Cheesy Crackers

Flu, Blah

2012-01-03T22:04:00.000-08:00

So, I’m sick. As much as I feel like crap at the moment, I also feel kind of relaxed. Sure, I probably feel this way because my entire body is so busy fighting off disease that it can’t process my five senses. This leaves my poor brain to sift through a mixed set of neural messages, which ultimately results in mass cranial confusion and then euphoria - in the wake of impending death.

Or maybe it's simply that the flu just drained me of all energy... and good ways to describe the flu, apparently.

There are a few other good things about being sick: the long hours under the covers, the chicken noodle soup breaks, and the constant calls from my parents and girlfriend that break me from my naps in order to remind me to take medication - medicine that I have already taken just an hour prior to their call. The last one may seem annoying and/or tedious, and they are. But they are also reminders that I'm not completely alone, even though my illness forces me inside and away from others.

Bah, how sentimental. Must be the flu that's talking.

I have a lot to say about things, apparently.

2012-01-01T12:33:00.000-08:00

It's the start of a new year, and around this time I make it a point to do something I haven't gotten around to in 12 months, which is to organize. As mundane and boring as that seems, I actually look forward to the work. One of the tasks that I want to do is to organize my e-mail. This is the chance to make filters and labels to reduce clutter in my inbox. I can even color some of the more important messages. The end goal is to make my inbox look like something akin to a color swatch. Once that happens, I can spot e-mails in a manner that is as accurate as it is pretty.

Still, it requires a lot of work, and I plan on spending about an hour a day to get this done. But, believe it or not, I'm used to this level of drudgery - not just from doing several iterations of the same algebra problem, but from the video games I enjoy. MMOs are a good example of the latter. In games like these you, as the all powerful, world saving adventurer, are sometimes tasked to collect 10 digital hides from 10 digital boars, then run them back to a digital tanner in a digital town for 10 digital gold. To be successful in such a game, you have to repeat quests like these ad naseum. How heroic! Still, the game is good at selling tasks like this as "fun." You are not only compelled to do them, but are convinced that there is a sense of accomplishment in their completion.

Sure, collecting hides is menial work, far less appealing than slaying a centaur turtle (a Turtaur?), and absolutely results in no benefit to life outside the game as a whole, but a player is put in the mindset that work itself is a game. Once that mindset is established, a person could will him or herself to do anything. It's a common trick that overachievers use to get through the bonus homework that their parents force upon them. The trick is to figure out how to apply that to the real world, which is quite the task, isn't it?

But I digress.

This post started out with color coding e-mails, huh? Damn. All I wanted to do was talk about how lame my life is and I end up writing mini op-ed piece.

The junk in my trunk (and my life, thus far)

2011-12-22T21:47:00.000-08:00

As I sit down to write this post, I notice a barely used scanner on my desk. It’s one of those handheld ones shaped sort of like a wand, with a control panel of buttons on one side and couple of slits on the opposite, business end where the scanner takes its images. It costs $99, plus tax. I’ve only used it twice.

And now that I’m in the thick of writing, I am starting to see even more of the crap that I’ve accumulated in the three short months that I have lived on my own. I can name a few more that are lying around, and these are just on my desk:

A USB gamepad that I took from my parent’s house to play games on my PC, but never used it because most of the games I wanted to play don’t support the thing.
Several caps from jars of various moisturizers and creams I use to combat my psoriasis.
A stack of cards, which includes expired driver’s licenses, a Dave and Buster’s Power Card, to a MyPanera card that I totally thought I had lost.
The first four books of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire saga. I’m glad to say that I’ve started A Game of Thrones and I’m totally digging it.
Birthday cards from my birthday/housewarming party last October. I have yet to use the Best Buy gift card that my good buddy, Robert, had given me.
Several post-it notes containing names of pop culture icons, and some containing freakish drawings that I can only guess were created in a state of drunkenness. I have yet to put them up on a memory board so I can remember how awesome that party was.

I know comedy usually works in three’s, but there is so much stuff worth mentioning I am barely able to restrict myself to just six. 6 = 3 X 2... so maybe that means my list is twice as funny? Doubt it. At least I get to show the extent of how messy my life has gotten.

It’s my mess, though. It’s nice to see how I’ve naturally gathered things that say, “This is who I am, and this is what I’m about.” When I lived with my parents, even with my own bedroom, I still felt like my identity was at odds with the other strong personalities in the house. I’m glad I finally have a place where my ego can stretch out a bit. Hell, I might even grow from this.

That’s too positive of a statement, I think. Positive statements give me the willies. But, it’s kind of a fun feeling to have, this personal growth thing. I feel like this junk kind of represents the experience I’ve collected in this stage of my life. Still, I better learn to organize, or all of this experience (and stuff) is going to overwhelm me. Also, my girlfriend would appreciate being able to walk through my apartment without tripping over something.

As for me... I like an unexpected fall now and again.

Is there a lotion for apathy?

2011-09-23T18:32:00.001-07:00

Thank goodness I’m not susceptible to paper cuts. I've lucked out on the genetic lottery, with a skin that’s tougher than average. This is probably due to its tendency to wrinkle in thick layers. It’s definitely saved me from a lot of close calls with the copier. Granted, I also end up with skin texture that is somewhat smoother than a dried peach. But, I'm less likely to moisturize myself with my blood, so I’d say that’s a win.

Still, my workstation is full of loose paper - ready to cut through my natural armor with their ragged edges. Logic would suggest that I could reduce the chance of harm by organizing my area. But my will to do that is weaker than my capacity to reason. It's also way flabbier than my rough, dermal exterior.

But I'm working on the Craft of Effort. I'm finding myself celebrating small achievements, like waking up on time or going for a walk. It's these little things that count. Working on this blog post deserves some self praise, even if I don't finish it. It's all about doing anything that will make me feel productive.

It's these little things that will kick the more damaging cut of depression.

I know I'll need a lot of time and a lot of rubbing against my own resistance. It's kind of like a callous, actually. But, this callous is all mental - meant to protect against self-defeat and lethargy. It's gonna have to be a thick barrier but, as long as I keep going, it'll likely get there.

This one's for my mom.

