I have just gone through my list of 52 goals for 2014. I might have been a little over ambitious. I suppose I had every right to be. 2014 was my return to The World. The End of Exile. I had grand plans, and like most grand plans, they didn't come to pass. Well, most didn't. I did read a-freakin'-lot of books, and I am quite proud of that.
Lengthy lists aside, what I really needed was for last year to be better than the years before it, and it was. That, however, was a pretty low bar, and that is why I am ready for 2015 to be even better. I'm ready for things to be more than "not bad". It is nice to look back over the last year, and not see any (personal) Horrible Things, Tragic Mistakes or Terrible Let Downs, but its disconcerting not to see too many Wonderful Surprises, Glorious Victories or Unforgettable Escapades. Actually, all I see is a lot of Unnecessary Capitalization. No downs, no ups. The year just was. I accept that.
I also know that it doesn't have to be that way. There's a lot I don't have control over, but there is plenty I do. I know this year end/beginning fervor never lasts, but that doesn't change or cancel out the fact that I do want things to be different, and that I think I can do it.
Besides, its not like I'm buying a gym membership.
While it is relieving that I don't have lines of bad things in my ledger, that, in itself is pretty boring. Bad things are still experiences. They are still stories, and tests, and whatever other metaphor you can think of. They are still the stuff lives are made out of. A rough year at least gives one the hard earned trophy of having survived it. I didn't survive this year, I just happened to wander to the end of it.
(I want to make is abundantly clear that I am speaking strictly about my own life here, and about hardship on a personal level. I know that a lot of people, on every scale, had a hard, horrible year. I would assume that all of those people who are suffering are not glad things happened that way, for the sake of the experience. Nor, am I romanticizing struggles, tragedy, loss or hardship. I know that in many, many ways I am very lucky and privileged to have had a boring year.)
My year wasn't totally wasted, I suppose. I got a new job I love, I hurt myself rather severely. (Those two events were completely unrelated to each other, by the way.) I won NaNoWriMo. Out of context, those are certainly experiences. But I know there could have been - should have been - more.
May 2015 be a year of things. Of experiences. Of victories and failures. Of tragedy and celebration.
I did make a new list of goals. It's shorter than last year's, perhaps a little more practical. And even though one of them is to post to this site more often (weekly, even), its entirely possible that the next entry I make here will be in about one year from now. I hope I have things, good, bad and otherwise, to reflect upon.
Showing posts with label babble. Show all posts
Showing posts with label babble. Show all posts
31 December 2014
12 October 2014
In Which I Defy Neil Gaiman
I don't know what this is going to be about. But I do know that it is intended to be a blog post. Whether it actually ends up there is open for debate. With myself. (Here's the debate: "Yes it will!" "No, it won't!" The end.)
I have actual topics I'd like to write about. But they require thought. And effort. And doing. Whereas this, THIS, is just a stream of consciousness blog. But that's cool right? Like, let me just show you what's going on in my life, because that's SO important.
Hm. Why do I want a blog, if I am so fundamentally convinced that anything I write in it is piffle? Or codswallop, even? Why do I want to write blogs when I am sure no one would want to read them? Is it simple self doubt? Or do I have legitimate concerns about the medium? Does it even really matter? Because whatever I post is going to basically vanish into the ether of the internet. Its true that everything on the internet never really goes away, but it also doesn't really go anywhere specific either. Its like slipping one handwritten page into one random library book. Its there. And totally save from ever being discovered. Except by robots. Wow, I got a lot more mileage out of that metaphor than I planned.
I remember reading somewhere that aspiring bloggers should avoid "meta" posts. Posts about posting. Blogs about blogging. No, "sorry I haven't updated this in a while," or, "Here's what I'm going to write about." But I've also heard that the only way to learn anything, to practice anything, is to DO the thing. And if I mess around here in my text editor and write some half-assed thing that I know will never go anywhere, I won't save it, and it just disappears. Maybe that is helpful, maybe that is practice. But it doesn't feel like that.
