A Starving Writer

Eye Opening

2011-12-25T16:46:00.000-08:00

I sat down at my computer today to write on my novel. It was about 7 PM, I was beyond full from the mountains of carbohydrates I had shoveled into my mouth all day, and the story was about as dry as a dead woman's vagina. I decided to shove off, go sit back down on the couch, and maybe play some World of Warcraft--because yes, that will further me as a writer.

I don't know why, even right now, I decided to stay on my computer. I did though; I decided to look up a self published millionaire, and see just what the fuck she did to get all those millions of dollar bills (her name is Amanda Hocking: I'm not a fan of her writing, but she's doing something right). Then for the next forty minutes I read her; then I read the guy she pointed me to; then I read a bunch of guys he pointed me to. All of them, everyone--even Hocking, who, from what I see writes closer to Meyers then Rowling--work harder than me. All of them spend more time with their work, more time marketing their work, more time fucking writing.

Amanda Hocking wrote a book in like six days. For anyone who doesn't write, that would be akin to graduating four years of college in about a year. It's insane, and yet she did it. At my current rate of writing, I'll probably be published around the age of fifty. I'm not sure that's going to cut it for me. I love my 'day job' right now, am actually missing it over the break--but the saying says true: doing what you love and loving what you do are very different things. I'm not doing what I love, and at this rate, I'll be close to getting my government sponsored retirement by the time I do.

In the past two weeks I've had two things click in me. One is about fitness, the lack of dedication I've shown. The other is writing, and the lack of dedication I've shown. To some, it's a ridiculous notion. I've written 2/3rds of the days I've been alive since I was twenty. Compared to people who truly put the work in, the Kings, the Martins, the Amanda F'n Hockings, I'm pathetic. The fitness thing clicked, literally, like a cog falling into place. I'm afraid, not quite terrified but close, that this isn't going to click. That tomorrow I'm going to wake up, start my timer, and then walk off--leaving the work for another day. If I do that, if I don't get serious, then what's the point?

Count Me Out.

2011-04-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

Today I was going to write about charity, and then it happened.

The political machine began revving up its engine, gears starting to turn, little minions pouring oil on the pistons, smoke beginning to drift into the atmosphere.

Count Me In. Joe is in. Are you?

I realize that I cannot influence the outcome of this election. The drones have already drawn the line in the sane, and no one dare cross it.

If anything this is a simple call for sanity. For a brief acknowledgement that you were duped, and that I was in a vague haze two years ago. If you can read this and understand even for a second that what these people are feeding you is poisonous, even one person, then....well, then nothing. Shit still won't change.

You elected change in Barack H. Obama. What you got was George W. Bush with a tan. He has intruded more into the private sector without actually adding any accountability to the people that put our society on the brink of collapse. He has continued two wars, and now added a third to our plate. He has created a monstrosity that won't ever be killed or controlled in Obamacare. Every week we find out new information about this, and truly no one understands it a year later.

The system perpetuates itself by putting forth candidates that expand government, and limit freedoms. Voting Republican or Democrat only serves to help perpetuate it. When the first black president does nearly the exact same things as the last white president, from a different political party, what are you voting for anymore? Who are you trusting in? What are you actually counting yourself in?

If you're voting for him because he's black, don't. He lied to you. The change you wanted, the hope you chased, has done nothing in the past two years. Our economy is bleak, our wars endless, and the Patriot Act continues to infiltrate your most private information.

If you're voting for him because he's a democrat, don't. There is very little difference between the two parties, and in a two party system, meaningful change is gridlocked anyway. Private and public interests are so over represented with paychecks and free hookers for politicians, that it doesn't matter who you vote for--the checks are too large for your vote to stop the vested interests.

I challenge you to name one meaningful difference between the previous president and the current one. Even when they disagree (the gay marriage ordeal) they still agree in how to go about it (unconstitutionally).

Don't buy into the slogans. Don't listen to the illogical. When a candidate is derided by both sides, they might be onto something (see: Ron Paul). However, following someone because they make enthusiastic speeches, and yet give you two years of the same bullshit that has been shoveled for decades, means you are either an idiot or criminally insane.

I'm not advocating a non voting policy, only a rational thinking one. For me, it's beginning to make more and more sense not to vote, however, if you can just start to see through some of the ridiculous notions that these politicians put out, then that is a start.

Here is a tidbit from the reelection campaign for our Commander in Chief: The 2012 campaign is just getting started -- and it will belong to us. With our ideas, our inspiration, and our hard work, we can continue to build a better America together.

