Brain Dump 2008

Once again, I should be getting into bed and falling asleep, because I have work tomorrow morning at 9 AM. Once again, I'm sitting at my computer, writing.

Every year, I do a bit of reflection about New Year's in my journal, but this year, my hands are hurting too much to write it by hand, so I'm sharing it with the rest of you.

Have you ever thought about how arbitrary New Year's is? Or what it really means? Everyone talks about New Year's the same way they do about birthdays and anniversaries, only - there's less reason for it.

Birthdays and anniversaries mark events that are celebrated. We've lived/been together/done something for another entire arbitrary 12-month cycle. Still, considering it's human nature to impose artificial order on anything and everything, it makes sense. Though, why twelve months?

I know there's a historical reason for it. I might even have known it at one time. Still, here we are. One number up on the
millennia.

Maybe because my birthday and the New Year are so close together, I've never really seen the New Year as a big deal - or that I don't want to go out and get drunk in a huge crowd of people. Because me and crowds? Never a good idea.

Getting drunk in a small group of people? Probably also not the best idea, all things considered. Most of the folk I hang out with these days aren't too keen on getting quietly drunk, and those that are probably wouldn't like a melancholy drunk.

I'm just not much of a partier. No big revelation there.

Getting drunk on my own? That's just lame.

So, New Year's for me usually consists of writing in my journal, avoiding driving, hiding in my room with my pipe, and pondering why everyone else is making such a big fuss over something that's never made much sense to me.

Which is to say, it's much like any other day for me, except more people are drunk.

Somehow, though, I've found myself rather superstitious lately, seeing signs and omens, patterns and tides and tendencies.

I'm sure it says something I took my last dose of antibiotic, got my tax form, and had my mother visit the store for the first time all on the last day of the year.

But I suppose it does me no harm to sit down and reflect on the big picture a bit, no matter how depressed it gets me.

(Huh. Now I think I see why so many people get drunk on New Year's. Thinking too much does that to you.)

2008 was the first year since 2001 I haven't been in college in one form or another, and though I missed it, I think it was good for me to try to break away from academia, at least a little bit. Even though Austin Community College is no St. Edward's, it's not as bad as some folk make it out to be.

I've discovered a great love of comics and the stories therein; which, if you know my love of stories, you know is a huge deal for me.

2008 is also the first year in awhile that I've had full time employment for the entire duration of the year. At the same place, even. I know a lot of folk fuss at me for working too much, but I actually like my job. Dragon's Lair, despite paying stale peanuts, is a fun place to work with decent co-workers, great management, and awesome customers (99% of the time).

And damn it feels good. I got my year review recently. Aside from my perfectionist annoyance at not being perfect, I'm pretty pleased with what was said.

And amused. Apparently, I'm a very methodical, detail oriented person. Who knew? /sarcasm

2008 also saw me get Baptized (in a hot tub, no less) - I know some of you want pictures, or even the illicit video someone took, but I'm probably never gonna post that stuff online. Now, I'm on Church Council at the Well, teach a kid's Bible class (really young kids, too), have discovered a talent and affection for dealing with babies, and I have yet to burst into flame or be struck dead by lightning from Heaven.

Which goes a long way to proving God's infinite forgiveness in my book. I woulda' smote me a long time ago.

I've lost weight, learned that I still have the strength and endurance to hold down a job even with the fibro and arthritis. Managed to even start getting up on time without needing a cattle prod.

While these are all laudable things, and things I'm proud of, truth to tell - 2008 has been a total and complete failure of a year for me.

Talking about the big picture here?

I'm 28 - closer to 30 than not - and I'm working a job that doesn't pay a living wage, living with my parents, still being partially supported by them (and yes, there are many extenuating circumstances, not the least of which is my health and my mother's health), still without a degree for all my troubles and money on college.

It bothers me more than a little.

Looking back at my life, I also realize that I have no idea where I wanted to be when I was this age. Marriage was always a vague idea, but considering my luck with women and having seen the hell my parents' marriage is, I never really considered it a serious option.

Kids? I don't know if I'd be a good father until I get at least one book published. Seriously - I think I would resent the amount of time a kid would take and how much effort and pain taking care of a kid would cause me, to say nothing of passing my genetics (fibromyalgia, arthritis, and everything else) on to another human being...

Yeah.

A bigtime job making lots of money, with a fancy car and a ritzy place to live? Never wanted it. I never saw money or status as worth all that much. Money buys me food, books and a place to live. Other than that, it's just a lot of math and a lot of misery to earn it. I'd rather have my job that pays nothing and the contentment that comes from it than a job I hate that pays well.

Been there. Done that. Got the baggage.

Worse yet?

I haven't really succeeding in much of the writing I wanted to do this year.

Why not, you ask?

Discipline.

Back before college, I had lots of it. I could discipline myself, make myself write even when what I wrote was crap. I was able to sit down and just pound out a few hundred words every day.

Not so much anymore.

I used to be able to stay organized, stay focused, and make myself do what I needed to do, when I needed to do it, without whining, bitching, moaning or ignoring it. I could do chores, keep my commitments, and still have time for a read and a wank before bed.

Not so much anymore.

This year, I've missed opportunities to do great things, dropped the ball on commitments I've made, and left some folk hanging in a lurch; friendships have faded, with little to take their place. I've missed opportunities for what could be great friendships (or, at least people I could help out a bit), and been unable to step up all the times I needed to.

And that bothers me, more than a little bit.

The shift hasn't happened overnight, or even over the course of a single year.

I partially blame it on college. Going to Stedwards was a good thing for me, because I learned a lot, discovered I had fibro, got engaged, got dumped, got voted off the island, and discovered I really just might have the skill to be a successful writer.

But going to Stewards required a different kind of discipline than I had used before. When I was living at home, my parents didn't ask me to do chores - they asked me to do homework. My grades were fantastic and reflected my academic discipline. It was okay to be a bit frazzled and a bit disorganized.

Not so much anymore.

I really sat down and noticed it a few weeks back, right around Thanksgiving when I had some time off work, and I didn't manage to get a single freakin' thing done.

So I tried to figure out why. At first, it was easy to say I was resting and recovering from work, and I was tired and hurting. But even though I was, I still had energy to go play and read fanfic and watch B5 DVDs and read books and generally slack.

Which really? Isn't me.

So I took a look around, and what I saw disgusted me.

My room was a mess, disorganized and cluttered. My desk was messy, and my books are all over the place. My writing notes are scattered, and I haven't been journaling the way I need to. I've got plans-a-billion, but no action or execution or even plans to get my plans moving.

I didn't even have a 'to-do' list or an active calendar. My whiteboard was blank. My laundry was piled up, my room covered in dust, and I was drinking more soda than tea again.

Some of it is complacency on my part. Sitting on my fat ass and getting falling into a routine of feeling sorry for myself because I don't make much money and I'm always tired and always hurting.

Wah. Woe is me.

I'm better than that.

So I pulled out a fresh notebook and set about doing what I should have never stopped doing. I wrote down everything I needed to get done. But instead of doing what I've always done before and color-coded it or
categorized it or anything else fancy, I just wrote it down in pencil.

It's a fairly extensive list, and every day, I notice something else I need to add to it. But then I realized, a lot of things on there were things that I've let slip by or things that I should have been doing all along.

I also realized it's been over a year and a half since I re-organized myself; every six months or so, I used to spend a couple of days just putting myself back together. Clearing out
detritus, clutter and shit I didn't need, doing a deep-clean of my room. I would sort out my papers and files and books and would re-prioritize.

This sounds so corny, I bet. And I know my brother is sitting there shaking his head and laughing at me. My 'resets' always annoyed the fuck out of him - and for good reason.

In truth, most people do this to a certain extent; I was just more deliberate about it. They way I taught myself to deal with my learning disabilities was to control my
environment. If my brain wouldn't accept the outside systems already in place, then I would just create and impose my own systems.

Resetting those systems was a good way to keep them from falling apart around me, streamline them, and keep me from going crazy. Spring cleaning for my brain. See, part of my problem is that my brain doesn't process information the way a 'normal' brain does. It's the whole dyslexia/dysgraphia/dysplaxia thing. Most people have a mental filing cabinet, with folders and labels that are mostly organized (to a greater or lesser extent, depending on the person).

I don't.

Things don't get filed unless I force my brain to do it; and even then, small things build up in piles around my mental office, things I miss or forget or just don't need to worry about. In order to clean all that out, empty the mental trash cans, I have to consciously do it.

It also helps control the depression. Changes things up a bit, keeps me from falling into the complacency and bad habits that I've developed. Helps me take stock of things, notice tendencies I've developed and take steps to correct them.

The problem?

I can't do the physical part of it by myself anymore. I need help to get in a move things to clean and I need help to figure out where I've gone wrong, because I don't always see it.

Getting that help is the problem. I could probably recruit one or two people from the church, but honestly? They'd end up spending as much time talking to my mother as helping me. She's something of a figure of mystery and interest there, because most of them have never met her, but they have heard about her.

And the Well is about people - and my mother isa person in great need of help.

So I can't really blame them for that or ask them not to do what God may ask them to do.

