Thankful Weekend

It's a bit hard to believe it's been almost six months since I wrote anything for this blog -- and yet not. The time has been spent in a whirlwind of unemployment, financial and personal panic, scrambling to find work and money and stave off depression, anxiety, and desperation (rather poorly), and finally, finding new employment. Though it is temporary, it's also full time, closer and better paying than my last job, and it's not for a soul-destroying company.
There's things to like and dislike about it already, but as a friend said this week, (paraphrasing) every job has bullshit -- even when you're doing what you love there are parts of it that suck, that's why it's work, but it's good when you find something that isn't killing you while you're doing it.
Also, while I still have multiple projects floating in the realm of not being done yet, I have done a lot of writing these past few months -- not as much as I intended, but when does that ever happen? Still, I managed to finalize an updated draft of the first novel I (co)wrote, submit for four fellowships in the space of a month (none of which it looks like I got, but have never submitted for any before, ever, it was still an accomplishment -- plus I drafted my first pilot and spec scripts), and win CampNaNoWriMo for the fist time -- coming away with more written for one story and another new on started.

So this morning I was thinking about how nice it is to have weekends back as something other than another day. Much as I'm not 100% behind the five day a week eight to nine (and sometimes more) hour work day grind, being unemployed for so long, the days really ran together and even when I tried to make myself stick to a schedule of keeping weekends as days of rest and rejuvenation, that rarely happened. Additionally, my never ending to-do list just kept overwhelming everything, not letting me enjoy most of the free time I tried to carve out for myself. In any event, I decided now is as good a time as any to offer up a list of things I'm thankful for having/doing this weekend as a reminder that weekends (and breaks in work routine in general), even when productive, should also be about spending time on things that bring you satisfactions and guide you to a more purposeful life outside of get up, work, come home, eat, try and relax, lather, rinse, repeat.

Finished (and generally) The Night Manager
Started Mr. Mercedes
Did all the household chores I set up for myself to do by noon Sunday... by noon Sunday
Took the time to do my nails -- fingers and toes
Grocery shopping at Trader Joes
An easing up on the "OMG IT BURNS" weather pattern
Packing up a friend's birthday gift for shipping after next payday
Did a few simple sketches just to flex long-neglected drawing muscles
Texted with a friend and basically decided to write a movie together
Wrote a damn blog post

Not bad for a 'still adjusting to full time work and having weekends "free" again' period -- and I still have some hours left to enjoy...

21 Things I Still Need to Remind Myself of... Even Past Thirty

Life is a learning process. Anyone who doesn't think this, who believes there's some magical age or point you reach where you know everything and have absorbed and retained all the knowledge you're capable of, is certifiable.
However, as you get older, you do tend to think there are certain aspects of life you should know about, that are ingrained in your being, and there are even ones you do know but seem to need reminders of on an annoyingly frequent basis.
These are some of mine...

1. You can just toast/eat half a bagel.

2. Few things will teach you as much about human nature than observing how others treat people in the service industry... and Shakespeare. That man knew people.

3. They stopped making your favorite journal five years ago. Accept it and stop hoarding other notebooks to fill that hole. WRITE. DOODLE. CREATE.

4. You are never going to regret having a pen or pencil with you -- unless it stains your clothes. So make sure you buy sturdy pens and handbags you love.

5. Making food for the week, writing, cleaning, yoga, and goal planning do not make a Lazy Sunday.

6. Lazy is not being present in your own life, and that of your loved ones.

7. Writers write. They also dance, cook, clean, sing, doodle, binge watch shows, play games, and sleep -- to avoid writing. And they live.

8. Unless it's crafted by scumbags or spreading hate/violence, never be ashamed of the music you love. If others judge you harshly on this, blast some goddamn Taylor Swift in their face and Shake It Off.

9. One day, your primary source of income will come from doing something you love. Until then, you do not have to hate your job. If you hate it and it's killing your soul -- quit. The universe will not let you become homeless.
Also, if your coworkers aren't foodies, leave. Leave now.

10. People who are angry often want you to be angry, too. Misery loves company. Avoid temptation, slap on a smile, and laugh when they get angrier that you haven't absorbed their vitriol.

11. Your favorite shows and movies will change over time. So when you get a new fav, immerse yourself in it. Memorize it. Cherish it. And don't be sad when it's time to move on.
This goes for friends, too.

12. Your sexuality and relationship history/goals are an important aspect of yourself. They are not your whole self. If you are being made to think they are, blast some Edith Piaf at those fuckers, drape yourself in a fabulous dressing gown, and float away.

13. Say "fuck." Go ahead. Do it. Did anyone die? Did you get slapped? If the answer to both questions is no, say "fuck" as much as you fucking want.

14. There is nothing better for your body and soul (or more rare), than a great fitting, comfortable pair of cute shoes. Don't be afraid to buy two pairs when you stumble on this miracle.

15. Read more. No matter what you read, or in what format, keep reading. It is never a waste of time. If you give something a chance and don't like it, grab something else. Just read.

16. If a trip to The Huntington won't cure it, a trip to Disneyland will (unless you're trying to cure the measles -- vaccinate, damnit).
A message brought to those of you considering a membership or pass to your favorite places. Just do it. Get one. And don't wait for the 'best time' to go. Just go. Go when you need to, and leave when you're done, and return as much as you can.

