Just Write Through It – Exponential Sins

I’m going to admit to two things that I’ve been shamefully hiding from most of the world, or at the very least, downplaying drastically.

- I’ve been pretty depressed.

- I have not been writing.

In my head, both of those are shameful, and to be hidden. (I know, I know. But my head goes where it wills, no matter what I try to tell it. Stupid, stupid head.*) And both of them contribute to the other, and not in a straightforward algebraic way. Each issue increases the other exponentially.

I’ve written through my troubles before. The kind of sadness and anger that you face when you lose a loved one, or a loved car, or you hate your job with a fiery passion, or you’ve just been mugged… that’s a funk I can write through. Writing helps me process the pain, and the pain does sometimes even serve as inspiration and fodder, as romantics all agree. The myth of the tortured writer, and all that.

But this. This feeling, the feeling that nothing in the world is bearing down on you, at least no more than regular, and so if you feel this shitty, it MUST be your fault… that’s a hard feeling to write through.

We are young. We are strong. We’re not looking for where we belong. We’re not cool. We are free. And we’re running with blood on our knees.

Oh, man. Mika just came up in iTunes. Did you know it’s really hard to maintain a funk through some all of his songs? That’s the sign of a pretty awesome pop star, if you ask me.

Try it. Just try listening to this, and keeping a frown on your face.

Okay. Shit. Where was I?

So, I get down on myself. And I sink into the couch, and my WIP languishes as I re-watch Dr. Who, and the self-loathing mushrooms as I lose sight of myself as a writer, which makes me fear writing even more, which makes me even angrier at myself… **

I hate days like this. When it rai-rai-rains, when it rai-rai-rains. Baby, I hate days like -

Oh, god. Seriously, if you didn’t click the above video, just try it. Turn on some Mika, and see if you can keep a good, morose, whining rant going. Damn it, it’s hard. I may have just found my solution. I’m gonna get some earbuds and just listen to Mika, constantly. I might end up writing some cheery fucking bubble-gum romance shit, but I’ll be writing.

It’s nothing like a life we wanted, but you better move on, cuz I’m ready for more than this, whatever it is. Baby, I hate days like this. Caught in a track, I can’t get back, baby, I hate days like this.

Sure, it’s artificial. It’s a high that will soon burn off. If I use it properly, it doesn’t matter. I just need a kick; if the buzz gets me writing, then the credits start multiplying exponentially as well. I’m a writer again. And even if nothing else changes, what would you rather be: a tortured writer, or a depressed couch potato?

Which one of those choices gets you more action?

 

 

* Obviously said in Judy Davis’ best mocking voice. Stupid, stupid rain. 

**Is there an artist out there who can draw me some self-loathing mushrooms? Because I’ve got a pretty clear image in my head, and it’s cracking me up.

Road Rage-ish

I’m not terribly prone to road rage. It’s rare that I honk in anger, or scream and curse, and I think I’ve only ever flipped someone off once (after some careful deliberation). I think what I get is better labelled as Road Tics.

In other words, I gesticulate and make odd noises, but there’s very little anger behind them, and… well, they’re not the standard angry gestures.

Last night I was driving home in some mild (by Bay Area standards) traffic. A hole opened up in the lane next to me; I began to move into it, just as someone two lanes over did the same. We both saw each other, and moved quickly back into our own lanes, and then, when I saw the hole was still there and I was still positioned, I took the space.

As they passed me moments later, I could see the passenger had turned to face me and was screaming something. He didn’t look happy. Sort of idly, without even meaning to, I raised my hand with my forefinger, middle finger, and thumb extended… kind of like a gun.

I have no earthly idea why I did that. I wasn’t angry; I think I was even giving him a slight smile, in a “Hey man, it’s cool, we both did the same thing and were in the right, and hey, we even both saw each other in time to avoid a collision, aren’t we great drivers” kind of way. Collegial, you know? Not menacing or creepy — calming. I don’t think it had the intended effect. They fell behind, and stayed there.

I do this all the time. A hand raised in exasperation starts rotating, and turns into this weird “smell my breath” motion. One time, I barked. Like, a lot. Like, I rolled my window down and was barking at the top of my lungs at this woman who was trying to cut in front of me, across a solid line, after I’d been stuck in unmoving gridlock for the past 58 minutes, moving less than a half a mile.

Okay, so that one might have had some rage behind it. But she sure didn’t know that; she just looked mildly annoyed, then massively confused. And sped away from me.