Building a better America? Do you think you're better off now than when ole Bushey Boy was in office? Do you think this guy is any more honest than him? Do you think that your ideas are being included in this discussion that decides our future?

Because I don't.

A Rave's Meaning for Humanity

2011-04-03T10:38:00.000-07:00

Okay, admittedly I'm fifteen years late here. I wasn't even really aware that raves existed anymore outside of Europe (grant it, I'm not very cultured).

I found myself at one last night though. I managed to skip out on all the hardcore drugs that were obviously being passed around, as I think that time in my life has lost any temptation it once had over me. So I was able to look at the nonsense taking place in front of me with a somewhat sober eye.

What I saw wasn't pretty.

I remember thinking, as I watched bodies pulsate on the floor, people pop x, and a DJ continually scream 'fuck yes', that the human race has created nuclear power, put satellites around the world, found a semi-cure for AIDS, and a number of other wondrous creations. Yet, here we are, a highly evolved species (comparably speaking, of course), allowing strange men to finger fuck us on a dance floor. Here we are, shaking our heads to nearly unrecognizable beats, screaming our lurid curse words, banging into anyone next to us, and for what? To have a good time?

If I ever begin to think that there is much of a separation from humans and animals, I only need to visit a rave to remind me that we are inherently linked in some primal way. We have a need to reproduce, to act out violently, and something the majority of animals don't possess--a need to go against logic and generally endanger ourselves.

Sure, I can hear people calling me pretentious, saying judge not, lest ye be judged. And that's fine, I'll wear that. It still doesn't go against the argument that on the weekends, the human race endears itself closer to the animal race, and for hours on end subject our bodies and minds to near depravity.

Yet then we get angry at Wall Street when those fucks do the same thing?

If there is any clue about the human race to be found at a rave, it is simply that we are constantly sowing the seeds of our own destruction.

Sleep

2011-03-31T16:53:00.000-07:00

I have this need to accomplish things. Most people do, but I think most people's accomplishment needs could be satisfied with completely watching all The Office episodes ever made (I have, booyah). Me though, I want an asterisk next to my name in the annuls of history--something that says: hey, this guy was just a bit different. He did a bit more for humanity than the rest.

That's all well and great, but it leads me to my current problem. I need sleep, like a lot. I have friends that can run on fours per night, wake up after a heavy night of pounding alcohol and start cleaning. I need sleep like a plant needs sun. If I don't get it, I shrivel up and die. I love naps. I once said a day without a nap is a day not worth living. In fact, sometimes on the weekends I sleep ten hours at night, then take a two hour nap during the day, and in between play video games. It's a grand existence.

However, I realize that this sleep obsession of mine is horrible when it comes to shaping that little star next to my name. I've been researching for years on ways to combat sleep, short of buying a pound of meth and gettin' busy. Came across something called biphasic sleep this week, and I'm trying it.

You sleep 4.5 hours at night and take a 1.5 hour nap during the day. Right now, I hate my life. My body aches, my mind is slow, and I have no desire to do anything except stare at walls and think about sleeping. It's only day 1, and it's supposed to get easier.

I want more hours to accomplish things. More hours to write, more hours to read, more hours to work on things in my classroom. If I could not sleep at all, I'd totally do it.

Thoughts on Libya

2011-03-30T16:04:00.001-07:00

I'm a horrible person. I can't keep a blog running to save my life. I'm doomed as a writer because of this.

Moving on.

We're in another war, now. I think that puts us at three, and that must be some kind of record. Don't listen to the President telling you there aren't 'boots on the ground'. We have special forces in there right now.

There is an extremely strong humanitarian argument to be made in Libya. A vicious dictator was about to destroy a resistance to his rule. Mass murder was going to occur. Someone needed to help, right?

As a humanist, I agree with the above statement. As a lover of my life, I do not. I find it funny that the people who argue about intervening in Libya have not joined the Peace Corps or the Army and picked up a gun. Not a single one from Sean Hannity to the annoying bitch I got into this with on facebook took a plane flight over there and helped a single person. Also, I sure as hell am not picking up a gun to go help those people. An argument can be made that our military is paid to do such things. That is true. However, a tax argument against this can be made to say that plenty of Americans don't think we should be in there, so there money should not be spent in that area.

A large number of missiles have been launched, at 1.5 million a pop. I can't get enough books for my classroom. That's another problem.