17. Keep learning. Cooking, art, music, history, religions, languages, people. Learning any of these doesn't have to cost anything, so find the time.

18. Dishes, laundry, and basic household cleaning are a part of life. Unless you're a billionaire. Employ whatever methods necessary to do these things -- and reward yourself for doing them for as long as you need to.

19. Yoga. Just fucking do it. Don't worry about fat-burning hot yoga, or if you'll ever be able to do inversions, or that you have to modify poses due to injuries. Just let go and practice the damn yoga.

Life Goal: to be Nina Dobrev

20. You made it this long not being someone entirely dependent on caffeine, or alcohol, or cigarettes, or drugs. Keep up that streak.

21. Step away from the screen. Computers, TV, phone, tablet -- whatever. Get up. Don't look at that temptress for at least 15 minutes. Walk around. Stretch. Snack. Make tea. Dance. Sing. Keep your eyes and mind on the tactile, the full body, the present. Breathe deep. Then return to the screen if you must, but always take breaks. Take breaks to live, work, play, cook, eat, drink, be merry, and dance.

What Do You Mean No One Cares About My Problems?

Seriously. I'm awesome. At least I try to be. I work hard, especially doing the things I love. I even work hard doing things I don't love if they're necessary and/or I'm getting something useful from it. I may not work as hard, but my "getting by" with work is most people's excelling. That's not hyperbole, it's fact. If you look at my employment history, it's a clear cut distinction -- I work for you, I excel.
Except I can't seem to parlay that excellence into the fields that actually drive me. I keep excelling at doing stuff to just get by instead of excelling at what I know I'm meant to pursue.
But I forgot. No one cares. I'm one tiny speck of human dust among billions of other specks on this planet. Throwing pity parties for myself doesn't help me any more than it helps anyone else.
The issue is, as little as anyone else cares about my problems, they care the exact same amount about my abilities, talents, experience, knowledge, drive, passion, etc. How do you make your voice louder than others when no one cares what's being said? How do you stand out from the crowd when your number in the queue prevents you from being seen even when squinting into the distance? How do you go from excelling in a career that makes you hate yourself to excelling in a life calling?
Seriously, how?

Haunted by the Signs

One of these days I'll stop harping on about life's little (or not so little) signs and get on to more exciting things like anti-hero worship, purple shirts of sex, hand porn, netflixing your time away and more (really, I have a list). However, the reason for my day skip in posting schedule happened because I was a bit taken aback by something that occurred yesterday.
Understatement -- I came thiiiiiiis close to having a mini breakdown.
See, it's all well and good when you're on the lookout for signs during life, and when you're getting encouraging nudges to certain things. It's kind of empowering to feel like your current situation of being trapped in a soul-sucking job that barely pays your bills is not the right choice for you, because YOU say it isn't, and life is encouraging you in fits and starts to seek out other possibilities.
It's not so refreshing when the universe slaps you in the face with just how out of place you are.
Imagine you're living in a home and the home is, potentially, haunted. You feel uneasy there. Just being in that environment drains you. It's kind of a nebulous feeling and you're constantly uncomfortable and stressed. Occasionally the furniture rearranges itself and you're deeply unsettled, but you take the oddly stacked chairs off the table and move on with your day. You can't afford to move, but you're looking at other places nonetheless. You're trying to make a plan of escape, but it might take awhile. Then, one morning, out of the blue, you hear a voice. You don't just hear it, there's an apparition with it. A spectral presence with only slight transparency comes right up to you, inches from your face, looks you right in the eye, and says, "GET OUT."
That, in essence is what happened to me yesterday. At my job.
Needless to say I didn't need any coffee after that encounter -- I was shocked into alertness. And then I panicked. And then I got angry. And then I tried to once again look at the wreckage this poltergeist has made of my life and tried to put some logical reasoning in place. There was a fair amount of denial and bargaining internally with what I saw and heard. So by the end of the day I wasn't good for much beyond going home, facebooking, twittering, and Netflixing.
Today is a new day, however. The presence has made itself known loud and clear and I don't intend to ignore it. I'm getting out. Soon.
But I'm still going to do it on my terms -- no matter how many times you rearrange my furniture or drag me towards the abyss of the TV.

Please don't kill me giant demon, I wanna be in the sequel!

Following Some Signs

I once wrote a post about there being no map for life, no real signposts that tell you where to go, what to do, how to adult, or why schools don't teach practical skills along with other 'necessary' knowledge. While I still hold to that, and the concept of needing to learn how to read and follow your own life because it will always differ from everyone else's life on the planet, I do acknowledge that sometimes the universe sends you tiny messages sprinkled across time to somehow encourage or discourage certain courses. The key is you have to be open to receiving those messages, and you have to be in a constant state of observation regarding yourself and your life -- a thing which is not easy to maintain.
However, sometimes those little messages don't bother with much subtlety. Sometimes the signs aren't a leaf blowing past you on a cool morning, making you think of times past and inspiring you to start a story you've been mulling over for months. Sometimes the signs are someone walking in the door and saying, "I had coffee with someone today who's looking to fill a position and you should write to them now. Right now." Sometimes you're contemplating your current structure and if it's working, and if your deadlines are realistic, and if you're too overwhelmed with projects, and then a string of online articles across various social media slaps you in the face with tips you didn't even know you wanted and you surmise, for a few brief moments, that The Universe is supporting you in a very small way.
And sometimes you're not in the mood to write a blog post because the list of ideas you have for posts just isn't speaking to you today, and then you become inspired anyway because of life's little road signs.
For this moment, right now, something in The Universe seems to be pushing me ahead down a path. Not sure what the path is exactly, or where it leads, or how long it'll take to reach a destination, but I'm open to pursuing it, and sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other and keeping an eye on the world around you is the best you can do.
Well, that and sending your resume off immediately when someone tells you to.