2011-01-25T18:28:00.000-08:00

I've mentioned my sister, Joan, here a few times and anyone who has known me knows what all that entails. There's no doubt that her condition has been very difficult for myself and my family, as would any family that had a member that required constant care.

This isn't about my sister, though. This one is about my mother, Josie.

While I was a student at UC Riverside, I had a conversation with a visiting professor to which the subject about my sister and how my family came up. As the conversation got rolling, to the point where we had ended up in his office and sitting in chairs, I told him about my mom, and how she took care of her.

He responded by saying, "Your mother is a saint."

I can agree with what he said, in the sense that my mother is wholly selfless when it comes to my sister. She's over fifty, and she takes care of what is essentially a toddler in a 27-year-old's body. She will move her from her bed to the bathroom, then back. She grooms her. She talks to her in playful ways that embarrass me. Even as I write this, my sister groans loudly, and my mom responds with her own playful sounds. "Ooy," she says at this moment, "What iiis it? I will beeee there, daarrling."

In better days, when my sister was more mobile and could eat solids, the rest of the family helped share the burden of her care. But in my sister's current state, only my mom and my dad know how to operate her g-tube. I think I do a decent job with the suction machine, used to remove the saliva that Joan can't swallow.

Still, it's my mother that does most of the work, despite her own disabilities. She once had a job at the INS doing paper work (she even processed Martin Short's papers) until her constricted spine, that she had since birth, finally damaged some nerves, almost paralyzing her completely. With time, she is able to walk, but if she needs to move for long periods she has to take a cane with her.

"I see this as a blessing," she once told me, "because now I have more time to take care of Joan." See? Selfless.

Still, she is my mother, and has all the quirks and annoying ticks that any child notices about their parent. She's very judgmental, and emotional to boot... a deadly combination. She mothers me way too much, even when I don't want the help. And her stories (not the ones about her first experiences in the US, they're amazing [and the inspiration for my book/a few stories]. No, just the mundane stuff, especially any kind of gossip) are boring, and she takes way too long to get to the point. Looks like I take a bit after my mother. Sigh.

Regardless of how I or my other two siblings (I obviously can't speak for them) feel about her at her worst, I have to give my gratitude to her for everything else. Though I worry about how her caretaker duties are affecting her own sanity and health, there's no doubt that my family would have fallen apart if she had not stepped up. Also, there is no doubt that Joan would not have lived as long as she does without my mom's constant attention and expressions of love. And, for me, I don't have to focus my worries to my sister, and instead turn it on my own life.

Thank you, Mom.

Update:

Now, with an audio recording!

A Memory Musing

2010-12-13T20:54:00.000-08:00

Let me tell you of a place in my mind.

It is Huntington Beach, or at least it is of one that I have pulled from memory. The sand is hot because it is midday and, unlike most places in my mind, the sky is very sunny. I step onto the sand with no shoes on. It does not burn. There are a lot of thick callouses on my feet. I am seven-years-old, and I walk barefoot almost any chance I get. Even the broken glass underneath the sand does not bother me, they just dent my scaly feet. It is 1989 in the middle of July. There is a lot of broken glass these days. This is the Orange County that I remember. This is the Orange County that I will recall should I tell you that I lived there.

The sun sets as soon as I have both feet in the sand. There is a fire burning in a fire pit. I do not know if there were fire pits in 1989. I do not remember any. So, I submit this paragraph as imagination - an ideal. I walk to the fire pit. The heat from the fire begins to sting and broken glass still pokes at my feet. The fire itself is bright. It is all that I can see in this darkness. I am short at seven-years-old, the fire is as tall as my shoulders. There is a murmur behind the fire. They are the mixed voices of my family: parents, their siblings, my siblings, cousins, and their friends. Their sounds fill the quiet like an unseen wind ensemble. Only the fire snaps its resistance to the music.

This next part is also imagination. I reach the fire and sit next to it. I still can not see my family behind the fire. I do not know if they can see me. They do not speak to me. I do not bother to talk. My face grows hot from the fire. I close my eyes as I lean toward the fire. I feel all the dirt and salt and sand burn off my face. Warmth enters my lungs and bleeds into the rest of my body. I am coated by heat, surrounded by voices I can not hear, darkness I can not see, and glass shards I can not feel. My thoughts are gone. The only presence is the fire - its smoke holds a taint of sweetness from the burned wood.

Quotes - E.B. White

2010-09-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

I've been on a non-fiction kick lately so I pored through The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present, compiled by Phillip Lopate.

Here are a few words pulled from E.B. White's wonderful essay, The Ring of Time:

For the writers among us (or maybe for anyone, really)

It has been ambitious and plucky of me to attempt to describe what is indescribable, and I have failed, as I knew I would. But I have discharged my duty to society; and besides, a writer, like an acrobat, must occasionally try a stunt that is too much for him.

For everyone

The only sense that is common, in the long run, is the sense of change - and we all instinctively avoid it, and object to the passage of time, and would rather have none of it.

I've glossed over a lot of the essay, especially regarding the African-American Civil Rights Movement (which has, apparently, been left out of some of the reproductions found online). Overall, the essay is masterfully written, and well worth reading in its entirety.

Oh, and "plucky" is a word that needs to grow into regular usage. Who's with me?

Huh? What?!

2010-09-02T16:23:00.000-07:00

If you’re observant enough, you can catch me staring at the ceiling, or a blank computer screen, or my fingernails, or the wall. If so, you’ve just caught me while I was lost in my mind. Ask me what I was doing, and I’d have a heck of a time trying to tell you.

Fact is, I was gone: from the room, from my senses, and from the moment.

Much of what brings this on eludes me. I’ve tried to think it through, to see where my absentmindedness came from, but I end up in the same place, and with my face pointed in the same direction: toward the ceiling, toward the blank computer screen, toward my fingernails…

While I can’t recall much from my thoughts of the problem, my bookshelf contains evidence of my search. “Dissociation” and “Stress” are words on some of the spines of my books. From what I gleaned by reading, my inattentiveness is how I cope with stress, a mechanism I used to survive some traumatic event as a kid.

Now, I haven’t seen a professional in a while so I’m not diagnosing myself, but this is something I want to explore a bit.

