Do Not Disturb Until Spring

So the book editing is done and I even platinumed Dragon Quest XI... in lieu of the arrival of Kingdom Hearts 3 today. Yet another game that I had to have on release... with no plans to actually play it right away.

Even with this game here, I still have to devote time to work. My gaming friends with a 9-5 are always stressing that they spend every possible moment on a game they're excited about, but... that's exactly how it turns up for me too. Only my discipline has to be self-imposed for the weeks leading up to my book release and that may mean spending more than full-time hours putting it together before I get to 'clock out' and play.

Remember when you were a kid and had to stop playing video games to go to school and you thought being an adult meant playing 'whenever you wanted'? Even for a freelancer, it doesn't quite work that naively. I don't work for x amount of hours for x amount of money. Often, I even work xx amounts of hours for 0 amount of money, but it doesn't mean the discipline can be looser or 'whenever I want'. I actually have to take those times where I am most productive and jump into work then. If I tried to predict the hours something would take and cram those all in before the deadline... well, chances are I would under-predict the time about threefold and do most of it sloppy, rushed and stressed. No, working 'whenever I want' is usually not when I want to work. When I'm wide awake and energetic and happy, the last thing I want to do is sit at a computer and yell at how stupid technology is until I get it to work how I want it to.

By the way, I'm that bitch that likes to email companies about how they can improve their interface. Although I'm rather diplomatic since I can sympathize with overworked developers often not having the luxury of sleep or normal working hours.

So, even though I would love to binge on KH3, I have some book covers to tweak, print and ebook formats to arrange, conversions to test, and then I can hit that Publish button and take one of those fake-cations to finish the game.

Very likely I won't have the discipline to just relax and play a game and will pick up the draft for my third book to take over my life again.

Work and play offset each other. I need balanced doses of both contribution and consumption or it drives me fucking mental. I laugh when people pull a 'must be nice' with me. Nice? People don't know the half of it. The trick to survive being the tortured artist is to paste on that retail-smile and keep it up.

I'm a fish in a bucket trying to stand out in a sea with really fucking amazing fish. I'm not doing this for As in class or in a contest handing out participation trophies. If I want to make this work, I also have to keep in mind that it may never work. The main source of misery in this world is people who create guarantees out of a life with no actual guarantees. There is no miraculous safety blanket keeping the big bad world from you. There is no guarantee your rise in a company makes you indispensable, your company will thrive or your dream job won't sometimes be your worst nightmare.

One thing that's almost always worked for me is taking a social media diet. When I notice my feeds getting too negative, I disappear for a few days. Even if you're not an empath, that shit can get to anyone. lol Hell, I see a ton of people who just get bent out of shape just watching the news. I can see that too, since I never watch it but it was on in the dentist's office earlier this month and I was in tears before the tooth torture even started.

Which I feel like I should say they did a spectacular job and I'm over-exaggerating. It was no day in the park, but my dentist and his assistants were great and attentive and were amazing at reading my stoic little twitches when something was hurting. It still sucked and was terrifying to hear my teeth cracking, the temporary facial paralysis... you know, that stuff. But I knew what to expect going in and it wasn't extra or surprising.

Anyways, I'm out. Sleeping tonight, no school for the boys tomorrow with this polar vortex windchill coming through, so I get to sleep in and get to... the whatever. The list. The one I keep randomly throwing out there because I keep blogging when I'm forgetful and tired.

January Closes...

As the month nears the close, I am excited to say my draft is nearing completion with less than 10K words to comb through to finish. I anticipate the next phases with its crackle of electricity better than the tingles of first love.

You could be a condescending prick that tells me I don't know what love is until I've blah-blah-blah, but generally my readers are pretty fucking amazing. PFA people, continue as planned. I can bet even serial killers enjoy bursts of overwhelming passion (and weird fear-boners) so overflowing emotion isn't the privilege of the pure and normal-ish.

My strength is slowly returning but I've a lot of sleep to catch up on. It's a freakish waking nightmare to sleep a good night's sleep, just to wake with your body so weak like you just laid down for sleep. What did we just do, body? I look around my room suspiciously, wondering if this is why nothing in my room is where I thought I put it. I'm betting I'm a sleep reorganizer but I'm not brave enough to see what a mess I am when I'm sleeping.

Rest assured, my friend Joe always reminds me he's got cameras hidden in my room somewhere. If he was great with computers, I'd double check my webcam. Insofar, he hasn't reported any weird nocturnal activities. 

I naturally clean the house at 3AM.

I love rereading my stories, thrilling at the new ideas that pop up as I get to know them better with the same words I've already written before. Another reason I like to stress the multiple edits--every time you revisit, you stage it a little differently and fill in more of the world blooming around it.