Still, I have a list. I have plan. Get back on top of the day-to-day crap first. Then figure out what I'm going to do about the rest of it.

So there's 2008. A waste of an arbitrary 12-month cycle.

The good news?

If I'm going to put any stock in omens, portents and symbols, the last day of 2008 has given me a few to think on.

When I woke up this morning, I felt like shit. I hurt, I was exhausted beyond belief, the depression was kicking my ass in a bad way, and I had no idea how I was going to get through the day without breaking down.

It was so bad I even posted on LJ. If you only read my nonsense on Blogger or Inksome or who aren't on my LJ flist, you missed it.

(Thanks to everyone on LJ who commented on my post this morning. I needed the support.)

Yet, today went well. Good weather, so my pain got a bit better once I started moving. My co-workers pitched in and we kicked ass on getting things done. The store looked good when I left.

I got to go home early, even. Not for a great reason, mind, but I still got to go home early.

One of our customers, a lady I'll call B, asked to read the Katheryn story and actually overcame the Curse. She brought in a printed copy with notes on it this afternoon. She and her boyfriend ZD are awesome, and I think might end up being friends outside work.

Hell, she even wants to check out HPU and read some of the Katheryn story history.

My muse was awake today, and gave me plenty of thoughts for both of those stories, especially once BL and I chatted a bit about the Katheryn story.

She came in specifically to see me and talk to me about the story. She lives very far south and didn't have to drive all the way - but she and ZD did.

After I got Mom settled tonight, I went out to my favorite place to eat - Whataburger. I'm friends with some of the people who work there, and one of them hooked me up with her discount.

I got gas at the Valero next door to Whataburger and filled up the tank of the Mazda for $15. I accidentally gave the cashier too much money and didn't notice it - he could have easily taken the extra $20 I gave him and pocketed it and I would have thought I'd lost it somewhere.

Instead, he gave it back to me. Seems silly and incidental, but good service and good deeds seem to be in rare supply these days.

Tiny things, but - good omens, I would think.

And right after the New Year starts, I'll get to see a couple of very good friends I don't get to see often at all. I'll spend a whole day chilling with a guy who can always help me get my head on straight.

People talk about resolutions around New Year's, but I think I would prefer to talk about plans. Resolutions are what I've been making all year, and it's gotten me nowhere. I'd much rather have a plan and know how I'm going to get back on track.

Time for me to figure one out, I think.

In all truth, I don't know where I want to be this time next year. I think making those kinds of plans for me never work out; instead, I always end up someplace I never expect to end up. The long term goals are still the same - write, get published.

Instead, I think I'll focus on smaller plans, plans that will help me take things step-by-step to get to the larger goal.

I can still point to 2004 as being one of the worst years of my life; 2008 is nothing more than a blip compared to that.

So 2009? Just another arbitrary 12-month cycle that will see me writing another boring brain dump as it, too cycles out.

Hopefully, my brain will be in better working order, though.

The First Lady of Star Trek

Today is a sad day for me.

I don't know how many others on my flist will feel the same as I do, but I know a few of you will.

Majel Barrett Rodenberry passed away today.

(Yes, this post will be cliche, corny, and melodramatic. You have been warned.)

This lady was married to one of the great visionaries of our time - a man who dared to have hope for the human race, and dared to share that hope with everyone else. I can't imagine what it must have been like, or what kind of a woman she must have been to capture him as totally as she did. Nor can I imagine what it must have taken to keep his dream alive and moving after his death, nor what a heavy responsibility it must have been to try to carry on with that dream.

I can only say that Star Trek shaped much of who I am, and I am very sad to see her go; though I know she has re-joined her husband and she now flies amongst the stars with the Great Bird of the Galaxy.

All's Well

I want to thank everyone for the prayers and support while my mother was in the hospital; it really did me good to see all the comments and get all the phone calls.

Thank you.

My mother is back home, and is doing better; she's on the mend, but it'll be a long trip back to where she was before this. But we're going to be able to make that trip, so I think we're heading in the right direction. As usual, the hospital visit was hard - North Austin Medical Center performed to thier usual sub-standard of fail. The internist who treated her after she was admitted ignored a direct request from my father that he request my mother's GI doctor come see her.

See, without the attending Doctor's permission, Mom's GI doc couldn't come see her; it would have been considered assault.

So, the attending doctor (read: raving worthless fuckwit) decided not to do as my father asked. Because obviously? He knows better than the GI doc who's kept her alive and functioning in the past. Obviously, he is so omniscient and skilled that he didn't need the assistance of a specialist when dealing with a woman who has more medical problems than a med school textbook. Obviously, with only the barest of medical histories, he was fully capable of diagnosing and treating a woman with delicate and complicated health issues.

Because's he's just cool like that. He's a third-party doctor, one a service sends to the hospital to help with the admissions and such. Obviously, he's fucking Gregory House or Leonard McCoy and can avoid making stupid mistakes, like giving my mother, a chronic pain patient, a medicine that flushes all her meds out of her system and putting her on a pain med that doesn't work for her. Or giving a woman with a damaged, dysfunctional and disabled digestive system a full course of stomach-rending meds the evenning after she's been admitted to the hospital because her vomiting and dehydration were so bad she couldn't get out of bed. Or, taking eight fucking hours to get her an IV of fluids and such. To say nothing of antibiotics, because someone on two or three immuno-suppressive drugs wouldn't need those, oh no. A compromised immune system in a hospital full of germs? Why would that be a worry?

Instead, he stick a catheter in her and leaves her sitting in a room for a few hours. Admittedly there was an emergency where he was needed, assisting the on-call GI doc.

The on-call GI doc? Was my mother's GI doc.

Or, instead of being patient and getting a nurse capable of putting an IV in a patient with damaged and small veins, he just had a ham-handed intern tech jab her with a needle until she's covered with bruises the color of rotten plums smashed against a whitewashed fence by a sledgehammer. The spread pattern even looks similar - you know, all over her freakin' arm?

The emergency room floor was covered in debris - syringe caps and other, less idenfiable bits of plastic that may or may not have, at one time or another, been inserted in a human person.

The tech that moved my mother from the emergency room to her hostpial room almost got himself curbstomped into yet another stain on the floor when he was raising her bed. It had a foot pump and he was stomping on it like he was doing some insane white-boy dance at a geek fraternity rave.

One more foot pump that made her wince in pain? And my brother and/or I would have given him an urgent need to see a doctor. Luckily for him, the Fuckwit was around. I mean, with Fuckwit's careful and concerned care, he'd get well in five or six years. If he didn't die, first.

The clincher? The last time this happened, Mom's GI doc had her out in 23 hours. This time she was in three days.

She never saw her GI doc. Her GI doc was never informed my mother was in the hospital. On the night she was on call.

Mom's GI doc is a very aggressive, take-charge kind of lady. I get the feeling she's gonna staple fuckwit's balls to his stethescope.

Austinites, if you ever end up at that particular dungeon - erm, hospital - and you get Steward McKenna as your doctor, demand someone, anyone else. Say, a records clerk. Or a janitor. Or the janitor's pet monkey. The pet monkey will only bite you, give you raibies, and fling dung everywhere.

Much more helpful than fuckwit.

On another note, fuckwit gave my father his card. If you know my father at all, you realize that giving him a peice of information like your name, contact info and place of employment is tantamount to giving him a loaded gun with a pre-labelled bullet.

Dad isn't going to do anything so prosiac as sue. See, malpractice insurance takes care of that, and all we'd get at the end was whatever the lawyer didn't claim. Instead, my father is going to make his life a living hell with complains to anyone and everyone who has authority over him. Like the state board of medical examiners. The hospital director. That sort of person. The kind of person who just loves hearing about a doctor that fucked up a simple thing like 'please let my wife see the doctor who treats her for this condition on a regular basis.'

Still, Mom's okay, and that's what's important. Next time she gets admitted to that hospital (which is the only one her GI doc practices at), we're going in force. As many people as we can get. Dad can take care of Mom and I can do what I do best.

Be a royal and utter pain in the ass.

I'm the most stubborn person I've ever met. There is no beauracratic system invented I can't stubborn my way through. It hasn't been invented. God gave me a gift to put my head down and charge right in, making a right mess of things until people do what they need to do.

Dad can take care of Mom. I'll get the morons to let her see the right doctor. They won't even know I'm conning them until after Mom's doc has handled the problem.

/angry rant

On other, more random notes - the last two blog entries have usurped my blog on the Twilight movie. It's almost done.

I fit into three of my old, smaller shirts. This makes me happy.

Barack Obama is a smoker. For some reason, I like him better now. People best lay off him 'bout that, too. Yeah, yeah, bad example for the kiddies and all that but, shit. It's not like the man isn't about to start a stressful job or anything. Better he take care of his stress with nicotine instead of, say, bombing someone.

(Says the conservative. Go figure.)

Long Day is Long

Wednesday morning started like most other mornings: I woke up. I scratched, I peed, I checked email and my Dad told me he was calling the ambulance to take my mother to the hospital.

