Writer's Group / October 23

Word of the blog: Apophasis (n.) - denial of one's intention to speak of a subject that is at the same time named or insinuated, as "I shall not mention Caesar's avarice, nor his cunning, nor his morality"
"...Now I have no desire to be a backseat driver--"  Apophasis, Chris thought; saying you're not going to say something in order to say it.  Nixon's favorite device, and Newt Gingrich's, and Karl Rove's--fine old Republican tradition.
    --John Barnes, Directive 51

Hey World,

I'm getting later and later with my posts after group, aren't I?  I have no defense.  I must throw myself upon the tender mercies of my readers and beg for forgiveness.  That is I would if I had any readers.  But, since this is me pretty much talking to the infinite abyss of the internet itself, no one was probably much on pins and needles waiting for my next post.  A dark cloud with a silver lining in that there was at least no one to disappoint when I got off schedule, although the no one part of that statement stings a little.

Anyway, I've lightly revised three more chapters and am ever closer to ending my grand re-write.  I'd hoped, back before I went on this binge to bring my writing up to snuff, that I'd be nearly completely finished with my book by this time.  But, if I've learned nothing else from this experience, I have learned that what we expect and what actually happens is much more than a hop, skip, and a jump away.  The whole of the grand canyon could fit between what I thought would be a novel I could finish in a year and the reality of what is now two years of work and still half a book to go.

Of course, I suppose that's much like anything else in life.  I mean, is there anyone, of modest means and average beginnings, that doesn't have some dream of what life might be like?  And, for most, does that dream not diverge ever so slightly as we grow to take on the daily trappings of of our own lives?  A pretty, poetic way of saying that the things we fantasize about as children will one day be crushed under the heel of adulthood.  For some, the crushing probably won't be so absolute.  Hell, for some maybe there's no crushing at all and they are instead introduced to some new dream that eclipses the old one.  But, as a realist I still believe that most people leave behind what they thought they knew of life when they were young and settle instead for the contentedly mundane everyday that we all know so well.

So, the real question is: in the long-run is that okay?  I mean, even with my hobby of writing this book I've dreamed about how my life would change if it actually became popular.  Authors are not exactly the first-tier of celebrities, but they do enjoy a certain presence within the public eye.  How I would handle such a rise in my own social standing has occupied no little bit of my time.  But, that doesn't mean it will happen.  Should I be able to finish this book, get it edited to give it near perfect form, have it published by traditional or self route, and actually gain readers doesn't mean it will allow me to throw off the weight of my existing life in exchange for one I would find more palatable.  In fact, the odds are more stacked against, than for me.  And I have to think about that.

I have to have a backup plan where I get on with the ordinary.  It's not a word most people probably want to be associated with.  Everyone wants to feel--wants to be--special.  Maybe not to the whole world, but at least to one or two other people.  They want to be held up as important and necessary within their family, or social group, or workplace.  They want to be anything, absolutely anything, other than ordinary.  But, that's kind of what most people are.  There may be a few moments in life where you have an extraordinary epiphany, but for the vast majority of us those will be far between.

I'm not sure there should be anything wrong with ordinary.  To me ordinary people, like my mother and grandmother, do what needs to be done for their families, try to help others when they can, and learn to enjoy the simple things in life that can make it enjoyable.  Maybe they don't have every building block that makes up true self-actualization, but they do have a sense of self that allows them to make the sacrifices of a purely selfish life in the hopes that they can have a certain degree of pride in how they live.

And, when I think about it, that's not a bad way to be.

Until next time.