The Blog Has Risen

Whenever I return to a blog after a long absence, I feel the need for two things:
1) To exclaim, "I'm not dead yet," like that plucky old man in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

2) To offer up explanations for my absence, even if no one cares because I feel obligated to give reasons for what really comes down to either: I've been busy and told myself doing this blog wasn't productive (which is a lie), or I've been caught up in my own mind in a manner that kept me from doing what I want and need to do in favor of engaging that monster of Depression and letting it win for a while (which is very true, and not an excuse, but a reason -- sadly).

What really matters is that I'm back, and to anyone still paying attention to my little corner of the internet, thanks for sticking around. I've got a plan and a schedule to resume posts shortly (as in this week), so tell your friends (internet or IRL ones, or both) to watch this space for updates soon.

Acknowledging Small Progressions...

In hopes that I can start complimenting myself on the little victories that lead to better productivity, instead of focusing on what I didn't accomplish. 

Because on the surface, I could tell myself that I spent the majority of my day on the computer, in front of my TV, watching Harry Potter. Sure, that is a summation of what occurred, but damn, isn't that horribly depressing?
(Yes. Yes it is.)

So here's what I actually did today:
Caught up on emails and twitter before really getting out of bed.
Did dishes, cleaned out the fridge, wiped down the counters, made fridge-pantry-cleaning mac n cheese.
Cleaned up the living room, took out the trash & recycling, got and sorted/read the mail from the week.
Arranged to have dinner with my former roomie later this week.
Arranged to go see a kickass movie with a new friend tomorrow afternoon.
Spent time planning blog posts for the book series, put in a bit of twitter and tumblr time on the series' social media.
Responded to 10 inquiries on the writing advice site I work as an administrator on.
Joined 8tracks -- will explore more later, but at least I have the music from Hannibal playlist saved.
Caught up on Under the Dome (Barbie, NOOOOOO!) and Graceland (between that and the series finale of Burn Notice, Thursday is going to be a very intense evening).
Went to the grocery store for essentials and gas money.

So yeah, I think I actually won the day.

I'm am returning...

I know... it's been a long time. I wish I could say many important, cool, exciting, and/or life-altering things have occurred in my absence, but that would be an utter lie.
However, in the next few weeks I plan to resurrect this blog as a place to air some creative/life grievances and offer some opinions and silliness and fangirling and ranting over the upcoming fall season of new (and returning shows.

First up: Dracula Bingo! (Or, Why I'm Going to Need Gallons of Alcohol to Survive This Show)
Coming really, really soon...

Thursdays: AKA The Uncle Willie Day of the Week

For those unfamiliar with the concept of an 'Uncle Willie Day':  In The Philadelphia Story, boozehound womanizer Uncle Willie wakes with a major sleep-deprived hangover and after several assaults by the farcical goings on utters, "This is one of those days which the pages of history teach us are best spent lying in bed."

I won't go into detail about all the crap leading up to the forthcoming rant, but suffice it to say the universe has been sorely testing the bounds of my patience and sanity today. Moreso than a typical shittastic Thursday. All I wanted was to escape the insanity for a bit and use the last $5 I have until payday to get a tasty sandwich (and then they were out of the usual bread and I had to get a different sandwich...). That's all I wanted. And then...

Open Letter to the Guy Who Has Apparently Never Seen Breasts Before:

Dear Sir,

  While I appreciate the fact that sometimes the wonders of nature appear to us at the least expected times, it is important to remember that people are not beautiful flowers. Your awe at seeing a wondrous sight such as my (fairly-concealed) cleavage is understandable. However, your open mouth and eyes glued to that one section of my body for the entire duration of our interaction is none of the following: flattering, gentlemanly, proper, polite, enticing, sexy, unique, justified, excusable, desirable or acceptable. Your inability to remove your Tex Avery-style bugged out eyes from my breasts while you perform the simple task of handing me my food and saying, "Have a great day," elicits in me only one desire: to punch you in your cock.
  If it had been a glance and a smile, I might have been flattered. I might also have been a bit creeped out, but I wouldn't have this lingering feeling, hours later, that when I stood up as you called my number and your eyes were drawn to one area of my anatomy and never left that this one insignificant body part is all you see. That it may be all ANYONE sees. Believe it or not, I've put up with that type of lingering stare which fails to acknowledge that my form is comprised of anything except breasts since I was twelve. Your behaviour is not new to me. That doesn't make it acceptable, and the repeated experience of it over time does not dull the tumultuous emotions stirred by being seen as a walking pair of tits. 
  We don't know each other. It's not like you're a man I've known for a time who has won a bit of my trust and is allowed to make the occasional boob joke. I have a great rack. I'm not actually shy about it, because it is a nice asset. I wear corsets and tanks and much more revealing shirts than this one, not to garner attention but because they make me look and feel good. Let me repeat: it makes ME feel good. A glance here or there from a stranger isn't terribly untoward. It's the complete disregard for ANYTHING ELSE ABOUT ME which makes me concerned for your education about human anatomy and basic manners.
  We are unlikely to ever meet again, and in this particular instance though you were a good looking young fellow who probably has several positive attributes, our interactions today leave me with a sick feeling and the intense desire to inflict violence other human beings. Why? Because you are a dick-leading, manner-less, ogling douchenozzle with no regard for another person's humanity beyond one physical characteristic. Eat shit, scumbag.

