so close

I'm almost at sixty thousand words. That seems like quite a lot. I set seventy as the goal, and I'm not sure if I'll make it for the first draft, but that doesn't really matter cos it's about which words I use, not how many of them. Three chapters to go. One more character to introduce. And I feel like I've run out of steam. I'm this close, but it's like I don't want to finish it. I do want to finish it, and I'm bloody well going to manage to finish before the end of the year, but again the procrastinator in me is sending me a memo telling me that at some point or other he'll rear his head and make me put off writing until the last minute. Am I going to wait until the last week of the year and then scramble to do it? I bloody well hope not, I'd like to prove to myself that I can write outside of the goals and guidelines I set for myself. I thought I'd broken my habit of doing the bare minimum back in September when I made it to almost 25k words, well over the goal I'd set myself. I couldn't tell you the last time I overachieved like that-- all through school I was a b student. Bishops? Mostly B's. Louisiana? Mostly B's. AP classes? B's. College? Yep. It's never mattered how hard or easy everything's been, I've always been a solid B. If I went back and did school all over again, repeated classes, I'd still get B's.

So back in September, it was nice to think that maybe I've gotten over that minimum effort thing that I always do. And now I find myself half-way through November, still not done with the book, and so close I can almost taste it, but what do I do? Instead of buckling down and finishing it off, I start on chapter one of the next book. It's just more interesting right now. I know where the story is going to finish off Book one- hell, I already wrote the last chapter- so of course I want to move on and do something else.

Need to focus. It's like making model aeroplanes when I was younger. Always loved making them, don't think I ever finished a single bloody one. I was into model ships for a while, and I've still got half the cutty sark sitting in my garage. Half-painted canvas. Short stories that need finishing and editing. Never even sealed the tiles I laid around the fireplace and the front door. Maybe this book's going to be the first thing I really finish?

Not that blogging is going to help me finish it. And I'm not going to use Snow White as an excuse- even though it's taking up a tonne of time, and being sick into the bargain isn't helping. I'm going to see what I can do, maybe finish it this week while Mum and Dad are here. That would be good. Let's see if I can pull my thumb out me arse and do it. . .

warranty

I think I'm going to get rid of my iPhone. Well, I'll have to get rid of it, cos half the touchscreen doesn't work so I can't access the calendar, app store, calculator, clock, notes, or maps. Basically, most of the useful ones. It wouldn't be so annoying if this wasn't the exact same problem I had about a year ago. Last year, they replaced it cos it was still under warrantly, but this time around they'd replace it for $200. I can get one of the 2nd generation iPhones for the same amount, but why would I want to do that when there seems to be a good chance that it'll pack it in. The bloke in the store also told me that if I got one of the new ones I can purchase an extended warranty for it, cover it for 2 years. But I object to paying for something and then having to pay extra to make sure if it breaks I'm not completely out of pocket. What happened to making things that-- and I know this is going to be a crazy, off-the-wall suggestion, but bear with me-- what happened to making things that don't break? Why should warranties be necessary?

Was there some point when human manufacturing capabilities switched from being able to make things that don't break all the time, to us needing the warranties beccause you could almost guarantee we'd need them? Or have we always been shite at making things? Did our ancestors sit there, trading flint tools and weapons with one another and offer warranties? When Moses came down from Sinai with the stone tablets and broke them, when he went back up there had God put them under warranty? If it had happened these days, Moses would have climbed back up the mountain, told God what had happened, and God would have told him that throwing down in anger counted as usual wear and tear, and as such wasn't covered under warranty, unless he bought the extended care package with the all-inclusive, no questions asked replacement policy, yours for recurring yearly payments of $349.99 (including applicable state taxes), payable as one payment or six bi-monthly payments with an added $2.50 processing fee per payment.

Part of the problem is we've become convinced of the necessity of certain things. We talk about how much we need things- our computers, cell phones, and now smart phones, but two years ago I had to look up directions before I left the house rather than doing it en route. I had to wait until I could get to a computer to check email instead of doing it every time my phone beeps at me. I had to have conversations with people instead of text streams. So it's not that we need most of it, it just serves to make our lives more convenient. I love being able to refer to what's going on in my life with the calendar on my phone, it's very convenient, but then when the bloody thing breaks and I can't get to it, it creates more of an inconvenience than had I just written it down in the first place, or actually remembered it.

