A Day Late and A Dollar Short...

Well, I promise a blogpost every Sunday and the first one flies by without a word! Whoops! The truth is I was barely home at all yesterday so I did not really have time to write one. Unfortunately, that's not a great excuse because I could just have written one earlier and then just published it yesterday...but oh well, we all make mistakes. We all miss deadlines, unfortunately. I'll try to make it up by writing one today.

It's Columbus Day, a celebration of the day Christopher Columbus discovered America...though he didn't really 'discover' it, there were plenty of people already here and doing just fine until he came along...But oh well, it's not a perfect holiday, or perhaps even one we should really celebrate considering it's basically a sham. I get the day off though, so that's all that matters.

For most of today, I'm trying to figure out what to do for my girlfriend on our 5th year anniversary. It's really difficult because I know for a fact she spent a large amount of money for us to take a trip to Provincetown for my birthday, so I really want to do something special. The problem is special = money and the fact is my rent just jumped up 300 dollars sooner than expected. That with school loans, health insurance, food and utilities is virtually killing my bank account. She's also buying all the new furniture for the apartment which I can't even help with because I can't afford to. It makes me feel worthless. I don't want her to pay for everything but I can barely pay rent on time. It's like what the fuck can I do? I'm already working two jobs. It drives me crazy. She does more for me than I do for her and I hate it. I feel like I should be the provider or at the very least, I should be able to provide half of our needs but I can't and it sucks. And I hate talking to her about it because I feel...weak...or just...incapable, like I said before, worthless. If I have to ask her if I can give her a check for rent a few days later when my paycheck comes, I fucking despise myself. It's the same feeling I get when I have to ask my parents for more money, despite how much they've already given. I feel like a disappointment.

But it is what it is, for now. Hopefully I can do more in the future while right now, I can just do as much as I can. I have a few ideas for the anniversary that, though it might not be as grand as a provincetown trip, I hope it makes her happy. Every few days or so, I get to thinking about it and get down on myself but eventually I get over it. That's kind of how I deal with shitty things. You do what you can and get over it. Feeling depressed about it isn't going to help things. I'm doing what I can and though it's not good enough, it is what it is. I'll just keep trying to make her happy. If she's happy, I'm happy.

This post took a strange turn, wasn't really what I expected when I started out writing. I guess I'll just say you can't always do everything you want for the ones you love, family, friends and all, but you just have to do what you can and hope they know you're trying.

Jumping Back In

I'm a terrible writer. Don't try to argue with me, I know it's true. No it's not because my actual writing is of terrible quality, though some of it likely is, no it's because a writer is some one who writes and I do that so very little of late. I don't write every day, I barely write once a week and it's not because I'm editing my novel or planning some new story out, I just am not participating in any kind of creative writing activity at all. I don't know why, I guess my enthusiasm flagged a little after writing a novel and then realized I had to actually work on it. I was past the fun part, the creation, now was the difficult work, re-creation, cutting things, realizing that my writing wasn't perfect or even very good, realizing that a first draft really is a first draft.

See, in school, you know how teachers always made you do a first draft, then a final draft, oftentimes with drafts in between? I wouldn't do that. My first draft would be my final draft and I always thought the whole draft-process was repetitive. I'm not trying to brag, I just didn't see the point in redoing something over and over. When time came for the first draft, I wrote it as I would a final draft, putting everything I needed into it. And, while not trying to brag, my writing was pretty good. The difference between my first and final were miniscule. Writing comes somewhat naturally to me, I guess.

And so when it came to time to read through my novel and see just how much work needed to be done, just how much of a rush job I did in writing it, it destroyed my motivation. Every bit I'd gained in writing weekly blogs and starting stories and writing a novel was brushed aside. Blogs were put off with excuses of 'not having a good idea of what to write that week'. As they came few and farther apart, it became easier to think of them as unimportant, unessential activities that I didn't need to bother doing. Editing became a task that I could ignore.

Now NanoWrimo looms once again. The event that really got me going before and I realize it's getting me going again. I know I want to finish editing the novel by November so I can begin the sequel for National Novel Writing Month.

So I need to get back into the swing of things and I'm thinking writing my blog will help. It forces me to write, to think and to put something out there.

So, once a week, every Sunday from hereafter to who knows when, I will write a blogpost. I can't say what they'll be about, probably whatever I happen to think about that day, but some thing will be posted! It might not be good or great or decent or even alright but it will be there.

Also, everyone should write a novel once in their life, so do NanoWrimo, it's a hell of a lot of hard work and fun.

...November is coming...

9/11

nine eleven. Such a simple little phrase, seemingly innocent. Two numbers, meaningless when separate but when brought together immediately bring brutally violent memories. 9/11 is such a perfect symbol too. It shows the two towers underneath a divisor line, it's made up of the 911 emergency number. It also shows that there was a distinct change, 9 / 11. Before and after. 