Sincerely,
Me

(Working Through) Discouragement

This marks my 150th post... wowsers. I feel like I should have written so much more.
One of the perils of the internet age: oversaturation.
I have a facebook, a twitter, two tumblrs, no less than three emails, google +, livejournal, linked in, this... it becomes difficult to digest all the incoming social data, much less find a way to maintain your own presence across multiple platforms for multiple purposes.
Yet I made a goal this year to write more often here, at least once every three weeks, and I would like to hold to that.

So it's a new year. January already gone. I find myself with goals, but little focus. Hopes, but little direction. Even typing this up feels off -- as though there's a switch that's been disconnected which usually forms the pathway from thought to word, deed, or action.
It's not an unfamiliar feeling, and occurs both with reason and without, but it is one that gives me cause for concern.

Therefore, here's brief list of things i have accomplished so far this year and/or am grateful for:

Updating resumes
Making segmented lists of goals
Talking with people about said goals
Unabashedly working on writings which may not net me anything besides experience, but give me pleasure to create
Finding more free / uber-cheap activities to attend in Los Angeles
Getting more creative with food
Ripper Street
Figure skating
Good friends, both near and far
Tea

In the coming weeks, I am determined to make more progressive strides and already have some very specific appointments made with the express purpose of doing so. Yet still, I am realistic in my thoughts that these feelings of discouragement and confusion will not easily be pushed aside. They need to be worked through, dealt with, and nurtured with better emotions and experiences.\

Hopefully everyone else's year is getting off to a better start than mine, but if not we can take solace in not being alone, and perhaps promise each other to work through the poorer times toward the better ones.

October is "Read More, Bitch" Month

...and update your blog more, too.

I need to read more. Again. My mind has once again become stagnant and dulled. It begs for life to be breathed into it and at best I've been able to manage a weak sigh.
So last night I sat down, took out a fake Sharpie and a piece of construction paper (because sometimes for important lists you have to be eight... that's just how it is), and wrote down a short-ish list of book to read for next month. Seeing as how it's going to be October, and I love all the fallishness (or what I remember of it, since southern California doesn't have seasons) and Halloween funtimes that go with it, it's a pretty Gothic-centric list.
However, to keep myself on task, I'm tacking on the added challenge of blogging a review of these once a week, hopefully on Tuesdays. That way I satisfy two goals in one, and help my poor story-starved brain recover from its lack of imaginative air.

If you want to peek in every week to check my progress, please do so -- and if you want to know what I might will be reading, here's the list:

Hell House - Richard Matheson (re-read)

Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen

The Vampyre  - John Polidori

Roald Dahl's Ghost Stories - Roald Dahl

Dracula (graphic novel) - Bram Stoker / Marvel Comics*

Bonus Book TBA

*The Dracula graphic novel review will actually show up over at The Comics Observer, likely on 10/29, but I'll post a lil' tidbit and lingage here on that date.

Read along with me... IF YOU DARE. MUAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAA!
(See. Halloween. Love it.)

Life's Road Signs...

True dat!

Much to my constant chagrin, on this journey of life there are no signs along the road which say truly helpful things like:
Buckets of money over here!
Turn this way for ultimate success in your professional endeavors!
Three miles straight ahead to your perfect human companion!
Satisfaction with the state of your life and acceptance of who you are just through this thicket of brambles on the other side of the mountain!
Free puppies (already wormed, neutered, chipped, and with free food for a year)!

Wait... that last one actually does exist sometimes and is for me, in a brief moment of extreme optimism, always a sign which leads to happiness both for the recipient and the puppies.

You get the point, though. And if any of those other signs has shown up in your life and led to what is indicated, please give me directions to your road... unless that road involves joining Scientology, becoming a total slut, or sacrificing all my ethics in order to achieve my desires (gee, and I wonder why I haven't found success in Los Angeles yet...).

There are, however, signs which alert us to events, situations, traps, pitfalls, and such to avoid -- sometimes the signs are even multiple and give us a way out, if not to a better road, at least a different one with better potential. These signs aren't always obvious, but often they are, and in either instance there are times when we are either too distracted looking for the signs we want to see, or too stubborn to pay heed to the warnings, or too distracted by a drifting plastic bag across the road to notice the signs.
Then, one day, we look around and realize we're on a road we never intended to be with (seemingly) no idea how we got there, nor how to get away. Whatever triggers our realization, we ultimately have few options: stay where we are, accepting that this is where we took ourselves and just deal with it -- or find a way out.
Option one is safe. We may not be in the place we intended, or even want, but we're here now. Why not make the best of it? Accept, deal, and hang out here. Maybe we'll adjust to this place and find some type of satisfaction in it... eventually. Maybe.
Option two is terrifying. Exhilarating. It has the potential to alienate us from those we've been heading down the same road with and formed bonds with along the way. We could crash our proverbial cars or drive them off a cliff trying to get out of this place. We could also find our own road, build it if necessary, that leads to what we really want -- what is good for us.

