Barreling

There comes a point when something happens that heightens awareness indefinitely.  Senses are sharpened.  There’s only cautious rest but no complete comfort.  In a heartbeat, you are a blood pump away from a phone call that can rip away at insides and silence smoky rooms.  Concern is undulating but never ceases.   Tension thickens the air.  Attempts at humor are hard-pressed and smiles are uneasy.

Inevitability comes upon you like the speed of a train.  Slow in the distance in one moment and barreling over you in the next.

The hardest part isn’t collecting the pieces of yourself once it has passed.  The hardest part is seeing what it has done to everyone else, the lasting effects of leaving loved ones behind.

Perturbulence

Yesterday:

As soon as I got into work, my manager asked me to stay all day instead of the three hours for the register training.  Not wanting to make a bad impression on my first day back, I begrudgingly agreed.  I'm starting to remember why I didn't like that place.  No one is reliable.  They believe in hiring a bunch of teenage jerk offs, the kind of kids who are only their because 1) their parents made them get a job 2) they need money to pay for their beer/weed 3) they have a toddler that was born in middle school to take care of.  That means sick children and prom and graduation and "well, I just don't feel like coming in today" so someone is always calling in or having to change their schedule so they can be free for Friday night football.  Which means my schedule is messed up because I'm always the first one they call when someone else calls in.

Let me just say, this is actually a good thing.  It means they know I'm reliable.  They know I'll do a good job when I come to work.  They know that I need the hours.  It's a nice gesture.  With that being said, I hate to have my schedule changed.  Like, hate.  Honestly, I don't care what schedule they give me.  I'll work morning, evening, night.  I'll work one day a week or seven days a week.  I'll go with the flow as long as that is what I'm scheduled for.  I can't tell you how many times I looked forward to my day off only to be called in.  That really wrecks my mood.  Now, if I was scheduled to work the next day, then that's great!  I was meant to and I'm mentally prepared for it and it's gravy but when I'm mentally preparing myself for a day off and I'm thinking of all the wonderful things I can do and then someone calls and tells me I have to come into work, it really annoys me.  I really don't like change, whether they are big or small changes.

At the end of my shift, my manager comes up to me and asks me to change my shift for the next day!  Once again, I agreed. 

During lunch, I went to the new McDonalds.  The one in town was torn down to be rebuilt with two drive-thrus and one of those coffee bar deals.  Because I only thought I'd be working three hours and didn't bring a lunch with me, that looked like the best option.  Well, the line was long because the McDonalds had been shut down for a good while and I guess everyone else was missing those Mcdelectables.  I noticed people looked confused as they went through the two lanes.  People were braking and accelerating, not knowing when their turn to go was.  I guess they don't handle change very well, either.

As I was waiting in line, I checked my voicemail.  It was a call from an employment agency I applied with a few weeks ago.  The lady said she had something going on in my town and wanted me to call her back.  My heart swelled with the possibilities.  And then I remembered I just accepted this job.  I quickly thought of a scenario.  If it was a regular Monday through Friday job, I could still work at JCP on the weekends.  I'm sure all those snot-nosed a-hole teens would love to take the weekend off so they can fornicate and frolic.  I'll work for them.  I'm a loser and don't have dates with girls or parties to go to.  It was pretty much perfect.  And that extra weekend money would be a great help.  Well, I called the lady back and get this.  She didn't have any work for me.  She wanted to know if I knew of anyone that wanted to do fiberglass work.

"I know you were interested in clerical," she said, "but I don't have anything right now with that.  I'm still looking, don't worry.  I haven't forgotten about you but this fiberglass is blowing up!  I figured since you lived in that town you might know some people who wanted to do fiberglass!" 

So, this tich calls me, not to help me find work, but to help her find work for other people!?  Really?  Really?  My heart deflated.

Then I spilled my sweet tea all over my shirt and lap.  They hadn't put the lid on very well and as I lifted the straw to my lips, liquid cold spread across my body.  I grabbed a handful of napkins to absorb the liquid but those cheap, flimsy napkins started coming apart from the vigorous rubbing.  Crap!  I had to be back to work in just a few minutes!  Would it dry in time?  Would it leave a giant looking stain like I had wet myself?  I haven't even met all my coworkers yet!  What were they going to think of me and my stained and napkin lint-ridden clothing?

Fortunately, everything dried up and there was no noticeable stain.  It was quite shocking, actually.  The universe missed an opportunity to humiliate me.  I'm sure I'll just get it worse next time around.

