Summer Thrills

This, I suppose, is an entry about writers block. I've started typing three times now, and with this third time, I hopefully will be able to get under way. (In case you're curious, the first two times began "Friendship is an interesting conundrum" and "I can't stand my neighbors." respectively. Far less interesting topics, at least for me.)

I believe that I've discovered one of the major contributors to writers block, at least in my case. This may be shocking, and if any literature majors are out there, you may want to avert your eyes, as this revelation may interfere with that novel or screenplay that you are working on thats guaranteed to revolutionize the industry.

Here it is:

I read too much.

My stories are becoming those of the writers I read. Stephen King put it best, when he discussed how the Dark Tower could have been (The Lord of the) Dark Tower, had he not put off his writing for several years. So here I am, again on the topic of imitating our heroes. I don't want to be Chuck Palahniuk, as I said, but I also don't want to be Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, or J.R.R. Tolkien (guess what the last few books I read are, and maybe you'll get a prize.) Iwant to be Lincoln Eddy. I want my writing to be unique, readable, and above all else, enjoyable, both for me and for anyone who reads it.

I feel like a lot of whats written anymore isn't any of those things. Unique has gone the way of the Smilodon, and in many cases, readability is just as dead. I couldn't name the number of times a friend has handed me a story or a poem to read, and I've just grinned and bore the terrible pain inflicted by stunning mediocrity.

I am by no means saying that I'm a master writer. A lot of my stuff is crap, and I'm sure that I've caused people pain with my words more than once. But the effort used anymore is gone. No one tries.

No one writes.

And in the end, who will we read?

RXVP

He threw up twice after the party. The stench of alcohol permeated things, soaking into the cracks in the walls, the fibrous makeup of the furniture, that when he awoke, it was too much. He vomited again, using a toilet full of condoms like dead jellyfish, and flushing the whole sickening mess. Then down the hallway, collecting cans, preparing to pay the noise violation, ten cents at a time.

Dry spots in the sticky floor shone up like chalk outlines on inner city streets, indicating the variety of passed out positions of friends. Gone now. Hungover, back to work, school, life. Last night a haze for all.

Stumble down the stairs, garbage bag leaking a sticky mess, a trail to El Dorado for insects. Fuck it. This is at least fifteen bucks of cans, a new bounty for a new hunter. Skid marks out of the parking structure, morning sun still rising.

All singing, all dancing, children of Pahlaniuk

I don't want to be Chuck Pahlaniuk.

Pahlaniuk, and in particular Fight Club, have become such a part of our popular culture that at school I saw graffiti in the bathroom that said "Tyler Derden Lives!" (mispelling preserved to show what kind of idiots I go to school with), and thats just frustrating for me. Both as a writer, and as a reader, I don't want to become a child of Tyler.

Or Pahlaniuk.

Post-modern writing, particularly of a bizarre sort, is now doomed to be compared to one man. As in my intro to fiction class, I read aloud from my works in progress, someone would invariably say that they were reminded of Chuck Pahlaniuk. I'd smile, nod, say I'd read some of his work and then go home and rewrite that whole damn section. I want to be my own author. If whenever anyone reads what I write, they're reminded of someone else's work, then its not mine.

Whats special about Chuck Pahlaniuk's writing and really all great literature, is that when you read it, theres a special communion between you and the author. The story becomes part of you and belongs to you. An author who manages to make a story uniquely his own has accomplished something. And because of that, I don't want to be beholden to Chuck for anything.

Not adjectives. Not descriptions. My writing has to flow, electrical connections made between tips of my fingers and symboled keys. Completing the circuit hundreds of times a minute, electrical impulses showing in ways that have never before been seen. Their combination is unique. Never before or ever again will they be in this exact same pattern. This is becoming me, becoming mine, becoming yours.

Someone is going to say this entry reminds of them of Pahlaniuk. Fuck you.

Ruminating on the need for a "bug" shield

I hit a sparrow with my car on the way home from work today.

Now don't get me wrong, I felt pretty bad, but my immediate thought was "Crap, thats going to be hell to get off of my grill." It was after this immediate and realistic reaction that I realized I had probably killed an animal. Thats always a pleasant thought.

So why was my initial response so unfeeling?

I can't really explain why, except that I'm sure in the same situation, a lot of you might have had that thought flash through your head as well. Its something to do with the world we live in. I still stop to save turtles when I can, but I'm not going to risk damaging my car if theres one that I can't save or avoid. We're so disconnected from the natural, speeding along in our little climate controlled bubbles, that we kind of think of the world outside as something other. We have our music, our drink in a cup holder, warm or cool air if we need it, and a completely clear field of view, all with a little help from technology. The outside world had better beware.

And I'm kind of sickened that I've turned into that.

I wish that I was one of the lucky ones who could ride their bike to work. I can't unfortunately, unless I had a spare hour or so, and the sweat factors in as well. I wish I could enjoy the summer like I used to, being a kid in the sandbox, or playing in the backyard for hours. I can't even remember the last time my knees had grasstains. Now I spend my entire summer, cooped up in a job, saving for the future, or relaxing because I know that I'll need my energy for when I go back to work. I don't attend nature camp. I don't play with the kids on the road. I rarely ride my bike. My one outdoor summer break is spent playing surrogate mommy to a bunch of over-privileged brats.