So! Back to finishing up this phase and back to building up my health. Now that I can chew on both sides of my mouth (I say with an overly proud tilt of my chin), I can finally gnaw on some crispy raw veggies, tree nuts, popcorn. As much as I love yogurt, I was in real danger of getting sick of it. Sugar free jello is out. But then again, I'm one of those weirdoes that loves lime jello best. You know, the kind you have to make yourself because it doesn't sell enough to be prepackaged.

Haters.

Winter Wonder What?

I've been scarcer on social media these days. There are certain times of year that I simply know there won't be enough cheer to make it worthwhile. Presidential elections, the first time it snows, that whole fuck-lump from somewhere in the week after Christmas up until it's probably not going to snow again.

Fucking modern age of honesty... Too many people addicted to attention, oversharing their misery, triggered by events they try to piggyback. I miss the ridiculous amount of cat videos and joke posters.

I... know I'm being a hypocrite, setting that tone. Despite the rocky start, winter isn't my least favorite. While this first month wasn't the tone I plan to set for an entire year (less dental work, less peekaboo colds, that damned snain. Pick one. Snow or rain. Not both, you extra ass winter...)-- let's try this again. While this month doesn't count in setting the tone of my year, I find that I'm not drawn into the same shared misery. All said and done, sleep, recovery, and editing isn't giving me some rabid tail-chasing strain of cabin fever.

The isolation is zen. There are people in my home but we're mostly content to explore our own interests. My body is weak, the muscles sometimes refusing to work. It's the cold, the chronic pain and the comfort eating, but you can tell by my pajamas I'm not entering a damned beauty contest. I don't want to be social, don't want to go out to find something to post about, don't want to risk my shiftier moods upsetting the precarious peace.

Somehow, this January was pretty low stress and I'm keeping it that way. Closing up this final draft doesn't add tension. Covering some new ground while I set up my next book doesn't either. I'd like to sleep less but I take what my metabolism will give rather than lament what it won't. So despite some low lows, my attitude and determination to work with what I have has been crucial in that perception. I'm still in good pace with my goals. Knowing how the winter can weigh on me, I'd even planned for these hitches.

Will I take some kind of break after publishing this one? Mmm, probably not. I'll likely still be achy, maybe even juiced up to plow into the next project. Remember, I pounded out around 80+K words for NaNo and I try so hard not to think of it while closing this one up. It's a toughie--if an idea becomes too natural, I'm likely to think I've introduced it already when it's not on the pages at all. So if an idea is particularly juicy, I might scribble it down but smack my hands away from the story.

On another note, how do I have so much scrap yarn? I feel like I need to pound out some adorable and random amigurumi this winter too. Yet another isolated distraction.

Oh! I bought a fancy shmancy nameplate for my desk-slash-future-ComicCon-booth. Still have to go all thematic and design bookmarks, business cards. I want to make my characters out of the insanely tiny Mini Perler beads I collected. Look at gridwall racks for displays. Look at printing costs for custom banners.

Friends, family, country mice... See you again when the season thaws! Stalk my blog or, if I own a piece of your reluctant soul, message me to say hi. Head in the game...

Letting It Go

I've never claimed to be an expert at anything, but there's one question I've been asked that I can answer more easily now.

How do you know when it's time to 'let go' of your work and put it out there?

I don't think I've ever seen a definitive answer and anyone who claims otherwise is driving on full ego. However, I've learned to combine an educated guess with a gut feeling.

How many drafts? How many edits? How many times did I pass that error before I finally caught it? If so, can I be sure I haven't missed more? Should I shave my head bald or risk ripping it out in handfuls?

First things first, it's less knowing and more... Resignation. Despite the way that word sounds like a weakness or a way to surrender in defeat, you must realize that you will always catch a mistake, whether it's grammar or just not liking something about it. I can tell you that I typically make at least three full passes, but on occasion, I'll suspect something missing in one scene while correcting another and scoot back to pore over it again.

In one of Neil Gaiman's Twitter posts, he answered in response to the question of how to write plot:

"Write down everything that happens in the story, and then in your second draft make it look like you knew what you were doing all along."

It sounds easy, but it resonates with a lot of writers. Some writers can actually shit out gold on paper, others crouch with Hemingway's iceberg, under the belief that the best stories are mostly beneath the surface and must slowly melt and rise to the surface. Yet, you can't rely on advice here, to trust any advice that tells you one or the other is best or that you should strive for a timeframe in between. Some of my favorite authors tend to release one book a year, but that doesn't speak of the quality I find in the ones that release four a year or one every four years.

You can edit too much. You can edit too little. Too much and it's possible to make an incomprehensible mess as you shove in more and more detail. Too little and people will be frustrated by grammar and plot errors. Your voice can suffer too. Either you end up utilizing it too little or you get so invested in it, your ego overpowers the actual story. Possibilities, not inevitabilities, but worth considering. There are many times when editing, I think I need to add, add, add, but once I add something, I realize I over encumbered it. I entertained myself, but lost sight of the plot.