I then saw everyone I knew.  A former coworker that used to work there when I first started five years ago came in and was like, "Dude, what are you still doing here?"  Embarrassed, I explained to him that I had in fact left for a few years to attend college.  I then said, "Look how well that worked out!"  I wanted to crawl into the giant bin that holds all the plastic hangers.  I then saw old classmates, which was great.  "Hey, yeah, went to college and now I'm back here!  Things are going great.  I'm pathetic and thanks for shopping with us today!"

And old customers are the wooooorst.  So far I've encountered the old-lady-who-buys pants-for-her-male-relative-even-though-she-doesn't-know-what-size-he-is-or-what-style-he-likes type of customer.  She had me running around the store looking for acceptable alternatives to Dickie pants.  She then asked the same questions over and over again.  That was yesterday.  And wouldn't you know she came back this morning, bright and early, to annoy me again.  The pants didn't work out.  "These are a gift," she tells me.  She can't simply order some Dickie pants from our website because his birthday is in two days and they won't arrive in time.  Hm, how about instead of purchasing him some irregular looking pants that he probably won't like anyway, why not opt for something more practical like a shaving kit or socks or a prostitute.  Something he can use that's one-size-fits-all (hehe).  Then, today, I encountered the old-racist type of customer.  He was looking at suits and asked me where the suits were created.  "You thank the Japs made these?"  I'm sure tomorrow I'll encounter the old-man-who-doesn't-talk-back-when-you-speak-to-him and the old-man-who-throws-his-money/credit card-at-you.

I forgot to mention that because the schedule was changed both days, I had to work by myself both days.  I was originally scheduled to work with someone so they could help me familiarize myself with the registers, which are, by the way, new registers that they got after I left.  So, it's literally like I'm starting over.  Some of the procedures are familiar and coming back to me but some things are done differently now, which I think almost makes it harder for me because I have to unlearn the old procedures and learn the new ones.  My manger was around when I needed help but I would have preferred someone to be with me at all times.  Obviously, I'm a very insecure person with absolutely no confidence in my ability to run a register, interact with a customer or even make correct change. 

I know it's all so ridiculous and I did it for two years with no problems but I just feel a lot has changed in five years.  I've become way more introverted, way more cynical and, frankly, way more dumb.  And I feel my manger was way too much faith that I'll just kind of pick up right where I left off.  That's the bad thing about being such an exceptional employee.  People expect a lot from you.  And that's a lot of pressure to live up to those expectations.  Or I suppose that's a lot of unnecessary pressure that I'm putting on myself.  And when I say exceptional employee, I'm not bragging.  I really was one of the best employees they had and that's not because I was just so fantastic.  It all goes back to what I was mentioning earlier.  Everyone else just sucked, therefore making my mediocre abilities really shine.  I was the rare breed of teenager that followed the rules and did what I was supposed to.

And now I'm the not-so-rare breed of old man stuck in a crummy job in a crummy economy with a crummy outlook on life.  It's been a turbulent two days already and I'm exhausted.  To make myself feel better, I think I'm going to have to spend part of my first paycheck on True Blood: Season 2!!  After waiting forever, it's finally out.  Netflix won't have it for another month because of some stupid agreement they have not to release certain titles until thirty days after they've released everywhere else and frankly, I'm just not that patient to wait another month to see creatures of the night suck blood and ladies of the night sucking...well, other things.  Softcore vampire porn FTW.

Retail Hell Revisited

In my last entry, I forgot to mention that I did accept the position at JCP.  Today was the first day of training.  First, let me say that I got an e-mail from the bingo facility saying that they were not reopening.  This is twice now.  I'm glad I didn't agree to go back there.  I feel that place is going to be in limbo for a long time and there's not enough stability for me to return.  I might only be working part-time but at least it will be consistent part-time instead of irregular bouts of full-time work.  So, I feel good about the decision.

Kind of.

I really don't want to be a Danny Downer but I'm still fuzzy over returning to JCP.  I mean, it almost feels like I'm going backward.  I'm going back there and might be going back to school soon and it'll be just like when I was twenty again, as if the last four years of my life didn't even happen.  But, then again, maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

Today was training and it was a bit more intense than I had anticipated.  Some things have changed and I've gotten rusty with the skills that I used to know.  I'm sure once I get out on the floor by myself I'll find my groove again but dipping my toes back into used water isn't that much fun.  I don't know, I just feel lame.  I know I shouldn't but this just isn't where I wanted to be at this age.  I was hoping to have a good job doing what I love but I guess all college graduates hope for that and some get it, some don't.  I think it would make me feel better to know I wasn't the only chap in this position.  Well, I know I'm not.  There are quite a few people that have communicated to me that they or someone they know graduated from college and are working crappy jobs just to get by until something better comes along.  It's somewhat helpful but it's still annoying.