We have no moral obligation to be over there, at all. Kids from Atlanta, Georgia have no moral obligation to go to Libya and help a foreign people overthrow a foreign dictator. It's ludicrous. If you feel differently about this, you should pick up some weapon and march on over there. But please, from President Obama to facebook experts, stop saying we have a moral obligation to help these people if you're unwilling to do it. There is no 'we'. Perhaps you feel that obligation. I don't. Don't use my money or my body to do it.

Fear

2011-01-30T16:34:00.000-08:00

Twenty minutes every night shouldn't be that big of a deal. Twenty minutes, no edits, and no real direction. If I can that for a month, I'll be beyond happy with myself.

The problem with writing novels, is that it takes so goddamn long for anyone to hear what you have to say. Months and months of writing, locked away in a room, where no one is allowed to read it. It gets annoying, especially for a writer like me, who writes to be read. Certainly there are the Emily Dickinson types, who write only for themselves, but I don't fall into that category. Some might say she is more noble than writers like myself, but I doubt it. She wrote because she had to. I do the same. I think that there was probably a lot of fear under Dickinson's choice to not be read. I've never researched her, and there are probably a lot of theories on her reasons why, but if I had to bet ten dollars, I'd say she was scared.

We all are. My biggest fear...I sat here for a few second and realized that didn't really apply to me. There are a hundred fears about this gig. Still, you keep writing, day in and day out, year in and year out, in hopes that you write something that just might make a few people turn a page a bit faster than the last person he read.

I often wonder what kind of fears people in 'regular' jobs have. If they fear failure in their job, or if it's like Office Space says: you're just working hard enough to not get fired. We're all just waiting for the weekends, right?

Killing My Darlings, For the First Time

2009-10-21T06:15:00.000-07:00

I thin kit was Hemmingway that said you had to kill your darlings. I'm murdering the fuckers left and right.

When I first began writing, seriously- not just in a haphazard fashion- I was a 'puterinner', meaning I would continually put words in when I was editing a story. I guess I've evolved some (hopefully), because I'm almost done with this novel and I think I've probably taken close to ten percent of the book out. It doesn't bother me a bit though, because that shit has to go. It didn't help, didn't add anything, probably just confused the reader.

When I wrote this novel, I thought it was shitty. I thought it was disconjointed (probably because it took me nine months to write it), unmoving, and already been done. Editing though, wow, I'm glad there is an editing process. I'm reading it for the first time, and in parts I'm being blown away by the ferocity of it. I just watched a huge fail by Tucker Max (if you're reading this blog, surely you've heard of him and his movie). I don't say that to kick him while he's down, but had literally spent the last year and a half hyping up his movie- calling in the best ever, yadda yadda. I saw it- decent, but definitely not the greatest comedy of the last decade. Now he looks like a fool, a complete and utter fool. I don't want to do that, ever. I don't ever want to hype something to the point of doom (which is what he did, very few things can be as good as he said that movie was). But I am being impressed on a daily basis reading this novel. Will it sell (or is it sale, always fuck those words up) a million copies? I don't know. Does it have the potential to? Yeah, I think it does. I think that when people read this, they won't be able to put it down. Whether that's ten people, or ten million- I guess it doesn't matter, because the book is damn ok.

Yeah, I feel comfortable saying that.

A Comparison, of sorts

2009-10-20T05:15:00.000-07:00

A lot of questions ran through my head when I put down Philalawyer’s Happy Hour is for Amateurs. I suppose the one that is most appropriate to the overall fame this book can reach, as much as the writing itself, is how many books were written before Fight Club took off and became what is essentially known as the book of the 90’s? How many others were trying to say the exact same thing, but it wasn’t until Brad Pitt donned the role of Tyler Durden that anyone paid attention to the book.

I can feel red dots on my forehead as I write this paragraph at 5 in the morning, but fuck it- this needs to be said. Fight Club is a poor man’s Happy Hour is for Amateurs. That’s not a jab at good ole Chuck, just the truth.

There’s another book that this can be compared to, although I think some of you might believe I’m stretching here- I’m not: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I think Pirsig called his book a cultural defining book, and I believe that’s EXACTLY what Philalawyer’s book is. It’s something that so many 20-40 year olds feel in their bones, in their very essence, and yet can’t speak about it, or won’t speak about it, or somehow have just grown to accept this rotting sensation in their soul as natural and so ignore it now.