I'm finding myself currently looking back and seeing the signs reflected on the road where an oppressive heat beats down and causes the signs to gleam in reverse off the pavement. I look at where I am and see how lost I truly am. I'm standing in the center of what looks like an oasis village, and yet I know what it really is. I've known for a while, I just haven't admitted it to myself.
It's a mirage.
That promise of security and balance is an illusion, and as much as I crave those two stabilizers I know I was made for more. I'm not one to run back out into the desert down unknown roads without drawing myself a map first, but I'll be damned if I settle in this little pocket of life and accept it as my one and only inevitable future. The water was soothing at first; now it's growing stagnant and wretched. I'm tired of trying to boil it and tossing in a few additives to make it more palatable.
I don't want palatable. I want savory, sweet, exotic, surprising, and I want it assaulting all my senses.

I'm going to start my own map, watch for the important signs, and build my own road out of this mirage. Anyone who wants out of theirs, let's build that road and head down it together.

Creating New Magic

AKA: Starting a New Journal

I wrote yesterday about the trials and process of dealing with the loss of magic in one's journal. Once you accept and mourn the loss of one, however, you must move on and discover the enchantment in another journal.

In some ways, choosing a new journal is more vital to me than saying goodbye to one whose magic is gone. I've always felt journals to be precious, magical devices capable of eliciting unencumbered creativity -- so long as you choose one which suits you as an individual. Weird, old-fashioned notion? Yup. Have I tried to break myself of that idea? Yup. Did it work? Hell no. Do I argue with my 'process' of selection anymore? Hell-to-the-no. It just drags out the ordeal, and it can be a long and daunting enough journey as it is. Until I reach a day where 'any old blank book' will do (and honestly, I kinda hope that never occurs), I'll keep to my list of qualifications.

1. Easily portable, but not tiny. I'll buy larger journals (and occasionally sketchbooks) on occasion, but they tend to be for special projects and seldom see use. In order for a journal to become an extension of my writing and creative habits, it's got to be able to fit easily into a medium-sized bag with all my other take it everywhere crap. 5x7 or less in size, but not too small because then it feels like I cannot put anything of decent length in it without having to turn a page every ten seconds.

2. Place marker. I don't care what style it is, or how fancy, I just need something to mark a place in the journal to which I will pick up next time.

3. Lines. I MUST have lines for writing in a journal. Blank pages are daunting enough, the lines provide the tiniest amount of structure in what I otherwise see as a terrifying blank canvas. Plus, it helps keep my furious writings at least barely legible (to me, anyway).

4. A durable cover. It doesn't have to be hard; it doesn't have to be leather. It just needs to be durable. This book will live with me for, typically, at least a year and that requires it to be able to withstand a lot of getting shuffled and bashed around.

5. Paper of decent thickness. I usually write with mechanical pencil, however at times I write with fountain pens in dark ink. I don't want my scribblings to bleed through to the back of the pages. That's a waste of valuable writing space and again can sacrifice valuable writing time to having to flip pages too often.

6. An overall design and construction that is comfortable. See above re: carrying this thing everywhere. The cover design/color must appeal to me. I dislike sharp corners or edges as I can press down pretty hard when writing and don't like cutting myself when I really get into a tear and write twenty pages in an hour. It also cannot be too heavy, again due to the necessity of carrying it with me constantly.

7. Instinct. This is, obviously, the one aspect I cannot describe with objectivity. So long as it meets the above qualifications the only reason I choose one journal over another tends to be because I just happen to see one and my internal compass points and says, "That one!" And no matter how many journals I find that meet the above requirements, I will not purchase a book that doesn't pull me to it. I need to feel the magic. It must hit me before I ever sit down and start a single word.

At times, this search for a new magic tome has taken weeks of seemingly endless toil -- hours spent in bookstores and on the interwebs hunting for a book that not only fulfills my requirements but reaches out to me, personally, and voices that it belongs in my hands, and mine alone. Thankfully, when I felt the magic draining from my now dearly departed Red, I happened to find a replacement without an arduous or lengthy search. Another clearance item, it beckoned me from an end cap display. The size and weight are perfect, the pages crisp, lined, and decently thick. It even bears a resemblance to a previous journal which my parents got for me as a gift and holds the majority of (the handwritten portions of) my first novel. Above all, the instant I laid eyes on it, I knew. It knew.
It put a spell on me, and now its mine.

I know I'm not alone in this, so what, gentle readers, are your requirements for a new journal/sketchbook/notepad?