In that video I linked to above, Neil Gaiman says that one very freeing thing about writing is that no one will ever see your first draft. You are totally free to write anything, to fail and suck and crash and burn, and I think that has a lot of merit. But, I also think that if no one is going to see it, why do it? Did it even happen? Maybe he feels this way because he knows, from experience, that first drafts written in secret become subsequent drafts written for the public. Well, I rarely get that far, so I don't have that assurance. I need to create a habit of writing ANYTHING. Literally anything. Just words. That are in some sort of order. Trying to write words that tell a story is actually too advanced for me at this point. I'm not even joking. I need to start at the beginning. Before the beginning, even. Words. Sentences. Fingers moving over keys. Training my hand to hold a pen. I'm not (that) embarrassed by this. Marathon runners once didn't know how to tie their shoes. This is me tying my shoes. Or trying.
(FUN FACT: I am 31, and I don't tie my shoes like a normal human. I had so much trouble learning that "normal" way of tying shoes, that some random adult in my life (a teacher, probably?) showed me the 'two bunny ear way'. I was able to handle that, and tie my shoes that way to this day. I can do it the "real" way, but I really do have to think about it.)
Anyway, I know that if I babbled along in this text editor for a while, and just filed it away, or threw it away, it wouldn't feel real. It wouldn't feel like I did anything. There would be no stakes, and little reason for me to try again tomorrow. Neil Gaiman's advice is, perhaps, for when the stakes feel too high. But right now, for me at least, they feel too low. Posting this to a blog that no one even knows exists isn't that much of a step up from burying it on my hard drive (or recycle bin) but its just enough to make me feel like I did something. And that I should do something again.
I have actual topics I'd like to write about. But they require thought. And effort. And doing. Whereas this, THIS, is just a stream of consciousness blog. But that's cool right? Like, let me just show you what's going on in my life, because that's SO important.
Hm. Why do I want a blog, if I am so fundamentally convinced that anything I write in it is piffle? Or codswallop, even? Why do I want to write blogs when I am sure no one would want to read them? Is it simple self doubt? Or do I have legitimate concerns about the medium? Does it even really matter? Because whatever I post is going to basically vanish into the ether of the internet. Its true that everything on the internet never really goes away, but it also doesn't really go anywhere specific either. Its like slipping one handwritten page into one random library book. Its there. And totally save from ever being discovered. Except by robots. Wow, I got a lot more mileage out of that metaphor than I planned.
I remember reading somewhere that aspiring bloggers should avoid "meta" posts. Posts about posting. Blogs about blogging. No, "sorry I haven't updated this in a while," or, "Here's what I'm going to write about." But I've also heard that the only way to learn anything, to practice anything, is to DO the thing. And if I mess around here in my text editor and write some half-assed thing that I know will never go anywhere, I won't save it, and it just disappears. Maybe that is helpful, maybe that is practice. But it doesn't feel like that.
In that video I linked to above, Neil Gaiman says that one very freeing thing about writing is that no one will ever see your first draft. You are totally free to write anything, to fail and suck and crash and burn, and I think that has a lot of merit. But, I also think that if no one is going to see it, why do it? Did it even happen? Maybe he feels this way because he knows, from experience, that first drafts written in secret become subsequent drafts written for the public. Well, I rarely get that far, so I don't have that assurance. I need to create a habit of writing ANYTHING. Literally anything. Just words. That are in some sort of order. Trying to write words that tell a story is actually too advanced for me at this point. I'm not even joking. I need to start at the beginning. Before the beginning, even. Words. Sentences. Fingers moving over keys. Training my hand to hold a pen. I'm not (that) embarrassed by this. Marathon runners once didn't know how to tie their shoes. This is me tying my shoes. Or trying.
(FUN FACT: I am 31, and I don't tie my shoes like a normal human. I had so much trouble learning that "normal" way of tying shoes, that some random adult in my life (a teacher, probably?) showed me the 'two bunny ear way'. I was able to handle that, and tie my shoes that way to this day. I can do it the "real" way, but I really do have to think about it.)
Anyway, I know that if I babbled along in this text editor for a while, and just filed it away, or threw it away, it wouldn't feel real. It wouldn't feel like I did anything. There would be no stakes, and little reason for me to try again tomorrow. Neil Gaiman's advice is, perhaps, for when the stakes feel too high. But right now, for me at least, they feel too low. Posting this to a blog that no one even knows exists isn't that much of a step up from burying it on my hard drive (or recycle bin) but its just enough to make me feel like I did something. And that I should do something again.
03 February 2014
So.Things are going well. How are things with you?