Today I thought back to my own memory of 9/11. Everyone seems to say they remember when they first heard of it exactly, all the details perfect, what they were doing, what the exact words were, everything. I cannot. I used to be embarrased when I would hear others say they remember everything and I could not, like somehow I hadn't given it enough thought or it hadn't affected me as deeply as others simply because I didn't have a perfect memory of the moment I heard. 

I remember vague things. I was in 7th grade health class. The principal came on the loudspeaker and said something about it. Something about the world trade center collapsing. I think we were all stunned. We couldn't grasp the meaning, at least I couldn't. Hell I didn't even know what The World Trade Center was, exactly.  I do remember what came after. The pictures, the videos, the news, the media, the memorials, the empty air where the towers stood, the profound effect on the nation, the utter far-reaching effects on people everywhere. 

I watched a two hour docudrama on the history channel about 9/11. I realized I hadn't really watched anything about the event in a long long time and the those clips showing the planes hitting and then later the buildings collapsing are just almost too crazy to believe. The fact that it looks like something out of a movie and yet you know it's real and that people died, that those things actually happened is simply shocking. 

What's also shocking and also amazing is how many people risked their lives to help others, how many firefighters and police and emt's went into the shit without question to save people. It's amazing what can happen in a disaster, how people can just fucking do the right thing despite the world falling apart around them. 

Why does that happen in a crisis? Why do we save each other when in dire circumstances but when we see each other on the street on a normal day we honk our horns and yell out insults? Why can't we be awesome all the time?

I don't know. Been thinking alot of strange thoughts today. Was in a 6th grade class full of kids who weren't even alive for 9/11 and it feels strange. I have that event that I will always remember, that event that clearly defined Before and After for my life. They don't have that. 

In the curriculum, I guess 9/11 is taught in tenth grade nowadays though I think it should be introduced in some way before that. At least in some small way, a small explanation of the key facts, reasons, what happened and why we memorialize it every year. Kids are strange. They are and aren't innocent at the same time. They understand things without knowing them, they know things without understanding them. They are paradoxes. 

Why did I write this? I don't know. I felt like 9/11 shouldn't pass without a thought from me and I thought I might as well write something down on such an occasion. Take some time to remember what happened. What terrible people can do. What amazing heroes people can be. Just think about it, for a small amount of time. An event like 9/11 seems like something we should all think about, not all the time or even often, but every once in awhile. It was life-changing, world-changing. 

It is a crazy world we live in. I don't know how to end this or what line to end on or anything. So I guess that's it. 

Working

I've been busy this summer but that's no excuse for the pitiful lack of blog posts and writing in general on my part. I don't know, I lost the muse for awhile, I guess. Working 53 hours a week for the past six weeks has taken a toll on my imaginative musings. When I have free time, I feel less like writing and more like vegging out, watching tv or playing video games. 

But ah well, nothing to do but move on, correct? Recently I posted some pictures of a forest walk I took in Vermont in the spring, which was actually pretty great. The woods felt familiar, almost comforting. I remember running through those woods as a child, following paths and cutting across trails pretending that I was being chased by monsters or bad guys or other silly things. It wasn't all fun and games though, I remember stepping on a rusty nail in bare feet and bleeding everywhere. I remember tree forts built and now fallen apart, football games in the big grass field and of course, the stump pit. The stump pit is a pit full of stumps. So I took this walk relatively recently just for fun. It was a perfect day with the sun shining and a cool wind blowing. I passed the pond that we never swam in, I heard a woodpecker peckin' wood. I passed crumbled stone fences that hadn't changed since I'd first seen them as a child. I passed the spot where an old blue car had used to rest for awhile, my brother had gotten it stuck there while off-roading with it, his argument for that being that the car was dying anyways, why not have some fun with it? I remember seeing plants growing inside it and vines growing up the sides before my dad had finally removed it. I walked the four mile dirt bike trail my father had created and curated over the years. I walked through a desolate paintball field, filled with forgotten bunkers and failing scraps of once-great forts. I remember the intense game we played, two teams, running at each other, firing paint balls, formulating tactics and getting splattered with paint. The walk was pretty great. I'd suggest a good walk in the woods to anyone and everyone. Who knows what you'll find? Maybe nothing at all, and that's fine too. Check here for a few pictures: Walk In The Woods 

What else have I done? I wrote a short short story a week or two ago. Just some spur of the moment flash fiction. I had a picture of a big crane and discovered an experience, a story and wrote it down. It's right here:  The Crane 

Other then that? I'm working on writing an outline for my novel which I know, is usually what people do before they write the novel but I'm doing it after. It should help me figure out where to add the new scenes that I need, and help me rejigger all the crap in the second half that really needs some work. Rejigger is a fantastic word, by the way, I recommend everyone uses it more often. 