Okay, so it's not like most morning. Just some. It's always morning when these things happen. It was morning when I found out Mom was moving out - I hadn't even gotten to fully wake up for that one. It was morning the last two times Mom got taken to the hospital.

Have I mentioned I am not a morning person?

So I pulled on pants and shirt and I stood outside and waited for EMS. I listened to the sirens as they got closer, and I realized I hadn't even gotten a chance to go look in on Mom myself. The problem didn't sound bad. She just couldn't get out of bed. Too lethargic, too sick, too much pain. That sort of thing.

It's happened before. Muscle spasms cause a migraine. The migraine causes nausea. Nausea causes vomiting. Vomiting means her meds don't stay down and her blood sugar spikes. A blood sugar spike causes the gastropareisis to act up and her stomach shuts down.

Sucks balls when that happens.

So, we take her to the doctor. Only this time, she couldn't get out of bed.

It started late Monday night. The vomiting, anyway. Called her doctor, got some anti-nausea meds. She seemed to be getting better on Tuesday, until late in the night, when she started vomiting again. Enter Wednesday morning.

And me, standing outside, waiting for the EMS. I listened to the sirens getting closer, as they navigated the maze of the community we live in. I saw my next door neighbor giving a concerned look as he realized why I was standing outside.

I was calm when the fire truck got there. They grabbed their gear and came in, and started the process of getting her read. Blood pressure, meds, medical history, etc. Not four minutes later, the EMS showed up. I wasn't much help, because Dad was handling things, so I got a coke from the fridge. Odd, how normal this all seemed to me. I drank my coke, printed off more med lists (she takes A LOT of strong meds). One paramedic talked to Dad and took down information. Two others were in with Mom and were asking her questions she wasn't coherent enough to answer, so I went in and gave them answers. They paramedics were surprised at how on top of things Dad and I were and how we were able to give consistent, informative answers.

Impressing paramedics with your ability to handle complex and dangerous medical situations? Not sure how I feel about that, really.

They loaded her in the ambulance and said they were going to give her an IV. Knowing that could take awhile, I drank more coke, called dreamsaint and my brothers. Dad got her meds and some other stuff ready to go and followed them to the hospital. They took her to the hospital we trust least because the doctor we trust most works there.

No, I didn't go.

I do well at hospitals, especially when I'm needed. When I can answer questions, help Mom, help the doctors. Otherwise, I'm just a fat guy who's in the way. All I can do is sit down somewhere and read a book until someone needs me to go buy a soda or grab lunch.

I suck at sitting and doing nothing. I would have to say of all the varied and often useless skills I have, sitting and doing nothing is perhaps the thing I am worst at. I have patience. I have calm. Hell, sometimes I even manage zen. But sitting and doing nothing?

Fuck that. I have to be doing something.

Luckily for me, I had something else I needed to be doing. A most welcome distraction, and a task I've been looking forward to for awhile. I had taken today off work, because I was going to snack time with a four-year-old at his Head Start class.

A friend of mine from the Well adopted four kids, all siblings, recently. As a single mother. She is, perhaps, one of the few people I know who are more insane than I am. You wouldn't know it, even talking to her, but kids are her calling and her passion. Her job is to protect them. She's always helped raise her friends' kids - and trust me when I say there are a lot of them. About, oh...15 or so. Conservatively. Kids, that is.

She adopted her four; they're roughly a year apart in age. Two boys, two girls. The youngest (a boy) RK, is the one I went to see. His class was having this 'bring your father/brother/uncle/favorite adult male to snack' thing this week. RK asked for me to go. I was his first choice - and I was glad to do it. Flattered, even. I mean, how many times in life can a single male with no intention (or prospect) of having children can claim that they're that loved by a kid?

So I got the day off work and I went. Driving out to Bastrop was, to say the least, an adventure. Though I'm somewhat familiar with the area and the highways out there from the Kallven days, it's been awhile. So I got directions, climbed in the car and off I went. As some of you know, with the fibromyalgia and arthritis, driving is painful. Driving all the way out there? Very painful. And directions and I? Not always the best of friends. I can get lost in my own room, to say nothing of unfamiliar back country roads with signs you don't see until you've passed them.

But I made it there. On time, even.

RK was glad to see me - came running right up and wanted to be picked up. I probably shouldn't indulge him (or his sibs) as much as I do, but I couldn't say no. He stuck with me like glue the whole time I was there - he got shy and wouldn't talk at first, but there was a little girl (BK) in his class that seems very fond of him. She also, for some reason, clung to me. RK didn't want me to leave, actually - it wasn't until his class was over and he was in his after-school care program that I had to go. I could hang out with him, but the rules were I couldn't mingle with the other kids. BK wasn't happy about that.

I left him with his after-school care people and went on my way. I had to physically hand RK over to his teacher; he was very unhappy with me. BK, to my surprise, cried when I left.

It was a fun afternoon; it was hard balancing giving RK most of my attention while not ignoring or hurting the feelings of BK - but I managed. RK's teacher is an awesome lady, and very brave, teaching a room full of four-year-olds. It's not so much controlled chaos as it is purposeful chaos. She had a masterful hand with the kids, able to maintain discipline and keep control without being mean or nasty. I learned a lot just watching her for an hour or so.

I drove back home. Stopped at convenience store on my way back in for more coke. I needed the
caffeine by then (eating a snack meant for a four-year-old is not enough to give any kind of energy to man of my prodigious girth, especially when it's the only thing you've eaten that day). One of these days I might even write something about why I like convenience stores so much. Especially highway convenience stores.

I got back home, called people. Called xdrumrboi again, because I know he never checks his messages. Talked to Dad. Rescheduled the video shoot I'm supposed to be doing, picked up xdrumrboi, grabbed
whataburger, and battled traffic to the hospital, met with Dad and saw Mom. Ate lukewarm fast food (which, trust me, I'm regretting right now).

Everyone knows my mother and I don't often see eye-to-eye. Most people don't even realize why. A lot of the time, I don't understand why. I think it's because we don't see the world through the same eyes. I don't think we can.

But no matter what, she share a bond no one else in the family does - we share some of the same diseases. I learned to cope with what I have by watching her...often times, doing just the opposite of what she does, just because that's the way things have always worked. What works for her doesn't work for me and vice versa.

It seems like Mom and I aren't close at all, to most people. Oddly enough? We are. I'm probably closer to her than anyone but Dad. I took care of her for a long, long time. Did you know I drove her to and from work for years? That we worked in the same building for almost two years? That she's the one who convinced me to go to St. Edward's University? We talked every day, multiple times a day, about everything for years. She always gave advice, a lot of it bad, some of even with good intentions.

She's been trying to fix me my entire life, since before I knew there was anything wrong about me. Before I'd had the great revelation that I, for whatever reason, see the world so differently than most people. Since before I knew had I depression, since before I knew I wanted to be a writer. Since before I knew I could be a writer.

She taught me to read. Honestly? I don't think there's any greater gift she could have given me. Even now, I chew through books and reading material at a rate that astounds even me. Arrogant to say, but deal with it, folks. I can go through four or five novels in a week, to say nothing of fic, comics, and things people send me to read. I remember sitting on the floor, leaning against the foot of the waterbed, in the house in San Antonio, her bribing me with M&Ms to read word after word. I remember crying, I remember the headaches, the mental pain of trying to make the words hold still on the page. To sound out each word. She taught me using phonics, like she was taught.

She made me do it. I hated it. I hated her. I even hated the fucking candy after awhile.

She never let me give up. The only things she's ever wanted me to give up? Being a writer. Being me. Small things, really.

Well, KH, if you read this, there you go. A bit more insight to me and my mother. A tidbit or three that might give you some of the answers you want.

I told you if you read this thing, you'd get hints every now and again.

All the times she's been sick? I haven't been this worried. No matter how serious it was. No matter how bad she was. Because no matter what, she soaked up the attention. She loved being the center of attention, having everyone worried about her, thinking about her, changing up their lives to take care of her.

This time, it's different, and it scares me.

She didn't want anyone there with her.

Big change. Scary change. I wonder if it's because she's realized how serious it is, for once...or if this is worse than it ever has been.

If you're the praying kind, I'd appreciate the prayers.

For now, I'm going to try to sleep. Or, at least, lay in bed and read until my alarm clock goes off and I have to go to work.

NaNo November Ruminations, HPU and other worthless bits of my brain

Welcome to the latest installment of 'Jayiin thinks too much.'

I should be sleeping, because I have book pull tomorrow, but instead, I'm blogging. This is the post that should have gone up where I had 'Placeholder.' JH, your patience has been rewarded. I hope this is worth the wait.

This post has been brewing in the back of my skull for awhile now - two or three weeks, really, but as with most of my writing, it needs time to gestate. As a further - and somewhat random - note, I have a new blog (which, for the moment, will just be a mirror of this one) over at Inksome - it's a fandom friendly blogsite using Livejournal's open-source code. The ever-wonderful mackzazzle got me an account there.

So, for those of you who read on LJ, a Friendslist-friendly cut! Because long post is long. For those of you reading on
Blogger - well, you're stuck.