Now that I think about it, I think these tics are pretty excellent survival mechanisms. They keep people away, like bright colors and spikes on lizards, without escalating the rage of any of my fellow highway drones. If I had any control over them whatsoever, maybe I could use them in other areas of my life.

“I’m sorry, the grant deadline is when?” *patting my head, flaring my nostrils, and sticking my tongue out* ”Oh, great, four weeks. I thought you said four hours.”

“You need a break?” *ripping open my shirt, biting my lip, and blinking rapidly* “Oh, we should go on a mini-break. Great idea! Paris, on you? Sweet.”

“I’m sorry… did you say marry?” *thumb to nose, fingers waggling madly, and off-key humming* “Oh, no, right, merry meet back to you.”

#notwriting

Oh, I had good intentions today. I woke up before seven, ready to jump into the blank page. But since I woke up so early, I decided there was time for a bath. Then, after the bath, I had to make tea. Then, I began my pre-writing ritual of clearing out my rss reader, and ‘warming up’ on my blog.

It is now almost nine. I have an appointment at 9:30. That means I spent over two hours on all the pre-writing crap, just to get to the warm-up stage. More upsetting is the fact that I seem to be doing this more and more. I think I just need to move the writing part up in the ritual. Before my eyes open, I should be warming up here, on the blog, letting the words flow while my mind is still muddy and doesn’t know what my fingers are doing. Hey, that’s my theory of exercise: get the running shoes on and be out the door before my brain knows what hit it.

I sabotage myself, I know. I always feel like I have the best intentions, but I’m pretty sure I’m fooling myself. If I had wanted to write today, I would have written. My subconscious intentions are crap, and they all want to bathe.

Right. I still have 35 minutes. I’m not going to let my subconscious get the best of me.

#amwriting

On my way to the wilderness, I passed…

Yesterday, I drove a speedy little Fiat into the Santa Cruz mountains, the light filtering through the redwoods and through the sun roof onto my head, in order to take a wilderness skills class that taught me how to walk stealthily through a pile of leaves in order to sneak up on a deer and smack it on the ass.

This post is not about that. Because I never feel compelled to write about the actually interesting things in my life, it would seem.

Instead, this post is about community colleges, and my love of them. On my way to the citycarshare pod to pick up my fiat-for-the-day, I passed Laney College. There’s nothing in particular that I can point out as appealing about Laney (though I’m sure some of my alum and staff friends there can fill me in), but it just made me happy to walk onto the campus for a moment.

It’s because it plain feels like a community college; the look, the smell, the aura, everything. The buildings are of that old-but-not-old-enough-to-look-prestigious era, you can peek past smudgy windows into sparsely decorated rooms, and the giant cement steps and attempts at a ‘quad’ clearly demonstrate the sweetly aspiring dreams of the designers.

Wayne County Community College, by Don Harder, dharder9475

Aspiration. That’s why I love community colleges. They remind me of my time in high school, when I would visit PCPA at Allan Hancock College in Santa Maria (bad idea!) and dream about my future as a Broadway star. Or that other time in high school, when I spent my freshman summer in a young writers’ program at Cuesta Community College in San Luis Obispo, dreaming about my future as E.L. James.

So there’s a little of the bittersweet in there. Sweet aspirations, rarely grounded in reality. I kinda want to pet those concrete walls and murmur words of support. “Oh honey, it’s okay if you never MAKE it. I love you just the way you are. You don’t have to be an ivy leaguer to deserve love.”

George E. Frost Building, Holyoke Community College, by Elizabeth Thomsen

Cuesta may soon be closing, and the thought makes me incredibly sad. That campus in particular always felt full of dreams, and, in a less ethereal vein, also had amazing programs and faculty. If the school closes due to a poor reaction to a funding cut, it will be a spectacular loss for the community… and for the future of dreaming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* Possibly tied in (but more likely just relating thematically) to my love letter to average scholastic achievers: today’s discovery that my coworker’s high school had two alumni who are now Nobel winners, while my school’s claim to fame lies in teen heartthrobs. Cuesta’s alum list is also way more impressive. Jake Shields! Dude!

The Foul Genre Aftertaste

I’ve been having a lot of the same conversation recently.

Me: “Oh, you read (insert genre fiction title, most often Hunger Games or the like) too? What did you think?”

Them: “It was good… you know, for the type of book it is.”

or: “I enjoyed it. Not, you know, deep, but fun.”

