A Pep Talk for Young Artists

 Years ago I used to make "books" several of which I made when I was still in kindergarten, sometime in May of 1993, at least that's when my father dated the published products. They include such classics as "The Man Going Fishing", "The Kick the Man In the Water", "The Aliens Shoot", "The Boy Gone to the Moon" and my personal favorite, "Throw the Pizza". All of them are only a few pages in length with no text other than the title, just crude stick figures drawn with markers. "Throw the Pizza" opens on a scene of two young boys sitting at a pink table with five legs. The boy to the right end of the table holds what appears to be an entire pizza in his right hand. The next page, we see that the pizza has been released and soars across the pink table towards the other boy. On the following page, the pizza has completed its journey across the table and an explosion of red marinara sauce covers the opposing boy's face. The fourth and final page depicts a mother wiping the boy's face off with a smile on her face. Simple, and brilliant. The other little books have roughly the same amount of plot, and unfortunately the titles of the others kind of give away most the story, the exception being "The Man Going Fishing" which opens with a man on a chair fishing by a pond and ends (Spoiler alert) with a large fish jumping out and swallowing the man, only to splash right back into the pond. 

Among these little books, which are kept in a manila envelope, are also some old drawings of things I was into at the time, all of which were dated by my dad with the month and year. I have also a short story I wrote dated October of 1993 (I was in first grade at that point). I'll copy that short story for you here now, complete with grammatical and spelling errors. 

one night a little boy wnt to a graveyard. a ghost popped up and scared him. the little boy ran away and jack-o-lanterns popped up while he ran. he fell down and he got up and ran some more. he looks back and he sees the ghost behind him. boo, says the ghost. the little boy ran to his house an he went under his bed. he never heard from the ghosts again. the end. 

Chilling. Now, aside from my vignette  "slice of life" work I had accomplished only five months earlier, I think this was my first short story. I typed it up on my mom's old electric typewriter. I recall my mother sitting right beside me and, given that I was only six, I had to ask her how to spell pretty much every word. I will say, it's not my best work. Little to no character development, unless we think that maybe the boy went out there on a dare or just happened to be into the occult. There's some suspense in the middle. Not sure on the resolution, but maybe the ghosts just wanted to scare him enough to run back home and leave their graves in peace. Difficult to say. 

I bring all this up because, looking back on these creations as well as all the drawings and comics and stories I made in the following years, I realized I had no fear of being imaginative. I had no fear of sitting down and making something. I just did it. I did it because it was fun. Sure it passed the time, but it wasn't work, it was something pleasant. Now I try to think of something, and I can't. I can't because I just don't have the tenacity to just sit down and CREATE something. I corner myself by thinking, "That sounds like this", "That's too simple", "No one would be interested in that."

College did a lot of great things. I learned how to workshop as a writer and receive honest feedback as well as give it. I read a lot, and I read a lot of things I probably would never read on my own, or think to read. I learned different styles of writing, such as fiction, poetry, playwriting and screenwriting. My worldview and cultural awareness grew. But, I think it stymied my imaginative vision. This could also speak to my character, that I didn't exactly accept critiquing well and thus questioned if I would ever have the ability to produce something of worth. That's what I'm trying to overcome right here, right now in front of you. I look back at this blog and, man, there's a lot of nothing. It is not really good. At all. I seriously don't know what my goal was other than just writing consistently online. But God Bless 23 - 31 year old Mike. He still tried. 

One quote I'm pretty sure I've seen before in my life but it had a stronger impact on me recently is "Give yourself permission to write crap". I've done that from time to time, but not consistently. My goal now is to commit to writing even if it's just good for nothing dribble. I'm jogging here. I'm fat and pasty and sweaty, but I'm jogging down the block on a hot summer afternoon. And one day, I'll run a 5K, or a 10K, or half-marathon. Who knows, maybe I'll slim down and go for that marathon. Right now, I just have to jog down the block in all my disgustingness. 

Ultimately, I need to be a kid again and create for fun. Write a story, draw a comic or cartoon, play music. I did all of these things but as I got older I slowly did them less. For those of you who know me, Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorite writers. Writing this I am reminded of a quote of his from "A Man Without a Country":

Practicing an art, no matter how badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something. 

I'll keep striving to post on here, whether or not anyone is reading. If nothing else, it'll be an opportunity to make my soul grow.  

Marriage: Year One.

It's been over a year so it's probably time to update.

Clearly, the biggest event that's happened in the last year was my wedding.  Our wedding.  You're supposed to say things like that, right?  Our this.  Our that.  It's not my life anymore.  It's OUR LIVES.  Our life together.  Something to that effect.