Writer's Group / October 17

Word of the blog: Veloce (adj.) - played at a fast tempo
And when I tired of reading I would swim in my pool, parting the azure blue water like a veloce human knife.
    --Sergio De La Plava, A Naked Singularity

Hey World,

The close of another week.  Where did the time go?  Not that I'd want to go back to the beginning of the week.  I just wish I could remember what I've been doing with myself the past five days.  Working...yes.  Eating and sleeping...definitely.  Trying not to pitch a fit when someone asked me for one more piece of data after being inundated by waves of Excel spreadsheets and dizzifying rows and columns of numbers...yup, got it covered.  The rest of the time must, therefore, have been spent in a drowsy haze of self-imposed amnesia of the just completed working day and decided denial of the morning's 6 'o clock hour, at which time I'd have to get up and start all over again.  Yeah, that just about covers it.  With so much to do, you'd think it would have been easier for me to recall.  (By the way, that last line was sarcasm, just in case you missed it)

At least I managed to complete another chapter.  Not a new one or anything, but it did have new parts to it, which after the last few weeks required a supreme effort to get down on paper (again with the paper, I use a computer for God's sake).  I'd like to say that group this week encouraged me to forge ahead and to look upon the upcoming new chapters I have to write with excitement, but that wouldn't be precisely true.  After group it was more something that had to be done.  Like taxes or exercise (the latter of which I refuse to believe is fun for anyone; I don't care what all you skinny people say about endorphins, I know it's a conspiracy).  My feeling on my book is pretty much summed up in all those cliches about continuing on: going too far to turn back, in too deep, way past the point of stupidity to try and get smart now.  (That last one I might have made up)

But, you get my point.  Even if what I'm writing isn't especially good, even if no one's especially excited to read it (I mean, I'm not putting them to sleep, but it's probably not exactly heart-poundingly, edge of your seat, gripping stuff), even if I think I'd like to give it all up as a lost cause...I can't.  I can't let go.  And maybe I should, but...maybe I don't want to.  It's mine, you know.  It's all mine.  Like a (good) mother who just happened to have an ugly baby.  Just because it's ugly doesn't mean you love it any less.

Well, this is my ugly baby.  I've nurtured and cared for it past infancy.  It's now a toddler, about to graduate into being a pre-teen, and all I can do is tell it how beautiful I think it is; no matter what anyone else might say.  Everyone already knows the truth, but what can I say?  Beauty's in the eye of the beholder.  And, I might be blind to it, but at least it's an admitted blindness full of good intentions.

I think I've stretched that metaphor about as far as it will go.  So, what else...what else?  Oh, I booked my ticket to go visit my mother over Thanksgiving holiday.  I know, I previously got done talking about how I've never had a "real" vacation, but you've got to spend holidays with family, right?  It's like some kind of unspoken rule, set in stone the day you're born and signed in blood when you first move out of the house.  And, it's not like I'm against visiting my mother.  She's not one of those that smother me to death (to the point of unconsciousness, sure; but never death), she's pretty non-judgemental (unless it comes to my weight, and probably my romantic life, if I had one), and she loves to laugh and have a good time.  Other than her boundless amounts of energy, and her asking me to go out and play tennis with her, it should be a good trip and fulfill my role as dutiful (somewhat caring) daughter.

I'll also probably see my best friend while I'm there.  Looking back on how much our lives have changed over the past four years alone is daunting.  Actually, looking back on how much her life has changed over the past four years is daunting.  My recent past is more pathetic.  I mean she got married, was in a car accident, lost her father, became an aunt twice more, and managed to bring herself from the brink of a debt crisis.  Compared to that, I've moved to a small city and...  I don't know, gained weight.

Okay, this is all starting to sound depressing, which is not how I wanted it to come out.  Maybe I should stop now, while I'm somewhat ahead.  Hell, you probably stopped reading a while ago (if there was anyone to read this at all) so I could say almost anything at this point.

Anything like...MAGIC BANANAS!  :-)  I don't know why that makes me laugh, but it always does.  There, I feel better now.  Don't you feel better?  I thought you would.  Never underestimate a little well-placed, humorous crazy.  It works wonders for your mental well-being.  Also keeps other people on their toes.  No one wants to mess with the crazy person.  Trust me, I know. [slightly manical laughter]

On that piece of good advice I'll say, until next time.

