Best laid plans

Alright, so today I was planning on getting up early (nope). Then I was going to try to eat a nice nutritious breakfast (uh-uh). After that I was hoping to write for a little bit (I still hadn't gotten out of bed at that point). Next I would go to yoga class (I did do that). Following yoga I was going to write some more (almost) and then eat a good lunch (does devil's food cake with carmel and crushed up bits of Butterfinger count?). Then I would run two miles instead of the one and a half I've been going lately (didn't want to do it, so to get it over with quickly I wound up nearly sprinting to start and too winded to continue by the time I was a few blocks away). Finally, I would update the blog and write for the rest of the afternoon (I am updating the blog, so, almost). What did I do today instead? Online poker. Yup. I've been stinking up the virtual tables of questionable legality. I'm having a low self-esteem day as a writer. I look at the most recent additions to the book and think, I'm going to have to completely eliminate or rewrite all of this crap. So, instead of facing that, today I'm ignoring it. I'm taking a day off from writing. I don't want to hate writing. I don't want to depress myself or make myself feel inadequate. Why would I want a career in something that had such a negative affect on me? I wouldn't. So, instead of forcing myself to fill whitespace with word combinations that never should exist, I've been playing poker. I'm a little worried that poker is going to become my new TV, a retreat away from whatever sucky part of my life I'm exaggerating and obsessing about. I'll keep an eye on it. I don't want to be too comfortable slipping away from reality at a pretend poker table, but for now I think I want to play a little more.

I'm grateful that I now have a real bed with plenty of storage for underwear and books and whatever else I've been keeping in the basement (20).

grateful

All of yesterday and all of today I was planning on writing a monster post about how good the end of this week has been to me, about how I'm finally getting my running legs and lungs back, about how my mom (a little biased, I know) said some really nice things about my latest writing project, about how cute my nieces and nephews are, about how I feel like Tony from West Side Story (something's coming, something good), about how I met with a recruiter at the insurance place and actually wanted to work for that organization, about how the insurance company sent me a letter the next day to ask for more information about me instead of just wishing me luck in my further pursuit of a career, about how playing Halo II online with friends is fun even if it isn't as fun as playing it with friends in the same room, about how amateurish and aggravating and at the same time wonderful the writing group I went to today was, about how I've suddenly decided that I like the sun and walking toward it with my eyes closed and my back arched, but then tonight, I was just spent. Nothing remotely bad has happened to me in the past several days, but I was pretty down for a couple of hours tonight. I know the depression was largely due to exhaustion--late night Halo, phone ringing early in the morning, running, trying to keep up with a group of very chatty, opinionated though unsophisticated (I hate that word choice there, but can't think of something appropriate that isn't condescending at the same time, maybe undeveloped?) writers, writing at the park, helping to deliver newspapers--but I got to thinking, What happens when I do get a job? Will I get this tired and depressed every night? Will I feel like writing? Will I feel like finding a wife? Starting a family? Enjoying that family? When will I find time for yoga AND running? And karate? And. . . Heh. . . Jack Johnson comes to mind here: "He got none but he thinks he got so many problems and he got too much time to waste." Yeah. I'm depressed because I'm not going to have the time or energy to do all the things I want to do? No one does. But I'm not even there yet. How about this first: Start doing the things you want to do. If things start piling up, make room. If there isn't room, pick which things are most important and focus on them. For now, you have plenty of time. Do what you can with it. Write. Date. Run. Sing. Yogasize. Make it so the things that you want to do on the side when you have a career are so ingrained in you that it feels like it would take more of a toll on you not to do them than it would for you to do them. . . Sorry, I sometimes need to give myself little pep talks like that.

I'm grateful. This may seem like a cop-out, but right now I have this overwhelming gratitude toward you, me, that guy over there, the lady from the place, this computer, televised sports, a night clear enough to feel the stars, a filling meal, driving with the windows down, this townstatecountryplanet, the dog that enjoyed smelling my hand but never let me pet him, the universe, God, everything. I'm just grateful (20).

a peek over the edge

Alright, as I began to blog this, my nephew came up and interrupted with a cute story in the making. First, some background. Since I've moved in with my sister's family, I've developed a reputation for sending kids screaming from the room. It's a new skill I've been working on in order to make myself more valuable in the job market. So anyway, my nephew came up to the table to see what I was doing. When he recognized that it had nothing to do with cars, trucks, buses, or tractors, he turned to leave. Then, as if he suddenly realized that any computer could have pictures of cars, trucks, buses, or tractors if you flirt enough with the grownup sitting in front of it, he spun around, in the process smashing his face on the corner of the table. "Are you alright?" He looked stunned, but wasn't crying. "You're alright." Confusion. "You're fine." Realization. He ran into the other room where both of his parents were. "I didn't do it," I shouted. WaaaahhhWaaahhhWaaahhh. Once again, a kid runs screaming from the room with his uncle. . . sigh. . .