"Our life together" has been great.  I heard so much from "the wise" while walking the road to the altar.  Mostly what I heard is that the first year of marriage is difficult.  Now, I will not say that's a load of crap and completely untrue.  There were certainly some things that were tough.  There were a couple of really good fights. One lasted two days.  Another involved a lot of screaming and yelling in a car on the way back from a wedding, which was eventually resolved in a grocery store parking lot. And of course you have the small skirmishes, the annoyances that really get in there and cause a disturbance.  The kind of things that make one of you huff and puff and roll around and sigh in bed that night, until the other says "What's wrong?" and then the floodgates open.  Of course, it's better to get it all out then, so that you can wake in the morning with resolution, rather than mild anger.  Yet, with all that said, we've had a lot of fun.  We've laughed a lot, watched a lot of TV shows and movies, and made many meals together.  We're pretty much the same as far as cleanliness and housekeeping, so we've never had an open discussion about that.  I thought co-habitation with a woman would be difficult, but honestly it's better my experiences with male roommates.  Overall, I believe we've had a very successful first year of marriage.

So there's that.  I've also moved a couple times.  I moved once into what would be our first apartment together.  After seven months of dealing with the conniving  management company of that place, we moved into a much nicer apartment closer to the city.  Our landlord is a quiet and polite Eastern European gentlemen who drives a Mini Cooper and has a wife and kids.  He's been great, and when we have problems, he (or his brother) are quick to answer.

Abbie has a new job as a sales manager for a an event company.  She finally escaped the hotel industry in late September and started this job in early October.  They own several different restaurants in the same building and have quite a few event spaces.  They have an excellent bar in the basement that's in the style of prohibition era cellar.  A really cool place to get together, have a few drinks, and hangout. So far she is really loving her job.  She loves her co-workers, the owners of the business, and the work she's doing.

As for me, I'm still at the law firm.  I'm coming up on two years there and I'm amazed to no end that I've been there so long.  I wish nothing more than to arrive one morning to see the entire building burned to the ground.  Or at least, find another job. Something that gives me purpose.  Something that I could at least half-way enjoy going to each morning.  What that is, I have no idea.  Writing.  This. I like doing this.  Somebody out there has to be reading this and realizing it's not complete trash.  What do you want?  I'll do it.  I have passion for that, and I have passion to find a new line of work that doesn't involve mounds of tedious paperwork and emails.  Something outside of a collections law firm.  Something meaningful.  You're out there right?  Looking for me maybe?  No, I don't have the eight years of writing experience that you claim to want each time you post a job, but like I said, I have passion.  Trust me, it will definitely mean something.  It will mean a lot. Give me the chance, give me something like this, and I'll be your man.

Enough babble.

I hope you are all well out there.  Keep checking in.  You may never know when I will post something on here.

Toodles.

Letter Writing, Impertinence, and a Couple Other Things.

This next post will be mostly an extension of the last one, but only in the sense that I'll be following up in the subject of "I have a difficult time relating to the present times" (No Harry Potter in this post). I think that's partially because I missed out on pretty much every time period that preceded my own life. I realized this a long time ago, but only recently decided to lament the fact.

There's one thing specifically that I wish could have continued strongly through my own lifetime. Letter writing.

Personally, I think strong, critical writing in general has gone the way side. It's only used by those who write professionally or by a student needing to write a solid, thought out paper for class (even then mediocre writing is prevalent. I would know. I produced a lot of it no more that a year and a half ago). Currently we, as a society, have countless ways to publically publish everything we write, from Facebook to Twitter, to internet blogging. This unfortunately, doesn't mean every person who types something onto the computer and posts it online really took the time to really craft or, much less, really think about what they're saying.

That was another subject I planned to blog about earlier this week, but never really pulled it together: Impertinance. I suppose I have some time to touch on it in this blog.

Social networking has undoubtedly given us unlimited means of communication with those both far and near, but this doesn't mean all that communication is useful or important. As a matter of fact, I think it has fed our egos a little more (arguably the ultimate of human vices). Think about it: People can say (post) whatever they want and have the whole world (more specifically their world: friends, family) read about it, believing that people will care. And we end up caring because we comment with our own brand of meaninglessness and click the "Like" button.

Now, understand, I'm not calling everyone spending his or her free time on this sites a bean brained individual. But it's given people an opportunity to say what they want, but it nurses in our minds an impulsive, shallow way of doing so. For example, Twitter. Twitter gives the user up to 140 characters to say something, anything. It's like some sort of mini challenge: "What can you say in 140 characters?" You could say a lot of things. All of it is simple and to the point. Not a bad thing, but still the limitation involved doesn't always give the user an opportunity for a complete thought. An uterance. Maybe a joke, a quip, a shout out. A small quotation. Not a full, well rounded means of expression.