Alright, I'm off to foment some chaos. And yes, foment is a real word. 

The Crane

The metal monstrosity stood black against the black sky, silent and foreboding. I shivered, looking at it behind a fence that surrounded the construction. The wind blew warm, heat from the day still radiating from the pavement. I took a deep breath and glanced around. The street behind me was quiet and dark, not even lit by street lights. A siren sounded in the distance. I tightened the straps on my backpack, pulled on a thick pair of workman's gloves and climbed the fence. At the top, I pushed the barbed wire down with my hands and gave a little jump. 

I fell, sneakers landing, legs bending, hands hitting the ground, breath coming out of me in a gasp. I stood, feeling an ache in my knees, a good ache, one that comes from moving your body. I took off the gloves and stuffed in my bag and began making my way towards the crane. 

I maneuvered around the massive hole that was the foundation for the new building and quickly ducked behind a trailer as a car passed on the street. I breathed in and out slowly as my heart thudded in my chest. Calm down, I told myself, you're alright. 

I wasn't alright, though, not really. Someone whose alright doesn't break into a construction site, not without a good reason and my reason was flimsy at best. 

But that didn't matter anymore, I was in, I was going. I'd planned it for days, wondering why I was planning anything at all and now that I'd started, I couldn't stop. I'd crossed the threshold. Going back now, I'd always wonder, 'if I'd gone this far, why didn't I simply go through with it?'

My sneakers crunched gravel as I made my way to the bottom of the crane. I passed other machines, rusty dump trucks and towering excavators standing still as statues covering me in shadows as I went. I put my hand to one as I passed and shivered as it felt as warm as a living being. I could see it's dark windowed face as it slumbered waiting for an operator to bring it to life. 

I came to the bottom of the crane and looked up. I couldn't tell what was crane and what was sky. The night was a dark hole without stars and no moon that I could see. It would have been pitch black to someone who walked out his door into the darkness but I'd walked the whole way from my apartment here with little to no light, forcing my eyes to adjust. Though the top was lost in the darkness, I could make out the structure of metal in front of me on the ground well enough. I clambered over bars and walked over plywood, my shoes making hollow thumps, to the ladder. 

I took deep breaths until my heart slowed a little. I took off my bag and pulled out a black sweatshirt, slipping it on despite the warm night. I drank from a water bottle. Then I pulled the backpack back on. I tied my shoelaces as tight as they would go. I tightened the straps on my backpack and I climbed. 

I climbed, rung over rung, feeling good. I worked slow, methodical, careful, right hand up, left hand up, right foot up, left foot up. The hard metal felt good in my grip, feeling strong. I was soon sweating in my sweatshirt and wondering if I should take it off. 

It wasn't long before I was above the trees, black bushes beneath my feet. I took a moment to catch my breath and wipe my sweaty hands. I could see lights twinkling in the distance, the land stars of a bustling city. A red light in the sky blinked as a plane passed high overhead. I heard vehicles driving on the road, honks at an intersection. Buildings rose near me. I was not above them yet. I could see the the bridge and the river, reflecting the city's lights. I looked up and realized I had a long way to go. I shrugged. I didn't feel tired. In fact, I felt excited. I had no idea what I was doing or why but I felt elated. I wanted to get to the top. I needed to. 

I climbed again, faster, reaching, stretching, grasping rung after rung, lifting, pushing myself up at a good pace. I was really sweating now and regretting my decision about the sweatshirt. I stopped once again, gasping for breath and wiped my hands on my sleeves. I was above most of the buildings now, looking down at square rooftops and the cars looked smaller as they drove, headlights beaming across the ground. I shivered. 

I wrapped my arms around the ladder and tried to relax for a moment. It was then I realized the exact situation I was in. Metal bars surrounded me in a cage around the ladder. It was a long fall to the ground and I had only my own strength to hold on. A brisk wind blew fluttering the straps on my backpack. I shivered again, my sweat feeling cold against my skin. 

I hugged the ladder, trying to get my backpack off so I could grab the bottle of water. I slipped it out of one arm, then the other and then the strap slipped out of my hands. I made a grab for it, jerking my body but it was too late. I caught myself as the pack plummeted. It bounced as it fell from one side of the cage to the other, thumping, banging and finally hitting the ground with a soft thud. 

I gulped, seeing myself fall as the backpack had. No soft clean fall to the bottom here, no sir. Who knew how many bones you would break before the bottom finally ended your agony. Maybe it was time to head back down, grab whatever was left of my bag and get the hell out of there. 

"Fuck that," I whispered out loud. I was this far. I was getting to the goddamn top. I looked up and started climbing again. 