Most of you who know me, know every November, I participate in NaNoWriMo. Most of you know, this is my yearly thing. I spend hours in front of my computer (well, more hours than normal), eschew activities I might otherwise participate in (okay, so there's a chance you'll find me doing something else other than writing. I do occasionally visit the outside world. Just not often, and not without protection.) and otherwise focus in on a new story.

I'm good at NaNo. I'm good at writing. Usually, I blaze through NaNo like a hungry teenage boy through free pizza.

This year was no different. There was a brief period at the beginning of the month where my work schedule and my writing met and clashed and didn't work well together, and I actually fell behind most of the people who watch me blast past them in word count. I whined like an emo schoolgirl and my boss, being gifted with compassion, patience, and a sense of humor, patted me on the head and moved heaven, earth and the rest of the cosmos to re-create her carefully crafted schedule into something where I could write.

There aren't many bosses who would do that. Lots of folk I know bitch at me about working too much, giving up too much of my time/energy for the store, wearing myself out, etc - well, what AB did for me with the schedule was better than a raise or a prize or anything else of the sort. Very few people in my life are willing to do as much to help my writing and very few of those willing to help are willing to face down a horde of geeks whose precious 'sit and do nothing' time would have to be rescheduled for two whole weeks. My boss did.

I didn't waste the time she gave me. I won on the 17th or 18th of the month, and after validating tonight, I got this shiny new picture that says I'm a winner.

I have never lost NaNo.

That said, this year was hard. I had lots of ideas, some of them better than others. I chose one that I thought would be fun, but it sucked. The story was flat, the characters were 2-dimensional, and the plot had more holes than rotten cheesecloth. Yet, in the spirit of NaNo, I went ahead and kept writing until I hit 50K - and then promptly closed the document and left it alone, because I hope I never write anything that crappy ever again.

Why was this year hard? Because I was writing crap. I understand the idea behind liberating yourself from your internal editor and just flying with literary abandon. I get it - and normally, I revel in it during November. But I've never written this kind of crap before. I know I quote Anne Lamott a lot and babble on about how every writer writes shitty rough drafts. But this? This went beyond bad and into the realm of absurd. It's so bad I couldn't even salvage it by turning it into a farce.

Unsurprisingly, November brings up all kinds of thoughts about things I already know, at least about writing. First and foremost, writing is a discipline. Just like any spiritual discipline, physical discipline or lifestyle discipline, it takes effort, will and determination to make it work. Bum glue. Glue your bum to the chair and write.

I think I finally learned what that means. To just push through and keep writing, even when it's crap. I don't like it.

I think of writing as a craft; just like carpentry, blacksmithing or any other craft. There is technical skill and then there is artistry. A person with technical writing skill can create a well-written, grammatically correct, correctly spelled and logically sequenced piece of writing, just like a carpenter can create a functional, sturdy and usable chair. However, a craftsman is always trying to make things better, to make that chair or that piece of writing more fun to use or to read.

I fall into that category. People often ask me why I can't write all year like I do for NaNo, and the truth of it isn't some kind of horrid mental block or any of the other dime-store psychological platitudes people dish out to me when I talk about why I get stuck with writing. It's a completely different dime-store psychological platitude.

It's craft. I want to craft my stories - build them, work with them, make them work. Every time (aside from NaNo) I try to write without working on craft, I end up stuck. The times I do my best work are the times I sit down and am willing to craft every sentence or paragraph or agonize over words. When I'm willing to go back and play with a chapter or a scene until it fits - when I'll scroll back over a hundred pages to change a single thing to makes sure everything is consistent.

If I'm really called to be a writer, as I've theorized, I need to treat what I do with respect and irreverence at the same time. I need to take the idea behind NaNo - writing the story, telling the story, no matter what and synergize it with the idea of crafting the story as I write it. Even though a well-crafted rough draft will still be shitty compared to the final product, it will be something I can feel comfortable with having written.

I don't know if I'm an artist or not; I don't think of myself as one, but I know there is sometimes artistry in storytelling or character or even a turn of phrase. Some folk, like homicidalsh33p have it fairly often. Sometimes I even think I do...but I'll leave the final decision to my eventual readers when I get something substantial published.

Strangely enough (or maybe not), it was HPU that led me to that conclusion. Oddly enough, most people on my LJ Flist haven't read HPU, even though I've been working on it off and on since 2004. For that matter, most people on my LJ Flist haven't read the Katheryn story, either, even though I started writing it in 1995. These stories are a major part of my life, and some of what I'm going to say won't make sense if you don't know those stories. So, for those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, time to tune out and go back to the rest of your regularly scheduled internets. For the rest of you who have a clue and still give a damn, read on!

Writing HPU has been an adventure in self-discovery. I could rant about the fanfiction aspect of HPU and spend a lot of time defending fic, but I won't, because most of you have already heard it already, read fic, or stopped reading at the last paragraph. HPU is the first story I truly gave free reign to and it's turned into a monstrosity. Over 760 pages, 220,000 words...and the story is not even to the halfway point. It's got a lot of writing I'm proud of, a few places I want to cleanse with fire, and some bits and pieces I know I could do better (and will eventually tweak). But I've learned more about how to tell a story through HPU than through anything else I've ever written, just like the Katheryn story has taught me how to build a universe in such a way that I don't drown myself or kill the story with the details of cosmology.

Frankly, I'm not a good enough craftsman yet to tell the Katheryn story, but if anything will get me there, it'll be HPU. If you think reading this entry has been hard, try making an admission like that. I'm not good enough to tell the story I most want to tell.

I will be, though. Even if it kills me.

For the most part, everything I've learned about writing, I've learned on my own. There are a few notable exceptions to this, most of them coming from random places. Anne Lamott taught me about letting go of false expectations in Bird By Bird. One of my professors at St Edward's taught me a new way to think about writing.

Everything else? I've taught myself. Mostly, because getting people to actually read is very hard. Getting people with my level of knowledge and who are willing to sit and discuss is even harder.

The other night, I was writing a bit of HPU, and I realized that, despite what I'd been telling myself, I was stuck at the same place I always get stuck. The last two weeks of summer, after Harry has woken up from the attack at the gym but before his return to Hogwarts. I can't get past this same place; I get bogged down because there are so many details, so many things to reveal, so many things to build and to put into place to make the rest of the story make sense. When I stopped trying to limit chapter size and stopped trying to keep other characters from having a strong voice and role in the events, I was able to start moving things forward.

Then I got stuck again. The only way to get unstuck, I think, is to push through like I did with this year's NaNo. Only, slightly different. Instead of focusing on quantity, I need to focus on quality - I need to make sure to spend the time crafting and building these chapters instead of rushing through them to get to the 'meat' of the next part of the plot. Patience is a major part of good craft, I've been told.

I have patience, just not with myself.

It all comes back to the Basic Speed Law, as applied to life. Which is to say, you can only go as fast as conditions allow.

Not too long back, back, I was driving to Dragon's Lair on a Wednesday morning. That particular morning was beset by fog - fog like I haven't seen in awhile. It was thick and horrid stuff, like cold steam. When I was a kid, I learned fog was just a cloud that had settled close to the ground - if so, then this was a particularly aggressive and stubborn cloud that refused to be the wispy fog we central Texans are used to.

The frustrating thing about this fog wasn't the inability to see a whole car-length in front of me, or even the need to drive to work. It was the way the other drivers seemed to be ignoring the fog. Now, I'm not usually one to bitch about traffic. I leave that to my father and Iridanum - they're much better at it than I am. But that particular morning, the other drivers were beset by a particular and special kind of suicidal stupid.

It reminded me of learning the Basic Speed Law in Driver's Ed all those years ago. I remember Mr N browbeating us with it. "Only drive as fast as conditions allow." It was on every test, every quiz, and, if you got that question right on the final, you were sure to pass (if only barely).

As much as I hate the dumb 'life as a road' metaphor with all the deep, dark and unpleasant parts of myself, it works here. Everyone has goals - things they want to do. Ambitions, hopes, dreams, etc. We have thousands of movies and stories about people achieving their dreams, just because it's something everyone can connect with. Because there's no one in the entire world who doesn't have at least one impossible thing they want to accomplish before they die. (Impossible, of course, being relative to the situation and person.)

You can only get there as fast as conditions allow.

Even as I write that, I hear all the outcry, the screams and the rants and the lectures about that being a horrible excuse for letting things get in your way or slow you down, and while there's some truth to that, there's a lot more truth to this: sometimes, there are things that get in the way and you have to navigate them with care. Sure, you can claim obstacles are just excuses, and they can be - but only if you're not trying to get around them. Moving slowly and carefully around an obstacle so as to not make more of a mess is different than using an obstacle as an excuse for not doing something.

To say nothing of how your goals compare to what other people think your goals should be - but that's another post. Probably my next one. Maybe. Maybe not. I'm learning not to make promises about my blogging, because - let's face it. The blogging fairy only pokes me one and a while. *cough*New Moon blog.*cough*

In my case, I have a whole host medical issues - fibromyalgia, rheumatoid arthritis among other assorted minor problems, to say nothing of the varying forms of dyslexia I have (which is pretty much the whole set). This means it takes me three times as long and three times as much effort to do normal, every day things.