So, I’ve been affected by trauma. It’s something that I try not to admit because I’m afraid I’d use it to get pity, and I hate it when I do that. But, I’ll make that claim for the sake of this topic. I guess the trauma involves my sister's, Joan's, declining health, or the witnessing of it. It’s a topic that I have touched on before, so I won’t go through much of it now. I don’t feel like talking about it anyway.

Even thinking on it for a minute, I can see how I moved myself inward, trying to ignore the partially garbled words of her decayed speech, and successfully ignoring her when her speech turned into garbled moans. It was easier to stare at the wall and pretend that it emitted a white noise, coating all of my senses, drawing me away from the reality of her condition. At the few moments when I'm aware and I hear her gargle her spit, I cringe. It's a reaction that I can’t help.

Perhaps it’s my awkward way of mourning for what she’s lost. I'd like to think so, at least.

I don’t think that this trauma is the sole cause for my loopy mind. I haven’t ruled out the lack of sleep, poor diet, the Internet, and that awful commute on the 91 freeway as culprits or co-conspirators. Also, there’s only so much I can glean from this introspection before I start navel gazing.

And if you see me do that, be kind and poke me on the shoulder. Thanks!

If Only I Could

2010-03-28T02:07:00.000-07:00

The days I hate the most are when I hear my sister, Joan, cry from her room. Depending on how urgently she needs something, or how much pain she is in, her cries range from whimpers to loud groans. It's the only way she can communicate, having lost her speech to encephalitis (so I've been told) back when she was about nine or ten years old.

What bothers me about those days is the feeling of helplessness. It's been a long and frustrating path of deterioration for her: she lost her ability to walk about seven years back, and her ability to swallow food two years back (this event, in particular, I can write volumes on... when I'm ready). I spent most of my adolescence caring for her. Both of my parents worked at the time. When I came home from school, I waited for her bus; led her to the bathroom, back when she could walk; fed her, back when she could eat; and sat with her in front of the TV. Then I stopped, either because I was too busy or I was tired of the responsibility. Between then and now, I've forgotten how to care for her. It wouldn't matter anyway; given her current state, I wouldn't know what to do for her.

Guilt sets in too. I made the decision to stop, or so I remember. If I was busy, then I stopped because I preferred my own activities over my sister. If I was sick of caring for her, then I placed my need to stop over her needs. Either way, the guilt is persistent and hard to shake off. And it gets worse as she regresses.

What used to keep me sane when I heard or saw Joan was a sense of entitlement. I traded in most of my teen years, so I saw it fair to break away from my responsibilities to her. I earned my right to be guilt-free, I thought. I learned since that this freedom isn't attained that easily or, more likely, at all. I've been sad since she became ill, and will probably be sad even after she's gone. So I live, knowing that I don't have a choice. To move forward knowing that I have little control is the closest I can ever get to freedom, or sanity.

I hope Joan knows this too. There are only a few things she concerns herself with: she's in pain and she groans to let us know; though her strength has faded a bit, she still likes to smile and laugh (especially when she watches "I Love Lucy"); and she continues to see each day, as long as she's here. At least, I hope so. If she worries about her condition, I don't know if I can deal with it.

[Update]
Now with audio!

Up Late

2010-01-27T01:46:00.000-08:00

Anxiety has gotten the better of me again, so I'm awake when I really want and need sleep.

What am I so worked up about? A lot, it so happens. I wish I have the energy to explain it all, and I hope to do so in the future. Part of why I mention this now is so I can remind myself to elaborate.

However, I will say this: every time something different happens, beyond the space of my room, my mind obsesses over it. When I start a new book, I lose sleep. When I meet a new friend, I can't rest. When I try a new sleep schedule (for, you know, like a job), I might as well forget about it because I'll never pass out.

In the end, I am left with a feeling that I can't put down.

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2010-01-24T03:24:00.001-08:00

Cheesy Crackers: More Free, More Me

Less Focus, For Now. I'll figure out a structure and style that works for me, eventually. Preferably one that isn't wordy, but isn't forced either.

If any of that makes any sense. Which brings me to this:

Coming Soon[er or later]: A Blog Post In Which I Am Satisfied With Its Coherency

A Milestone

2010-01-23T13:51:00.001-08:00

Last night, I bought books off of Half.com and Amazon Marketplace, via Cheapesttextbooks.com.

I worry that they will rip me off and I won't see my money or my books. Still, I can check off "Saving Ridiculous Amounts of Money Through Unknown, Online Sellers" from my list. I am now aware of one more piece of the Internet; one step closer to knowing what my peers, most surely, have already known for years.

I feel it is my duty to catch up. I can't lag too far behind the times - older people need me.

2010-01-20T15:52:00.000-08:00

In my mind, embarrassment has a value and is created with each post I make here. And, in my mind, its value can degrade over time.

In this case, I like to hide for a few months until the embarrassment dissipates. Then I'll post something else - that gives me a new reason to hide again.

I can also bury the value through consistent posting. You know, that whole law of diminishing returns deal. People will get so used to my weirdness and idiocy that they'll take it as something normal.

Maybe I'll try the latter this time.

Just Short

2010-01-20T15:32:00.000-08:00

Perhaps, like my stature, my ability to communicate is rather short.

I think big when I go through my day. I think about, especially when I was younger, cool situations that I could be in, like I was in a TV show. And there has been more than one instance when I came to some kind of philosophical thought that was worth a good essay or two. But in the end, all I'm willing to put down is a summary of my thoughts, messily packed in a few sentences.

I don't even know if I'm making any sense at this moment, and I've kept myself from acting because of it. Am I afraid? Am I confused? Maybe a little bit of both. I've been so used to having other people tell me what to do that I freeze in place when I want to command myself.

Does any of this make sense? Probably not, but I suppose I shouldn't care.

In publishing this, do I look like a fool? Should I care if I do?

Again, I suppose I shouldn't, but this goes against my feelings.

Late Night Musing

2010-01-20T01:18:00.000-08:00

Note the singular.

I'm sitting around - on a computer, in UCR, after 1AM.

This is a quick post since I haven't had the time to reflect... What I can say right now is that I feel a bit of nostalgia, regret, and confusion as I walk through the campus. Now, why do you think that is?