Why, why, why do people feel they have to qualify these statements? So you read a book for pure enjoyment. So you didn’t have to parse a Rushdie-esque paragraph, searching for subtext and historical parallels to figure out what’s going on. So your mind wasn’t totally expanded (though, personally, the conversations I’ve had based on Hunger Games certainly introduced more debate and civic rumination than, say, A Heart Breaking Work of Staggering you-know-what).

Let’s talk history here, folks, ignoring our greek and eastern literary heritage, and focusing solely on the novel as it exploded in popularity after the invention of moveable type. Whether you call Aphra Behn, Defoe, or Richardson the first novelist, they were all pretty well considered to be, if not lowbrow, certainly not writing for the upper classes. The novel was designed to entertain, and to entertain the middle class, specifically. The very best novels did make you think about what was happening, be it slavery, colonialism, or economic reform, but first, they entertained. They were designed to go down easier than greek histories and philosophical tracts. They were written to be the easy, fun reads of the time.

I have no problem with literary fiction; some of my best friends are literary novels. I just think there’s a more important distinction to make than the one between literary and genre fiction, especially with the meteoric rise of self-pubbed books: Bad, and Good.

I have no problem with you looking down your nose at 50 Shades of Grey. But not because of the niche it fills – please, please, call a spade a spade and admit that it’s bad writing. She obviously struck a chord, and more power to her, but it makes me cringe to see people reading her book and then broadly dismissing all erotic fiction (and their talented, savvy authors).

The process of writing, of constructing a compelling novel with complex, interesting characters and pitch-perfect pacing, is not easy. It is an art. And the artists that do it well deserve respect, regardless of the genre they happen to be writing in. So please, the next time you ‘admit’ to liking something, consider why you like it, and if it’s because the author skillfully caught your interest and held it, please rephrase your statement. Or you may get a bop in the nose from me.

Pin-up Boys

It’s happening. I am going to publish a pin-up boys magazine: Boys & Wheels. Spinning wheels, that is. Beautiful men, posed seductively next to sexy spinning wheels.

The whole idea came from a Dark Roasted Blend post, Girls & Trucks. Also loosely inspired by this flickr set that I loved from first sight, and by my long-standing desire to get a male version of Freight Train Jane tattooed on my back (and hey, if any artists out there can make that happen, text me). Yes, I really, really want to objectify men, and I think this is a lovely way to do it.

It was the absurdity and contrast of that Girls & Trucks set that really got me thinking. I couldn’t come up with a really good, massive, female item to take the place of the truck… but the thought of a manly, shirtless dude in work boots standing in a provocative pose next to an Ashford wheel made me snort the loudest.

As I thought more about it, I decided I really, really wanted that photo, and more. Since no one else was likely to make that calendar, I decided it was up to me. So this is a selfish project; if anyone else wants one, cool, but really, this is for my bedroom. Just as all the best things are.

But I need your help. I’ll kickstarter this when things get going, to see if anyone else wants that calendar in THEIR bedroom, but first I need the models. I’m sure I can get the wheels (although if anyone has access to a mega-industrial loom or knitting machine, hit me up), but while I do have enough handsome male friends to fill a calendar, I think maybe two of them would be willing. I can resort to bribes and threats (I have some good tidbits of knowledge they wouldn’t like being revealed) but I’d rather have happy and willing models.

Are you a gentleman confident enough in your own skin to be my pin-up boy? Is your brother/father/lover said gentleman? Can you bribe and threaten them to help me out? (It’s okay if it’s not me doing the threatening.) Dudes must be within a 100 mile range of San Francisco. Also, even though it’s called Boys & Wheels, I prefer older gentlemen (like 25 and up. Or 22, you know, if he’s really mature). I’m going to be taking these pictures, and I don’t want to feel like a dirty old lady.

Help me make it happen! bethanyherron at hotmail dot com.

Seriously, can't you see a gentleman in perfectly pressed slacks stretched out on the grass languorously, the shadow of the wheel falling on his perfect six-pack? Photo from knittsings

Three months, in a nutshell.

Wow, January was really the last time I posted? I’m not totally surprised.