I guess my point in all this is, the current culture (myself included) has unlimited opportunity with writing but limited capabilities for growth in the writing. Simply, it's reduced. Therefore, people don't like to write anymore. I've NEVER heard a college student say, "We have a twenty page paper due in a month? Oh boy! I'm so excited to get started on that!" (well, maybe in a sarcastic tone. But NEVER seriously). Writing (and especially good writing) is somewhat obsolete in the day to day (read comments in a forum some time).

Which brings me to my initial point: letter writing.

This afternoon I went to the Borders in Ballwin, MO. The store is closing, so I decided to stop by and pick up a few books for cheap. I bought Billy Collins' "Sailing Alone Around the Room", Allen Ginsberg's "Howl", and a published collection of letters between Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. When I saw the book of letters I was ecstatic. If you're new to the blog, then you probably don't quite understand my love for Kerouac and the Beat Generation. It's actually quite inexplicable and I wish I could understand the reason for it myself, but all I know is that it's clearly there and it isn't going away. I digress. So I end up paying for the books and returning home. After I read "Howl" aloud to myself in my room (no one else was home to think me mad) I cracked open the letters book and began where most people don't: The introduction. Immediately I see that my sentiments about letter writing are reflected in the introduction:

"It is now common to lament the gradual demise of the handwritten or handtyped letter over the past decades. Significant blame is often placed, and rightly so, on the radical lowering of phone rates. Up through the mid-1960's, for many people calling long-distance across country was a rare and costly luxury, only to be indulged in for an emergency or to share news of a birth or death. But as technology improved, people could increasingly afford to pick up the telephone and talk through details of their lives with friends and loved ones, instead of taking the time to sit down and write. More recently, the advent of e-mail has further diminished the flow of snail mail correspondence." - Jack Kerouac And Allen Ginsberg: The Letters, xxi

I believe the last generation to truly enjoy and make use of letter writing was the Baby Boomers. My parents both came quite late into the baby boom. My mother was born in the 1958 and my father in 1961 (If I'm not mistaken. I'm never very sure). Still, I do remember a time, when I was much younger, when my mother would sit down and write out these long letters to her sisters and parents. Now most conversation between her and her side of the family is made with phone calls and, more than likely, emails (although my Aunt Sue does write rather lengthy notes in her Christmas cards).

As much as I don't want to admit to it, I don't think my generation, or the one before it, has much use for letter writing. Things are faster and easier now with the internet. We can say what we want and be done with it. Then there's that (possibly) personal sense of fame every time something is posted. I know when I make an exceptional status update I like to have everyone remark upon it. Of course, that is my ego (and yes, I do blame Facebook for making larger than it actually should be).

I'm getting off track.

Letter writing is a lost art unfortunately and I offer my lamentation (this is where refusing to live in my own time comes in). I believe, although maybe not firmly, that the internet has made the community of people sloppy writers. Everyone should have a good sense of speech, communication, and it's usefulness. I would love to see a letter in my mailbox randomly. Truthfully, though, it's a tough thing to constantly do. It takes time. It takes thought. There's sort of this big expectation that the recipient is going to really READ the letter. It's not like an email where one click of a button could make it disappear as if it never existed at all. It's there, it's real. You can touch it. Every pen stroke is visible. Every scratched out mistake. With that sort of pressure, it takes even more time to really make a letter. It is, in my personal opinion, art. From whomever it may be, it is a piece of art. Maybe I'm over romanticizing the letter. But let's be honest, if you recieved a letter tomorrow, how excited would you be? Especially if it was written by someone you really cared about?

I value the aniquity and the simplicity of it, I suppose. Say what you will, I think people would be better writers if they hand wrote or even typed letters to one another. Real letters. Not just email. A piece of writing in a stamped envelope. They'd at least value it more.

That's all I've got. Until next time.

Motivation.

Alright. So it's been awhile. Forgive me.

I was beginning to wonder if something happened to me as well. "Oh no...what if Michael is in a ditch somewhere with two broken legs and we can't hear him? Oh, wait..."

I wanted to post something back in December. Really, I did. Then I realized it wasn't worth it and that I could just call up David (undoubtedly my most loyal...and really only...blog follower) whenever I had something of worth to talk about. Then I kind of tickled the notion of maybe, POSSIBLY, posting back in January. Once again, couldn't bring myself to log on, stare at the computer idlely until something great popped into my head to type about. But today I figured, "I'm here...why not."

So welcome back! Big news right now...the blog, if you hadn't noticed already, is officially a year old. I thought about getting him a cake so he could slop around in it and then I could video tape the whole thing and show it to him later to embarrass him, but then I realized the blog is not a living entity (In spite of the title).