Such as remembering which way doors open. Or which faucet has the hot water (when they aren't marked). Or finding my way around a room that's been recently re-arranged. However, some of my issues mean I don't have as much energy to put into effort as other people. That means I have to choose what I do and when I do it and how I do things very carefully. I live my life in a constant state of discipline just to make it through one day to the next.

Everything I do is very deliberate, very purposeful. I've discovered I work best when I apply that to the rest of what I do. Another HPU lesson. When I'm deliberate in my writing, I do better - but I can't plan too far ahead (IE - outlines!), because there's no way to predict things or plan for things too far out. In life, that means I might not have the energy to run to the store after work to get food I can cook, but I can plan to eat dinner after work. Sometimes, that means cooking. Other times, it means hitting up the usual.

Recently, a few things have happened to make me think about my life, its direction and the goals I have in it.

My boss, at the beginning of November, sat down with me and had a chat with me, because of a personnel shake-up at work. Suffice it to say, JKA - who I helped train! - got promoted to manager. At first, I was a bit upset about this, mostly because I felt overlooked. Truth to tell, I don't want the job he has. I'd be miserable, because it would take all the fun out of my job! But my boss, showing wisdom, patience and compassion well above and beyond the call of duty, made sure I understood what was going on.

I hadn't been overlooked. In fact, I'd been considered. However, my talents and skills are of more use elsehwere. Truth is, I'd make a poor manager. Hell, I remember not being able to handle being a safety patrol lieutenant in elementary school, and I've not grown up enough since to get past some of the stupidity that makes me a bad manager.

Still, being an irrational creature, I got upset. I'm proud of how I approached the situation. Instead of throwing a fit, I was able to feel happy for my co-worker's promotion, and actually approach my boss about it rationally and calmly and talk to her. I'm glad I did. (Though, a couple of hours of praying about it before I did anything had a lot to do with that bit of maturity).

I can't reveal much about future company plans, but suffice it to say (yes, I like that phrase. I'd say 'sue me', but I have nothing of worth), that Dlair is a franchised chain now, and if I play my cards right, I could be the press agent/medial relations guy for the chain. Not just one or two stores...but a lot more than that. I could be a part of something pretty big. Not a huge corporate chain or a major force in the comic publishing industry - but I could be part of growing a small homegrown business into something more substantial.

All I have to do? Prove I can do it.

Okay, so I've proven part of it. I can do the writing part of the job in my sleep (and, considering when I write most of the store newsletters, I sometimes do). The press agent the owner had on contract for awhile didn't do much writing - she just stole the articles I wrote for the website and used them as press releases until I said something about it. Then, people just had me write the press releases.

Now, her contract ran out and I have a chance to show folk I can do all of her job, not just part of it. Here's hoping I can pull it off, yes?

Considering I'm something of a professional failure so far, I'm pretty sure I have a fifty-fify shot of fucking this up royally. Which is to say, I'm going to try, going to try to discipline myself enough to get the job done while trying to untangle the rest of my life.

It won't be quick or easy, because most of what I need/want to accomplish with this are things that take time and require me laying groundwork. Here's hoping I manage to get it done before the owner and my boss run out of patience with me.

In the mean time, I'm going to keep slogging through HPU.

And hopefully, get enough sleep to function tomorrow.

Yep

Placeholder

Yes.

I know I said I would blog today before I went to bed, and lo - I did try. Yet, my brain didn't want to cooperate. I've spent most of today trying to write something or another and failing miserably. It's like trying to wring water from a stone - it doesn't happen without a supercollider and quantum mechanics. And since we all know how good I am at math, it ain't happening.

Hopefully, I'll have better luck tomorrow.

Playing Catch-Up

I was recently reminded by JH, the author of Insert Title Here that I haven't been blogging (again) and there are people far and abroad who are supposedly interested in my life and thoughts.

I figure those folk have got to be bored. So very, very bored. None the less, here I am, blogging for their amusement and mine. Mostly, a long and boring series of thoughts, events and ponderings that, I'm sure, will make you long for your previously scheduled boredom.

First and foremost, my brother and partner in crime, Iridanum has traveled to the Emerald City to be with Aderangedhyena, which means he's actually smiling for once. Whataburger, the dogs and I shall all miss him.

For those of you waiting for commentary on New Moon, patience. I'll have my first blog on that up before too long; hopefully mid-week.

Now, as most of you know, I live in a quaint little trailer park in the twilight zone between Austin and Pflugerville (yes, it's really spelled that way) and, thusly, all the big and important people don't want to sell things to us. Folk like Ye Olde Cable Company don't want to come out here and sell their services to us. As such, we aren't in the middle of the unfortunately amusing little fight with local Austin station/NBC Affiliate KXAN.

It also means we're stuck with one of the other guys for cable. Now, this isn't so bad, normally, considering the infinitesimal amount of television I partake of. However, four and a half months ago, our house was struck by lightning. It shorted out a few things, including my mother's most precious possession - her TV. The Great TV Quest was embarked upon, and my father spent an inordinate amount of money on a new HD flat screen TV for her. Not that we get HD channels (see above cable company), but it was a nice TV.

Only, the sound cut out. A lot. So he traded it in for a new one. The sound cut out. A lot. So after some work with the sales folk and customer service folk at Circuit City, we got a third new TV. And the sound cut out. A lot. Throughout this process, there was much experimentation, including putting my new and mostly unused TV in place of hers, an old analog TV in place of hers, and a few visits by the Not-So-Friend Neighborhood Cable Repair Man. (He's definitely not a super-hero, unless he's spreading the cranky and annoying).

Okay - long story short. One brand of TV had a bad run and the sound sucked sweaty donkey balls and the picture would flip out whenever we ran the microwave. However, the second brand (and third actual TV) my father brought home worked great. (Also, the Firedog Installation guy was out so often the dogs got to know him, if that tells you how much of a pain this has been.)

Last night, push came to shove and the sound was cutting in and out every two seconds. My father counted. And decided the Repairman needed to come back out and fix it, which sparked a discussion between him and my mother. Let me tell you - my mother has been remarkable patient, reserved and not-cranky about this considering how much she loves/thrives on/needs TV to live. (Please note: this is a relative statement, which means there was only the occasional screaming fit and self-pity marathon as opposed to her normal behavior, which often resembles a grumpy emo two-year-old with hemorrhoids.)

In the process of this discussion, it was revealed that the Repairman has been treating my mother like a sick, doddering old woman with the mental capacity of a senile flobberworm as opposed to an intelligent person who's disabled because of physical problems, and thusly, her opinion on dealing with the repairman again was: Do Not Want.

My mother and I do not get on, not really. Long story. Complicated relationship. Etc, etc, etc. Yes, she has memory issues, thanks to the drugs she's one.

However, I have never once made the mistake of thinking my mother was too stupid to notice a problem, nor that she had the powers of deduction to figure out what the root cause of said problem is, especially when it comes to her own comfort and entertainment.

Nor do I like it when people treat my mother with disrespect when she hasn't earned it. My mother has done many things to earn disrespect, many of which I cannot and will not defend. However, there is a certain level of customer service that is required when one is in a customer service job.

This past month, there has been a customer service contest at work, because it is our Customer Service Awareness Month. Yeah, okay - sounds hokey, right? Right. It is. But we're geeks. Hokey is kinda what we do. But it's made me think about what customer service is and how to provide good customer service. Frankly - it's fairly simple. All you have to do is Give A Damn or act like you do. I may write more about this later, but suffice it to say, my father and I decided to have the Repairman out today, while I was here to deal with him.

We wanted him to do one simple thing - replace a cable outlet/box thingie in our wall that transmits the cable signal through the co-ax cord to the TV. After all, we've only asked him about this ever time he's visited us over the past four and a half months. He merely tells my mother that the box is not the problem. First, it was the TV. Then, it was the house wiring - a deduction based on the microwave making the picture spaz.

However, we applied the process of elimination and the scientific method - skills most folk learn in elementary school - and were able to determine that no other cable connection in the house had the problem, the new(est) TV didn't have the microwave issues, and we were four TVs in - all of which had the sound problem on that particular outlet. (New co-ax cable didn't fix it either.)

What does that tell us? Simple. Logic. The outlet has issues. His meter says the signal strength is fine. Great! So?

The Repairman came, fifteen minutes later than he said he would. First thing he said was 'Changing the box won't fix it' and proceeded to tell us why. He was rude. He was brusque. And he didn't listen. However, my mother might not be up for confrontation anymore, but I am. I explained to him why his logic didn't work (lack of information on his part made his assumptions wrong) and then I told him we were going to pay to have the outlet/box thingie replaced.

He replaced it. He stormed around outside, scared my dogs, chased my mother back into her room, and slammed our front door.

I decided being an ass to him wouldn't solve anything - I wanted him to concentrate on doing his job, not proving his cock was bigger than mine by telling me how much I don't know about his job. Beating him senseless would have been counter-productive, if satisfying, and calling him out on his rudeness would have been counter-productive. So I sat in my father's chair, read a book, and stared at him the whole time he worked inside.