Something fun (and lucrative) to try.

2009-07-07T18:48:00.000-07:00

I was checking out The Mark on the Wall when I found a link to submission guidelines for - get this - a Norton Anthology of Hint Fiction.

Here is the first part of the post:

Tentatively scheduled for the fall of 2010, W.W. Norton will publish an anthology of Hint Fiction. What is Hint Fiction? It’s a story of 25 words or less that suggests a larger, more complex story. The thesis of the anthology is to prove that a story 25 words or less can have as much impact as a story 2,500 words or longer. The anthology will include between 100 and 150 stories. We want your best work.

Other things worth noting is that they're paying $25 for each story - with a limit of two submissions. Or you could submit three, if you're like me, and linked the guidelines to your blog or twitter, just like I'm doing right... now.

Delayed News

2009-06-23T02:11:00.000-07:00

I didn't want to mention anything until I figured out all my grades, since it would be embarrassing enough to renege if things turned south after this announcement. However, the results are in, so...

I graduated from the University of California - Riverside with a Bachelor's of Arts in Creative Writing.

That was fun to type. I think I'll open up a word document and type it all again a dozen more times.

An Old Dinosaur

2009-05-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

I was feeling self conscious this morning, so I looked up my name on the internet and found this old thing. It's pretty bad stuff, but I figure it's worth sharing for a chuckle or two.

However, even though the writing is crude, I can remember the passion that drove me to create. I'm a better at the craft now, but I've lost that energy.

I didn't know any better then, so I had blindly put down words on the page without much regard to rhythm, images, or even comprehension - which is probably why I enjoyed making the contents for that web page. I know more now, but my writing has slowed down in a big way.

At any rate, enjoy the past while I try to figure out the login for the site, because it's going down as soon as I find it. If I ever do...

Stomachs and Crickets

2009-05-12T04:28:00.000-07:00

I can't sleep. My stomach feels like it's running circles under my lungs. I take short breaths as I listen to the crickets chirp. If I was tired, the sound would seem distant, filtered by the fog of my drowsiness. But the chirping is loud. I'm not bothered by the noise, however, so much as the fact that I'm alert. I can't relax.

Is it because I have a lot on my mind? Sure. There is a journalism class that I'd rather sleep through, a Shakespeare lecture I haven't read for, and a creative non-fiction class late in the evening. The last one is especially stressful because I have to critique essays I haven't looked at yet. I also have my own essay up for scrutiny, which is horrible.

I had proposed something different. It was supposed to be a fun paper describing the awesomeness of my plain looks. I had good conversations with friends that I wanted to include in the essay, and I had a point that I was excited to convey: you don't have to jazz yourself up to feel important (actual phrase under construction). However, I had a hard time writing about it. I kept getting bored of the prose and I struggled with concrete details. So, I wrote about the difficulty of writing concretely. I ended up submitting a three and a half page whine about how I can't write. At least, that's how I see it, kind of like this blog. Am I not whining right now?

But I digress. What is really bothering me is my fiction writing, which is not happening. It's my sudden obsession with details, or rather the lack of it in my writing that's causing this.

It used to be that if you let me do my thing, I would come back with a story that had mostly abstractions. "He was angry," "it didn't make sense," and "she liked to sing" made good statements but were backed up by sparse or weak concrete details like "he punched the wall," "they raised their eyebrows," or she hummed a lot." And I would have been fine with all that before. But lately it has bothered me. I would look at a phrase like "he punched the wall" and ask, "okay, so what?" or "what about it?" and realize that there are many answers to choose from. The number of options scared me.

It's a classic case of fearing what's new. Trying to write more concretely is forcing me to think in a way I'm not used to. My usual reaction to the unfamiliar is to hide - so I stop writing.

I'm having a hell of a time fighting the urge to run from the fear. It's hard to move forward when the default mindset is to stand still. But my tense stomach (developing ulcer?) and insomnia are pushing me to get out of this slump. I figure if I conquer this fear and get used to it, these physiological problems will go away. It's not the healthiest way to write, but I'll take what I can get.

Okay, I changed my mind.

2009-04-26T19:34:00.000-07:00

I’ve been blocked lately.

I’ve found myself cowering from the computer and its word processor. Coming up with words to express on paper feels like a chore. I can’t just throw everything down on the page and call it a day, no. I have to make sure that it’s coherent, not only to me, but to a professor, a classmate, or some friends. To do that is to tap into a part of my mind that’s sick of analyzing sentences and pulling out meaning or significance from them. The need to string ideas together, to create a flow of phrases that culminate into something useful or entertaining to the reader, has, I feel, taxed me so much that I’ve had to stop writing.

I’ve missed turning in a paper, a thesis submission, and many writing sessions on my notebook. I think it’s burnout, but I don’t want to call it that. I want to think that my mind is overwhelmed. My standards for my writing have changed. I demand more of it, but I don’t feel like I’ve improved to my expectations. Even this blog is starting to look like a gigantic mess to me. I am disheartened.

I hope this is just another problem to get through, a hitch to overcome if I am to ever call myself a writer. Framing it this way makes the whole thing seem less despairing, less pointless. It’s still painful though.

Yeah, yeah, yeah... Writing's hard. I really should just deal with it, huh?

I'm blocked because I'm not keeping my pen to the paper long enough.

Well, I guess it's time to go to work...

Into the Darkness I Go

2009-04-24T20:18:00.000-07:00

Updates

2008-12-16T10:44:00.000-08:00

Another quarter has ended at UCR. It was rather hectic, in the sense that I made it rather hectic. I tend to assume the metaphorical, and sometimes literal, fetal position every time I have to work on a homework assignment (see: procrastination). Sure, I destroy the opportunity to work comfortably, but I'll still do the job - once I'm sufficiently worried about passing the class.

It's like I want to see how much I can screw myself over before I finally get to work. Some people call it a fear of failure. A really smart professor had called it the fear of success. Either way, I've kept myself so busy from anxiety that I couldn't write here. Yet, I wonder how much I would write, even without the anxiety of school...

At any rate, here is a list of highlights:

Had a couple of English classes last quarter which practically beat a habit of reading into me. I read every day now. However, I think I'll shorten my leisure reading to twenty-five or fifty pages a day, instead of the one-hundred and fifty pages a night I had to read for class.