Since I started publishing, there is very little I've tossed aside. Some have fallen out of WIP status so I could challenge myself to focus on a single story, but I tend to throw my unfinished self-amusing writing onto WattPad. I don't like leaving things unfinished, but not actively working on everything is not the same thing. Essentially, everything unfinished is still a WIP. There's always the hope that I will come back to it, that it might grow into some form of completion.

It's never easy to put out that final draft into a published work. While you could change self published work if you chose, it's generally not a good idea to post altered editions just because you couldn't let it go. If you want to publish but poke at something as much as you like, non-fiction is perfect for that, especially for ebooks. Manuals, especially concerning topics that change constantly like technology, often need updating and reconsideration. Also a great way to drum up more sales over a much longer period of time than most fiction can enjoy.

Nitpicking doesn't guarantee a good story. Rushing to show off your prolific binges does not guarantee a good story. Enjoying it for yourself does not guarantee a good story.

Do the market and your own reputation a favor though; don't put out anything for sale just for the sake of completion or accomplishment. The minute you attach work to your tax information, a traditional publisher can find it. If you care to go that route, it could make it harder. Either way, you still don't want to drag your name through something you knew was crap. I've lost admiration for actors who threw away performances, musicians that put out rushed garbage. Put it up in forums, anonymously if you're concerned, but don't ruin the wonderful opportunity for writers to enjoy publishing without gatekeepers so you can impress someone in a bar. Indie can be a much harder road with all of the attacks on its integrity, so when you do decide to let your work go, believe it's your best.

No shame in tucking it away until your muse lures you back.

The Quiet Ones

We're often called 'tough eggs to crack'. Sometimes you turn around with that feeling that you're being watched and, even though we only locked eyes when you turned, the intensity and thoughtfulness might have seemed creepy or invasive. We don't talk much, not because we have nothing to say, but because there's so fucking much to say. Asking us to talk is likely to be met with more silence or some disjointed thought. 

We're not exactly waiting for a prompt, permission to speak. We're not always riddled with anxiety unless we're getting condescending, patronizing or hostile vibes. We get called amenable or down to earth. We're quick to judge but aren't strictly judgemental. We're mistaken as perceivers because we're not aggressive but we often arrive at decisions fast though readjust them just as quickly. We can think you seem like a stuck-up bitch then like you by the end of the night. We seem indecisive at times but it's often because we don't have enough information to make a decision.

Quiet Ones tend to live in the grey. Nothing is wholly good or evil, though we certainly choose sides in the darkest and lightest spots. We're not colorblind, figuratively speaking, Sometimes we're even hypersensitive and it's not just an emotional extremity. Sometimes we hear, see, smell, taste and otherwise sense too well or not at all. We're present but we're somewhere else. We seem like impossible multitaskers but we're more environmental ruminants, able to engage or ignore at random.

We want you to see what we're passionate about but don't press it. When you give us a chance, you might see our potential. We aren't actually selling you anything, we're investing in our dreams. (Semantics. Sorry, not sorry.) We can never hear enough how much you admire our work.

Okay, this isn't some sort of pronoun coming-out, but clearly I fit the bill and many other people mistaken for being quiet do as well. Most people don't actually have a crippling impairment but are instead just looking for an authentic entrance. We're not the ''how bout those Knicks?" people but we're the "I never knew a red wine could be so sweet!" sort. Most quiet people aren't looking for the quick and easy joke, but the hidden gems. We want to see you gazing at the moon and bring up the Chinese moon landing, the first successful attempt... And they're growing cotton up there! If you don't make a face and call us weird, the next question would be whether the government will actually honor all that real estate on the moon that NASA was selling or if there will be land disputes once terraforming happens? And no, it's not always that staggeringly nerdy; sometimes we see carrots on the party platter and remember reading that carrots were originally purple. Okay, that's nerdy too. I'm bad at this...

Point being, my kind aren't apt to leave you feeling our work is predictable. We make the most attentive friends. We're self entertaining and don't tend towards neediness.

Now I definitely sound like I'm selling something. Friends don't let friends blog on no sleep. 

Little Big Magic

The nerd in me loves a good magic system. I often forego writing for days or weeks at a time, just to play with the background ideas-- not just the system, but the fickle rules or even sentience of magic. In so many ways, magic isn't so much an outside force as it is woven into each of us. Whether you're religious or spiritual or atheist, there's something of a universal soul in the concept of magic.

Another magic I'm drawn to in fantasy is the romance of it. This may be due to my bedtime story/Disney princess/fairytale past, but while it includes human romance, it's not quite that isolated. What draws characters and elements, etc. goes beyond just lust or aesthetics, encompassing the curious unknown of the magnetic and chemical forces that link things seemingly polar opposite as well.

