It still hurts

I was telling my wife the other day that she didn’t ever give me props for things I’ve done or accomplished. She asked for an example and I said that I told the missionaries about her drawings when they were over. I knew it was something that was important to her and she enjoyed doing, and I thought it’d be nice to focus on her and get some compliments.

So we had some friends over last week and my wife had apparently listened to what I had said because she mentioned my books to them. I’m pretty sure one of them knew about my books, as I know she’s come to this site before, but her husband may not have. Long story short, I knew it was not going to be a good idea to “show them off” because I’m in a kind of fragile mood lately and am not up to taking criticisms about something as personal as my writings or my books. My wife, God love her, didn’t really think about that and was just acting on something I had said a while before.

The husband mentions something about being good with graphics and that maybe he could help me make my “covers look better.”

It’s the stupidest thing because I don’t particularly care about how the books look, but just that they’re out. You know, I’m out there. It’d be like if I said I was gay or something, and someone said my invitations to the great coming out event weren’t fruity enough or something. I dunno. It just hurt.

They’re just graphics off my website that I made one day on a whim. If he had said my website looked shitty, I would have agreed. The book is different.

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Things have changed

I haven’t wanted to write since my grampa died.  Blogging mostly, that’s what I haven’t wanted to write.  I’ve wanted to go away and just be alone.  Shut away from everything and everyone.  I’m afraid that there’s something I’ll say that will be wrong, or infer something that isn’t what I meant.  Like somehow my grief will lessen everyone else’s as if he was the most important person to me and he couldn’t possibly be that important to anyone else.

Instead of blogging, I think I’m just going to use those feelings and those thoughts and thrust them in to this book I’m writing.  At least then… it gets out.  Out of me.

I showed my son my copyright the other day.  I told him that it was his after I am gone.  50 years after I’m dead.  Hopefully things will sell better then =)

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A little

I wrote a little today.  I didn’t want to.  I haven’t wanted to.  It’s almost like I haven’t wanted to come out of whatever this funk is that I’m in.  Maybe I can tell myself that it’s not done and it’s a work in progress, that way I can’t call it coping.

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It’s official… finally

Ok, so it wasn’t all their fault.  I’ll say that right out front.  Anyway, here it is… the first of many, hopefully =)

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For posterity

Got a message back from the copyright offices. I forgot to sign at least one of my papers. Heh… probably the other one too. *shakes head*

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Reality is stranger than reality

So here’s my new beef, and you can take from this whatever you will.

What’s the difference between fiction and non-fiction?  Not the literal definition, but in actual practice.  If history is made by those that write it, isn’t even true non-fiction just someone’s perception of the events and guesses at the motivations designed to slant your thinking one way or the other?  If a story is completely true and all the events happen to you and you only write about your thoughts and motivations, but then you change one thing, is it still non-fiction?  I’m serious here.

I liken it to writing term papers and having to cite sources, which is something I really hated doing.  Look, I can bullshit with the best of them, and I can probably write a couple pages to try to sway you to one side or the other, but what I really hated was trying to figure out what to cite.  Isn’t everything, especially now, an idea that someone else has had?  I mean, the only original idea was fire, and even that was created by [insert whatever deity you like here, or Atheists use... I dunno... Al Gore].  Even that wasn’t an original idea, regardless of how you look at it!  I innately knew how to breathe, blink and make my heart beat, that’s about it.  Everything else I have ever learned has been through imitation or force.

My teachers may as well have invented this language that I am typing to you with, shouldn’t I cite them?  The syntax comes from grammar school, keyboarding from middle school, computer from some guy, electricity from some other guy, sense of humor (if any) from my parents… I mean, where does it end?  A book report on Catcher in the Rye is assigned by the teacher, book assigned by the teacher, written by Salinger, distributed by Penguin, typewriter by a French dude…  I’m serious.

I had an assignment to write a paper about any book I wanted and it had to have sources and everything else.  Know what I came up with?  I wrote a paper about “Catcher,” using Holden’s syntax and demeanor, and explained to my teacher that I figured I was probably going to fail her class anyway and it wasn’t her fault because her lectures were very interesting and I didn’t want to be a phony.   Seriously, I had this idea in 1998 (the whole “fiction not being fiction”).  Look.  This is from that paper I was talking about.

You may ask yourself why I entitled this “Fiction is Just Another F-Word.”  Besides the obvious answer, I think that there are very few things which are fiction.  Mr. Salinger may call this fiction if he wants but I will not believe it for a second.  I really won’t.  I believe that Mr. Salinger felt much the same way that Holden did.  I know I do.  Certain people can see the world through different eyes.  That may scare some people and some people just may not believe it.  But if you take a look at some things close enough you may be able to look through it.

I write shit that happens to me.  It’s what I know and it’s what I want to deal with.  I change a few things here and there, but even that’s either to make the story better or to make it so I don’t get sued.  My stuff is considered fiction.  Tolkein’s stuff was considered fiction too, but words like “dwarf” and “elf” have made it in to our consciousness, there’s 3 movies out about his works that have grossed more than all but 20-or-so other movies ever, 10 years was spent working on the movies, Tolkein write languages for most of the races in his world… I mean how much more real does fiction have to be before it just crosses over in to non-fiction?  We’ve killed people and gone to wars for less non-fiction than Tolkein’s stuff.

It’s just frustrating, so I’ll leave you with one more excerpt from that paper.

Why is Holden worried about the ducks?  Why shouldn’t he be?  Where do they go?  One day they are there and then one day they aren’t.  I mean that would be something to know.  I think it may also have to do with the fact that they are aesthetically pleasing to Holden.  They are free.  They really are.  If they want to go somewhere they can just fly there.  And in the air they can see everything.  They can see all the phonies being phony.  And nobody cares if they take a crap in the goddam lake.  They just can

 

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…another piece of the pie

I’ve started the work on another project.  More details later, but I can tell you that I plan on calling it A Divine Marriage

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A poem and some new story

I probably won’t get all of what I’ve done on the new book up here for a few days, but there is a few more segments that I’ve finished.  I also realize that I need to better explain what’s going on with that.  There will be some more updates this week

Here’s the new poem.  Tell me what you think.  I haven’t decided what I think of it.

changed and derranged
blown up and rearranged
on the canvas of mediocrity
how do you like me now
taken to the end of the rope
bound to the boulder called life
dangling, strangling loose on the noose
is it enough for you now
pleading and bleeding for a savior
simply return the favor
karma turns a cold shoulder
who’s there for me now
haunted and hunted a playground of pain
swaying on swings of emotion
changing a future of little control
will I like me now

changed and deranged

blown up and rearranged

on the canvas of mediocrity

how do you like me now

taken to the end of the rope

bound to the boulder called life

dangling, strangling loose on the noose

is it enough for you now

pleading and bleeding for a savior

simply return the favor

karma turns a cold shoulder

who’s there for me now

haunted and hunted a playground of pain

swaying on swings of emotion

changing a future of little control

will I like me now

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Updates… or lack thereof

I know I’ve been kind of reticent lately, and for that I apologize.  I have a handful of new story to post, I just don’t know when it will get done.  Xmas and everything… I’m sure everyone is busy so it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

One slightly new thing is I’ve been considering writing some erotic fiction in short story form.  It’s something I’ve thought about for a long time.  Don’t know if it will ever come about or not, and even if it does, I’ll probably just post it anonymously somewhere else until the time is right.  I dunno.

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Most of the change over is done…

…but there’s still a lot of work.  Gimme a week or so to get everything set up.

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