I can safely say that my writing has improved from a summer of reading and practice, along with last quarter's readings and practice, to the point that:
- I wrote a story that seems to have the potential to be published.
- I wrote a story that seems to be publishable as is.
Oh yeah, I moved to Riverside. Life has been more tolerable ever since.

A teacher suggested that I send one of my stories to a specific venue. I'm not sure if I should send it there, as I have read some of their stories and I think that my story would be a downer for them. I have doubts. Then again, I always have doubts.

Picking Things Apart

2008-10-20T18:33:00.000-07:00

One day, I hope to get it.

One day, I hope that all the years of taking in books on writing, seminars on writing, discussions on writing; poring through novels, publish short stories, unpublished short stories, short stories from workshops; and transmuting all those experiences into my free writes, outlines, shitty rough first drafts, and second-third-fourth-plus drafts will help me understand and write a good story.

In many ways, I hope that “mastery” in writing will become automatic, in the sense that improvement will come without an awareness of it. For a couple of years, I’ve tried to bend my consciousness to become a good writer. I have read stories/novels/books on writing, not to enjoy them but to dissect them. I peered through every sentence, looked at every word and tried to make sense of their organization to see how they achieved their effects. While it’s important to analyze text, I became obsessed over it. It was like cleaning grout from a tiled floor rather than a game of Where’s Waldo? I spent dozens of minutes per sentence. I didn’t get a lot of reading done. In the end, I kept giving up because of the frustration.

So, I’ve thrown away a little bit of the control freak inside of me. I’m less likely to initiate anxiety attacks. It’ll also keep me from repeatedly thudding my head against the wall, metaphorically speaking. But I’ll still maintain a keen eye into the workings of fiction. I just don’t want to look so close that I miss something.

Anxiety of Influence: A Play in One Act

2008-09-30T12:04:00.000-07:00

(Note: I am aware that I haven't followed the conventions of scriptwriting. Leave me be.)

ACT I

[SCENE: A dialog in MS Word that precedes some writing.]

Me 1:
What are you afraid of?

Me 2:
I don’t know. I just don’t think that any of my descriptions and details are any good.

Me 1:
Why not?

Me 2:
I don’t know, I think about all the effective writing I’ve read and I’m afraid.

Me 1:
Why?

Me 2:
I don’t know. I seem to be inspired by the words of other people, but when I try to write them myself, I get scared.

Me 1:
Shouldn’t you write anyway? Most of the people that you admire are dead.

Me 2:
I know. I still need to get used to it.

Me 1:
Why don’t you think about it for a minute. Sensory imagery and all that shit. Get into the zone, don’t worry about other people and how they write.

Me 2:
I know, I’ve heard that before, but I can’t help it.

Me 1:
Do it, you should. And you should really avoid continuing this conversation, all you’re doing is distracting yourself.

Me 2:
I know I am, I’m just afraid, that’s all.

Me 1:
I know, don’t worry about it. Just chill out and, again, work out the details in your head, live the scene and your head and report what you see. That’s all you need to do. You don’t have to worry about flowering it up. Trust that you will get it eventually.

Me 2:
I don’t know if I can.

Me 1:
Come on, at least try.

Me 2:
Okay… let me try.

THE END

Upon reflection, I realize that this blog entry has also been an exercise in distraction. Back to work!

Temporary Silence

2008-08-26T19:49:00.001-07:00

I just want to let you, my readers (both real and theoretical), know that I will be with limited internet access until Sunday. So, that means few or no updates until then.

See you next week!

I'll Need a New Character Sheet

2008-08-23T17:23:00.000-07:00

Characters have been the focus of my freewrites lately. I manage to write down a character's appearance, favorite childhood toy, sexual orientation, therapy bills, politics, savings accounts, and other things that come to mind, all in ten minutes. It's easy for me because I used to churn out these character statistics for sessions of Dungeons and Dragons.

These character sketches are not written well enough to make biographies, as I connect these traits through word/phrase association. Sometimes the combinations are pretty crazy thanks to my strange world view (e.g. a navy brat who likes to scratch her back with a philips screwdriver). Yet, they work out in the end. So, I've finally found a productive way to freewrite, which excites me.

This means that I can write new stories. I'm not very good with plotting ahead, so I rely on my characters to lead me through it. If the characters are strong enough, with many strange, yet believable quirks, they'll end up in good stories. At least, that's what I hope will happen. No worries.

I try not to stress over it. I've done that before, and it's only led me to nothing. So, I'm going to trust in the "practice makes perfect" cliché and stick to it. That's what I want to do. Maybe, that's all I can do.

Oh yeah, one more thing:

I have considered a change in my blog labels because they might be too generic. For example, there are posts that contain rants about my writing, and others that contain tips on writing - but they're both labeled "writing" because they're about my experience in writing. Do you think this is appropriate, or should I diversify my labels? Suggestions are welcome and appreciated. Thanks!

Just a Quote

2008-08-22T19:10:00.000-07:00

This isn't filler, I swear! It's just something that I feel is important.

So, here it is, from Ray Bradbury's essay, "Zen in the Art of Writing:"

What is the greatest reward a writer can have? Isn't it that day when someone rushes up to you, his face bursting with honesty, his eyes afire with admiration and cries, "That new story of yours was fine, really wonderful!"

Then and only then is writing worthwhile.

My conscious mind is trying to figure out whether this quote applies to me. Still, my subconscious felt a little giddy when I first read it.

Slushy

2008-08-17T23:41:00.000-07:00

I have a lot of folders related to writing in my computer. They have generic names like “Workshop Stories,” “Blogs,” and “Poems” - names that are simply labels to sort out all the writing that I do, like zip codes. However, only one of them is lovingly called “The Slush Pile.” Unlike an editor’s dreaded stack of unread manuscripts, this Slush Pile has a different meaning to me.

I keep any unfinished attempts at writing in this folder: a paragraph of description, two-sentence blog entries, half-baked character sketches, and incomplete short stories that are about a page long. I call those stories “false starts” because they start off great, until I lose momentum at about a page or two when I forget my training and listen to that inner critic, which always throws Kool-Aid at my un-laminated plans.