This is when I will write the great American novel. Right now. This is where suddenly everything will unlock and all of the half-hearted and -assed efforts I have previously committed to paper will become worth it, and beautiful, as mile markers on this journey to Real Writing.
This will certainly not be another throw away writing "exercise", the thing I do when I want to write more than anything and instead write nothing. This will not be another night that I question why I wanted to write at all, and remember the Bukowski poem saying that if it doesn't come shooting out of me, not to do it.
This will not be another night when I think, if I didn't have the Idea of writing to give my life meaning, if I was perhaps honest with myself, and let go of this thing I say I want to do and yet never do, then what do I have? What will I be? Will I just be that guy? With a job? Who wanders around, thinking he matters, and yet instead offers nothing?
I will not then realize that I am already that guy. I will not realize that I offer nothing. That saying I want to create is not the same as creating, and it is not the same as doing a thing, leaving a thing to be found. Thinking it is not enough, is never enough. And so many people get so much farther without even thinking. Because they do. And, because they Do.
This is not the time that I look deep into myself and find nothing.
This is not the night when I realize I have never,really worked for anything, and that I hate the idea that I ever should have to. And also hate that I never learned how to work, or was never forced to learn, or expected to work. And hate the world for not being enough of a challenge that demanded my best effort. And realize that the world is in fact that challenging and that my world could be so much better if, indeed I had worked. That this life is cold and empty precisely because I have never worked for anything, or achieved anything that brings meaning and peace.
And I will not recall the things people have praised me for, that were actually shit and drivel and how could they not see it? I will not question the people that surround me remind me of victories that were really the lowest common denominator. I will not fear that I am just as stupid as them.
And I will not weigh the equally awful alternatives that either I am too lazy to do anything great or I am actually incapable of doing great things.
I will not softly sigh and resign myself to a life of bitterness and judgement of people who are happy and who are accomplished. I will not hate them for finding the secret that there is no secret, that you just do it. I will not lament all the opportunities I missed that are so obvious now. I will not secretly hate my idols for being worthy of idolization.
I will not fear that I have lived more empty years already than the number of potentially better years I have ahead of me. I will not imagine dying before I do anything. I will not feel the pain of imaging how it will feel when it really is too late, when I am really out of time to do things, to create. I will not wonder if my future-self will hate this present-self more than this present-self hates this present-self.
I will not do any of those things. Tonight will be different.
This will certainly not be another throw away writing "exercise", the thing I do when I want to write more than anything and instead write nothing. This will not be another night that I question why I wanted to write at all, and remember the Bukowski poem saying that if it doesn't come shooting out of me, not to do it.
This will not be another night when I think, if I didn't have the Idea of writing to give my life meaning, if I was perhaps honest with myself, and let go of this thing I say I want to do and yet never do, then what do I have? What will I be? Will I just be that guy? With a job? Who wanders around, thinking he matters, and yet instead offers nothing?
I will not then realize that I am already that guy. I will not realize that I offer nothing. That saying I want to create is not the same as creating, and it is not the same as doing a thing, leaving a thing to be found. Thinking it is not enough, is never enough. And so many people get so much farther without even thinking. Because they do. And, because they Do.
This is not the time that I look deep into myself and find nothing.
This is not the night when I realize I have never,really worked for anything, and that I hate the idea that I ever should have to. And also hate that I never learned how to work, or was never forced to learn, or expected to work. And hate the world for not being enough of a challenge that demanded my best effort. And realize that the world is in fact that challenging and that my world could be so much better if, indeed I had worked. That this life is cold and empty precisely because I have never worked for anything, or achieved anything that brings meaning and peace.
And I will not recall the things people have praised me for, that were actually shit and drivel and how could they not see it? I will not question the people that surround me remind me of victories that were really the lowest common denominator. I will not fear that I am just as stupid as them.
And I will not weigh the equally awful alternatives that either I am too lazy to do anything great or I am actually incapable of doing great things.
I will not softly sigh and resign myself to a life of bitterness and judgement of people who are happy and who are accomplished. I will not hate them for finding the secret that there is no secret, that you just do it. I will not lament all the opportunities I missed that are so obvious now. I will not secretly hate my idols for being worthy of idolization.