 

Writer's Group / October 9

Word of the Blog: Litotes (n.) - understatement, especially that in which an affirmative is expressed by the negative of its contrary, as in "not bad at all"
I know it's a textbook example of what lit-crit geeks like to call litotes, a figure of speech in which an affirmative is expressed through the negation of its opposite...
    --Mark Derry, I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts

Hey World,

A little late with my after group post, but I guess sometimes (or all the time) I let things get away from me.  Well, this week I only turned in a few chapters with minimal revisions.  Nothing very exciting.  And nothing new.  I might be in a slump, putting off getting to the end of my revisions so I won't have to start writing again.  It's kind of a scary thing.  Even though I know I want to finish this novel to see if there's any future in this career path for me, it's still frightening to think I have to put myself out like there like that.  Hell, it's bad enough when I get a bad critique in group, and most of those people like me.  I imagine it'll be even worse from someone who has no inclination to spare my feelings.

Still, I have to do it.  This past week proves that (yet again) more than ever.  But, you've probably heard enough of that, and oddly enough I don't really feel like re-hashing it again.  I'm tired.  Very tired and would much rather talk about something else altogether.

So, what's to talk about...hmm...let's see...  Well, I'll say that I've really been thinking about something I've always wanted to do, but never had the guts (or money) to undertake and that's travel.  To this point in my life, and I'll let you know I'm in my very late 20s, I've never had a vacation that didn't include my family.  Every holiday and trip has been with my mother and/or grandmother.  And they're both lovely people, very funny and slightly crazy, which is where I must have gotten it from.  But, of late, this has seemed less like vacation time and more like an extended weekend where I'm re-establishing ties with loved ones.

There's nothing wrong with that, only...I'd really like to have a full-scale vacation wherein I make all the decisions and don't have to worry about anyone's feelings.  It would be wonderful to go somewhere and not have a voice telling me that I shouldn't be lazy, or that I need to try this, that, and the other.  To have no expectations of the day other than what I make them to be.  That would be great.  Of course, it would be better with a friend or someone more who was of the same mind, but we can't have everything.  My best friend is recently married and needs to save her money, and I'm single, so it looks like I'll need to vacation by myself.

Now I just have to decide what to do.  Should I start out small?  Maybe a short trip to a B&B in my state.  Or maybe expand out to a vacation spot around the country that wouldn't cost too much.  Of course, there's always a cruise.  I wouldn't have to go very far, maybe the Caribbean or some other exotic locale.  Or should I go for the full enchilada?  I've always wanted to visit Japan (don't ask me why).  Looking around on the internet there are a couple tours that would help me get around in a country so far and different from the place I call home.

If you're trying to get through your bucket list, do you start with the easiest thing and work your way up, or just dive in headfirst?  An interesting question since the point of a bucket list is to do all the things you've dreamed of doing and never had the wherewithal to get to.  Maybe I should think about it less and just do.  Isn't that the point of a bucket list anyway?  Stop thinking of what you want to do and do it while you still can.  I'm still (fairly) young and (fairly) healthy.  What better time is there than here and now?  Excitement certainly isn't going to come to me.  I've learned that very well during the course of my all to mediocre life.  I'm gonna have to go find it somehow.  Even though the thought of doing so is somewhat exhausting.  But, there I go thinking again.

I've really got to learn to stop doing that.  Otherwise, I'm never gonna get anywhere.

Until next time.

 

Another Monday

Hey World,

Well, here we are on another Monday and even before I got to the job I was stressed.  Fun.  There was some sarcasm in there in case you didn't catch it.  I didn't really have anything else to add.  I was more or less just sitting here contemplating my Monday, looking to the long week ahead and wondering how best to get through it.  Sometimes that's all you can do.  There's a long road ahead of you, a flat barren landscape and the only thing in sight is the horizon.  You can complain about how far away that horizon is, but that's not going to bring it any closer.

Though, sometimes the complaining can at least burn off enough depression to get you motivated.  I suppose that's what this is.  I just need to put enough of my own problems out there in the universe to remember that it could be worse.  For me, it could be a lot worse.  That doesn't always make you feel better, but it's the slap in the face that could bring things back into focus.