But putting the writing away in the Slush Pile helps to remind me that any writing that I do is important, whether it’s finished or not. Maybe I’ll improve my writing. That’s the hope anyway.

It's Like Time Travel

2008-08-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

Fahrenheit 451 author Ray Bradbury once wrote in his essay, “The Joy of Writing,” that writers should look to their zest, their gusto, as the most important item they should have. My interpretation of this “zest” is the stuff that brings a person to write in the first place, born of inspiration from works previously read, then enhanced by the environment (or vice versa). The writer’s work is supposed to be propelled by this hidden energy.

I may have lost this energy some time during my studies. Years of studying characterization, plotting, revising, and other craft elements, resulted in a level of polish in my writing, which I love. But I feel this has also led to more stiff, uninspired writing. There have been times when I felt overwhelmed by the work because there are so many writing elements to look after, to the point where I avoided writing altogether.

I look back to old stories and blog entries I’ve made throughout the years (the first posts are always fun), and I see the gusto that Bradbury wrote. I find certain genuineness about them. A voice, unhindered by the rules of writing, or even coherence, happily inhabits words written long ago. But, it’s a voice that I have abandoned because it was too wild to control. Besides, I’m not the same person that I was three years ago. It wouldn’t suit me now.

However, I should try to reconnect with my younger self. There’s a lot that he can teach me about the passion for writing.

[Small Update]
After I wrote this blog post, I found this essay by Holly Lisle that describes exactly what I tried to convey here, except far more eloquently. I also recommend reading the essay that proceeds it.

Because Cliffhanging Isn't One of My Strongest Traits

2008-08-10T00:58:00.000-07:00

I have a bad habit, and it’s screwing me up.

I procrastinate. As my readers, you know this. I don’t want to do things, even though I know I’d feel better if they’re done. I get depressed, and let myself slip into a rut, only to snap out of it when I feel that the last thread of my lifeline is about to break.

I love it, though. There’s a part of me that wants to see how close I can get to the edge – how miserable I can make myself before I do something productive to keep from feeling useless. Even though it’s stressful, rising from the brink is fun. It’s an existential game of “Chicken.” Indiana Jones could probably relate.

But I know it’s wearing me down. It’s becoming harder to bounce back from these episodes. I'm afraid that I’ll soon fly off that edge and lose control of myself, like Kurtz did in Heart of Darkness, had he become a sloth instead of a tyrant. My horror would be the conclusion that I'm no good to anyone.

So, I’m trying my damn hardest to keep on top of things. I hope this blog post is an example of that. It seems like a lot of work, but if there’s one quality that I’m willing to admit, it’s that I have tenacity. I had better put it to good use.

Back in the Bike Seat

2008-08-02T15:13:00.000-07:00

I know I haven’t updated in a long time (again). It’s hard to write about writing when I haven’t been doing much of it. And I don’t want to get into rants about not writing. Whining doesn’t get anything done, and I don’t want this blog to dive into fruitless complaints.

But I’ve had plenty to complain about. I avoided writing, like the plague, for the past two months because I was afraid of the time it took to polish it. The inactivity did a number on my self-esteem, however, and I got into a rut. It was this depressing situation that brought me back to writing. My sludgy mood buried my perfectionist nature just long enough to get something down on paper.

So I currently have a muse. Granted, it’s the “eh, what the hell, do it” kind, but I’ll take it. The problem is now I have to keep it alive. Its life support consists of some reading, a little free writing and, maybe, blogging. My girlfriend gave me Ray Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing, while I pulled out of my own collection Hooked, by Les Edgerton; both books on writing. I like books on writing more than I like actual fiction, but that’s where my tastes lie for the moment. I’m running out of topics for my freewrites though, so I may pore into some stories for inspiration.

Freewriting leads to rough drafts, but then it leads to revision. I hate revising, only because it baffles me. Every time I try to polish my first crap draft, my head swims. I don’t even know how to clean my room, much less organize my language. I guess I’ll just have to hammer it out. If I can do that, then I think I’ll finally have what it takes to be a writer.

Then again, I’ve said that on many other occasions…

Cop Out

2008-03-23T09:04:00.000-07:00

Just so I can get a post in on a March (kinda late, yeah I know), I'll go ahead and paste my short write up of Writers Week... that happened more than a month ago:

I was really excited to attend my first Writers Week. The thought of having multiple writers stand in front of us to read and talk about their works was something I looked forward to. This feeling was amplified because I had read some of these writers work, thanks to a CRWT 191 course that I had taken under Jo Scott-Coe. I had hoped to rub elbows with the likes of Ed Ochester, Gordon Johnson, and Chris Abani.

The first day, of poets, was met with tragedy, as we learned that Ed Ochester was hospitalized for an aneurism. His replacement was a friend of his from Fresno and he entertained us with his poetry. We all wished Ed Ochester well.

The second day, of memoirists, proved to have no absences. I ran into Gordon Johnson, who showed up early for the event and seemed lost. It was wonderful to chew the fat with that guy. We talked about everything from drinking beer to playing guitar. When he came up to read he treated us not only with some excerpts of his book Fast Cars and Frybread, but he read us some of what he called “memoir poetry.” And after he was done with his section he sat with Susan Straight and became part of the audience, asking the next person questions like the rest of us. It’s a shame that I forgot to get my copies of his book signed.

The third day, of fiction writers, was one I spent the most time in. I brought over books for Alex Espinoza and Chris Abani (Alex’s book, Stillwater Saints, I read on my own time). It was this day that I realized how different writers can be. Alex Espinoza was very inviting, and we got to talk a little about craft while he stood at the podium. Chris Abani, on the other hand, seemed a bit cold to me, though it could be that he can’t tolerate a lowly person such as myself. One person that surprised me was Marisa Silver, who read excerpts from her latest book. What piqued my interest was her talk of her transition from the movie to the literature business. I just wish I knew more about both to ask some decent questions.

I was unable to attend the noir day. However, I did catch the Joyce Carol Oates speech that night. In her speech she said that the most successful writers (of the students that she taught) weren’t necessarily the best writers during their stint at school. Instead, they’re made to recognize their flaws and work toward improving them. This made me realize, again, that writing is a lot of work. It’s only increased my resolve to become a writer.