And everyone is new.  There's only a handful of people left that I worked with and the rest look...uh...unsavory.  I gotta be honest, I don't really have any intention on making friends there.  I really just want to earn a paycheck so I can eventually afford the equipment and software to continue my animation.  And hopefully the job will help get my mom off my back somewhat.  I brought my schedule for the rest of the week home and she said, "Are you going to be able to get any more hours than this?"  I wanted to punch her in the face.  I already told her it would be part-time and that my supervisor said she'd try to help me out as much as possible.  What more can I do?  Take my manager into the back office and toss her salad to bump myself up a few notches on her priority list?  Back off.  My mother should just be glad I was irritated enough with her nagging that I went back there for a job in the first place.  I could still be sitting on my doughy duff doing nothing.  At least I'll be getting out of the house and we'll be out of each other's hair.

Except for having to push credit card applications on people, I don't see it being too stressful.  In fact, I'm hoping it might be slightly peaceful.  As far as I know, I'll be back in my old stomping grounds in the men's department and not many people shop there.  I'm sure I'll spend most of my time folding shirts, which is fine with me.  It gives me a chance to kind of chill and think my thoughts.  Plus, I really enjoy it when I can straighten an entire section of clothing.  I'm really OCD about things being neat and orderly (outside of my own bedroom) and so I enjoy it when it looks nice in my department.

Yet, I can't shake this feeling of retreading, of beating a dead whore.  Ideally, I would be working at a new job where I can learn new skills that might be beneficial in the future.  I don't think I'll learn anything new here.  It will be more of a refresher course.  Then again, I'm not sure I want to learn anything new.  As I said, this might be a good thing that I'm already familiar with policies and procedures.  I can jump in, do my thing, collect a paycheck and get out of there.  If I'm not worried about my performance, hopefully I'll be able to concentrate on my writing and art.

Speaking of art, animation software and equipment is ridiculously expensive.  It's going to be tough trying to save up for that while paying for student loans.  I was told I could request a forebearance to delay the payments for six months, which I will be doing.  Check this.  The guy I talked to said my payments would be six hundred dollars a month!  I told him that would be an impossibility so he put me on hold, came back and said he could only get it down to about three hundred a month, still more than I wanted to take on.  I'm already paying two hundred a month on a different loan.  Mom said she'd pay half if I'd pay the other half, which makes things a bit easier but I don't want to depend on my parents so much.  They pay for all of my expenses and I'm at a point in my life where I should be capable of taking care of myself.  I'm embarrassed.  I understand that some things are out of my hands.  I understand the economy's in the pooper and jobs are hard to come by but if I was better, smarter, worked harder and was more talented, I'd have a good job by now.  Or maybe I'm too hard on myself.  I suppose it doesn't matter now because what's done is done and I just have to do what I can with what's going on.

Or something like that.

Ret(d)reading

This job thing is getting kind of funny.  Funny as in annoying like a giganto hemorrhoid. 

After the Birmingham debacle where I realized the job/apartment/real life thing wasn't going to happen and that my sister was as bitter as a used tampon, I gave up on that dream and set my sights on local work.  When I went to see the ladies from my old job to pick up my book, I casually mentioned that I was looking all over for work with no luck and jokingly said, "Hey, you guys aren't hiring, are ya?" with a bit of a chuckle in my delivery.  Naturally, they weren't.  In fact, my old boss said they had just laid some people off the week before.  Besides, my job was a temporary one that they had never even done before.  They had gotten behind on their work, which isn't surprising because of the chatter that goes on around there and so I was basically just hired to take care of the little things they had no time for while they handled the major responsibilities.  Eh, it was worth a shot.