Fantasy has seen so many shifts in interests, as a genre. The distinctions all kind of blur, to the chagrin of exclusive fans, but essentially, fantasy encompasses everything with a made-up structure, no matter how much they are based on logic. Women tend to gravitate towards the paranormal/urban romance category, while men tend to go for the sword-swinging epic genre. Yet there are so many subgenres where magic and myth set the stage--the beauty of it is that anyone can set up shop here. I've always loved to balance the emotional aspect with the epic. I'm not normally an emotional or even patient person so there's a bit of compensation for exploring what I'm not.

I explore many magic systems over the UnQuadrilogy. Element-based, soul-based, channeled through wands, innate to a species, even a gem-based one I've termed jeulomancy. Along the way, it becomes a thread that pulls characters together or pushes them away. It becomes an invisible astrology, something irresistible or fought against. You fight the magic subconsciously, but on a conscious level, the struggle to rebel against it can be just as costly. Being ignorant is never the most dangerous aspect. Unacceptance too often beats that.

What makes it into the story often takes an extreme--either magic is significant and life-altering or it's innocent and banal. Some people lose fascination with fire once they realize there's no magic involved. Some of us sit dreamy-eyed by every bonfire, finding magic in every unpredictable lick of light. 

Because of this, I try not to define what magic is, even to my characters. You can see when it's a boon or a bane to them, but there's always that sense that it's a constant ignorance of what it truly means that sometimes keep them from defining it. The longest lived characters always seem to wield it with a sort of resignation and acceptance, but even in relative mastery, the ignorance of all it is remains. They warn the novices not to mistake however easy they make it look as license to disregard its lures, dangers, and volatility. Age, however, is not the deciding factor. Magic is full of its early prodigies and reckless elders.

What makes magic work time and again is how it fits. I'm sure there are plenty of fantasy fans who gobble up just the facts of the system, but the true magic doesn't start until you combine the sentience. If it doesn't have its own thirsty demands, then the motivations of its users and conduits can be the fascinating part.

Even though the movie Maleficent was not as good as I hoped it to be, the concept was one I'm drawn to time and again. No matter how drippingly evil a villain appears, I love the added dimension of their idealistic struggle for balance, the way the world might have twisted them to their role. Even when they seem to be born bad seeds, I like to see where they might have tried to do something good or heroic only to have it explode. I like to sympathize with the villains sometimes. I also like when the hero sometimes does something to rock you off of liking them faithfully. When it comes down to what we actually do in the what-ifs, the choices made often bend our minds as to what tools we stock up, just in case. A hero who has always been able to solve their problems with a sword is likely to fail when a problem comes along that a sword can't fix. Likely but not sure! Some people have the devil's luck when it comes to adapting to new situations. Or maybe handling a sword has a parallel we just didn't see until they do.

Magic, in the sparkly power sense, is not the only thing I'm looking at as a fantasy writer. I'm looking for all the paths it take. How can something that seems all-encompassing make sense in a finite sense? What challenges do the characters really face once we start breaking the limits? Many stories have failed when the magic becomes too big and invincible.

That's why I look at the little big magic. Drawing careful limits, explaining why they could just wave a wand and make it all better. I'm not a huge Lord of the Rings fan but it's hard not to come across the big-ass birds of Gondor dilemma. Why couldn't they just fly to Mordor? It seems like when you have the shortcut right there that it should be glaringly obvious that they just went on a needlessly complex adventure for the sake of filling pages. Even a novice like me could spot some of the glaring issues with that like, oh, say, the big ole Eye of Sauron or the countless winged spies that litter many a fantasy realm. The elves themselves needed some big sticky compartments. Galadriel herself would have been without rival if not for that. It is made clear that the elves with the One Ring would have been the end of everything. Limitations and logic don't need to be fully explained, but there should always be enough of it for the reader to draw some kind of conclusion. That fans can manage to build cases for these vagaries is part of the fun.

I've seen many a popular story picked apart. The teleporting timelines of Westeros is an interesting one too. I don't believe even the original writers consider the depth so much as fans do. Even JK Rowling with her anal hand-written clusterfuck charts. That's a little part of what makes the magic big too. Ive always enjoyed a story that acts as a solid guide. Let the details work along the way. I can honestly say that half of the gripes people have when they nitpick at stories either went unnoticed or just didn't break the story for me. Maybe it's because I'm a writer and I can see where the thought might have evolved amd derailed from the original intention into something better. While I try to be a monster for consistency, I can see where minor points can slip by every edit until someone catches it.

Magic is where you look for it. We're fickle creatures, yes, all of us; each of us chained to moods and circumstances that paint what we are open to at any given time. Our favorite desserts can taste like sawdust following terrible news and we may find magic in something we've overlooked for years until we look at it a certain way.

Books are magic or they're a way to pass the time when there's nothing better to do. This isn't going to be the same for everyone.

So why should I, as a writer, assume I can tell you how to feel about magic or love? 