It took him about 45 minutes to do the job. Then, as he was leaving, he had to get the last word in edgewise over us poor trailer park folk, and decided to tell me in a quite patronizing tone of voice that we should get the wiring of the house looked at, because of the microwave problem.

I smiled, told him we hadn't had that problem since we got the new(est) TV, and bid him a good afternoon.

I'm probably an ass for getting the last word in, but - that was some of the worst customer service I've experienced in a long time. Iridanum will tell you that I'm the luckiest SoB when it comes to customer service, because I usually get the worst of the worst. It's kinda like the Curse of Katheryn, only not as amusing.

If I ever treat a customer like that, I hope they slap me upside the head with something heavy and blunt for being a dick.

But speaking of JH and TV (I know, I know - a brilliant segue from a brilliant writer. Stand in awe, folks, stand in awe.), I did two unusual (for me) things this past week. I went out and did something social at someone else's house and I watched TV. With people, even. Not just when I've got writer's block so horrid I watch TV instead of practicing self-trepanation.

I went over to JH's apartment after work last Wednesday and, after chillin' with him while he edited a neighbor's audition video, we watched the new Knight Rider - which, in our uneducated opinions, was awesome. It, unlike the failed Team Knight Rider from the late 90's, captured the feel and spirit of the original show - which was much more awesome than people give it credit for and was David Hasslehoff's best role. And came way before Baywatch. Even if the Guinness Book of World Records says it was the most-watched TV show of all time. (No surprise - I've never seen an episode.)

We watched the awesomeness of Knight Rider on a massive TV, which, really, is a wall with an identity crisis. Only, the HD didn't work. That didn't bother me any because I've never watched anything in HD, but JH was a bit annoyed.

Following the show (and an excellent impromptu dinner by KH, JH's lovely wife), therein followed more work on the neighbor's video, helping KH grade papers, and a discussion about that most boring and uncomfortable of topics - me. Apparently, KH has an interest in me, and knew all of the random and awkward questions to ask me to make me talk about all of those things fanficfulreality has been trying to pry out of me for years.

Now, the filter in my brain that tells me not to say something offensive, rude, dumb, or painfully insightful to someone else never works. The filter that keeps me from talking about myself in any serious or meaningful way is usually in good working order and almost always stops anything important from coming out was out of order that night, because I said way too much and told them things I'll probably end up regretting when my rare good mood evaporates and is replaced by my normal cynicism.

None the less, we plan to repeat this experience this coming Wednesday, where hopefully his HD will be working, and I can be awed by the awesome that (apparently) is HD. I think I'm being social. This disturbs me on a very visceral level and amuses Starrybluepoet, who informs me that I am no longer able to retreat from the world and be a hermit, as life is very much less colorful when I am not around.

I would argue and say that is a strange thing to say, as I wear monochrome, but fancifulreality said much the same thing later today. Never argue with tiny women. They always outnumber you. When two of them agree, run. Especially since both of them are armed with pixie-dust.

Still, considering Starrbluepoet is writing things again, I cannot vanish again. If I did, she would stop, and I would be sad.

Ahh, writing. That subject near and dear to my heart. National Novel Writing Month is very close at hand, and I am getting myself back into the writing shape that will let me write 100k again this year.

On another note, I re-joined ASR, because I missed my characters, I missed the people I wrote with, and I missed the momentum and pressure having to post gave my writing. So Shay is on Starbase SAIKAI and Tigria is still on CIRCE. (And yes, their pages need updating and lots of work. I will eventually get them fancy HTML web pages up again, but it will take me time.)

Also, Carpelocke is joining CIRCE. This makes me happy and excited, because he's gonna get in on things right before we have a massive fuck-off of a space battle with insurmountable odds that very well could kill us all.

Again.

I think I'm finally over whatever hump it is I have on HPU, because I think I can actually write a chapter in the mid-thirties now, and move past this quagmire point I always get stuck at. I just have to push through and write a shitty chapter or three to make it work. I have lots of ideas for after, it's just some of the interconnecting parts are a bit (very) hazy.

I have no idea which idea to use for NaNo this year. There are too many of them to figure out right now. I may re-write Path of Thorns/Path of Tears or Worlds Asunder in their entirety (as in, use the same basic idea and characters, but not touch the original text. It is NaNo, after all.) Or try for a less abortive attempt on Starfire Quest; disregard everything I've written on it before, and just start somewhere in the middle. I can go back and write the beginning later. Or the HP fanfic about Bill's time at Hogwarts - technically, the prequel to HPU, because it deals with Bill's quest to become a Dueling Master.

Though, over-all? I am more behind than I ever have been. I have so many things to read and edit and so many things to write and create that I don't know what to do about it. To say nothing of web work for work and desperately needing to clean the bathroom at some point this week. And other assorted chores, though cleaning the bathroom is important. There is mold growing back, and if it gains sentience, I'm charging it rent.

I'll leave you with a final observation. About two weeks ago, at Dlair, there were some young folk - late teens to mid-twenties - who came in to buy some manga. Four of five of 'em. They all had Down's Syndrome, I think. They didn't call each other by their real names; they called each other by other names they'd given themselves. Goku was the one I remember most clearly.

Some folk, even some of my co-workers, got a chuckle out of that. Being me, I started wondering why that was funny to us, and I couldn't come up with a real good reason, except that we were making fun of them. I'm not sure we should have.

I think there's a lesson in there, somewhere, about accepting people and calling people what they want to be called, no matter what the rest of the world thinks.

Because we all know it could happen. Really.

So, Hurricane Ike has decided to aim itself in the general direction of central Texas.

Not that I blame it or anything. Shows better taste than some hurricanes - skipping over Louisana and New Orleans (which is oddly inhospitable to visiting hurricanes after that Katrina chick overstayed her welcome). Central Texas is a good place. Lots of sunshine, good food, and if it's lucky, it might get to see Leslie. Maybe pick up a Keep Austin Wierd bumper sticker, though Ike seems to want to pressure wash Houston, first.

Not a bad plan for for a back-to-school vacation, really.

Except for the small fact that I live in a "manufactured home community. *coughs*Trailer park.*coughs* In Texas. In the twilight zone between Austin and Pflugerville. In a "manufactured home" that has all the character flaws of a used car bought from the greasy law school washout brokering lemons from his cousin's third-hand after-market auto shop.

Yeah, so we're actually ground-set. But everyone knows our luck, right? Bad at best, catastrophic at worst? (Lightning strike, anyone?)

So with hurricanes come winds. Thunder. Lightning. All that jazz.

If there's anything 20 years of gaming and reading cheap fantasy has taught me, it's that storms + wind + rickety housing = interdimensional travel. So if my house gets blown away and y'all get a postcard from the Land of Oz, please send ruby slippers, my pipe, tobacco, and journal back.

I'll likely be in jail in the Emerald City for wearing blue glasses. (Or assaulting a flying monkey. I hate flying monkeys. You think pigeons are bad with the dive bombing?)

You laugh. You think I'm being sarcastic.

Just you wait. I'll end up in some other universe. Only, I'm not skipping, singing, or dancing. I'll play the role of the sarcastic broody guy. I've got lots of practice. (And trust me, I'm not lucky enough to end up with the cute redhead with the basket full of food. I'll end up in a duel the death with the lion, having to try to fix the metal man with duct tape and paper clips, sassing the good witch, befriending the evil witch and debunking the wizard by accident. After knocking over something expensive and irreplacable.)

Captain Entropy, signing off.

Twilight Travails part III: the good, the bad and the ugly

I'll freely admit, I expected to be blogging about this book for longer than I have been. But I finished it Thursday night and really haven't had time to sit down and write my final thoughts before I move on to New Moon. Why is this surprising? I didn't expect to read it as fast as I did.

Here's the unfortunate truth: I actually enjoyed parts of the book. Yes, I know - shame on me. So, here goes. The good, the bad, the ugly and the final analysis.

The same as last time; not-so-sequential bullet points.

The Good

• Meyer wrote a fast, engaging book. The writing wasn't terrific, but I've certainly read worse. It's her style, both in terms of technical voice and in storytelling mode that surprised me a bit. Taken apart with every literary skill I have, Twilight is self-insert Mary Sue vampire fanfiction - which just goes to prove my theory that fanfiction is a literary genre.



• Meyer managed to do something I haven't seen done in well before, which is to take a story from a placid, fluffy idyll to action-adventure/suspense in the space of a few paragraphs. She set the scene in the ball field, creating a very surreal feel with the storm and the ball game as a backdrop to Bella's wonder and awe - and later, fear. The arrival of James' coven was sudden and expected at the same time and both well-written and well-told.



• The Cullens. The scene where I got really hooked into the story was when Bella met the Cullens. They are cool enough to get their own sub-list and quite a bit of thought.
  
  
  • On family: the Cullens work as a family for several reasons. The first is obvious - the care they have for each other, which I think is founded both in their shared ethics and their 'conversion' stories. (I hesitate to use the word 'embrace' because it's proprietary to White Wolf gaming.
    