When Journals Lose Their Magic

Writing, the act of actually putting a writing implement on paper, seems to be becoming more antiquated by the day. Yet there are still those out there who require at least some of our time spent writing to involve this act. For myself, there are times when not only is typing inconvenient (I have an outdated, though reliable, laptop that does not accompany me everywhere, nor any tablet device -- but I ALWAYS have a pen and a notepad), it lacks a certain connection to the material I create.
I've always been a hands-on creator. I draw. I paint (very poorly). I play piano (or could, once upon a time). I make jewelry. I put together shelving units and desks with the 'help' of the horribly illustrated diagrams of do-it-yourself furniture. I cook -- and while I don't always enjoy getting my hands seeped in ground meat, or chicken guts, or sticky doughs, I understand  and accept it's a part of the process of crafting meals.

The difference between crafting in those other mediums and writing, for me, is that when I get a notebook or journal to write in, I'm not only picky about the ingredients (as I am with any creative project), I also reach a point where those ingredients which shaped my need for the journal lose their power. The whole journal loses its power and ability to spur on my writing. In short, the journal loses its magic.
Yet I cannot bring myself to simply toss aside the book as if it were remnants of silver wire, or a broken cerulean pencil, or an extra wing nut that doesn't fit onto any conceivable part of the rolling shelf unit. I know many who use journals and sketchbooks feel the same. The desire to hold on to the physical evidence and memory of what once inspired you is too strong to discard.
However, this time around I've used the same journal for just over three years and while there are still probably 80 usable pages remaining, I noticed a couple months ago that every time I reached for it, opened it, any creative impulse I had disappeared. The book itself lost the power to draw me into it and furiously write down my inspirations in an encapsulated red-covered parcel of paper. It infuriated me not just because I don't like wasting paper, but because I felt that I had betrayed this loyal companion.
This books contains notes from my time on the Artistic Management Committee at my theatre. It's got the first piece of fanfiction I began that doesn't make me feel like fanfic is a derogatory form of writing. It contains tax calculations, shopping lists, career coaching notes and oh yes, dozens upon dozens of pages filled with writings from two of my (currently) four in-progress novels. How does something that contains that much of your life, that has been the keeper of important notes, dreams, creative bursts you never imagine, suddenly transform one day into a dull collection of pages where each time you set your writing utensil to a sheet of paper all your desire to write melts away?
There's likely some psychological time+overuse=meah-related explanation for it that relates to the amount of time and energy you invest into it and one day your brain just no longer relates to that object as the receptacle of such things. I, however, surmise it thus: one day the magic dies -- whatever you wrote in that journal still carries import, and always will, but the days in which your mind pours itself onto those particular pages is over  -- and until you accept that, put the journal to rest, and find a new receptacle, your ideas will become stagnant and uninspired (if the ideas ever deign to come at all).

So yeah, the other day I posted about my brain missing. And it is still, to an extent, but I have had to force myself to come to terms with the idea that part of my lost mind is due to going far too long without physically writing. I need that type of release for my thoughts and ideas, and by clinging to a magic-less book for too long I allowed that part of my mind to run off in search of I know not what.

Here's to my red journal. I found it in a Borders on clearance for $6 in the early spring of 2009,  and it has served me ever so faithfully. Within it are words I might never have written had I chosen another journal at the time. It grieves me to let go of something that once inspired my mind in new and exciting ways. A part of me will feel lost without it. However, a much larger part may lose itself forever if I do not accept this loss and endeavor to rekindle the magic in a new journal.

Doctor Feel Better Viewings...

Back in the day when I felt under the weather, I'd curl up with some VHS tapes of The X-Files. In more recent days of yore, I chose to see if one could really wear out DVDs with a smattering of teen comedies (Can't Hardly Wait, Bring It On, the John Hughes collection, Better Off Dead, etc.). Since entering my mid-twenties and embracing the inner-anglophile there's been a surge in Brit TV and movies.

This current go around with some unknown viral attack on my sinuses and energy levels I decided to post what I've been watching to see if I can glean anything about myself from said viewings. I somehow think not, due to my current inability to focus/think/walk for more than five minutes, but I like making random lists such as this sometimes...

Currently playing: The Vampire Diaries, Season 2, Disc 2 -- Mason Lockwood gets skewered, everyone glams it up for the masquerade ball, Jeremy suddenly becomes really hot, Digital Daggers have a fantastic cover of a classic 80s tune, Elena gets kidnapped by really old vampires running from an even older vampire, and Damon confesses his true feelings for Elena.

Over the Weekend:
Firefly - Our Mrs. Reynolds. Christina Hendricks + Whedon = we're all going to the special hell

Pirates of the Caribbean II: Dead Man's Chest - AKA Way too many Special Effects Cloud Really Important Exposition, and then Jack Dies and Barbossa Returns. Plus, scruffy, asshole Davers is really hot.

Doctor Who - The Time of Angels. Ser Jorah Mormont + The Doctor + River Song + Amy Pond = dream team

Grimm. This show is just fun.

The Cooking Channel. Default 'there's nothing else on' channel.

Sherlock - A Study in Pink & The Blind Banker. Because, duh.

Platypus Day AKA Phineas & Ferb Marathon. We all need a little secret agent platypus vs. hapless Germanic villain action in our lives.

What is this place?

How did I get back here?