Feeling Good When Feeling Bad

I've mentioned a dear friend of mine that suddenly and tragically passed away of a heart attack at the young age of 43. Much like my aunt Shari and Uncle Mike, it's just too damned young. When my friend, Fermín, was still alive, a few mutual friends and myself went over his apartment one night to feast on empanadas and drink terremotos. The conversation of selfie obsession came up, as well as my apparent lack of enthusiasm. I quickly corrected them. I have a huge library of Photo Booth shots on my iMac where I snap a mixture of flattering poses and funny faces. I just don't share.

It's then that Fermín mentioned I rarely change my profile picture. I shrugged it off. Not much changes about me. My hair is pretty consistently red or growing back into its natural non-color, long or short it's rarely brushed. I wear pajamas because most clothes are uncomfortable and dressing up makes me self-conscious. I have a ridiculous amount of makeup for someone who usually goes without. But he said something to me then that made me look at myself differently. It's not about making sure people know what I look like. It's not about vanity. It's about self-care. It's about embracing change, a small milestone. 

I have the same exact face I had two decades ago. My nose is a little larger, my skin a little clearer, my forehead has a couple wrinkles. Most people don't even notice. Yet there are some things I notice when I look through them. I clearly favor a yellow hoodie. I often smirk rather than smile. Sometimes I look like my mother. I often remember where I was in life with each one.

Yesterday, I didn't feel so well. I was lying on my bed in wrinkled pajamas, my hair unbrushed, no makeup. I'm congested and my jaw is still sore, so a camera was the last thing I needed in my life. Yet in the dim warm light of my room, I switched my tablet to camera mode and snapped a few pictures.

No matter that these days I feel old and weak in my vulnerability. Yet in that picture, time vanished. I saw the same face of two decades past, not older, not weaker. I saw confidence and stoicism and acceptance. The shadows under my eyes weren't there and I didn't look sick or swollen. Just me. Just like thay, my doubts were soothed away.

No matter how I feel, I pick a day every few months when I remember to change my profile picture. I ignore what I'm feeling and take a few selfies, pick one that defines me best. To remind myself, in such a small way, that it's okay to feel good even when I'm feeling bad. It's why I took a picture of myself crying after my mom died. I wanted to see that, no matter how broken I felt, I was still quite whole.

The pieces fall where they will. I have some power to change my life but sometimes things just happen to you. When things just happen, I push back. I do some small symbolic thing to remember to hold myself down. 

To shift it into creativity, sometimes my stories escape me. I don't get what I'm doing, I'm not sure I believe in how it's turning out. Then I take control. I snapshot it and give it a good look. I love what I do, what I am. I love being wrong when I think I'll screw something up. I love being wrong even when it doesn't turn out right. 

And when I forget, I make it a point in self-care to remind myself. When the pain of the past digs in, I anchor myself in the present. And sometimes, the deep dark rifts in the present become superficial cracks in the big picture. 

But I have to take those pictures. Even when they're grainy, poorly lit and unplanned. Because if I'm going to be insecure, I want to know that face is exactly like all the others. Then I'll wrinkle my nose, stick out my tongue and take a few more.

Abandon Outside Expectations

If my 'new plan for a new year' did anything, it wasn't simply making me set myself up for crippling failure, but reevaluating how I treat myself as a writer. I've done a lot of advice blogs, not coming from the place of an expert, but simply meant to help other writers to remember to be as flexible as their guys tell them to be.

So what about those lamenting they flit around and never finish anything? I could say that maybe the tides will turn, maybe you can try to try some methods that have worked for me. Still, you see the baffling overflow of bloggers and articles whining about how the overflow of ego-driven advice.

Where?

Seriously, where? This is the same thing that happened when Bird Box came out on Netflix. I saw tons and tons of memes complaining that social media is raving about it, but somehow, 99.9% of the people on my feed hadn't even bothered to see it. Given, I've got maybe 300-something friends on FaceBook and fuck Twitter, but the things that overflow into my feed sometimes assume we're all absorbing the same shallow sources.

A writer's bane is, what then; the burden of choice? That, in our most vulnerable times, we're possibly just drinking in the most click-baity articles while downing wine and using that fishing expedition as an excuse to claim we're 'blocked' or 'burnt-out'?

Because every writer I actually talk to has the equivalent of idea diarrhea (sorry that the analogy has come to this...) Even when we're not writing, we're endless streams of possibility. It's not anathema, to shy away from the pen or the keyboard. It's process and how you feel about it is contrary to how it actually works, more often than not.

The days where I write or edit the most are often days where I feel like, eh, I'll just poke at it for 15 minutes because I'm not feeling it. I never remember how much I enjoy it until I push it.

Sometimes I'm right and it doesn't take off, but this is one of those instances where I'm happy to be wrong.