I don't know how long I climbed but I remember looking up again and again and feeling as if the top had not gotten any closer. My arms and legs ached as I pushed on. I felt myself getting more and more tired, my muscles protesting the repetitive movements. A foot slipped, a hand missed the rung. I gasped, I grabbed, I stepped, and I kept going. 

My neck hurt from looking up so I stopped. I looked only to the next rung, focusing on that alone and nothing else. I didn't hear the cars below anymore. I only heard my labored breathing and the enormous machine creaking around me in the cold wind that blew. 

I pulled my up my hood, shivering against the cold. The metal rungs were chilly on my palms. 

Oh god, I thought, is this really how I go? A fall from a crane? A messy jumble of body parts splattered against the ground below? I thought of the story, of what people would think. They wouldn't know what to make of it. 'Man falls from night climb of a construction crane, alcohol may be involved'. That's what everyone would assume, that I got drunk and thought 'hey, climbing that crane seems like a fucking cool thing to do!' I smirked at the thought. The truth was even more silly. I was completely sober. The question, that ultimate question of human existence would pester everyone. Why? Why did this happen? They would ask it over and over, why would someone do such a thing? What was the point? What was the ultimate truth here? The motive, the answer, the revelation? 

I thought of Forrest Gump right then, running. "I just felt like running," he'd said to that question. "Well," I said out loud to nobody, "I saw something fucking tall and felt like climbing it." 

I looked up and there it was, the top of the crane nearly in reach. I could see the metal assembly and the gigantic arm extending out into the blackness. I climbed up and collapsed onto a narrow metal landing, breathing in huge gulps of air. My muscles burned and I closed my eyes resting my head against cold steel. 

I opened my eyes and forced myself to stand. Beyond the bars and walls of metal lay an entire world stretched out before me. I laughed and shouted and hollered and screamed. I sat, still laughing. I didn't think about how I'd get down or what would happen if I was caught on the construction site or what sort of laws I'd likely broken. None of that mattered. I patted the crane with my hand, banging the hard metal. I'd conquered it. I didn't have a flag to plant but I had something else. I pulled a black sharpie out of my sweatshirt. 

"Jake was here"

A Walk in the Woods

It's Been A Long Time

I have not been doing too well on updating this thing, have I? Haven't posted for months. For calling myself a writer, I haven't written much of anything at all for awhile. Guess I should do something about that, shouldn't I? Nothing to it but to get back on the horse, as they say.

I could use the excuse that I've been working alot lately but that's never really a good excuse. If I have time to play video games than I certainly have time to do a little writing. I haven't even looked at my novel in weeks. It's because there is a massive amount of editing I need to do or at least it seems a massive amount. The second half was rushed in a splurge of words and shows. The characters lack motivation, the enemies lack depth, the plot is contrived at points, etc. The list goes on. I need to add more scenes but it's not that simple as I need to specifically figure out where each and every scene goes, how it fits in and smooth it in there like it was always there in the first place. There's just this editing wall that I need to break through but it looks impossibly vast and strong, meanwhile behind me lie short story ideas and other interesting things to take up my time. 

I wrote a short story, maybe you heard. It's called The Long Nap and is about a hard-boiled child detective using his wits and determination to set right the wrongs in his school. Or something like that. I rather like it. The links up on the blog's homepage, just look for the title. 

Despite my lack of writing, more and more ideas still whirl around in my brain-area. They sit, simmering and bubbling away like a witches cauldron. 

I'm currently reading The Harry Dresden Files which are good books. I'm on my third so far after devouring the first two. I would be done with this one as well but I simply don't have the ability to read on my commute anymore so my reading time has taken a nosedive. They are essentially supernatural hard-boiled detective mysteries with a wizard as the detective. Trust me, it works, it works very well. Harry Dresden is awesome. 

I recently finished Breaking Bad season 4 and oh man is it emotionally exhausting in a good way. It wrings you out through and through. It terrorizes you, it tortures it's own characters over and over and you keep wanting more. The writing and acting is superb. I love it and can't wait for the new season to start. 

The Killing season 2 ended and I finally know who killed Rosie Larson. Some may not have cared, thinking it took too long and the plot is rather slow and boring. I don't know, I guess I just got very invested in the characters. Season 2 explores all of them and their (incredibly shitty) situations. I never thought it was slow because every moment I was watching a character I cared about (except Mitch, she sucks). I will admit I got lost in this season what with all the plotty-ness going on, maybe too many twists or simply too much happening to keep up with, but the reveal at the end was utterly fantastic and worth it. It was great television and though I wish there was going to be more, it doesn't look that way. At least it ended without any loose ends. 

That's all for now, just a short little thing to show you this place "ain't dead yet". Plan on a couple more blog posts very soon so check back when you can.