So, at the writer's convention, I went to a session about creative nonfiction. One of the most important things I took out of the session was that you should never bring the reader to the edge of the cliff without giving them a look over it. If you aren't willing to go into detail about certain episodes, you should leave those episodes out entirely. Well, in the name of full disclosure, I wasn't just panicking earlier this week, I had a couple of panic attacks, which is new to me. I've had issues with my nerves my entire life, but I've never really experienced anything quite like this. I was sweating, having a hard time breathing (maybe hyperventilating), pacing furiously, saying who knows what, fidgeting with my hands, rubbing them together, and I don't know what else. During each of these episodes, there was a logical sanity in my head saying, "Calm the fuck down. This won't help you with anything. You will come out of this whole experience, and you will be better because of it." etc. etc. etc. But there's a sort of anti-logic to panic that's almost as convincing as actual logic. "Imagine how good you'll feel if you just give in and allow yourself to become a panicked wreck. Chicks dig a guy that's an emotional wreck." Yeah, shut the fuck up panic. I'm not listening. I'm plugging my ears and humming the Belgian farting pig song (I can't believe I just linked to that. I blame Piwok). As I made the mistake of freaking out in front of my mother, I wound up in front of the doctor Tuesday afternoon. He said he had never heard of anyone reacting to the medication I was on for my headaches in such a fashion, but we might as well take me off of it anyway since I seem to be having more headaches while I've been on it than I did when I wasn't on it. He also gave me a prescription for something to take if I feel another panic attack coming on. He says a lot of times just having the medication available is helpful, because once someone has had a panic attack, they tend start to worry that they will have another one, and that worrying will actually trigger another one. So having something that I know will stop a panic attack, might actually keep me from ever needing to use it. Did that make sense? So, that's where it stands I guess. I'm supposed to give him a call in a week and tell him where I'm at. If I'm still not happy with what's going on with my headaches and my anxiety, he said he thinks that maybe we'll skip the beta-blockers and anti-seizure medicines and try some anti-depressants because that will probably help with anxiety as well as the headaches. Honestly, what will help my head and my anxiety the most is a job, a girlfriend, a publisher/agent, or a life. . . Until then. . .

I was going to write about the job search today. But really, I just went back to the insurance place and talked to a guy who said that they would start out seeing if I was a fit for any of the agencies needing someone in underwriting or claims. He said it would take at least two weeks to get my info spread out. So. . . more waiting. Wait, wait, wait, wait. Fun.

I ate lunch today at one of those greasy places that has those place mats with ads for various local businesses (usually septic maintenance companies, construction companies, and what-not). This one had an ad for His Way Alpaca Farms, because if you're going to be buying an alpaca, you really should be buying one that was raised how the Lord wanted him raised. . . I'm grateful for that (20).

ah crap

I just spent the past hour finishing the story of the writer's convention and when I was preparing to be grateful I got "Explorer has encountered a problem and must shut down." Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap. So I lost everything. I'm not sure if it was really good enough to write again, so you guys may have to be left in the dark regarding what happened during the rest of the convention.

I'm grateful for this comic given to me by z-man (20).

corrections

Alright, a few corrections on my last two posts:

Street Beater: I realize that the lyrics to that Fountains of Wayne song are actually "I'm gonna get my shit together," but the words feeding the panic in my head were "I gotta get my shit together." Sorry if some of you were citing my blog as a source for your big important research papers and were led to use incorrect lyrics because of me. But really, you should know better than to quote me for anything academic.

The Convention: Since I quoted the keynote speaker, I feel I should probably mention his name to give him some credit: Lev Raphael.

I'm grateful for kind words from strangers (20).

Street Beater

Alright, so today and yesterday I've been having some emotional issues. Yesterday I woke with this urge to be somewhere else, doing something else, maybe even being someone else. So I drove to my parent's house. Mostly for the drive I think. I wanted to drive, but I didn't want to be alone at the end of the drive. So I came to my parent's house, where I am right now. I think I'll stay one more night, take advantage of their cable sports channels, and watch the Red Wings. This morning I woke and I wasn't too bad. But I had that song "Bright Future in Sales" by Fountains of Wayne running through my head, and so I went online to actually listen to it, and the whole "I gotta get my shit together" bit sent me into a bit of a panic. I kept hearing that line over and over in my head. Igottagetmyshittogethergottagetmyshittogethergetmyshittogether. . . And I had a hard time breathing and thinking and. . . That song. . . I needed to get it out of my head. So thanks to the happiest theme song ever, I was able to get the song out of my head and collect myself. I'm not sure what any of this means, but I really do need to get my shit together.

the convention

The writer's conference was yesterday. Funny how I didn't have the energy or motivation to write about the writer's conference on the day of the writer's conference. Actually, that's not true. I did write about it. I just never put it down on paper or screen. So we'll start from the beginning.