Maybe it's because I went into the new year gently. I've finished all of the oral surgery, caught a bad cold and still, I'm hoping to get through the nitty gritty of editing and formatting. I'm really hoping to honor my mom's birthday with another book release, but I'm not going to panic if I have to adjust that goal. 

I know that doesn't sound gentle; the breaking of jaw and tooth, the wracking of coughs and the pile of publishing prep, but that's exactly how I see it. I've had to put off exercise goals so my body could heal first. I've gracefully chosen sleep when I really want to edit. I've taken my own advice, time and again, because the advice is only frustrating or useless to others if I'm just bleating the same shit other writers are apparently blogging about without applying it successfully myself.

Go ahead and blubber over click-baity advice while inebriated on your alcohol of choice sometimes. It's not the best advice I can give and it makes for a sad party, but what is good or bad advice comes with how well you mesh with, test or rebel against it. Don't let anything intimidate you against self-improvement. Don't let the pretentious goals of 'perfection' or 'mastery' push you off of being a story teller, no matter the medium you choose.

It is what it is. Sometimes the simplest truths are that plain. I can get flowery at times, but underneath the flower bed is a simple base of soil, a self-sustaining ecosystem that doesn't need me throwing fertilizer (or salt) down to feel like I'm doing enough.

Don't smother the garden. I can't stress enough that what keeps me steady on the path is being okay with not knowing every stone, not freaking out at every worm.

And while I heal, I'll be gentle, which includes busting my ass on a few pavers in my personal garden. Whatever works.

I may not be consistently blogging, but I'm at peace with that. It isn't a priority but I'll make it one when the time is right. Once a week sounds like a modest goal for now.

Human Sponge and Other Bad Names for a Live Action SpongeBob Movie

I promise that header is horrendously deceptive.

My background noise while editing these days has turned to cooking shows and home improvement shows. While I'm not particularly lacking in either skill, the main reason is actually because these tend to have an assload of episodes and I don't have to look for something else to watch so often. The only exception is the prompt wondering if I'm still there/watching, with no regard for the fact that my cats could be watching even if I don't realize my TV is quiet for a while.

Because of this, I'm something of a pseudo expert now and I'd even wager I'd probably know which bitter cheese looks best on a granite countertop with a marble backsplash. Not through applied knowledge but more because, with a vocabulary for anything, I have the tendency to make uncanny lucky guesses.

Noise levels are something writers tend to toy with. Even with some hardwired tendencies, I still can't say I don't vary from time to time. Netflix and Hulu while writing and editing was a sort of multilevel thing. For one, throwing on kid's shows kept my nephews' attention longer so I could do things. For another... The sponge effect is fruitful. 

While they tend to run towards reality-show levels of whining and fake drama, these shows are chock-full of vocabulary for those weird mini roofs on big roofs (dormers) and those interesting formations under the points of them (gables/brackets). These are words that I'm grateful I don't have to look up with funky keyword chains, such as... Well, the ones I originally spelled out qualify well enough.

What makes speaking able to be absorbed or ignored is its usually passive nature. Being an observer, you'd be more inclined to not feel those FOMO vibes. English is a clunky spoken language at that, one that doesn't distract with rhythm or flow. I find it harder to concentrate with more lyrical or vowel intensive languages. Even then, languages are sometimes easier to discern because it's yet another sound in the background and without realizing it, I'm picking up cadences and accents, even trends in how native men and women sometimes speak it vastly different.

I briefly passed an article of someone claiming to help people think outside of the box. It came off as kind of desperately quirky garbage. I'm not sure why people are so obsessed with being in and out of boxes or where these boxes are at all. Over and over, it amounts to this--trust your ideas more. Some people treat their writing like it's either going to be their Anne Frank's Diary or some posthumous joke that marks their infamy or obscurity.

Think about the future as far as it motivates you. Just like passive absorption can bring endless pools of knowledge, freeing yourself to telling a story, humbling yourself to how it changes, often nets you no shortage of ideas. Some people are so married to seeing it as a movie or a game that they forget to use the media of writing to its best advantage. Delve into minds and places even your characters can't reach. Tell a story, teach a story. Whatever you choose to write, embrace the noise. Rather than get frustrated about the environment being less than perfect, ask what it can bring to your work.

People are rarely looking for who you are when everything is ideal. People often want to know what you can achieve when you're on their level. Rags to riches stories die as soon as they spark. Once we beat the hump, relatability is harder to come by. It's why it's very rare for booming authors to keep striking gold. We start to need those raw struggling moments.

Now, excuse me while I watch people whine on Property Brothers. It's one of those shows where you can get drunk over three events: every time someone panics because they own two houses before their old one sells, every time someone thinks a countertop is ugly, and every time someone compares a color they don't like to food being squirted on the walls. Don't add one for every time someone says they don't like something. You'll die.

Ding Dong Ditch

Before cell phones and internet, we had prank calls on landlines (until the dreaded *69) and Ding Dong Ditch to ghost and harass people...