Since then, I

- moved,

- had my car stolen,

- recovered the car,

- submitted 14 grant proposals, including a monster of a national gov’t one,

- drove to Tucson to visit family,

- planned and implemented a girls weekend retreat redefining beauty,

- closed out the year for the Board I serve as treasurer on,

- (the Board is actually for a writing organization, though you’d never know from that sadly final preposition)

- spent a cumulative total of 13 hours with a certain, monolithic, to-remain-unnamed phone company that left me Angry, Trembling, & Ticked-off,

- switched to Sonic, a little local company, and have been blissful since then,

- bumped into Al Pacino on the red carpet at the Castro Theatre,

- and a few more awesome and totally-not-awesome things.

It’s been a busy few months. The one thing I have NOT been doing is writing. That ain’t good. I consoled myself with the fact that I had a few stories on submission, but the first of them came back with a decline today. I need to get back to it. Like, now. No time like the present. Therefore, it’s back to the blog.

Expect a good few rants coming up next; I’ve been saving ‘em up.

Hopeless

I consider myself to be pretty optimistic. Downright chipper, in general. Small and strange things amuse me vastly, I find beauty in the strangest places, and it all makes me happy.

So this post might come as something of a shocker. Part of the reason I never want kids is because I really, truly believe that it would be a disservice to them.

I’ve never been one of those, ‘oh, this world, how could you bring a child into it,’ kind of person. I’m still not. It’s a splendid world, in general, and especially so in my little pocket. I believe people are still generally good, and there’s plenty of beauty out there. I absolutely don’t fault anyone for wanting a baby to share in it. But more and more, I can’t help feeling that it’s not going to last much longer. Maybe not even for a single generation more.

*I should probably take this moment to say that I’ve been reading Collapse, by Jared Diamond, while sitting in my house being depressed by my roommate-less apartment, craiglist scammers and flakes, and catalytic converter theives.*

I’m not worried about my own lifetime; it may get a little rough, but not truly ugly. (And if it does, I’m brushing up on my apocalyptic survival skills. Just in case.) But there are so many truly, deeply, non-sustainable ways of life that are going to come to a head in the next 50 or so years… it’s scary. Yes, it’s still possible for many of the problems to be turned around (although some folks say it’s too late for climate change, which is kind of a bummer, especially for Venice and Japan), but my optimism has never extended to the general clear-headedness of the human race. We’re a stupid bunch, collectively. My guess is we’re going to foul things up way, way worse before we get inspired to do anything about it.

So no, I don’t want to introduce a kid to a world that is spiraling faster and faster out of control. Luckily, I don’t have a maternal instinct in my body, so it’s not a big sacrifice.

Of course, I might be wrong. I hope I am. I have one friend who never worried about the ozone layer, because she was sure we’d figure something out when we had to. Mars colonies. Personal ozone hats. Whatever. “Human beings are insanely inventive,” she said. “When the need is real, they’ll come up with something. There are some really, really smart people out there, and that’s what they’re there for. It’s just that they’re smart enough to work where the money is, and not that many philanthropists are funding space colony research. Not yet.”

While I do think any offspring of mine would be a survivor on a par with Max Rockatansky, I can’t help but think that sort of lawless, Sprog-avenging life is not ideal. Therefore, no cute giggling babies for me.

(I think. Never say never, you know. But I swear I’m 99% certain at this point.)

October Thanksgiving

Y’all. I missed October. I’m still kind of stunned.

I know exactly how it happened. I was working two full-time jobs, making edits to the short stories that are out on submission right now, trying to not ignore my Board duties for the non-profit I volunteer for, helping to run a monumental 15-hour Regatta, and attending my dad’s wedding. Still. October freaking disappeared.

I’m only wailing because October is the absolute best month ever. Anyone who thinks otherwise is simply wrong. The leaves are turning, Halloween is coming, the weather is getting cool and crisp, stunning storms and sunsets are prone to pop up, Halloween, and did I mention, Halloween. I first fell in love in October. I discover a new piece of myself every October.

Except for this one. Because I missed it. Damn it.

I did, luckily, have just enough time (one hour, in fact) to throw together a costume and hit both Journey to the End of the Night and my friend Julie’s party. At Journey, my rocket-ship buddy did me a solid and chased a few runners into my camera-sight:

Then at the Carnival party of the century, I snapped a few more:

So I got a bit of Halloween. A bit. But. For the first time in over ten years, I did not host a Halloween party. I didn’t even decorate the dang house. And my costume was a pretty severe cop-out; I took the SFist idea of Fisherman’s Wharf Bush Man and threw on a pair of jeans and a BBQ grate threaded with tree clippings.