I got there too early. By at least a half an hour. I'd never been to the west campus of the school before, and I didn't know what the parking situation would be like, and I didn't want to be rushed. There was a lot of free parking right in front of the building. I got there way too early. When I arrived, there were already a bunch of people, professionals in businesswear, milling about the tables in the hallway. I thought that these people did not look like writers. I was correct. There was a dentist convention going on at the same time. So, I went into the bathroom, and a man, blatantly ignoring men's room etiquette, came up to the urinal next to mine despite the numerous empty urinals that would leave a buffer urinal between the two of us. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his glasses, slightly mussed hair, and nice shirt that didn't quite fit right, and thought that this guy looked like a writer. He washed his hands a little quicker than I, and I therefore had to wait behind him at the paper towel dispenser. He apologized as if his presence were regretful. He was a writer alright. Back out in the main hall/lobby area, I didn't see the man from the bathroom. But, a little ways past the dentists there was a momish woman and a dangerously (illegally?) young woman, who I later found out was kurtvonnegutskiller, standing awkwardly and chatting. I went up to them and asked if they were with the writers, and they said that they were. We smalltalked a bit. What do you write? What do you read? Is this your first convention? And the normal blah that goes into laying the foundation for more meaningful conversations later on. Then the man from the bathroom joined us, made a sarcastic joke of a question having something to do with how many books we had each written, or were writing, or. . . I can't remember. It wasn't funny. But the effort was appreciated and I think we laughed. kurtvonnegutskiller explained her writing with a fairly pretentious swagger of teen cynicism and overconfidence. The momish woman had disappeared. They asked me what I wrote, and I just said stuff. I have a clever answer that I like to use when people ask me that question. But I didn't really feel like bringing it out at this point. Then the man from the bathroom told us that he had researched Salem a lot, and he was writing a book based on that research, and something else that I'm failing to remember right now. He then said that he wasn't sure he was going to finish it, because his mom had read it and said that people who don't know a lot about Salem wouldn't really get that much out of it. kurtvonnegutskiller said that he should finish it because she loved stuff based in Salem, and I then kind of slinked away because the two seemed to be kind of hitting it off a bit, and I didn't want to interfere with the jailbaiting. . . Before the event actually began, kurtvonnegutskiller had left the man from the bathroom, and he came back up to me. It turns out, I think he was maybe a warning to me: a 42-year-old man who was just now starting to make it without his parent's supporting him financially. I'm not sure why he shared this bit of information about himself when he'd just met me, but I'm glad he did. It makes me think, at least I'm not to that point. . . but don't let yourself get to that point either. He was a really nice guy though. Smart. Friendly. He offered me so much advice and encouragement. Whenever I would mention some plan or idea of mine, he would say "I think you should do it. Yeah. It sounds good. What could it hurt, you know?" I was glad to have met him, and we sat together during the keynote speaker, a good credentialed author who many people, not including me, have heard of. He's published like eighteen books and done things for NPR and several of his books have been translated for international publication and he's won awards and one of his books is in works to be made into a movie. But anyway, while we were sitting at our table, waiting for the keynote speech, a guy with scraggly long hair came, set all of his stuff on the table, sat for less than ten seconds, and then stood and hurried out of the room. I had never seen a picture of the keynote speaker, but I knew that this guy must be him. When he got back, I, along with the other people at the table, got to speak with him for a few minutes before he went on. He was nice, funny, and very approachable.

The Keynote Speech

The keynote speech was good and bad all at once. It was good in that it was very entertaining and had some good advice that I found quite helpful. It was bad in that it started with the guy tooting his own horn, listing credentials that were already listed by the woman who introduced him, and had a lot of the cliche advice that one can get out of every book on writing known to man: in order to write, you must read. . . blah. . . I actually wrote down several of the things he said, because they seemed relevant to me. The one I'll share here seems relevant to this blog: "Lack of experience can lead to a book. The things that don't happen are often as important as the things that do." I hope that's true. I've got a life full of things that didn't happen. Another thing that he said that struck a chord with me was that, instead of trying to find an agent right away, it might be just as beneficial to seek one of the smaller publishing houses that accept unagented submissions. . .

alright. I'm getting tired. I don't want to cut any more corners than I already have on this post. I'll finish it tomorrow.

I'm grateful for Stranger Than Fiction (20). Wow, did I love that movie.