It's About Time

I took the day off from my grueling one class schedule because I felt like it. I've had a little gray rain-cloud following me around for two or three days now that I can't seem to shake, and every time I put my umbrella up it zaps me with little lightning bolts. This typically means that it is time for a large change of some sort. I've been feeling very motivated to start working out lately which is abnormal for me. A few days ago my mom called and told me to go join a gym, too. I know her motivation is to get me to meet women but the coincidence was a little too convenient. Pretty much anything my mom does has an underlying theme of finding a "nice girl to spend some time with" for me. Which is sweet and all until you consider that she keeps trying to set me up even when I actually have a girlfriend. I'm pretty sure she wants a grand kid. I keep trying to tell them to get a dog.

I also feel the need to get the hell out of Nebraska for a few days. I'm not 100% sure where I want to go, and I know I can't afford it, but my sanity trumps my cash flow. If my truck didn't get 3 miles to the gallon, I would pack a bag, close my eyes, spin around, and drive in whatever direction I was facing for a couple of days. Writing this I realize that I need an adventure more than a vacation. I suppose I could settle for creating an adventure in a story, but I'd rather take a trip and then write something about it later. It is sort of the same reason that I'm not big on taking photographs, because I'd rather have the memory of the experience than ruin it by replacing my smile with my photo smile and posing.

I promise that even if tomorrow is the worst day in recorded history, including nuclear holocaust and rampant sodomy, I'll write about puppies or some other happy shit.

I Thought About It

I really did, I really thought about working on my story after I got home from work today, but it is now roughly six hours after I that moment and I still haven't written a single word. I did find out that the name of the church in my story is Prince of Peace Catholic Church. Mainly, I called my dad because I was bored, although my dad is probably the worst person to call in this situation, but I also found out the name because my dad knows everything about Kearney for some reason. Through much rebellious punkassery in high school I sort of conditioned him to try to keep conversations short, so it is primarily my fault, but we had a short, awkward conversation. My dad is primarily concerned with work, because that is his favorite thing to do. Honestly. When my dad is bored, he likes to work. Physical labor, bookkeeping, fix-em-up type jobs around the house, whatever. As long as he is being active and accomplishing things, he is totally satisfied with his life. While I used to despise his dogged work ethic which I took to mean that he loved his work more than his own son (yeah, I was one of THOSE kids in high school), I admire it now. I want to be as fulfilled in life as my dad is with his. He reminds me of Felix Hoenikker in Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. My dad is less eccentric but equally as inward. This is pretty much why I haven't gotten any work done today.

For a slightly more meaningful post but equally as unrelated to writing, check my reply to Chelsea's short story, it's long enough (and slightly prickish, but whatever) to direct people to it. Plus you should just be checking out Chelsea's blog anyway because it's good. And Charles'. And Jessica's. Katie's might be cool if she ever posted on it. I'm saying this for the three people who have ever checked this blog out who aren't in our class.

Interesting Problem

I'm writing a story about a time when I stayed overnight with one of my friends in elementary school, and then the next morning accompanied his family to mass. I was raised loosely Methodist (I say loosely because my parents made me go to Sunday school and all that jazz until around 12, and then said that I could do what I wanted, which was obviously to not go to church), so the whole Catholicism thing was fascinating to me which you will discover in the story. The problem I had today is that I need to pluralize the word Jesus, and I've never done that before. Jesii? Jesuses just sounds wrong. I know that I should probably say something like "...pictures of Jesus..." but I don't want to. Dictionary.com doesn't list a plural for Jesus at all, so I can't tell if Jesus is like a moose or what. I think a phone call to the Vatican would cause an international event seeing as the close-minded Catholics believe in only one God and would fail to see the occasion for the plural of Jesus (Holy Trinity Hypocrites :-P). My Chile Cheese Hamburger Helper is done, so pondering is postponed.

Inches Become Miles

So I'm a huge downer on this Saturday night. I went out both Thursday and Friday nights, so I planned to stay in anyway, and I took the garbage weather as a sign that I was right. As I was wasting time scrolling through Facebook, I realized how easy it is for us to change, but how hard it is to see that change. I looked at all of my old high school friends and even some friends that I met in college and was just mystified how people that I used to be inseparable from could have fallen off of my planet. I primarily blame my brain for making me think about this now. I've been a little melancholy lately anyway, so it's trying to mount evidence for its case. My life is pretty typically a struggle between my brain and myself. To show it who's boss, I'll think I'll marinade it in alcohol and call as many of those old friends as I still have numbers for.