I need that focus.  I need that horizon that's so far away.  And every day that goes by, every morning that my alarm goes off at 6:00 AM and I have to roll out of bed I'm getting closer.  Every fake smile I have to paste on my face and useless report I have to churn out is another step.

Because just over that horizon is a little house all my own.  A little house with a pretty garden and a big tree for shade, perhaps a couple dogs and a cat.  And in that little house I smile because I want to and do something that has meaning to me.  In that house, so close and so far, I've found my purpose.

I don't know how far the horizon is from where I am now, but I'm going to get to it.  I have to

In the meantime, if I have to wake up stressed on a Monday morning, at least I can wake up to a sky like this.  That's got to count for something.

Until next time.

 

Writer's Group / October 3

Word of the Blog: Agita (n.) - agitation; anxiety
And my being named after the patron saint of love, St. Valentine, when I've had nothing but agita in romance just makes it painfully more ironic.
    --Rosanna Chiofalo, Bella Fortuna

Hey World,

Another group, another day I should have posted some of my writing.  Unfortunately, between work and trying to get this blog back up and running (and my chronic laziness) it was a no go this week.  I know that's not a very good excuse, but what can I say?  When the inspiration's not there it's kinda hard to come up with the strenuos mental fortitude required to get words down on paper.  I've been tired and stressed and unmotivated...  And did I mention the laziness?  Because I don't think the significance of my totally slothful nature can be easily ignored.

Which actually leads me to a painfully thin segue into the newest thought which most recently occupied my time.  While scanning ye olde interactive cable guide, I came across one of my more favorite reality shows, Rehab with Dr. Drew.  Somehow watching other people make exceedingly obvious mistakes with their lives (i.e., drugs, drinking, horrible relationships and other associated behaviors) makes me feel better about myself.  I'd say I can't really think why that is except we'd both know I was lying.  Obviously it's a not very successful ploy at seeing the benefits of my own life/decisions in comparison to others.  A common enough concept to all of us, and what I think is secretly the purpose of every Kardashian, Jersey Shore guido, and Real Housewife on TV.

Only, I'm not sure I'm as different as I'd like to be.  Admittedly I haven't developed a habit to any hard or prescription drugs, I know my limit when I drink alcohol and don't imbibe more than three or four times a year, and have not had much contact with local authoritative legal figures.  But, even I have my vices...oh, yes.  I feel I can trust you now, after all we've been through so, prepare yourself world.  I'm about to tell you my dark secret.

I...am...enamored of food.  And, I mean in a big way.  Much more than just as a source of sustenance.  Pretty much, if it wasn't originally termed as some kind of insect when alive, I'll probably eat it.  But, I'll definitely eat it if bacon, cheese, butter, or sugar is involved in any way shape or form.  Unfortunately, as is typical with such an affair, my love has become easily apparent around my face, along my arms, about my thighs, and across my midsection.  It is not pretty (unless you're into bigger women and then I suppose it's actually very attractive).  I'm not Extreme Makeover (another favorite show) big, but I've definitely left behind chubby.  Hell, I've left behind zaftig.

Now, here's where you'll probably suggest I do a little dieting and add in some exercise.  To which I will remind you of my persistent laziness.  Remember that?  I mentioned it like four paragraphs ago.  You can go back up and check.  I'll give you a minute...

Done?  Okay, so here's how I connect back to Rehab.  I know that it's not healthy for me to eat every good (terrible), tasty (fatty), filling (cardiac arrest inducing) thing that crosses my path.  I know this, but I do it anyway.  In the same vein, I don't think there's a person alive that doesn't know drugs are a terrible idea, but addicts do it anyway.  You see where I'm going with this?  I'm sure you do, as only highly intelligent (or really bored) people would read this blog.

So, what to do?  I'm logical enough to know I should suck it up and make the change to being healthier, but how often does that work for people?  If it did, I wouldn't have Rehab to watch every Sunday night.  I need some motivation, and I'd like to get it before I hit rock bottom.

What do you think world?  What would be (or is) your motivation?  I'm not above stealing.  Especially with so much to gain (correction, lose).

Writing update next week.