Still serving the Tea Lords in an endless effort to bring precious capital into their establishment. It's tough because I find little to no reason to give all my effort. When I don't recieve acknowledgement or praise or really any sort of value in my work, I tend to not care quite as much. Especially when constantly it's my weaknesses that are being highlighted and very, very rarely my strengths. Not to say that my pride and ego need to be inflated constantly. Or maybe they do and that's a shortcoming on my part, but I think we should get some return for our work even if it is, "Hey, good job".

It could be that I'm just soft and whiny. Some people never get recognition, work hard week after week, coming home tired with little time or energy left for hobbies or people.

That's the reason there hasn't been a post on here in three months. Lack of motivation. It's like I need some end goal, or something of worth to keep me going otherwise I feel like whatever I'm doing is just killing time and I don't want to kill time because I don't need to. I have things to do, people to meet, places to see, escape plans to make, one life to live. If there is no purpose or value I feel as if it's a waste (Says the man who spends countless hours on Facebook).

I will try to diligently continue to post on this site though. No matter how many people see this I need to understand that this is working the writer that is slowly wasting away inside me. This blog is like practicing scales on an instrument, stretches and exercises before a big run or game, a sketchbook for the artist. There's a muscle in my brain that will need constant training and development, so if I can just focus on that I'll be more willing to post on here.

No if I could just do the same for when I work in the Tea Mines of Moria...

Full Circle: Dreams From My Childhood May Finally Become Reality. If I Don't Become Distracted First...

I think I figured it out. My calling in life. Where I should take my yet to be established writing career. Science Fiction.

Hack writing? No. There's plenty of Sci-fi writers who are respected not only in the science fiction world but also in the writing world in general. Such as:

Robert Heinlein
Philip K. Dick
Orson Scott Card
Ray Bradbury
L. Ron Hubbard
Isaac Asimov

And...for good measure,
Mr. Douglas Adams.

All of these guys have become well know and well respected. Their books turning into halfway decent to detestable film adaptations (Blade Runner: As timeless and great as the novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? from which the story was derived. Battlefield Earth on the other hand...stupid. Very stupid.)

I also believe there's a high market for Science Fiction, even if its mediocre. Nearly 33 years since the release of Star Wars: A New Hope and there's at least 200 different books, by different authors, taking place at every time and place that one could even imagine within the Star Wars universe. There's a Star Wars book with zombies called Death Troopers. I mean, I could totally go and write about ridiculous things like that. And then there's books based off Halo and Mass Effect. Video games are becoming common bases for literature. Or at least cheap Sci-Fi.

Plus, I've always wanted to write Sci-Fi. I had a big plan to when I was a kid. It lasted for a few months, but you know how kids are. They change their minds about what they want to be when they grow up all the time. One week they want the be a fire fighter. The next they want to be a Power Ranger. I wanted to write sci-fi novels when I was about 9 years old. It was right after I figured I wasn't force sensitive enough to be a real Jedi. Couldn't even levitate stuff. And the blade to my light saber was made of plastic instead of hot plasma, or whatever that stuff is made of. Its friggin' hot, I know that. So, when I realized this, I knew it was time for a career change. Suddenly, I liked writing. I wanted to be a writer (which the dumb idea would come back to destroy me only a decade later). I made up a super hero named Galactic Man. Had a trilogy going in my head with world domination and evil robots. It was a darn good story. At the time. But I loved Star Wars, so I loved anything science fiction. That was my plan when I hit the age I'm at now. I even had the hope that my critically acclaimed book series would become full length major motion pictures. I had high dreams. Then, in fourth grade, we had to write essays and stuff. A lot. So my writing career quickly deteriorated. I hated writing for class. At that point, I began to search for my next career path.

But now, after wanting to be a cartoonist, entreprenuer, bass player, animator, and famed poet and novelist, I think I'm going back to my first love: Writing sci-fi. I don't think I'm really going to go through with it, but we'll see. I bought Orson Scott Card's claim to fame, Ender's Game, to get myself back in the mood. We'll see what happens. Maybe I'll go into screen writing and write something better than that friggin' Avatar. I can write a movie with an underlying focus of all of America's atrocities from the last 200 years too (with the exception of slavery. Apparently they couldn't shoe horn that in. Or it was just much too far).

Anyway, I should start developing my I, Robot, or Stranger In A Strange Land, or Fahrenheit 451. I have a lot of work to do. If nothing else, by next week I'll decide to be a yoga instructor or tattoo artist. We'll see how things pan out.

Thanks for devoting your hard earned time to reading this. Always remember what you could have done instead of reading this. You're now closer to your death bed, and what do you have to show for it?

Tootles!