A Little Exercise...

2008-02-28T19:09:00.000-08:00

I'm thinking of a number between 1 and 10.

It happens to be the number 3.

Now, this number 3 is about as tall as I am, 5'7", and is heavy like a rock, but it looks like there are tufts of fur on it which are pink and kind of like shag carpet and they hang in the air below it because the number three doesn't havwe any legs and so it moves around like it's hovering so when it moves the shag-like hair of it would fly behind him like he wsa riding a corvette or something - it makes a buzzing sound when it flies like a bee or more like a beetle or maybe a electric shaver - and it smells like chocolate milk chocolate but the number three feels like sandpaper even though it looks like carpet and if you ever lick it it would taste like dried up dirt.

I just freewrote the image of a number three, which was inspired by the number eight that Stephen King wrote about in On Writing. The exercise itself was inspired by my conversation with Goldberry Long with regards to freewriting.

You see, I came to her office because I didn't feel like I was doing the freewrites in her class correctly. One of the stipulations on these freewrites is that I write concretely, yet I always wrote in the abstract. I freewrite like I talk, and I always talk abstractly. When I told her this, Goldberry suggested that the reason why I freewrite in abstract terms is because I think about the words when I write. What I'm supposed to do is think of images to write about. When I come up with an image, all I should do in the freewrite is report what I'm seeing in my mind - using the five senses and using all the words that come to my head. This will allow me to write concretely, with the benefit of the speed that comes with freewriting.

As I think of this, I feel a bit silly. I remember when I first started writing stories I would lose myself in the events in my story that I would forget that I'm typing them up in a computer. That's not how I write stories now. Essentially, I had forgotten that writing a story is about conveying images in my head. I was so worried about diction and syntax and other craft elements that I had completely forgotten, what I think is, the core element of writing. It's what drives a person to write in the first place.

Anyway, I haven't finished my little freewrite/writing exercise yet. I have to ask the question, what do I make of this number 3? Is he sad, happy, lonely, or whimsical? Is he something else? Well, since I'm forced to answer, I think this number 3 is sad because it smells like chocolate and tastes like dirt. I think it desperately wants to taste like it smells but it hasn't reached that goal yet.

So what do you think about this number 3? Of course, it's open to interpretation - mainly because I only spent about a minute to freewrite the thing. I'm sure if I spent more time to freewrite I'll have the chance to put in more detail and lock in this number 3's character.

Moving Forward

2008-02-10T11:43:00.000-08:00

I've attended UCR's Writers Week the past four weekdays so I wasn't inclined to update. However, in hindsight, I realize that I could have used this blog to give you a daily account of the event. Oops.

I thought about retroactively posting my thoughts on Writers Week so they look like they were created "as it happened," but that would be cheating. I'll just accept my mistake and make it up to you by inserting my reflections on that week in future posts, where relevant.

This will happen starting tomorrow (I promise). Today isn't a good day to start because I'm currently at my job. In fact, the only reason why I'm posting this "transition" entry is because I have a strong inclination to finish a written task today.

Hmm. I think that will be the topic of tomorrow's entry...

Warming up to/with Reading

2008-01-29T18:43:00.000-08:00

So I was stuck again today. I had a lot of time on my hands, sitting in UCR's Rivera Library at around 2:30 pm. I needed to write and I made a conscious effort, after class, to claim one of the library's computers. Still, I couldn't come up with anything to write or come up with the words to write down. I was confused. How do I write something, again? I kept asking myself this question for another ten minutes.

I had to give up on trying to figure it out because it was frustrating me again (remember the snowball). So, I went on the internet. I found and read a story by Louise Erdrich called "The Reptile Garden" and was fascinated by her use of sensory details, particularly in a make-out scene where even the steel pipes were given the modesty of clothing, in the form of "powdery bandages of asbestos." Hey, I can write that, I thought, and I proceeded to write a page of my story.

Saul Bellow said that "A writer is a reader moved to emulation." Point taken. After I wrote my page, I went home and felt stuck again. I then read an essay by Janet Fitch (which I'm pulled from Writers Workshop in a Book, edited by Alan Cheuse and Lisa Alvarez) called "Coming to Your Senses," where she stressed about describing with the five senses. Inspired, I wrote another half page of some pretty nice description.

I have a page and half of my story right now. At least that's a start. And I'll definitely remember to read more often.

Where to begin...

2008-01-28T18:53:00.000-08:00

It always seems to happen this way...

I'll write something that I'm fairly proud of and after a couple of days I feel great: I want to be a writer and I've written something, and all that jazz. But that feeling doesn't last, and soon I find myself fretting over another writing project. While I'm fretting, I blame myself for being lazy/untalented/dumb and that burden that I mentioned last week rests upon my shoulders like a linebacker tackling a quarterback. All the quarterback needed to do was to throw the ball (see: write) and he would have had the pressure relieved from him.

It's funny because I tell myself the same thing. "Just start on it now and you'll be fine," I say to myself. But there's another part of me that tells me differently. He tells me that it's not worth writing if I'm not into it, that I should wait and inspiration will come. Then the words will come faster, and it would be a much more efficient use of my time than trying to slog through one uninspired word after another.

But, the problem with that is the inspiration doesn't come. Or if it does, it comes in hours before my deadline, and I'm forced to come up with something that, while inspired, doesn't have enough time to develop into something meaningful.

I have to be honest, I'm not familiar with the idea of "Invention, then Revision" because I feel the need to revise as I write. Revising is a painful process and I tend to do it from the very beginning.

Maybe I'm not as enthusiastic about writing because I remember the pain of revising. Maybe I just need to get over it.

2008-01-23T16:35:00.000-08:00

It's been a while... I want to give this blog thing another go. I guess I'm a sucker for punishment.