Well, I'm glad you (the interwebs) asked. Though the more appropriate query might be: why did I leave?
It's not you, it's me. There. I clichéd.
However, that is pretty much the reality. Just like I'm one of those folks with a tendency to not respond to someone about anything and then the guilt complex enters in for not responding, and then I just get so guilt ridden and ashamed I ignore the issue entirely unless it comes back to bite me in the ass... well, yeah, that's basically it.

Then, eventually, you have to pry yourself away from the Self-hate Spiral of Suck and start functioning again.
This lovely blog post was an enormous help in getting me back to the blogsphere. I am this person. Number fifteen, about the books... it's like the guy has lived with me my entire life.

So yeah, I'm a crazy writer. Nutters. Off my rocker. Gone 'round the bend. Koo-Koo for Cocoa Puffs. I'm not alone, though -- much as the isolating voices in my head and natural introverted personality try to convince me otherwise.
I can't blog the crazy away, but I can invite others to jump in the crazy pool and drown with me.*


*I can't swim. So by my logic, we're all drowning.
See. Crazy.

I Wrote a Book!

I wrote a book! I wrote a book!
Take a good, hard look -- I wrote a motherfucking book!

No, really. I did.

*whew*

It took about three years to get a draft in a place where I felt it could be viewed by others for eventual submission to agents. A little over my original nine month plan, but hey, I'd never written a book before. I was young and optimistic.
Still, for anyone out there struggling with a creative project, completion negates any whining about how log it takes to get there. Stay the course (or "Stay on target."). Distractions will always arise. Life will always be complicated and seem to block you at times (or oftentimes). However, if you work your ass off and try... really, really try, you can do it.
Don't listen to Yoda. There is a wasteland of try on the way to 'do,' and that journey makes it all the more worth the satisfaction when you reach what you're trying for -- I can now say this from experience. Like a boss.

Now to scan through the very drafty sequels to prep for NaNo. And start looking for agents.
Yipes.

Perhaps also take my own advice and have a look at the screenplay baby I've neglected for far too long.



I wrote a book.

The Ultra-Douche Complex

Or: Why do we allow assholes to have control and squash genuine individuals?

The following reflects my personal worldview and contains some ranting, not intended to be injurious to individuals… except douchebags and dicks… if you don’t know whether or not you fall into one of those classifications, I’m sorry but you probably do.

Inspired by this great interview with actor (and gorgeous human being), Sean Maher, my mind and emotions were stirred to advocate on behalf of the downtrodden. In this instance, ‘downtrodden’ equals ‘someone who is a genuinely decent person who feels forced or pressured into denying their true self while Douchebag McAsshat continues a successful life by being… well, Douchebag McAsshat.’
The entertainment industry exists as a shining example of the Realm in Which Douches Prosper, but if you think it’s only in Hollywood, smack yourself upside the head a few times and take a closer look at the world in which you live.
Everyday the news bombards us with details of politicians getting dumber and douchier. Not only are some of these scumbags and wackos currently in powerful positions of public office, over the next year we’ll be subjected to yet more outlandish displays of ridiculousness in the name of them ‘helping’ our society move forward.
It happens in business all the time. Comic strips like “Dilbert” and shows like The Office don’t have the staggering fanbase they do because they’re farcical reversals of real-life ‘structure.’ By and large, corporate number crunchers, office honchos, and senior management rank among some of the most out-of-touch, useless, narcissistic and douchey people you will ever find. Not necessarily the CEOs and such, though there are high-profile examples of their cockuppery as well – I’m talking about the people between them and the office ‘plebes’ who actually allow the company to function.
What irks my sense of universal hierarchy in all this isn’t just the incompetency of these people. Or their general douchery. Or their entitlement complex (Ever seen a mid-to-high level executive interact with a retail employee? It’s terrifying.). It’s the fact that we, as a society, let these people continue with their selfish, stupid, asshole tendencies and allow them to advance their careers while intelligent, capable, compassionate, stable-minded individuals get ground into the dirt, mentally and emotionally, for refusing to pattern themselves after the behavior of their ‘superiors.’ We promote asshole behavior in this country.

Beyond that, any time an individual is pressured into feeling like they cannot express themselves and who they are as an individual because of a narrow-minded worldview – whether professionally or personally – it’s an abuse of our right, in this country at least, to freedom of expression. The warped view we’ve garnered on freedom of speech is ludicrous. I’m sorry, but your right to express your views and say what you think ends when it callously, or intentionally, injures someone because you think your opinion is above reproach. Basically, when you shoot your mouth of just to be a dick and it hurts someone, you are a dick and if you get your ass kicked (verbally or even sometimes physically) and claim freedom of speech and right to voice your opinion as a defense, you should get your ass kicked again. As many times as it takes for you to realize that treating people like shit, especially unprovoked, is not a justifiable action in a personal or professional context.

Thus, when reading an article like the referenced above, I’m simultaneously proud of an individual who finally feels the comfort and freedom to profess their true nature (when their true nature is nothing to be ashamed of, nor something they should feel an inhibition about expressing), and angered by the fact that this person lived against themselves because of the cultural stigma which exists in our society.

For my part, I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, bi, or a circus performing transvestite who reads to children at local hospitals on the weekend… I only think you should be forced to suppress yourself if you’re a dick. And the easy solution for not needing to suppress your inner dick? Don’t be one.

/rant

A Report From the Other Side of the Lens

Or: Am I really getting paid to hang out with my friends?