But this is about neither. I thought of this after posting a comment on a social media platform I don't use often. I'm a Ding Dong Ditcher of comment sections, but there's a good reason I've started this as an unofficial policy.

For one, I often choose heated topics that seem multifaceted and considered but often carry a myopic bias. This means I am looking for a diplomatic way to tell someone they overlooked a sometimes simpler solution. At the same time, I'm not there to field a writer's emotional responses if they lash out. Is it a failure for me to deliver the proper context or a failure on their part to take criticism without it putting them on the offense? Eh, I'm not sure I care right away, but at some point I will. Conversing is part of the learning, but I do have selfish and specific motives for how I deal with it.

As do we all, but I'm not here to force everyone to admit something either.

Hitting publish is something I attempt to avoid when I am most vulnerable, but a comment is a drive-by, even when carefully considered. Not only is there a chance that their fresh posting is leaving them soft-shelled, but there's a risk that I am even not prepared for the discussion.

Right away, that is.

So after saying my piece, even if I ask a question, I don't immediately look for a response or even outright ignore the notification. I often endeavor to forget, leaving notifications hanging to return later. I've never been an immediate responder to texts or messages or calls. Even with friends, I give them specific outlets for the hierarchy of where they'll stand a better chance of a quick response.

I'm sure some might take this as a sign of weakness, but it's more an eccentricity. I'm not out to avoid, but being committed to a public discussion or social situation means I avoid my usual instinct to react on impulse, and want to consider, or even forget, to look at something more critically, to be more considerate. This is not about dangling people along or enforcing patience. I just refuse to be rushed or baited into an emotional response. In my eyes, I'm being respectful and rational, though we can agree to disagree.

The analogy ends with the initial disappearance. I return, after all. Sometimes they don't reply or ignore it. At that point, it's done. It's not for me to demand knowledge of whether they've read it or acted on it. What else? Well, sometimes they thank me, politely or not, and say they've considered it or disagree. It's actually pretty rare that one who considers themselves a professional regresses to butthurt. In that case, my usual response is to walk away. On occasion, oh happy day, discussion happens, new friends or colleagues are made, the sun glitters on the ocean.

Ha, I suppose this is my own defensive response to avoiding a discussion I've started. However, it's because it's been misconstrued that I find it's one of those things I enjoy correcting. Sure, I avoid all messages starting with 'hey' and I have pet peeves in conversation, but I've discussed that too. Those who know me are well-versed in my ways and I in theirs and we still adore each other, so I'm a fan of making things clearer to bypass the sticky parts.

I don't really have hard rules and sometimes people decide to test my sense of humor and patience by pushing a button. I put it out there, knowing that was a risk. Sometimes I respond to the humor, sometimes I'm just not in the mood and I'll tell you to fuck off. Don't take it personally. If I'm talking at all, you haven't been exiled. 

Fuck if I know what I'm talking about. Late night healing pain and all, I think it's time to wander off and prepare for going to battle with my friend Monday. Lots to do so I want to tackle it with more brain cells than what I ended up with today. Knock on wood...

Weekend Warrior?

I have done nothing since 2019 switched over, though not for lack of wanting to. Previous posts already saying as much, I had a big dental surgery on the first of the year and today was my first day without painkillers. Those that made me extremely drowsy, by the way, so I was semi-functional having cut myself off today. Spent a few days gaming, although I can't rightly remember much about what I played, but that's fine too. I always game in a half-focused state...

Tomorrow isn't looking better for it. I haven't slept well since the surgery and if I end up sleeping a ton tomorrow, I'll be happy. Again, Mondays tend to be my 'let's kick ass' start-up days so why not aim for that to start hitting the keys in earnest?

I'm happy that I'm healing without complications so far. I still have to be wary of dry socket for the next few days, but should be out of the water by mid-week. The clotting looks embedded but I'm not taking chances. 

I guess I'll update again Monday night, see where that day ended up. For now, much needed rest! Also have a birthday present to make this week for my friend Liz's daughter Ana. Crochet is one of those efforts I can usually swing no matter how I feel (barring stomach flu but let's not jynx it).

I'm Not My Number One Fan...

And, bear with me, you aren't really your best fan either. Maybe in terms of who gets sleepless with excitement as your work unfolds, who actually puts pen to paper (figuratively since most of us type these days)-- sure, you can be the ultimate first adopter. However, I'm exploring a new way to look at it, a sort of level-up for the long haul.

First off, my number one is an honor I want to let my readers believe they enjoy. They aren't necessarily, but very well could be, the actual first to buy and devour my work, eager for more, but it's my hope they both believe they're worthy of the spot and are just as eager to share that spot. I'm not writing solely to drive my ego so, while I'm driving the vehicle, fan input and even personal ranking is not something I feel is imminent domain.