So, a few days ago I took a trip into the dreaded JCPenney and groveled for a job.  I worked there several years ago and hated it.  Well, maybe hate is too strong of a word.  The work was a breeze but my coworkers sucked.  After two years, I was just tired of all the backstabbing and b.s. that ran amok in that establishment.  That's when I took the temporary job described above.  The good thing was my manager loved me and I left on good terms.  When she left, she told me if she ever had any openings she'd hire me in a second.  See, this is what I'm talking about.  I am a good worker!  I can do any job (within reason) that people give me as long as I'm properly shown how to do it.  That's why it's so frustrating when I apply and apply and never hear anything back, and even worse, when I go in for an interview and they don't pick up on my glowing personality or willingness to go the extra mile to do a great job.  Then again, I suppose I know I can work hard but they can't get that from a resume or from just an interview.  Seeing is believing but it's hard to see something when you won't give a brotha a chance, son!

While working at the bingo facility, I realized that JCPenney wasn't that bad at all.  I got to dress up and wear a tie and look nice and basically fold shirts for four hours.  As long as I didn't have any pissy customers and no one was trying to sling their gossip at me, I was content.  Heck, there were some days I even had small windows of time in which I could write poetry (thanks to the extra rolls of receipt paper and a multitude of extra pens lying around).  I tried to remember why I disliked it so much in the first place but couldn't remember any solid reasons.  I suppose working in a chimney facsimile and having to scrape ashtrays really puts things into perspective.

Well, the groveling paid off.  My former (and soon to be current again) supervisor said she had a position but it was part-time and wouldn't be too many hours.  I told her that was okay because few hours were better than none and maybe on down the road more hours would open up for me.  First, I had to take the stupid online job assessment test that almost all jobs make you do nowadays.  During Christmas time last year, I had applied to be a temporary replenishment person there just for the holidays.  I had to take the assessment test and failed, although I had previously worked there for two years and was well qualified for the job.  That's what ticks me off and probably why I didn't get a call back from a lot of potential employers in Birmingham.  Those stupid tests.  First of all, they are dumb.  How about asking me those questions during an interview so I can explain myself?  A lot of the answers they gave you to choose from were black and white while the questions did not have a black and white answer.  Many of the questions were also worded so poorly that no answer would ever be appropriate enough.  I told this to my manager and asked her to help me out with the assessment test this time around so I wouldn't fail again.  She did and after it was over she agreed that the questions were lame.  She was a department manager that had been there well over twenty years and even she didn't know the answer to some of their questions.  I felt validated.

But, with her help I passed and she even said she would put in for me to make the highest salary available, which I thought was really awesome of her.  Actually, she was one of the reasons I didn't like working there.  She's slightly cold and not easy to talk to or joke around with but I guess overall she was a nice lady (as evidenced by the salary raise).  She said I wouldn't be able to start until the beginning of the next month but I was fine with that.  It would give me time to process the fact that I was going to be working there again.  As I left the building, I had a sinking feeling.  All those negative memories of working there starting flooding back, yet, once again, with no real solid reason why that place sucked balls.  I'm sure all will be revealed in time.

But it doesn't stop there.... 

Wouldn't you know I got yet another out of the blue call from my former supervisor from the bingo facility.  They are planning on reopening again.  The company tried to pull this shizzle once before, which resulted in me totally dumping my diet due to a depression over having to return to that dump.  As soon as they said they were going to reopen, they didn't.  And here they are, trying it again, asking if I'm available.  "There's a good chance we'll be shut down again," he added.  Well, if the idea of going back to that smoke-filled clusterfudge of mullet-headed hillbillies and and old money grannies wasn't tantalizing enough, knowing the place will probably be shut down as soon as they open up really sweetens the pot for me.  All this after I just secured a new job.  After my former supervisor helped me fill out an application and pulled her weight to get me the highest salary within my position. 

timing timing timing.

If I want to think about it logically, the best choice would be to go back.  Forty hours.  Better pay.  Benefits.  But what's more vital to me at this point in my so-called-life?  Money or mental stability?  Sure, I might be earning more but what would I do with that extra cash but waste it on Sara Lee frozen cheesecakes and a glock to finish myself off.  No, maybe sacrificing buying material goods to clutter up my room with will be worth it if I can clear the rubbish from my head.  It's all so annoying but I'm going to try to deal with it the best I can.  Part-time work will probably be better for me anyway because I think I want to go back to school.  I will have to get a grant and/or scholarships to go to school because I certainly can't be adding on any more student loan debt but if I can afford school, I will be going back.  I actually kind of want to.  This whole real world experience isn't for me.  Not now, anyway.  I think I'd be much more comfortable sitting at a desk rather than sweeping up after a-hole gamblers.

It'll be real nice when I can find some employment stability.   