I'm no fun anymore.

Help me get out of this state. Help yourself get out of this state. Help us get out of this state. We can't ignore things anymore. I don't want to stay stoppered away here, preserved in the formaldehyde of adulthood.

Sorry for the poor metaphors, but hey, this is serious.

Lets go get some grass stains.

Where am I going with this?

When I woke up this morning, looked outside and saw that it was raining, I knew what the day had in store for me. And that was a whole bunch of nothing.

Theres no good wasting time on recriminations; I accomplished jack poop today. My parents and I went to see Pirates because they hadn't been yet, and then after I hung around the theatre for an hour or so, I went home and wasted my evening. I walked the dog, messed with my guitar and then laid down to read for a few hours.

And I'm worried that this is how the rest of my life is going to be.

I am one of the newly-minted, overeducated, high-minded liberal arts majors that have been turning up more and more frequently lately. I decided that, instead of majoring in something useful, I'd major in something that I enjoyed. How much of that was a failing grade in chemistry talking and how much was personal integrity? Creative writing and literature have solved my problems before, why shouldn't they solve them again? That was before I realized that the last big problem my writing helped solve was a messy break-up.

I am, and will be post-graduation, stuck in the educational doldrums.

And this is weighing an incredible amount on my mind lately. What exactly do I plan to do with a creative writing degree? The obvious answer that I would hope for, is that I'll somehow become a famous writer. Someone will read a piece of my work, or come across this blog, love it, and boom, I'll rocket to stardom. Unfortunately, I have a better chance of spontaneously developing a case of Malaria than that does of happening. But we can all hope.

So what does a creative writing major do after college?

I guess my secondary goal would be to write for some kind of publication. Develop my thoughts into some kind of coherent form, discussing things that people actually care about, as opposed to my many blogs, which are only read by well-meaning friends who don't want to hurt my feelings. Perhaps I'm being too cynical; if so I apologize, but I feel like a psychic dinosaur:

I can see the future, and the future is extinction.

Epics for all ages

It seems to me that lately, the epic series has been becoming more popular, particularly amongst children's literature. Be it Lemony Snickett's or Harry Potter, stand alone books seem to be becoming rare. But fortunately for the literati, a lot of these epics, both those written for adults and for children, are enjoyable as hell.

Eragon
While I haven't read the second entry in this series as of yet, the first was alright. You may be like me, rightly skeptical at the beginning, as the writing is pretty mediocre at first, but you have to remember the author was only fifteen when he started writing. As you read, things become more polished. While a lot of the plot twists and situations seem to be pretty cliche, he manages to throw in enough unique ideas to make the story distinctly his own. Not great, but a fun, throwaway novel.

Harry Potter
Harry is the holy grail of epic children's lit. And with good damn reason. These books are great. Rowling has made a smart, engaging storyline and characters that you actually care about stretch out for over six books, and I personally will be feeling a little bittersweet when the final book is released later this summer.
Don't be put off by the fact that everyone loves these books. Some good friends of mine are constantly frustrating me with their statements that 'the hype makes them want to not read the books' when they make fun of me for similar sentiments when it comes to music. These books are well written, enjoyable for kids and adults, and deserving of all the praise that they receive. So go pick them up.

I guess thats the extent of my knowledge of children's lit. Moving on.

The Dark Tower
I just finished this series up a few weeks ago and I've got to say: holy hell. Pick them up and read them. Even if you aren't a fan of Stephen King's horror writing (which I'm personally not that big on), these are great. His ability to build a fantasy around a figure that is somewhat laughable (a straight-out-of-the-man-with-no-name gunslinger) is a selling point all its own. Add in the fact that even he barely knew how the story was going to end (it took him 25 years to write and the ending is a doozy) and its like you're literally experiencing each plot twist with the author, as Roland and his Ka-tet make their slow way towards the Dark Tower. Something I really enjoy about the series is that King has no qualms about killing off a main character if it seems necessary. And when he does, the emotional pang that you feel is as if you'd lost one of your best friends, coming as it does after so long a time with these characters. My personal opinion is that you need to read these. They stand right up there with my last choice for epic literature.

Naturally enough
The Lord of the Rings
This is the big daddy of all epic series. Though it only takes place over three books (four, I guess if you want to get super technical), the story is huge. And if you're out there, reading this blog and saying "I've seen the movies, why do I need to read the books?", get off your fat, barely literate ass and get yourself to a book store. Seriously. These are some of the classics of modern literature and everyone should experience them.
I can still remember how I was introduced to them. My dad used to read out loud to my sister and I when I was younger and after finishing The Hobbit, he went straight into these and read the whole thing through from beginning to the final page. I've probably read them through three or four times since then, and they're still just as magical and incredible as that first time, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, while my dad read in his recliner.

I don't really have too much else to say tonight. Since I don't want this to turn into a strictly book reviewing blog, I'll talk a little bit about myself. I, personally, had a pretty decent day and got a bit done. I started work on another small painting using the technique of camouflaging tattoo art with the paint. Since I started painting after dark and was only using artificial light, I'm not sure how decent its turning out, but I'll know better tomorrow. I also wrote a brief poem, which I may or may not post. I admit to still being nervous about the security of copyright as it applies to websites and the internet, and plagiarism makes me nervous.

Thats all for this evening I suppose.