Leading to my second point, I am the driver of my destiny, so I wear enough hats. How many hats is enough and why not wear them all? It's not a certain number, just a feeling. I wear similar hats to that of the fan, but when I can't be the most enthusiastic fan, I have to be able to choose the right hat for the job. Fans, no matter the lengths they'll go to paint their naked bodies in arctic weather, are still meant to be passive observers. Fans, you are candles in the night, both ritual and beacon in so many ways, but when I suit up to be a writer, the role of fan is too passive (as it should be) to affect the actual act of working? You can wear the same stinky socks for a week in the name of luck and less laundry, but it is still my job to move the words. So too will I look to you for inspiration at times when I struggle to find my stories.

Third, it's just not a good idea to share hats. Actual concerns about head lice not being the factor here, there's too much of an elitist thread in posing myself at the top of a hierarchy I made in the first place. I don't need first chair, first place, first comment, to secure my presence. It would be really fucking weird if I didn't have enthusiasm for my work anyway. Needing to lead my own fan pack is not a vote of confidence so much as a desperate plea. Certainly, I would be honored to be asked to give my blessing to make a fan club for my work official, but that opportunity is lost if I take the reins on that aspect of it as well. So in some ways, being stingy and selective with my hat collection as a budding writer is important to building some opportunities of higher value overall. Again, giving room for fans to build from their own experiences affords them an angle wasted on me.

Semantically, of course a writer still has to be their number one fan. Yet there are days I just don't like myself much where I still need to grab a hat and get to work. Some parts of writing aren't about passion. While fans assign themselves different responsibilities as well, from passion to precision, I still remind myself that I can't take on a passive role.

To embrace a cliche, these books won't write themselves. In that case, my writerly hats take precedence over that sentiment. Hey, number two ain't so bad, right? It's still the shiiiiiit...

More Mental Dental Adventures

The numbness wore off, confirming that the crunching sounds and near unhinging of my jawbone were very real. I'm not sure why but my brain is convinced it's because a man wearing a bunny suit hit my face with a combine. Of course, those nut job vegans are somehow to blame. 

I'm now debating on whether my blog rants on vegans will somehow come back to haunt me in ten years. Unless you fart sunshine and douche with rainbows, someone will find a way to twist it. No, that person is probably getting nailed on every cross too.

Scrambled eggs should be safe. They should be but they are NOT. I'm not yet allowed to rinse my mouth so I spent a good fifteen minutes debating whether I was going to risk dry socket if that weird sensation was supposed to be there and not just some asshole piece of chicken embryo.

Yeah, we get it, vegans-- these things don't EVER happen to you. Have your big sad trophy... 

I have exactly zero other soft foods to choose from at the moment, but I'm seriously considering Jello and Greek yogurt. That's right; seriously considering. I can't remember giving this much headspace to food, but I also stared at a paper bag for ten minutes and ended up walking away, not sure of what decision I was supposed to be making about it. I shrugged and barked out an awkward laugh to look cool for the zero other people judging me then decided that big decisions were a really bad idea right now and I should probably hide my credit card from myself.

I won't remember where I put it last because it won't be where I usually put it.

More sleep for now. I go get my nephews from school soon and sleep will probably make me less embarrassing. However, since I've never disguised my weirdness, it would take a lot to shock these kids. 

Somehow I bet that achievement is within easy reach nonetheless.

Mental Dental Adventures

It shouldn't surprise me that yesterday's double extraction revealed that my stubborn nature went so far as to afflict my teeth as well. Long, curved roots. Great news if I want to keep a tooth, bad news if they need to go. So after a couple hours of having my jaw pushed to its mobility limits and the sickening crack of bone, there was some relief to be had.

Kind of. Risk of dry socket remains and the ingesting of blood and novocaine is hell on my stomach, the sort that even scrambled eggs didn't fix. The ache is ever present and I cringe as I remember the shattering of teeth. Haven't gotten any real sleep yet, but the slow ooze of blood and dull throb of an abused jaw are more present than total exhaustion just yet.

I still have to go back for fillings and a cleaning. As much as I loathe having my mouth invaded, I do love the assistants and my dentist is kind and decisive. Much better than a certain nervous one in my past that constantly stopped during a root canal to ask if I was going to bite (when I'd not given any indication I would at all). Fillings and a cleaning are cake compared to extractions. Especially since these stubborn bastards needed to be water drilled loose. They really weren't responding to the extraction tool at all.

Tylenol 3 is my temporary friend. Nothing is being very nice to my stomach though... 

Anyway, because of the stubbornness of those teeth, working on my books is postponed. I shouldn't be held up too long, assuming the clots stay put. It's not my first extraction but the socket wasn't as deep as these are so I need to take care. Just glad it's done and I can look forward to a healthier mouth. Tooth pain and discomfort are one of those all-encompassing bastards that can demand an exhausting amount of focus and care.

Teeth are toddlers. You can't reason with them.