Spasms

I woke up last Saturday and went to the bathroom.  After I peed, I put my hands on my hips and dipped my head back to stretch my back.  Big mistake.  A tiny explosion of pain blossomed across my lower back, sending my head forward causing me to grab onto the sink to catch my balance.  I stood hunched over as the pain pooled to every corner of my lower and middle back and hugged at my sides.  The pain momentarily stopped my breath and as the pinching settled into me, I tried to catch my breath.  It only made the pain worse.  I hobbled back into bed and hoped the pain would go away, that maybe I had simply stretched too hard too fast after being asleep and settled into sleep, that maybe it was a temporary pull of a muscle and it would stop hurting after a while.  It didn't!

This isn't the first time I've had back trouble.  Several years ago I had lower back pain that nearly incapacitated me.  I took medication but never saw a doctor or anything.  I always assumed it was the way I slept the night before or something of that nature.  And as mysteriously and suddenly as the pain came, it left.  And now I'm hurting again, although I know it was caused by my improper stretching.  It still sucks.  I took it easy the rest of the weekend, staying in bed watching a supernatural movie marathon on Lifetime (shut up).  On Sunday, I ached as I watched a few zombie movie commentaries.  It's kind of weird how time flies when you're paralyzed to your bed and learning about undead philosophy.

The pain was better for about a day and then it started hurting again and to make things even better, I got up a few mornings ago and hurt my back again.  I suppose any progress I might have made was quickly crushed as I found myself in major pain again.  I'm sitting in bed right now, a heating pad pressed between my eighty-four-year old man back and two fluffy pillows.  It hurts to breathe, dude!  I swear I'm deteriorating.

In completely unrelated news, I went back to Birmingham a few weeks ago for a job interview.  When I was at my sister's house, I applied to approximately thirty businesses and only got a call back from one.  I didn't do very well during the interview but I was still hopeful, perhaps even positive, that I would get the job.  I didn't.  Suck on that, positive people.  Positivity doesn't work.  So, I went back home dejected.  About two weeks later, I got a call back from another business I had applied to.  They called me in for an interview so that night I packed all my junk and went back to my sister's house the next day.  After resting from the nearly 200 mile trip, I went into the interview and killed it.

The lady who interviewed me had a slight hunchback and ashy hands.  Her untucked, outstretched and faded blue polo shirt hung over her ill-fitting khaki pants.  It was a lame customer service job, something I previously swore I would never do again but seeing as I was desperate for any kind of work, I was just happy to be called back by someone.  Plus, I know customer service.  Yes, I know my writing makes me seem like this huge jerk that no one can get along with but I assure you I'm not like this in person.  I can turn on the charm.  And did I ever!  She threw the usual customer service oriented questions my way and I threw the answers back at her with all grace and confidence of a seasoned customer service associate, which I am.  Then, she told me the job would be part-time.  Crap.  I couldn't support myself on that.

After the interview was over, I was a bit disappointed but decided to use my time in Birmingham to look for other work while I was there.  Maybe go through the paper, shoot some more resumes off to different companies, make the most of my time there instead of driving the near 200 more miles back home.  But, after I looked online and then through the paper and saw nothing, I decided to go back home anyway.  Shannon came home from work and started grilling me about jobs and I realized I didn't want to stay with her any longer than I needed to and I just felt like there was no reason for me to stay anyway.  So, I went back home.

The next day, I got a call from another company I had applied for.  Great.  This was Friday and they wanted me to come in on Monday for a...wait for it...group interview.  No thank you.  I agreed, not realizing what the lady had said until after I had hung up.  The anxiety creeped in.  It's rough enough trying to do an interview one on one, much less in front of a group of other people trying to get the same job as you.  I quickly realized I would probably have a panic attack so I called back the next day and politely withdrew my application, even going so far as to apologize for causing any inconvenience.  The dude hung up on me.  I was annoyed the rest of the day but I felt better knowing I wouldn't be working for jerks like that.  I felt like I had made the right decision.  I then made the decision that I wouldn't take that customer service job, either.  Sure, I could try to find another part-time job but it took four months just to find that one and there was no guarantee I'd find another, much less one that would work around someone else's schedule.  I decided to just wait it out until I found a full-time job.