Until next time.  :-)

Not Who I Thought I Was



Hey World,

 

Have you ever stared into a mirror and forgotten your own face?  Sort of like saying a word over and over again until it suddenly becomes a strange configuration of letters you could have sworn never went together before.  You get the feeling you might have doused your head in a huge vat of jello as everything around you goes a bit amorphous and dim.  And for half a moment you're not quite sure you have a real grasp on the English language.  But, after a few seconds the feeling fades and you remember that the term "little" has always had two l's, two t's and has something to do with smallness.

 

Well the mirror thing is much bigger than that.  It happened to me the other day.  Now, never let it be said that I'm vain enough to be staring at my reflection for long spans of time every day.  For the most part I like to avoid images of myself in actual, photographic, and video format.  Which is also not to say that me and Quasimodo are blood-related.  No, I have the standard face with all its features, assigned to their right places and approximately the size they should be.  If anything, my face is so regular you could probably forget it a minute or two after being introduced.  But, while I don't like to linger over my physical mediocrity, I do find it necessary to occasionally make sure I haven't acquired some weird growth or missed a blob of lunch at the side of my mouth.

 

Anyway, back to my point (to know me is to love my tangents).  A few days ago I was doing my usual morning routine and between washing my face and brushing my teeth I had a bout of amnesia.  I couldn't recognize myself, and was absolutely sure I'd never seen the face staring back at me.  My history was a vague memory, out of focus and beyond comprehension.  I was, for lack of a better term, a blank; completely unwritten and free of all constrictions my past might have placed on me.

 

And then I was back, filled with everything I was and had been, all while I stood in my bathroom, wrapped in my fluffy white bath sheet.  If you hadn't guessed, I made that sound much more dramatic than it really was, but what do you expect, I'm trying to be a writer.  After my episode I went on with my day, but a thought stuck with me: are we really who we think we are?

 

Most of us probably believe we understand ourselves better than anyone.  The truth of that is highly debatable.  In actuality we're more likely to lie to ourselves before anyone else.  We reserve huge amounts of denial as reassurance against the mistakes we make and the everyday imperfections of our lives.  Not that there's, in essence, anything wrong with that.  Denial is how we get through the day.  It's a part of humanity as much as any of the bigger emotions like love and hate.

 

However, it begs the question if we don't know ourselves so well, who are we really?  Who might we have been if we had been born to a different time, or different parents, or in a different place in the world?  Who might we yet be in the grand scheme of things and how much of are we going to control how we turn out?

 

Pretty heavy stuff, huh?  Yeah, I don't really have any answers, and anyone who says they do is probably going to want you to give them all your money and join their commune in some mid-west state where you'll shave your head and chant mantras all day.  Not my idea of a good time, but hey, whatever floats your boat.  Still, I think they're good questions to ask every once in a while if only to get a clearer perspective on myself.

 

What do you think?  Just something to consider the next time you glance in the mirror.



 

 

 

Prince Charming

Hey World,

In light of the re-released version of Disney's Cinderella, I've found my mind turning more and more to matters of love.  I know, it's a topic much discussed, analyzed, despised, agonized over, taken for granted, made light of, abused, forgotten, exalted, set on a pedestal, and generally a concept you're going to run into more than you'd probably like to.  Nearly every book you've read, song you've heard, and movie you've watched has dealt with it.  It's got so many different forms and meanings, can be expressed in so many different ways, it's hard to think there can be any one definition of it.  Just looking it up in an online dictionary gives close to thirty explanations before we get to synonyms.  Guess it's no wonder it's on our minds so much of the time.

So, what do I have to say of love?  For the most part, I've tried to forget about it.  At least that romantic part of it that nearly every woman seems to be on a constant, ever-vigilant expedition to find.  Admit it...if you're female and of the human species the search for love takes up a lot of our thought processes.  Probably about the same amount that sex takes up of men's.  It's the high mountain women want to climb, the English Channel they want to swim, and the marathon they train for months to run.  Even the women that seem all about their career can't deny that they've given love a thought a time or two.  Maybe even a time or ten (hundred, thousand, million, gajillion).  And why?  Why would a perfectly logical woman do the most outrageous things for this greatest intangible of intangibles?  Because of freaking Prince Charming.