Let me level with you: Acting is a rough career path to choose. Though, like many industries, the amount of work you do in relation to those around you is generally inversely proportional to how much respect, money, and chance for advancement you get. Good acting, solid acting, is difficult… but it’s not brain surgery. You’re not curing cancer. You’re not risking your life to protect other human beings. You’re not educating a future generation of lazy, sugar-high rugrats who have been raised in an ‘I’m entitled to whatever I want because that’s how mommy, daddy, the nanny, and the internet raise me’ generation. You’re not organizing the life of an individual who probably could not tie their shoes or find their way to the nearest Starbucks if not for you. Still, it’s a career I chose a long time ago to abandon because I didn’t want to put up with all the baggage involved. I wasn’t passionate enough to dedicate my life to it, and I don’t think you can seriously expect to make it your true job if you’re not.
This isn’t the post for me to enter into the flawed system of filmmaking and the aforementioned disparity between what you do on a set versus how people treat you (and how you are expected to behave/be treated). Suffice to say it’s one of my eternal grudges against the industry (and really, most industries) that because you hold a certain title in one situation, one job, that either entitles you to special, sometimes over-pampered, treatment OR degrades you to one of the muck-soaked peasants in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. That scene pretty much explains my feelings regarding any type of ridiculous hierarchical structure.

Anywhooos, yesterday I took a turn around the other side of the camera during a well-crewed, enjoyable shoot of an international commercial. The whole situation was quite surreal, mostly because I’m not used to being ‘talent’ when on a set, but also because it took an inordinate amount of internal adjusting to come to terms with the facts that a) I wasn’t just talent, I was principal talent, b) this required allowing myself to not jump in and help the crew and c) I was getting paid to ‘act’ with three of my closest friends.
Granted, it wasn’t all fun and rainbows. During the multiple takes, I got my ‘box’ slammed into a few times… but, you know, I don’t want kids anyway. That’s what happens when you’re the rudder of an office rowing team and you have to stop, and it takes everyone else a few seconds to catch up to you.

All in all, it was an intriguing study in the structure of filmmaking. I have to give a shout out to the crew for their efficiency with set-ups and generally being very easy-going, on top of everyone’s needs, and professional… on top of having a good sense of humor. I hope someday to see the fruits of our labor on YouTube or some such bastion of crazy internet videos.
In the meantime, unless the casting overlords see fit to start placing me in filmic creations with my close compadres, don’t expect me to return to acting as my creative outlet anytime soon… though if I do, I promise to not turn into one of ‘those’ actors.

L.A. Strangetown

Or: How I learned to start worrying and wonder whether or not this world has any idea who I am...

I'm in the midst of major writer's block. Trying to get the writing brain started after a period of editing is providing soul-crushing levels of difficulty. Part of it is not feeling like I have a good place to write (as in, a physical location conducive to writing). Part of it is exhaustion/my own stupidity. Part of it is having told the writer mind to shut up for so long that it decided to go on an extended vacation and leave me in the arid silence of a wordless desert.
Part of it is a lack of validation for my writing, critically and, to be blunt, financially. I hunt gig postings like a hound for something other than corporate babble, SEO BS, or 'copywriting' (read: do everything related to writing, editing, and publishing our newsletter/blog/magazine/paper without all the benefits and money that go along with it), and find nothing that makes me even want to put together a writing sample. I know my capabilities as a writer. I know I can crank out corporate crap ad nauseum if I'm getting paid for it... I just would really like, for once, to be able to write in my own voice and have people accept that enough to toss a bit of dough my way. And I know anyone who desires writing as a career has these feelings, as do actors, designers, crafters, etc. We all want to put our own little stamp on the world, in our own way. Instead, far too many of us find ourselves trapped in a cubicle, or off on writing assignments which bear no resemblance to our actual interests, or scraping together rent from a myriad of 'creative' gigs -- because we 'chose' this path.
(Note use of quotations. Anyone who accepts and embraces a life in a field which relates to the creative, cultural and/or literary arts should recognize the flaw in stating that those fields were ones we chose of utter free will. Art chooses you. Those of us who know this realize how simple, and painfully dull, life would be if we just settled for accounting...)

Thus, I hold this inward struggle to attempt writing without foreseeable profit. It's need which drives me, and right now the need is not enough because even that itching in my fingers, that throbbing in my head, cannot coerce me into actual creation of material.

Then, the universe comes along in all its mighty cock-uppery and says, "Hey, you need money from a creative endeavor? We can totally give that to you. As an 'actor.'"
What.The.Hell.
Granted, my ass is sore with getting itself kicked in the financial rear so much the past, well, always. Ergo, there's No.Way. I'm turning the opportunity (read: money) down. Yet is it so much to ask that I get a little cash for an endeavor I really care about? I have dozens of actor friends, many of whom would probably kick me for a) getting this opportunity and b) rail me for hours on how unfair this business is when they can't get work doing what they want, and I have the gall to be selected for something I only auditioned for to help out a friend. (Though I'd be willing to bet if they were thrown a desirable, for me, writing gig for this kind of money they'd take it.)

I'm happy about the gig. It'll be fun times with friends doing silly work for awesome money. I'd just feel like less of a tool if my writing garnered me similar work.