So, I waited patiently for the customer service job to call and offer me a position.  I knew they were going to call back because I was fantastic in the interview.  Now, those who know me know I am not one to brag.  I don't think highly of myself and am conceited in no way whatsoever so when I say I was amazing, you know that I was.  Well, Monday came along and I didn't hear anything.  Then, Tuesday.  Then, Wednesday. They never called.  I was dumbfounded, flabbergasted, abashed, nonplussed and, if I'm going to be honest, a little gassy.  I couldn't believe they didn't call me back, especially after the ashy lady who interviewed me even suggested me for a higher position than the one I interviewed for!  I can't say I was upset not to have the job.  I was upset that they did not want to have me.

So, back to zero.

I'm thinking about becoming an escort.  You know, for people who are into chubby guys with an aversion to sunlight and leafy green vegetables.  That is, assuming I could put my back into it.

Zombie Honeymoon (2004) Review

In Sickness and in Health

Denise and Danny are newlyweds who are starting their new lives as one flesh.  Unfortunately, things get messy when Danny is attacked by a zombie and slowly turns into one.  Will Denise stick with Danny, even when he begins to rot and his hunger for human flesh grows too strong to ignore?

This is probably the first romantic zombie movie I've ever seen and definitely the first zombie movie that's based on true events.  Well, the zombie part isn't true but the characters of Denise and Danny are based on the director's real life sister and brother-in-law.  In fact, the entire movie reflects their real lives together.  The real Danny and Denise were newly weds who quit their jobs to move to Portugal.  Danny was a surfer and wanted to live where the waves were beautiful and accessible.  Right before they were supposed to leave, Danny died in a surfing accident.  The director created this movie as a valentine for his sister and her strength and ability to get through such a tragic loss.

As with the real people, Denise and Danny quit their jobs and beginning to build a married life together.  One day, at the beach, a zombie emerges from the waves and attacks Danny.  He dies in the hospital but then comes back to life.  Mistaken for a miracle, Danny is actually slowly undergoing a transformation into a zombie.  Soon, it becomes apparent that Danny is not quite okay when Denise catches him munching on a fat neighbor.  From then on, Denise struggles with this new found kink in their plan as Danny struggles (and often fails) not to eat people.

What I liked about this movie was the character development.  I really cared about Denise and Danny and really rooted for them.  The film wouldn't have worked if these two characters weren't likable.  The chemistry was great between the two leads as well.  I could really see the connection between them and almost read the heartbreak on Denise's face when the ugly truth about Danny's condition came out.  In fact, the movie slowly burns along and the zombie action doesn't take place until about halfway through the movie.  The director took the time for us to get to know these people and care about them before plunging them into terror.

Even the zombie mayhem wasn't overly done.  This isn't a typical zombie splatter fest.  Yes, there as blood and even a bit of gore but it was controlled and not done just for the sake of gore.  The focus here was not on eating hearts, but breaking them.  

My only problem with the movie was the uneven mix of drama, comedy and horror.  For example, after Denise catches Danny during one of his all you can eat body buffets, it is very much played out like he's been cheating on her.  Denise is frightened and disgusted and in a bit of shock.  Danny, covered in blood, tries to calm her down and explain his actions to her.  The tension is real and thick.  After a great deal of hesitation on Denise's part, she decides to work it out with Danny.  Suddenly, the couple's friends ring their doorbell and from there they launch into a bumbling, comedic clean up scene where they try to wash the blood off the floor and hide the dead body in the bathroom.  These kinds of jostling transitions in mood didn't feel right to me.  It almost felt like the flick didn't know where to go with its direction and so it went everywhere.  That's really only a minor peeve, though.  Overall, a great flick and a romantic and kind of sad one as well.

If you like your love notes written with blood and brain matter, you might enjoy this movie.

4 out of 5.

Comparaplegic

So, I included the previous posts kind of as a back story so that people could get a better idea of where I'm coming from when it comes to writing.  I think they sum up my thoughts and feelings (and insecurities) on the craft pretty well.  Now that I've kind of caught you and myself up on the subject, here's a more recent rumination on writing.

I went to see the ladies from one of my previous jobs a few weeks ago.  I saw them right before I left for Birmingham because I was so hopeful that I'd find a job there and not return back home and I wouldn't see them for a while.  I needed to pick up the book that had my essay published in it.  I let them borrow it to read my essay.  I had put off going back there because of my weight gain.  I mean, those ladies are awesome and I enjoyed working with them and even visiting them after I had left the job but they were still ladies, southern ladies who liked to gossip.  The last time I visited them to give them the book, they had raved about how great I looked.  I had lost weight and my face was looking particularly clear and smooth during my visit.  I didn't want to go back there looking gross.  Not only would I spoil that last image they had of me but I'm sure they'd talk.  They loved to talk smack about people.  I wouldn't want my last visit to be the one they talked about over and over again.  "Gosh, Brannon's really packed on the pounds, hasn't he?"  "Yeah, all those greasy foods have made him fat and clogged his pores!"  Of course, I could be wrong.  Maybe they wouldn't talk about me.  But, considering the fact that they all talk about each other made me think otherwise.