I will not fear that I have lived more empty years already than the number of potentially better years I have ahead of me. I will not imagine dying before I do anything. I will not feel the pain of imaging how it will feel when it really is too late, when I am really out of time to do things, to create. I will not wonder if my future-self will hate this present-self more than this present-self hates this present-self.
I will not do any of those things. Tonight will be different.
01 January 2014
What You've Been Waiting For
For a long time - almost five years - I didn't do things, with people. There were many reasons for this, and not all of them were my idea, but that is a post for another day. Lately, I have begun doing some of the things again, with the people. Its... odd. And a challenge. And pretty good. I think.
When I find myself in the company of like minded people, people who are into the same sorts of things I am, I get excited. Well, at least most of me does. But there is a little part that gets a little angry. Like, hey, this was my thing. I don't want to share it with you. You won't love it the way I do. It is what makes me feel unique and now you are taking it away.
I think this is where hipsters come from.
It's like with Doctor Who. I love Doctor Who, and while I can't say I have been a fan for decades, it became a very large part of my life when everyone around me had never heard of it. I liked Doctor Who before it was cool. (Ugh. I can't believe I said those words.) And now? Its a thing! A popular thing, even. And I like being a part of that. Except when I don't. Except when it feels a little less special because it can't be just mine anymore.
Things like Doctor Who are what nurtured me when I was pushed out of (or left) the company of other people. And so it is fitting that these things should help me reconnect and bond. For so long I hoped I could be around people who speak in the same cultural dialect I do, and now that I just might be around said people, part of me wants to wrap my arms around my precious and scamper back to my cave. Its not a very big part, but it is there.
It is easy to read a post, or watch a video about something I love, and have it stoke the fires. Even though these posts or articles are created by real live people, its easy to believe its all just for me. Sharing what is important to me with other people is important, unfamiliar and potentially terrifying. And we are only talking about Doctor Who, and Cthulhu. What about real things? Things that matter?
What am I talking about? Nothing matters more than Cthulhu.
***
Hmm. Well. Okay. I guess that's how we are going to start things out. Happy 2014. I'm assuming we'll see more of things like this.
I'm sorry.
When I find myself in the company of like minded people, people who are into the same sorts of things I am, I get excited. Well, at least most of me does. But there is a little part that gets a little angry. Like, hey, this was my thing. I don't want to share it with you. You won't love it the way I do. It is what makes me feel unique and now you are taking it away.
I think this is where hipsters come from.
It's like with Doctor Who. I love Doctor Who, and while I can't say I have been a fan for decades, it became a very large part of my life when everyone around me had never heard of it. I liked Doctor Who before it was cool. (Ugh. I can't believe I said those words.) And now? Its a thing! A popular thing, even. And I like being a part of that. Except when I don't. Except when it feels a little less special because it can't be just mine anymore.
Things like Doctor Who are what nurtured me when I was pushed out of (or left) the company of other people. And so it is fitting that these things should help me reconnect and bond. For so long I hoped I could be around people who speak in the same cultural dialect I do, and now that I just might be around said people, part of me wants to wrap my arms around my precious and scamper back to my cave. Its not a very big part, but it is there.
It is easy to read a post, or watch a video about something I love, and have it stoke the fires. Even though these posts or articles are created by real live people, its easy to believe its all just for me. Sharing what is important to me with other people is important, unfamiliar and potentially terrifying. And we are only talking about Doctor Who, and Cthulhu. What about real things? Things that matter?
What am I talking about? Nothing matters more than Cthulhu.
***
Hmm. Well. Okay. I guess that's how we are going to start things out. Happy 2014. I'm assuming we'll see more of things like this.
I'm sorry.
16 November 2013
Post Zero
It's quite an interesting situation, really. I feel like a fool writing a post I know no one will read. And yet, how will readers ever come, unless I have posted something to be read? This is an investment. Pledging words on the understanding eventually someone will come around and check them out. It's like when a store is open for three weeks and THEN has its Grand Opening.
Of course, there comes a point when writing for an audience of no one is just sad. This is not the first time I have had these concerns.
But maybe this time will be different. It has to be different eventually. Doesn't it?
Well, doesn't it?
...
Oh dear.
Of course, there comes a point when writing for an audience of no one is just sad. This is not the first time I have had these concerns.
But maybe this time will be different. It has to be different eventually. Doesn't it?
Well, doesn't it?
...
Oh dear.
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