I didn’t completely miss Halloween, but the entire month did fly past me. As such, I think I need to take a moment and be thankful for the blessings in my life. Yes, I know, most people do that in November. Not me. In November, I’m writing like crazy, and besides, who doesn’t feel more thankful when walking past darkened cemeteries as strains of the Danse Macabre float through the air? ‘Kay, maybe it’s just me. Whatever.

• I’m thankful for crinolines, striped overalls, clown masks, and all types of costumed wonder. (Seriously, people went all out at that Carnival party. Still thankful.)

• I’m thankful for my family, and the fact that I live just a stone’s throw from my sisters. Dad’s wedding was gorgeous (evidence here) but it reminded me that some people only ever see their family at weddings. In fact, there was an awesome cousin there that I’d love to see more of… but she’s, like, four whole hours away. So, y’know, an eternity.

• And, putting those two together, I’m thankful for my sister who got rid of one of her crinolines, and 10 more bags of clothing. Professional attire: check. Why did I need the professional attire? Well…

• I’m thankful for my new job. Really, really thankful. Not only do these guys have a system DOWN (seriously, I’ve never been more set-up to succeed), I get to see pretty much every show in the Bay Area. On my second day, I scored a ticket to Richard III, starring Kevin Spacey, at the Curran. My sisters are already staging mud-wrestling contests and pistols at dawn over the Baryshnikov show. The perks are amazing, the coworkers seem great, and the work itself will be both satisfying and interesting, I can already see.

• While I’m at it, I’m thankful for my old job. It was a challenging, thrilling ride that prepared me for just about anything, and through it, I’ve met some of the best people in the world, who are going to be friends for life. So a win. I shall miss the old place.

• I’m thankful for my first car, a VW Bug named Zsu-Zsu. Likewise, driving her prepared me for just about any other driving adventure. I can heel-and-toe with the best of them now, and now how to push a car down a street and jump-start it.

• I’m thankful for books, and writing, and writers. There is so much of this category in my life, and yet I want so much more. (By the way, I am NOT going to miss November; NaNo might kick my butt, but I will appreciate and savor every second of it.)

• I’m thankful for apocalypse kits. Not sure why writing led into this one, but it did. Maybe because of Aftertime (dude, I know the author! and it ROCKS!) or maybe because of Hunger Games (which also rocks, but I don’t know the author, so fewer exclamation points). Either way, I truly think a life-altering (if not life-ending) event is coming very soon, and I’m thankful that I have a meager preparedness plan set up. Really meager. Dang, I need a water filtration system. Or at least one of those cool filter water bottles.

That’s it for now. Happy Thanks-tober!

Animals

Rachael made an aside about her mounds of animals, and it reminded me of a moment at her last party. She’d locked all the animals in the bedroom, except for Adah (who had been hiding). When found, I offered to help Rach put the last cat away. I opened the door, knowing FULL WELL that beyond that barrier was a mass of animals. I still jumped back and screeched a bit. It’s not that any of them are scary or anything; they’re just so overwhelming, and really know how to fill a small space.

I must admit, I’m happy with the one. She keeps me busy, and she really adores being the queen of her domain.

Sadly, she’s only ever been queen for about a month or two. First, she had bratty little brother Brody up in her space for 3 whole years. How she ever put up with him, I’ll never know. Then he moved out, and she sorta breathed a sigh of relief and spread out a little. Then there was a short, bad episode with a small dog, moving immediately into a 2-cat situation. She is most decidedly not the queen of anything now; those cats knock her around like a fluffy big-eared volleyball.

And she copes. She even cuddles with the kitties once in a while. But while she is never as happy as when she’s chasing an oblivious ball-focused cattle dog in a park, having other animals at home never seems to add anything to her life. She loves not having to share the sunspots – or share anything, actually. She’s much less stressed about bones and toys when there’s not someone else trying to steal them.

Kinda like me. I enjoy writing dates, and my writer’s groups, and the fantabulous Night of Writing Dangerously, but those are my trips to the dog park. Those are the moments outside the norm. True, they make me gleeful. But for day-to-day routines, I prefer the moments alone at my desk when I wrestle something into submission-quality and do a private little happy dance. I like not sharing those moments. I like to jealously guard my plot revelations sometimes.

As if I didn’t anthropomorphize my dog enough already. Next thing you know, I’ll be dressing her in a beret and fashioning a typewriter that she can paw at.