But, since I was leaving for a long time (I thought), I decided to get my book back and see them one last time before I departed.

I asked them what they thought and they all really liked it.  It made me feel really good to hear that.  They said they even showed it to their boss and he laughed so hard he started crying.  Now, I don't know if that was an exaggeration ('cause it wasn't that funny) or if he is just really sensitive to snarky writing but it still made me feel really good either way.  Of course, that was the first time they had ever read anything I had written so maybe they were just impressed that I could put together a story at all but it still made me smile.  You know what my mom said when she finished reading the story?  "Thanks for making me look bad."  How supportive, eh?  Not only was my mom in the story for about two seconds but the part i wrote about her had nothing to do with the overall message.  So, I was glad to hear something positive from someone else for a change.

It just feels good to have my writing recognized and even somewhat praised.  I have this constant struggle with myself to realize or reject the fact that I can write.  I know it sounds like old news because I'm always talking about it but I talk about it because that nagging doubt in my head never goes away.  I'm constantly worried that someone will find out I'm a hack, that even if I am talented, the talent will slip away eventually.  Plus, I've never put together anything more ambitious than three essays for my nonfiction writing class in college.  I've never written a book or anything more than a short story here or there.  I don't know how to put together a story and I don't have ideas that flow out of me.  This is what makes me question my writing capabilities.  Shouldn't writers be able to write about anything?  Wouldn't real talent shine through the description on how to brush your teeth or when writing about the mundane task of ordering a pizza over the phone? 

Maybe it's not even about my writing but just about being insecure.  It's not just writing.  It's my animations and drawings and the way I am as a person.  I basically don't feel good enough at anything I do.  I've basically never felt good enough.  It's kind of weird because it's not like I haven't been encouraged over the years.  All my art teachers in school said I should pursue it in college.  And when I started writing, I had some encouragement there as well.  My nonfiction writing teacher told me to keep writing.  Why would he do that if I sucked?  I can still remember him coming up to me and saying, "This is a damn good essay" and the almost dizzying good feeling that came over me.  So, why is it that I still feel inadequate?

Maybe it could be the fact that I always compare myself to everyone else.  If I could simply recognize my abilities instead of comparing them to someone who is better, I wouldn't feel so bad.  The truth is, someone will always be better than me.  No matter how great I become, if I do become great at all, I still won't be as good as the next writer or artist or comedian or serial killer.  I just have a hard time separating myself from everyone else.  It's like I'm crippled by my inability to just recognize myself in my own capacity to write or draw or whatever else I do, frozen by a lack of faith in myself and my art.  If only I could just be okay with what I do.  If only I could strive to do the best work I can do, not the best work someone else can do.  I just need to be the best I can be because, really, I am all that I have.  To wish I could be as talented as someone else is like wishing I had wings to fly like a bird or fins so I could swim like a fish.  It's impossible for me to be that good because I'm simply not built that way.  I just need to learn how to use these arms and these legs and these abilities instead of wishing for other qualities that I will never possess.    I just don't know how to go about doing that.

On Writing VI

Written September 2009.

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 many specific instances of dialogue 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.  They say to know your audience.  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.  Switching gears from books to television shows, 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.

On Writing V

Written February 2009.

It’s weird to realize I’ve had my physical journal for around three years now.  I bought it when I first came to college.  I thought those moleskin journals were artsy and sophisticated so I picked one up.  And yet it’s not even halfway full.  It’s not like I haven’t been writing.  I’ve done plenty of that.  I just mostly type on my MacBook.  I guess I just have so much to say that if I were to write it all down by hand, I’d develop carpal tunnel for sure.  It’s just easier to simply type everything out.  But I still genuinely enjoy writing by hand.  Plus, it’s a lot more convenient to carry about my small, physical journal than it is my MacBook when I’m struck with inspiration.  Mostly, I guess the physical journal is more for note taking, for jotting down ideas when a great line pops into my head.  It wasn’t meant to be used to write entire pieces of writing, although I have done that on occasion.  I’ve written entire poems and stories, wholly and unchanged before in the physical journal.  I suppose it just all depends on how inspired and passionate I am about what I’m talking about.  I can be moved to write from one line to four pages at a time. 