Don't get me wrong, I love every Disney movie.  I know the songs, can recite most of the scripts by memory, and if I could afford it would have every single one sitting in my movie library.  Hell, I had a pink bedroom with a Beauty and the Beast canopy bedset when I was younger.  Try to picture, from what little you know of me, one young Jade Rosen ever being girly enough to want a canopy bed.  Let alone one that featured one of Disney's most popular franchises.  Yeah, I don't know what I was thinking either.  Except I do know.  I was thinking of Prince Charming.

And when I was a little girl, that was a valid excuse.  I grew up in a loving household, which meant a general degree of naivety was acceptable and even expected.  I was supposed to think I'd grow up and find the man of my dreams (or he'd find me), get married, and live happily ever after.  It was the basic foundation of nearly every childhood (at least in America, and above a certain economic status).  That was my daily sustenance, the reason for my existence.  It gave my mind a starting point for imagination and an ultimate goal to achieve.  There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could have dimmed my faith in this universal religion.  The great god Cupid was the altar to which I sacrificed.

Until I hit puberty.  It was not long into my path towards womanhood that I began to realize Prince Charming might not be quite all he's cracked up to be.  I'd like to think that with the sudden shower of hormones and freakishly confusing, irritating, and disgusting things that were happening inside my body, I also gained a more elevated view of reality.  In actuality, when the kids started pairing off and finding their first loves, I was suddenly on the outside looking in.  I was forced to re-examine this idea of love as I knew it.  And pretty soon, it became clear to me that there were several things which made my pre-menstruating version of love not only unfeasible, but also incredibly stupid.

I won't go into detail of all the things that made it wrong (we don't have all day), but there was one thing that stuck out really well.  In all my time thinking of Prince Charming, I never actually gave the guy a name.  Now, you might be thinking: what's a name got to do with anything?  Well, I'll tell you.  A name makes him real.  With a name, I'd have to confront everything that makes up a man I'd want to marry.  I'd have to admit that most dumb schmucks with names never were, and never would be, Prince Charming.  They'd just be some dude who was probably equally as confused about this whole love thing, and would also have a volcano of testosterone erupting in them making them less than likely to ever think of love much beyond the pretty face in the short skirt they'd love to get into bed.  At least that would be the goal through their twenties, and for many such ideas would continue some decades after that.

Now, don't start thinking I'm casting aspersions upon the male sex (although I am).  Women have their own faults when it comes to not seeing the forest for the trees.  There are numerous sayings to this effect: nice guys finish last; only looking for tall, dark, and handsome; women love a bad boy; and so on and so forth.  And every woman wants to think that they're better than such superficialties, but we're not.  I'm certainly not.  So, I guess if women are looking for Prince Charming, men have every right to look for their own Princess.  Although in most cases, they don't need her to be so much charming as have great flexibility and be down for almost anything in the bedroom.  Being able to cook and also knowing to shut up during Sports Center would probably also be pretty beneficial.

So, what's my point?  Um...well...what was my point again?  Oh yeah, it's that love is not a Disney movie (duh).  If you're like me, painfully plain, characteristically chubby, and outrageously outspoken, love is pretty hard to come by.  There's no white horse for me and chivalry was long dead before I even got on the scene.  If I'm lucky I'll find a nice guy who doesn't mind my quirks, finds me attractive enough to only glance at the really pretty girls, laughs at my cynical craziness, and is willing to go halves on a mortgage; and of course I'd do the same for him.  If I'm not so lucky, I live alone, try to have a career as a writer, buy a little house with a couple of dogs, and get on with it.

Maybe that's why I try to think about romantic love as little as possible.  It's never what you expect it to be and it was never promised.  Perhaps that's depressing, or perhaps it's only true.  Either way, I've alreay broken up with Prince Charming and decided Mr. Actual Man is a much better bet.

And yes, I'll still be buying Cinderella on Blu-Ray. ;-)