Enough with the comparisons, perhaps I’ve already set the book up too much and now any of you that go out to grab it will be disappointed. Rest assured, I won’t give you a refund. It’s not until the very end of the book that you finally get the meaning of everything that has been said. The hours of time that you put into the book can be summed up by two words (appropriately enough, two words that are constantly thrown around LSD and other drug culture): a trip. And this is one of the greatest things about the book and simultaneously its greatest down fall. When laughing to the point of tears, and wondering if this shit can really be true- not the acts themselves, anyone who has dabbled in drugs knows the escapades are completely possible- but the reasons and thoughts behind the drugs and feats of deviance, it’s hard to figure out that this isn’t just another Tucker Max story or a Maddox based satire. It’s hard to figure out that what you’re reading might be bordering on genius, and if that’s an overstatement, then at the least something that is very valuable to society as a whole. Because really, how can anal sex with a vaginal virgin have anything to do with the realization that corporate America not only makes your life miserable, but stifles nearly every bit of happiness that could possibly surround you?

I firmly believe that this book will result in at least one college student’s overdose on some form of the following combination, pills, cocaine and alcohol. Some will look at this as just a long winded party (and long winded is definitely a word that can be attached to Philalaywer, but fuck it- to Stephen King as well), and maybe it is. Maybe the ten years he fucked around with a profession, that has completely overgrown its usefulness, was just a stretch of his college years that should have ended in law school. Thirty year olds, as society lets us know from a very early age, should not be binging. But isn’t that the point? The whole goddamn message? That you can’t help but take shrooms when your waking life is surrounded by shit you can’t stand?

Maybe Philalawyer is just a hippy that was born a decade or so late. Maybe he’s an ingrate who doesn’t realize that he’s in the greatest country in the world and should be happy at the opportunity to make over a hundred grand per year. Maybe he’s some kind of addict and a pseudo-intellectual who looks down on whole industries in which he has no right to. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s got a message that resonates in a lot of people, and is just waiting for the tipping point for the masses to hear it: You’re not your fucking job.

Few and Far Between

2009-02-24T16:52:00.001-08:00

Few and far between. Also, not a reader to speak of.

While this is obviously just rationalizing the above fact, I wouldn't read a site that had no updates either.

I'm still working, still writing, and loving it even when it is work.

I asked someone the other day that is an artist, although of another genre, whether there art ever feels like work. There is a popular conception, at least in my mind, that artists don't work because they always love what they do. If you're in love with something, then damn it, it's not supposed to feel like work.

I'm pretty sure that conception is dead wrong. I believe King and Faulkner both hinted at the same thing, that writing is work. Sometimes it's fun, and sometimes it's only work. But even at those times I feel like I'm doing what I'm supposed to do.

With all the bullshit that comes on the TV, telling me how bad things are getting, and that the world is collapsing- any time I sit down in front of my computer and bang out 12oo words, I know that nothing is wrong. That everything is right, and can only continue to be right.

Television is wrong. Find out the thing that makes you realize this.

No Excuse

2008-11-18T18:07:00.000-08:00

No real excuse of why I haven't written in here in months. I guess if I have one, it's that I'm too busy writing other things- which I'm not about to apologize for. Probably one of the best excuses a writer can have.

I'm in the process of writing my first novel. It's the scariest thing I've ever done as a writer. The short story field I have down pretty well, I have three publishing credits to my name, and I really believe more are on the way. The novel, though, that's a different beast. I tried plotting, actually bought a fucking notebook and tried to write things down- background info as well as twist and turns. Horrible idea. It didn't work at all.

I'm going to go to bed, but I guess I'll leave with just saying the writing is slow, but it's good.

This is what I do...

2008-04-21T22:31:00.000-07:00

...when I should be doing something else.

I saw a twitter message from another 20 something writer who basically said "It's Friday night and I'm writing. The hardest thing about being a writer is putting the work in."

I agree, and disagree. I mean, finding the time (especially right now for me: full time job, full time student, graduating in 3 weeks, preparing for job next year, etc.) is damn near impossible at some points. I really respect the dedication of that writer. For a twenty something year old who lives in LA, staying inside on a Friday night to type up a rough draft of something that you're giving away basically for free, doesn't always seem like a fair trade. But for me, more and more I find myself writing when I should be studying, or preparing for the TeachForAmerica institute this summer. It's 1:30 in the morning, I have to be up early, and still have other work to do. I just slammed out 800 words on a story I'm working on, and here I am still plugging away.