But I’m not inspired nor passionate anymore.

Maybe I’m too distracted?  Or perhaps I’ve purged all of that passion already?  Maybe there’s nothing left to bring up and out?  I’m sure there is (at least I hope so) but there must be something blocking my brain.  I haven’t written any good quality poetry or reflections lately and it saddens me.  I look back on old poems and essays and it’s like reading a stranger’s words.  I don’t remember writing a lot of them, almost like someone took over my hand, as if I was being possessed by the words I was writing.  Sometimes I read some of my old work and I impress myself.  Wow, how did I come up with that?  How was I able to make the words flow?  And the most important question is how can I do that again?  I haven’t impressed myself lately.  Sometimes I feel like I’ve lost it but how can I have lost it when I continually use it?  They say “If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it” but I write daily.  It’s frustrating and sometimes I feel like God has given me talent by inches.  He holds an invisible string that is slacked and stiffened according to His mood, or perhaps, my work.  It’s not like I’m blaming God for my sudden slump but since I believe talent is a gift from God, I feel like He must have a hand in my hampered abilities.  Perhaps I haven’t paid Him back in praise and now He’s repossessing the vehicle for my emotional expression?  No, I’m sure it’s not God.  He has plenty of talent to toss around and He has given us the free will to use (or abuse) that talent how we see fit.  It’s just me.  I’m sure it’s just people, places, and my own putridness that help to conspire against any progression of talent.

And it’s not like I expect everything I write to be a masterpiece but I just wish my writing was consistently good, that there was always a nugget of knowledge embedded in the zombie metaphors and blood spattered similes.  I want my writing to have purpose.  What good is it to write pretty poetry that exemplifies empty emotions?  What good is it to write a fancy story that doesn’t promote passion? 

I am not unique.  I do not see things in a totally original way but I do see things quite differently than others and I try to show that through my writing.  ‘Cause I think the way I see things requires and open mind and that’s really all I’m asking for, for my writing to open up people’s minds, to get them to think just a bit harder because if they think harder, hopefully, they’ll think smarter and thinking smarter will lead to more understanding which will lead to less fear which will lead to less hate.  And less hate will open up a whole new world for all of us.

On Writing IV

Written January 2009.

I’m finding myself at a loss for words…yet again.  With the exception of the last few days, I sit in front of my screen and I open up my word document with all of these topics I want to discuss and I am so overwhelmed because I don’t know where to start.  If I’m not passionate about a subject, I can’t discuss it and articulate what I want to say in the manner in which I want to present to others.  This is where I get locked up and bogged down because while I don’t feel good about writing on a certain subject, other topics continue to flood my mind and they won’t leave until I have written it out.  So, here I am, writing down ideas and not expounding upon them.  The ideas pile up and I start to feel swamped with subjects and I get mentally constipated. I guess my only option is to simply rough it out.  Push through and write about something even if I’m not feeling it.

I kind of have a hierarchy of importance when it comes to the things I want to talk about.  There’s the every day observations that kind of just come to me that aren’t necessarily important.  And then it progresses to poetry to personal reflections about myself to the way I see the world to short stories.  And the unimportant stuff I usually write about, even if it isn’t the spectacularly sweeping masterpiece I had hoped it would be.  The important stuff I refuse to write half-heartedly.  I think there’s some stuff in my head too important to mishandle.  Stuff so important that if I don’t express it in the proper manner, the meaning might be lost or misunderstood.  Although I don’t think my ideas are the most amazing and my delivery the most heart melting, I still think it all deserves the best I can give to it. 

I think this works out perfectly.  In keeping with my resolution to write daily, I can go through my list of topics and get crackin’!  If I’m not feeling particularly in the mood to write, I can at least pick a topic that I feel is least important and write about it and post it and at least get it out of my head and out of my word document.  Did you know that I have nineteen Word document pages of stuff I want to talk about?  I mean, it’s not all like one sentence ideas.  A lot of it is unfinished entries, unfinished poetry and the beginnings of stories but that’s still a massive load!  And I really need to start releasing some of this.  I like to think this Word document is a physical representation of my head.  It is cluttered and filled with some important stuff and some not so important stuff and mostly stuff that just needs to be let go.