    One thing I've heard criticized is how fast the rest of the family takes to Bella - but I disagree with that. Their reactions to Bella are exactly what jumped out at me about them. Instead of 1) eating her or 2) getting mad about her, they chose Edward's happiness over their own comfort. (Yes, even Rosalie - but more on her later.) If you live with someone long enough, and are close enough to them, you can notice significant changes. The change Edward's connection/relationship with Bella wrought was obvious and dramatic, giving them good reason to open their family to her.
    
    
  • Esme didn't impress me much at first, but the more I looked at her, the more I got a feeling quiet, understated strength. The kind of emotional strength it takes to keep such a diverse lot together as a family. She's the glue and the heart - she's a mother, through and through. Her acceptance of Bella and her obvious affection towards Edward show that much clearly.
  
  
  
  • Rosalie: Some people didn't like or understand her reaction to Bella and Edward, but her reaction made perfect sense. Bella is 1) a threat to her family's dynamic and 2) a possible threat to their safety. If Bella gets hurt, Edward gets hurt - she's also (as is proved later) a giant target for other vampires. Rosalie's reaction is one of anger and fear - but still of love for her family. And after the whole series of events with James, I'm not sure I can blame her for still being angry at/about Bella. Yet, when things hit the fan, she unwaveringly did her part to protect Bella from James - because Edward was family, and Bella was important to Edward.
  
  
  
  • Emmet is awesome. Him, I get. He's big, powerful and a very simple person. When James threatened Bella, his reaction was very simple - a strong desire to go and hit James until he was no longer a threat. In the end, I know he and Jasper fought James to the last, but Emmet wanted to take care of the problem suddenly, violently and all over the place. Part of it was because of the challenge of the fight, but some of it was because James was threatening Bella - and thereby threatening Edward.
  
  
  
  • Jasper strikes me as the wise counselor. He's wise and old for his years and grasps people almost as well as Edward and Carlisle, in that he can sense what they're feeling. I imagine that's a something of a burden at times, but I also imagine it's a blessing. Jasper stuck with Bella and tried to do his best for her, as well as being one of the two to finally kill James. He didn't let himself be separated from Alice and was equally as unwilling to let Bella into danger.
  
  
  
  • Alice is the quintessential little sister. Bright, cheerful, supportive, mischievous, creative and inspired. She can see the future, which is a burden in every story I've ever read or heard; she's Cassandra, though everyone listens to Cassandra. She lived in hell growing up and managed to find her humanity by being a vampire. She's the one who I think empathizes with Bella the most and realizes what Bella is feeling - but I also think, because she's seen the future and knows Bella becomes one of them, she is able to accept Bella easier. She's also more fascinated with humanity than those who remember being human. She's a character with vast potential i want to see tapped.
  
  
  
  • Carlisle is easily and decidedly my favorite character in the entire story. He's the warrior-poet, the ethical hunter, the doctor, the shaman and the priest - he's someone who has faced and overcome his own darkness in more than one lifetime. He's a warrior and a hunter and has age and power to go with experience and knowledge. He's the family's father, their guide, and in some ways, their savior - he gave them the good news there was a better way to live. Harder, but better - there was a way they could live without destroying other people. He is living proof that vampires - and by extension - humans, can overcome conditioning and 'nature' to become something more and better.
  
  
• Best part of the book - Bella's sacrifice. There are three 'sacrifice scene' I love - the first when Sturm Brightblade goes up against Skie and Kitiara, the Blue Dragon Highlord in the Dragons of Winter Night. The second is when Harry Potter goes to be killed by Lord Voldemort in Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows. (I didn't link any of the HP stuff, because - really, if you don't know that, who are you and why are you reading my blog?).
  
  Bella walking into James' waiting arms to save her mother was a perfectly in character for her. She'd already sacrificed a lot for both her parents, trying to make them happy - or, in the case of hurting Charlie when she was leaving - safe. She didn't think twice about going to James - she just did it. She was terrified, but worked her way through it, outsmarted two older, much more powerful 'siblings' and escaped them to walk right into what she knew would be certain and probably painful death.
  
  It was well-written and was the most emotion-evoking scene in the entire book.

The Bad:

• I didn't get to see the fight with James. Maybe it's 'cause I'm a guy or maybe it's because I like fight scenes (and the two are not one and the same, thank you very much). He hunted, mindfucked and tortured a character I rather like, and he's a sociopathic ass besides. He needed to die, and I very much wanted to see Emmett go to town on his ass. Frankly, the thought of Jasper, with his emotion-altering powers and Emmett, with his raw power, ganging up on anyone is a bit intimidating - as a pair, they'd be a near-unbeatable team. Jasper makes him feel like the pansy he really is (hunting someone who can't fight back? Really - how brave is that? Big game hunters who go after lions and tigers and the like at least face the chance of getting eaten by a smart one. But more on James in a minute.) When Jasper makes him feel weak as a kitten, Emmett kicks the unlife right out of his corpse.
  
  I felt more than a bit cheated not getting to see it.



• James. At first, he's a decent enough villain. He goes from random feral blood-sucker to Big Bad in just a few paragraphs (which was well done and believable) and goes out after Bella. However, his motivations are lame. If he were just going after Bella because Edward wanted her, then he should have killed her when had the chance. If he wanted a thrilling hunt, he should have killed Bella and let Edward come after him. (I would have loved to see James against all the Cullens when they were annoyed. As much as I love a good, long drawn-out fight, I love a good pwning just as much.)
  
  If he wanted a good hunt, he should have kidnapped Bella and drug her across the US being pursued by the Cullens - and maybe the Moons (who are werewolves. Meyer made it obvious).
  
  Instead, he plays with his food like a two-bit Buffy villain and doesn't even manage to do any real torture before falling to his feral instincts (a controlled hunter would probably have had more control) and trying to suck her dry. Only, he fails - presumably because Edward and co. arrive to bitch-smack him for being dumb enough to hunt Edward's pet human. Overall? He was a disappointing, pontificating villain with all kinds of wasted and ignored potential.



• The chase sequence. So easy. Good tension, but Meyer should - and could - have drug that out much longer and made it more interesting, especially if Edward and Bella had been on the run together - she wasted that opportunity, too.



• Okay, coincidence is fine, but for fuck's sake - James knew Alice's origin? Unoriginal, contrived, and disappointing. Alice should have been more of a mystery for longer.

The Ugly

• The ending. After all of that - after Bella accepted Edward for who and what he was, she wasn't upset with him about James, she still loved him unconditionally - and yet? Edward vacillates. His entire family put themselves at risk of exposure or worse, and yet - Edward can't commit. He's spent a book stalking her, being a creepy pretty-boy bloodsucker, and Bella is okay with this and still wants him. She still loves him.
  
  Yet, Edward lays the groundwork to leave her. Whiny emo punk bastard! He's a century old! He should be bloody well smart enough to realize what he has, and fight to keep it. How can he read the minds of so many people and not realize how unusual what he and Bella have is? Come on! Get over yourself, kiss the girl, and try to have a lovely happily ever after!
  
  
• Bella is an emotionally stunted, painfully shy, disaster-prone girl from a dysfunctional, broken family. I doubt she was ever truly a child, but I don't think she ever really grew up, either. But why does Edward get to walk all over her?



• Her mother. Useless creature. Enough said.

The Final Analysis

• Edward is still a stalker. If most guys - even pale emo prettyboys - were to stalk a real girl, they'd get a pipe-wrench upside the head, a face-full of mace, and a restraining order shoved up their ass so hard they'd be able to use their teeth as a paper shredder. Yet, Edward gets away with being a stalker (listening to her talk in her sleep?!) because he's pretty and wants to suck her blood.
  
  Okay, so Rose (a girl from Dlair) tells me being stalked is now back in vogue (and is very romantic, thankyouverymuch), and I'm behind the times. slim_frame tells me it's only stalking when the girl says 'go away' and illidanstr makes some points about movie stalkers.
  
  But stalking is stalking. Men are raised from a young age to consider this behavior to be the sign of a sick and damaged mind. It's not romantic, it's illegal and up in the pantheon of sins against women somewhere near rape and public humiliation, in the same vicinity as abuse. And yet, women find this character to be the model of a romantic man.
  
  Is it his slavish devotion? The misty-eyes stare? Or the inability to be without her? (I thought that particular trait was lame, too.)
  
  Yet, Edward is not only romantic, he's sexy. I'm a little disgusted, and once again am starting to see that maybe taking women at their word when they say 'girls don't like stalking or domineering men' wasn't a good idea. Maybe if I'd done more stalking back in high school, I might have gotten laid more.



• I get it. Meyer is writing about love at first sight. Transcendent love, that breaks down and through barriers, that builds bridges, topples obstacles, and overcomes all - the kind of love that is often considered to be Great Power. But I have to beat my suspension of disbelief into a corner of my mind with a very large stick before I can buy into it, because there's not real build-up or connection or exploration of feelings.
  
  Then it gets slushy, mushy and gushy.
  
  The lurid language and over-the-top love doesn't make or drive the story; it detracts, and gives me a headache from rolling my eyes so much.



• All the folk mad at Harry Potter for it's supposed 'messages'? They should hate this more, because at least in Harry Potter, there wasn't a pedophiliac psychosexual stalker out to (romantically and erotically, of course) suck the main character's blood.