I love it. It fulfills me.

The hardest part about being a writer is waiting for the world to appreciate what you've done. No contest. Hands down. Except for J.D. Salinger who probably has ten books locked up in a deposit box. I'm not saying I write for the world, but I certainly don't write to shove my stuff under my bed at night. I write because I have stories to tell and things to say, and I want the world to hear them.

Does that sound conceited?

It probably does, but I came to the conclusion fairly soon after I decided to pursue this career that to be an artist you have to be conceited. The mere fact that you believe you have something worth putting down on paper, or on a record, or on a canvas- not to mention the fact that others might actually enjoy your drivel- is a feat that only the most self appraising minds can accomplish.

I don't know where I'm going with this, or how I got this far, actually.

Basically, I love what I do.

New Story Finished

2008-04-13T21:38:00.000-07:00

I finally finished a story I've been working on for about a week. I sent over to my my good friend El who looks over almost everything I write, so hopefully I'll hear back from her within a week.

My fiance really liked the story, which is a good sign. Lately, she's been kinda so-so with what I've been writing, but this latest one really floored her.

You know, I write as much for that as the actual sake of writing. Don't get me wrong, I love the feel, the trance, the damn muscle work of actually writing- but hearing her tell me it's good makes all the hours, the self doubt, and the sacrifices worth it.

I was reading this other writer's blog the other day. She's a good writer; I enjoyed the story she published at EDF, and that's why I went to her blog. But Jesus, was that blog depressing. I think most people know writing is a tough racket- there are no guarantees in life, and especially not in the publishing world. Still, nearly every post this woman put down was about the woes of it all: the hours spent writing, the many rejection slips, the editing process, the time sacrificed, etc, etc. I only read one damn page of her blog and I nearly gave up writing forever. Alright, not really, but you get the point. It just depressed me, started making me think that maybe this gig was impossible or some ridiculous notions like that. So, I decided never to read her blog again. I'll read any stories she gets published, but I'm never ingesting the bullshit that was on that blog. You can't think like that. You can't focus on that kind of stuff. It sabotages you, and you don't even realize it's happening.

Your mind does what you tell it to. If you tell it that writing is hard, and that you get a lot of rejection slips- well, that's what you're gonna get in the future.

No other way about it.

Sleeping two hours

2008-04-11T05:33:00.000-07:00

I slept two hours last night writing a fucking 8 page paper, and studying for a test. This is why I'm not going to law school. It's not that I'm scared of hard work; it's that I hate work that I don't enjoy. The paper wasn't that bad. I enjoyed writing about the subject, but cramming it together with a test, and just finishing another test and project not two days before, puts a damper on the whole mood.

I'm glad that I'll have my degree in three weeks. I mean, it's a good thing to have. But still, is it necessary? My parents would definitely say so, but I'm just not so sure.

I don't know if Dave Eggers graduated college, but he's doing pretty good.

Just seems like law school would be this, times 100. And then I would get the pleasure of working another 60-70 hours per week for a decade. Thanks, but I rather scoop my eyeballs out with a spoon.

I'm probably being melodramatic, and that's probably because I have a test in 22 minutes, but I can barely hold my eyes open.

Real Time

2008-04-09T23:41:00.000-07:00

I just finished a story. It's one of the longer ones I've written in a while, but I'm really happy with it. The ending isn't a shocker like some of the one's I've written, but none the less, I like it plenty.

I've decided that whenever I'm not actively working on a story, which might be one day a week, or every day for a few weeks, I'm going to actively blog. I need to get my thoughts out on all of this, and I need to be regular with it. In twenty years, or whenever the fuck the break through happens, I want to be able to look back. I want to look back and remember the pain that it took to get there. I want remember that it was all worth it.

Maybe that doesn't make total sense, but I guess that doesn't really matter right now either.

I start editing the story tomorrow. I hate the thought of editing- despise it. But still, when I get to it, my mind turns into a shark. I love it. I smell the blood of the words that shouldn't be there, and relish in the words that should. It lets me use the logical part of my brain; the part my mother always references when she says "You should be a lawyer" and yadda yadda yadda.

My goal: get published in a semi pro market.

It'll happen within the next year. No doubt. Easily.

My friend called my writing career in a 'mild beginning'. I'm being published twice in the next three months, and I thought his words were so appropriate. So fucking true. We all start somewhere, in whatever field we choose. So here's to mild beginnings and the futures they lead to.