Just Noticed...

I was commenting on the other blogs today when I noticed something. We need another positive blogger. Chelsea, Jessica, and myself appear to be negative with our questioning, self-deprecating blog titles, while Katie and Charles hover in the neutral zone. To create balance, somebody should start a blog titled "Shiny Happy People Holding Fun Pitchforks." I nominate Quiller.

As a side note, I'm probably going to post at least twice a week, and likely daily, so if you plan on only reading these once a week, budget accordingly as I'm sort of a windbag.

Started a Story

I started writing a story that is fairly autobiographical, and I don't understand my problem. This all stems from a conversation that Dvorak, Quiller, Dumanis, and myself had outside during the break of last week's class. The short version is that I have a ridiculous family and ridiculous friends, and because of their ridiculousness, I have a wealth of funny stories that I can write. For some reason, when I start to write anything personal, I just hate the way it turns out. It's probably at least partially my own reservations about spilling everything on the page, but it doesn't feel as natural as it does when I'm creating something out of the depths of my brain. The part that confuses me is that I have no problem telling the stories. When I tell them, they're short, succinct, and they seem to get conveyed exactly as I intend them to. When I put them on the page, I ramble, struggle to find words, lose focus, etc. I'm ready to start abusing my own experiences for stories, because I think that in the long run, I will write better stories when I'm at least building off of my own life (if not transcribing it on the page outright), but I need to figure out my problem before I can begin to develop ways to combat it.

Why Are You Famous?

It is pretty hard to bluff about being caught up with the class reading when you have to write your reactions on the Internet. I'm on page 16 of Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose. I'm supposed to be finished with it. And with a few short stories by Raymond Carver. And I'm supposed to finish another novel by Thursday. It's a good thing that I have ridiculous amounts of free time.

Why I'm stopped on page 16 is that Prose stole all of page 15 from my head. Page 15 talks about how readers need to figure out how authors have endured. She gives some examples of authors that I have never read/don't care about, but I have populated my own list of authors over the years that simply baffle me.

Charles Dickens tops my hit list. I have tried to read David Copperfield three separate times. I have struggled through bad books before, but I haven't been able to choke this behemoth down no matter how strong my willpower. For starters, it's almost 1,000 pages long (768 pages to 1264 pages according to Amazon). 1,000 pages. I haven't been to church in quite awhile, but I think that is Bible territory. There is a book entitled The Complete History of the World that only clocks in at 400 pages. How come Dickens, a prolific writer, couldn't manage to shave that down a tad? I would throw out some specific suggestions for reduction here, but after the third attempt I plied my brain with drugs and liquor to try to purge the memory of that god awful book, only to be constantly reminded by other authors and authorities as to Dickens' greatness. At some point in my life, I made the decision that if you can't get an idea out in fewer than 500 pages, your project is either overambitious, or you are a bad, long-winded, boring writer. I imagine I'll give it a fourth shot someday because I like subjecting myself to torture in the name of pride.

I also wonder about Vladimir Nabokov. I was about halfway through Lolita, considered by many to be Nabokov's best work, when school started. There is likely a twist that I haven't yet encountered, but so far, all I've read is a very beautifully worded account of a pedophile's life. I'm fairly irreverent, but I can't help but feel disturbed each time Humbert Humbert describes his little love.

One thing that both men share is a fantastic grasp of the English language. Nabokov especially makes me despise my comparatively tiny vocabulary and poor grammar because English isn't even his native tongue (showoff). I still wonder why people are fascinated by these men because in my eyes, their grasp of the language isn't enough to suck me in. I would trade some linguistic virtuosity on both accounts for a unique perspective or cutting insight into the human condition.
I'm probably missing something in both works, and welcome arguments in support of Dickens and Nabokov, but for now they will have to show the damp, dimly lit studio apartment in my head reserved for writers in my doghouse. It's going to be crowded on that single bed with Anthony Bourdain...

Introduction

On the random chance that somebody who isn't in the class visits this site, an explanation is in order. Our professor wants us to write about writing. He wants our thoughts and opinions on the books that we read in class, and commentary as we struggle along with our own stories. Since I don't think I've ever done exactly what I'm told, there is likely to be a pinch of my opinions on politics, work, religion, etc. folded into the dough of this Blogcake. Hopefully I learn something about myself through this process that will make me a better person, or at least a better writer. Here goes...