Overall, it wasn't bad. It wasn't good, either. It was the kind of thing I would never read again or really be in a hurry to pick up book two.

Though, there is a part of me who is invested in the character of Bella that really, really wants to know what happens next. I hate not knowing the ending, and this was just good enough I don't hate it.

So I shall read onward and borrow from someone a copy of New Moon. I might even keep blogging, if people want me to.

Twilight Travils, part II

First off - I was wrong. Bella is 17, not 14. Not that it makes the creepy century-old stalker any easier for me to swallow, but there it is.

And for those of you, who like fairey_queen will call me out on the Buffy/Angel 'ship, I'll state it up front - I was never a fan of Angel/Buffy, for many of the same reasons I'm not comfortable with Bella/Edward. The difference between Twilight and Buffy is that there was more going on in Buffy than there is in Twilight.

Now that I am significantly further in than 50 pages, I have a lot more to say - a first, I was going to try to put this into a semblance of order and make it flow, but instead, you're stuck with somewhat sequential bullet points.

(AB, if you're reading this - read all the way through it. There's lotsa good in with the bad.)

Beware spoilers below.

• Meyer answered one of my major questions - maybe the only mystery that really stuck in my head from those first fifty pages - why did Bella move to Forks in the first place? The answer was satisfying and shed light on Bella and her dysfunctional family.
  
  I enjoyed the look into her mother's life and attitude - and I can see why she and Charlie didn't work out.



• One moment in the story that stuck in my mind is when Bella realizes her father put snow chains on her tires before he went to work; that little jolt of emotion was the most real the character of Bella Swan has been to me.
  
  She's not very good with emotion from her parents, and in some ways, I think Charlie might be a better parent than her mother. He doesn't push her, but he obviously cares and wants to take care of her. Her mother does, too - but it sounds like Bella did more taking care of her mother than the other way around.



• Edward. He frustrates me. First off, he's an ass. I understand that he saw something in Bella that makes her very attractive to him - I'm willing to buy into that, run with it, even. I understand his initial reaction was probably one of hunger and desire for her blood.
  
  What gets me is the way he acted after he saved her life.
  
  He was an ass. He leads Bella through this intricate little dance where he teases, frustrated and mocks her. He stops traffic so a boy can get turn down by her? He ignores her and glares at her and apologizes vaguely by turns? He drops ten-ton hints he's not normal and is a freakin' Great Mysterious Pretty Boy and expects her to just walk away?
  
  Not hardly. Anyone who can read minds and has lived for 100 years and has had, at any point, a functioning brain cell, would be able to tell you how to bait a pretty little girl.
  
  This guy is an ass. He's playing with not only Bella, but her friends - and he either has to be aware of it, or has such a case of such profound dumb that his being in high school after a century of un-life actually starts to make sense.
  
  But Bella has already been hooked by the mystery, and like every single teenage girl I have ever known (bar none - sorry, ladies), she goes for the asshole instead of the nice guy. Of course, Meyer writes the nice guys as utterly useless, clueless (okay, the clueless is very true to life) and generally as endearing as puppies who pee on themselves when they get excited chasing their own tails.
  
  To say nothing of the stalking. Why does he get to be a stalker and be a romantic hero? He's a psychosexual predatory exsanguinist unnaturally selected by parasitic evolution to be unbearably and irresistibly attractive to girls. How can Bella resist him?
  
  But no. He has to be a stalker. Most guys who stalked a girl the way he did would be labeled a creep, possibly get a slap and kick for their trouble, and get a restraining order. Regardless of her penchant for finding trouble and him rescuing the poor damsel in distress, the stalking bit is over the top. At that point, I stopped suspending my disbelief and started beating it back into a corner with a large blunt object.
  
  Seriously, though. I don't get it. Explain it to me. What is sexy and appealing and romantic about stalking the girl? Is it because she's already enthralled by him? Or is it because women actually want creepy?
  
  In all honestly, the only difference between Edward stalking her and say, Mike stalking her is the fact that Edward is pretty and he wants to suck her blood. Because that makes it all okay.



• Bella is a strange child, and one I find myself strangely compelled by. She's a fearless little bookworm with almost no idea how unusual she really is, despite her inability to fit in. I wish Meyer would have given us a clearer idea what she looks like, but I'm getting the idea of a petite, pale and delicate brunette. Her constant physical inability coupled with a natural curiosity, misanthropic tendencies and a lack of patience for social games makes her endearing, even when she's being annoyingly whiny and girly.
  
  My favorite scene with Bella has to be her walking around Port Angeles - she's searching for books (which, I can't fault anyone for) and her naivety carries her to wander into the bad part of town. This is very belieable and very real. So is her inability to handle the group of hooligans who herd her to a nice, dark little corner to rape and rob her. (Every thug's favorite R&R). She doesn't suddenly develop a fea response (which, so far, has been absent). Instead, she switches gears and starts trying to figure out how fight back.
  
  You go, girl!
  
  That was an awesome moment. No thoughts of giving up. No thougts of surrender. No panic. Just a fierce readiness to protect herself and make sure the hooligans work for what they get. Then, she gets rescued by Edward, ruining a shining moment for the heroine. I like strong women characters who stand up for themselves - I like that she was ready to fight. I don't like it when the girls have to be rescued by the boys. I think it's because I grew up around so many strong women that 'weak' women, who don't fight their own battles, sometimes bother me.



• Which is, I think, why I dislike the relationship with Edward. Bella is passive, there. She's a passive person overall, but in every other situation, she finds a way to exert her will over a situation. Whether cooking for Charlie, setting up all her new friends with dates, or going to Seattle instead of the dance, she' always does something about her situation. (Another reason I like the character, despite her being a Mary Sue.) That, and I don't believe in love at first sight - I do believe in connection at first sight, lust at first sight, consuming interest at first sight - but not love. So that's hard for me to swallow, too.



• Yes, Bella is a Mary Sue. She has a pretty name (Isabella Swan? Possible reference to the Ugly Duckling aside, the name is a Mary Sue name.), has guys falling all over her (almost literally) and the circumstances are such that she is the center of the world from the get go - and not just because she's a 1st-person narrator. There are things that happen (Edward not able to read her mind) that seem to happen Because Bella Is Special.
  
  Now, that said - I have no intrinsic objection to Mary Sues as long as they're written well, which Bella seems to be. I just wanted to point it out.



• If Bella is so accident/disaster prone in Podunk Nowhere, how did she survive Phoenix, Arizona? And why is the 100-year-old vampire in high school?



• I want to meet/read more about Edward's family, especially Alice. I want to see the dynamic between them all, because I want to know how his relationship with Bella is affecting his relationship with his family.



• The writing is good enough to keep me reading, but the storytelling is a bit bouncy - some of that may be the 1st-person narration, but a lot of it has to do with things like the random boy she sorta-but-not-quite remembers telling her exactly what she wants/needs to know exactly at the right time. I can buy her believing Edward is a vampire as easily as she does because of the way the character is written so far - and she saw him stop a van about make roadkill pizza out of her with his bare hands. But still - the scene with Jacob was too contrived. Again, I had to beat back my disbelief with a now well-used stick.

Overall, I'm enjoying it, despite myself. I'm invested enough in the characters (especially Bella) that I want to know what happens and how it happens. I'll be done with the book by the end of the week, and if the ending doens't leave me with literary blue balls, I'll probably want to read the second book in fairly short order.

Twilight Travails, part I

At the request of many folk, not in the least tn_teacher, fancifulreality and, finally, (though by no means least), fairey_queen, I have started to read Twilight by current literary superstar Stephanie Meyer.

(I also promised my boss, AB, that I would read this book.)

Since so many folk have expressed interest in my reactions to this book, I thought I would blog said reactions for posterity and to satiate their curiosity. Also, because I need to start being disciplined in my blogging again, and this is a good way to start.

So.

I borrowed the book from fairey_queen this morning, and sat down to read it this afternoon. I've made it almost to page 50 and my favorite character is the truck. Bella is a slightly emo 14-year-old girl, and having never been any sort of 14-year-old girl m'self, I can't say she's someone I really identify with. Some of her issues, I jibe with: alienation, being left out, etc - but being stalked by the puppy-boy Mike and the painfully geeky Eric is more amusing than anything else.

I feel almost bad laughing at Bella's problems, because it just seems mean.

But that is, I think, the root of the problem - Meyer has created a very real person and despite my not getting all the trauma of being a 14-year-old girl (and to hear the tales I've heard, it's quite traumatic), she is still a sympathetic character whom I find myself mildly interested in - though not yet invested in. So far, Edward isn't all that interesting, even knowing he's a vampire. Even though it's obvious his reaction to Bella was stronger than he expected/wanted, and doesn't quite know what to do with it.

Like I said, so far, the best character is the truck.

There is one part of this that's hard for me to get past. Edward is over a hundred years old - and is a 17-year-old boy who falls in love with an 14-year-old girl? A bit creepy much. I'm not sure I see the romance as much as I see a rather twisted form of pedophilia.

The jury is still out on this one.