I wanted to write a huge blog post announcing my triumphant return to the blogging circuit, but I never got around to it. So here's something that's a little different, an essay:

They Had a Baby Named Idle

I’ve been told that being idle is a process of being reflective, and in many ways that’s true. There have been times when I’ve stopped what I was doing to think things over. I’d step back, for instance when I’m writing essays like this, and say to myself, “Ok, well I’ve probably meandered too much. I wanted to talk about my day at the video store and I ended up talking about my mother’s back problems.” Then, I would fix the situation (erase this, expound on that, steal a joke and paste it there) and be glad for it. Even before I set out to work on something, I make it a point to mull over the subject hours upon hours until a huge light bulb appears over my head, or at least I like to imagine.

However, I’ve begun the habit of thinking things over too much, to the point where the work that I set out to do, like this essay, becomes bogged down by my constant thought of it. I’ll have a great idea for a story, essay, blog post, etc. and work over the details in my head. But the idea snowballs into something so large that I don’t know what to do with it. It’s like a giant ball-and-chain attached to my ankle. Or maybe the better analogy is that these large thoughts can’t fit through the all-important, gold and diamond encrusted Door of Productivity (or the silver-plated Laundry Chute of Industry, for those who don’t believe in doors). I sit there for a long time and do nothing, out of fear that I would do my ideas an injustice by trying to work on them.

I have never had this problem before. I used to be able to put my mind to the task at hand, without worry. I’d go home from school, sit down on my kitchen table, and get the assignment done. I’d look over the work, see that I’ve answered all the questions or otherwise satisfied the requirements, then turn the paper in the following morning. I get my B+ afterward.

Maybe I’ve become too idle when I cared about getting A’s. Or maybe it’s because I started to worry about being perfect. To be fair, I’ve always been a perfectionist. I was really good in the spelling test circuit of elementary school, where I had 100%’s on the majority of my 20-word tests (just ask my mom). Math was an easy thing for me too, before I had to deal with those damn Greek letters in my formulas. For the most part, I was a fairly good student, and a good worker. I would only get lower grades in areas that required more than rote memorization. If there isn’t a clear set of instructions, then I’m usually at a loss. Writing this essay comes to mind. It’s a bit of a drag for me because there are numerous paths to finishing one, and it’s hardly the same when you write another. I buckle under the freedom that it gives me.

I find it ironic that I’ve chosen to pursue writing, where I make slow progress. Why shouldn’t I work toward something that’s easy for me and, perhaps, even more lucrative? You could say that I do it because I see it as a challenge to overcome or that I’m not satisfied with push-button type jobs, and I wouldn’t disagree with you. But as I near the end of this essay, I feel a sense of comfort. The thoughts that had been building up inside of me had passed through that door (or the laundry chute) and I can move on knowing I’ve produced something that means a lot to me. I want to be a writer, and I’ve just written something. So that’s good enough.

Poem - Close Enough

2006-05-27T21:21:00.000-07:00

A glance by your hand that compelled me to shiver.

This memory that plagues my thoughts,
And will impress me far more
Than any other thing you have done.
It outweighs that of our first embrace,
A thought that is more surreal.
It is since lost in the fog of my mind
Like how the world lost us then.

But when you are barely there,
Vivid is my image of you;
Fueled by my desire to be near,
And forgotten when you are here.

Stuck At Work to Avoid Traffic

2006-05-26T17:38:00.000-07:00

There are times when I don't feel like dealing with the drive home on Friday afternoons. My commute from work back to my house in Corona is not a terribly long one. However, it does have its problems. The freeways I drive through are packed with people who are just as eager as I am to start off their weekend. And I always have to watch out for those individuals who decide to pay more attention to their itinerary than watch the road. Driving on Friday evenings is a two to three hour affair for a thirty mile drive. Again, not terrible consideroing what others go through, but there are other things I'd rather be doing. When I get home, I end up feeling drained. I would end up spending that night passed out on the living room couch when I would rather party it up till Saturday morning.

When I have one of those Fridays, like today, I usually try to find something to do in and around Tustin, the area where I work at. When I'm inclined to spend a little money, I visit the nearby shopping center. I'm really big on gadgets and books, so I'm glad that The Market Place has a Best Buy and a Barnes and Noble. Even if I don't have much money to spend, drooling over a big screen HDTV or "previewing" the latest in fiction (meaning reading the whole thing without paying for it) is always a nice diversion compared to banging my head on my steering wheel.

But today I don't feel like participating in rampant consumerism. So right now I'm stuck at work. Each of us has a key to lock up, so my boss didn't have a problem with me staying here. It's weird to see this place empty, even though there are only four employees total here. The pressure to get work done had dissipated after the final person (other than myself) had left. Without that aura, my workplace has taken a whole different kind of atmosphere. It's a more relaxed one in an area that's meant to promote activity. To be honest with you, it creeps me out.

Still, it's better than dealing with traffic. I'm not on the clock so I don't get paid for it, but it's still worth sticking around here. At least I have internet access to keep me company. I'll stay here until that creepy feeling completely takes over, then I'm running out scared.

OMG It's a Blog!

2006-05-25T21:59:00.000-07:00

I always love first posts because I never have anything to say. I can't talk about anything that happened to me today. Nor could I express my opinion on something. It just doesn't feel right. If I were to talk about these things in my first post there would be this feeling of emptiness.

It's like pretending that there was never a beginning. Sometimes I'll go through someone's blog or forum post, talking about their formula to make people immortal or whatnot, and wonder "Hey! This person's pretty smart, I wonder what she or he is like. I bet I can find it in the first post!". And when I see that their oldest post details their plans to find a cure for cancer, I find myself disappointed. Sure, it's possible that they've had other blogs to hone their craft, and it's still indicative of what they were like way back when. However, I'd like to know things like this in a more concise manner.

Opening posts like this one let us know where you came from. It doesn't necessarily have to be long, nor have much detail. But it does give one the sense of a beginning (or another beginning if you've done this before). While it doesn't necessarily set the whole mood of the blog, it does give us a more clear idea of who the poster is. For example, by the time you've come to this part of the blog, you probably figured that I'm an egotistical moron who obviously doesn't have anything to contribute to modern human society and likes to create blogs just to chastise those who create blogs in a manner that doesn't suit him.

I would prefer that you didn't think that way of me. I'm just writing this opening post because I really don't have much to say. Hopefully I'll be able to post something meaningful in the future.

But now that's all done I'd just like to say one thing: I'm glad to be here. I'm sure we'll have fun.