forced me to question everything I ever believed in. He was mean spirited and jaded and he made it his personal agenda to bring me down into the abyss that he inhabited. He hurt me the most for so many reasons. He was older than me and had already attended the school for a year before I came along. I had so hoped he would show me around and take me under his wing. I looked up to him and respected him for being a musician (because to me there is no one more respectable in my mind than a musician) and I found his behavior intriguing at first because he was so different than me. I projected a big brother persona onto him, a persona he systematically destroyed every day. I quickly came to find out he had no interest in helping me out but he did enjoy hurting me whenever he could. He was never physically violent but put enough hate into my head to mess me up for a long time.

I never made any real friends during my three years in school. My first roommate was a total jerk and his friends were also unsavory. The people I’d talk to in class would be friendly during the course but after it was over I never heard from them again. The only constant in my life was the photographer but she was messed up, too. In fact, I think that’s why we got along so well and argued so often. We were both total nut bags but she also happened to be an unreliable nut bag. She couldn’t ever be there for me because she had her own life to mess up. My roommates were better my second and third year but it was just a case of four vastly different guys being placed together and making the best of it. While they were all nice, none of them came through as a good friend. We had nothing in common and all had different values and belief systems. And I tried, oh how I tried, to make it work with them but they had their own things going on.

Slowly but surely, everything that had made me happy to leave home and go to school was now making me want to leave school and jump off a cliff. Nothing was happening how I had hoped and all of my visions of a happy life were breaking up everywhere I turned. To make things more frustrating, I had no one to turn to during this time. And as my dream of making genuine friends and going to a genuinely great school slowly died, so did my passion, my energy and my motivation. I began to question my talents and realized I wasn’t as good as most of the students and I wasn’t grasping new concepts like the others were. Things didn’t come easily to me and I had to work twice as hard to produce work half as good. I realized I was no good at animation, barely any good at just drawing. I just wasn’t skilled enough. I was lacking talent and patience. There was something inside of me that just wasn’t working like it should. That something inside of me messed up any chance at friendships, any chance at talent, and any chance at happiness.

And now I’m back home and my mind spins at the thought of school. I’m torn right down the middle because in some ways I feel like nothing has changed since high school. I’m still the fat guy with no friends and a mountain of insecurity. I’m stuck in a home with parents who don’t understand and "friends" that don’t care. But in some ways I feel a lot has changed, mostly within myself. And it’s not good. I’m still the same kid from high school but there are some parts missing. I’m no longer hopeful about anything. I don’t have high expectations for anything or anyone because I know expectation leads to disappointment. I look at people differently, not as generally kind but as mostly selfish. And I include myself in that category. I used to be so compassionate, so helpful to others. I used to care about people. I used to believe in people. And now all I do is wait around for others to let me down because I know they eventually will. And maybe I’m just projecting again, like I did with my roommate. Except this time I’m projecting my own internal character, that of someone who is bitter and hollow inside.

It’s hard to articulate just how much I put my hopes into that school, how I was so completely convinced that things would be better and how utterly disappointed I was when everything came crashing down. I hate that I had such a bad experience and I hate myself for ever being so naïve. I was way too deeply invested in nothing more than a hope, a thin concept with no guarantees for fulfillment and yet I took that chance and was the unlucky recipient of a huge slap in the face by the hand of the universe. And I wonder if that slap jarred me into regret or reality. Am I just now seeing things the way they are or am I viewing the world through blood spattered glasses? I don’t know if anyone will understand. Most will probably think I’m simply overreacting and maybe I am. Maybe a part of my problem is how overworked I get over insignificant situations but the fact of the matter is that I was uprooted from the only home I had ever known with no friends or family to help me out and I had to endure pissy professors and Mephistopheles as a roommate. All the while my vision of a beautiful college experience was collapsing so yeah, maybe all of my emotions were heightened, stretched beyond withstanding and eventually snapped under the strain. And I suppose I can’t expect anyone else to understand when I barely understand how I felt the way I did.

I left school with nothing tangible to take home and now, here I sit, snipping all strings of attachments I had to the place and the people that I encountered along the way. Not much has changed in the five or so years since I had those first few beautiful thoughts of a better life. I’m still fat and fragile. And while in school, I didn’t blossom, only withered. I didn’t find friends, only frustration. I didn’t discover love, only lamentation. I didn’t produce talent, only tears. I didn’t experience happiness, only heartache. Everything I ever believed in was chipped away. I was placed in a machine that sucked out my heart and soul, whisked away my wallet and then threw me out, dropped me off here to recover, to try and reconcile the past three years, to pick up the shattered pieces and try to find some semblance of understanding or closure and I just don’t know how I can do that. I don’t know how I can be capable of closure when there are still so many unanswered questions, so much pain and frustration and so much to figure out. For whatever reason, these past three years that were supposed to be the best of my life were in face the worst. I’m just not sure how I can recover from that, from all the wasted time and missed opportunities. I just don’t know how I can heal.