There's an idea. How about we use our brains to live, instead of using our brains to come up with ways to get away with using them less? When I was little I was made to remember our home phone number so if I ever got lost I would be able to call home. Same with my grandfather's phone number, and as I got older I started remembering friend's numbers because I had to actually dial them every time I wanted to talk to them on the phone. Now, there are two phone numbers I know. I forget birthdays, anniversaries, because they're all put in my phone and promptly forgotten about. Maybe if we all started using our brains again instead of relying on technology to do our thinking for us we wouldn't panic over a lost phone and lost contacts. If we did that, maybe we'd realize it's complete bullshit that we buy products that the manufacturers of the product think will break. I'd love to see someone out there offer no warranty on their product, because they believe in it so much and they've done such a good job of manufacturing it, that it's not going to break.

It would be a great tag line, wouldn't it? Instead of saying "America's best warranty, good for up to 100,000 miles," imagine a car company coming out with "America's best warranty, because it's our car you're buying and that shit ain't gonna break?" Owning the equipment as warranty enough to protect against defects.

In the meantime, I'm going to start shopping for another overpriced piece of crap that will charm the socks off me for about six months, then frustrate the hell out of me after that, because I don't remember what I'm supposed to be doing tomorrow night.

busy

been slacking again, sorry. Actually, writing this blog is a bit like writing letters. I always seem to open with an apology for being such a crappy correspondent. I lost touch with so many people from back home (England) because of my inability to send letters. Not write them, I was always pretty good at that. But for some reason the actual process of putting a letter in an envelope, adressing the envelope, affixing a stamp, and putting it in the post box has always presented me with a problem. I just can't do it. I still find letters I wrote years ago and never sent. I have a CD of wedding pictures and a set of Mickey Mouse ears I still don't seem to be able to put in a box and send to a friend. My drafts folder has emails that have been languishing for years, as does this blog.

And the excuse I use is I'm too busy. I get distracted, and have to save what I was doing, and then never get back to it. I started writing a blog about a wierd dream I had a couple weeks ago, got interrupted half-way through, and when I came back to it decided that you guys really don't want to know about some of my dreams. I don't remember them very often, but when I do I worry about myself. But I still have the half-finished blog, as a testament to how busy I am and so I can say 'look, I really do do a lot of things and I'm always busy and life gets in the way of my life. . . ' and so on and so forth.

It's all bollocks. Yes, I'm busy, but I still waste time. I'm especially conscious of it right now, what with the panto opening in a week and a novel to finsh (the first draft) by the end of the year, and working 40 hours a week and a bar habit to maintain. But with all that going on, I look at the way I spend my time and think to myself I could be doing more. Did I need to spend an hour on digg, going through the latest user-submitted news stories? I mean, at the end of the day digg seems to be one big circle jerk, 'I-digg-your-story-so-you-digg-mine-even-if-it's-a-picture-of-a-fricking-squirrel-in-a-jello-mould' situation, and there seem to be fewer and fewer decent articles woven in with the fluff. So take off my digg time, that's an extra 45 minutes to an hour. Then there's. . .let's just say 'other internet activities.' There's another hour. Reading books I've already read? I probably spend a couple of hours a week doing that, but I don't think it'll stop any time soon. Which reminds me, must get Good Omens back- lent it out again, and I really don't want to buy a sixth copy.

So there's a chance of getting an extra twoish hours a day to get more stuff done. The two hours I always lament for and wish that the day was 26 hours instead of 24 hours long. I could use them to write (incidentally, the book's up to 54k words, and I got my 20k for October). I could use them to take more photographs, something I always feel like doing and always claim 'I'm too busy' for. Hell, I could actually go through the huge box of paperwork that's lurking beside my bed. I could organize my life.

I'd say I'm going to start to use those two hours a day better, but I'm too busy-- wait, hear me out. This time it's a legitimate claim. Snow White opens in a week, and as always there's a tonne to do. But as soon as the panto is done. . .no that won't work, because then we go dark and I work days and that always messes with my body clock. So around mid-December I'm going to make a concerted effort. . .bugger, they've added shows cos of Christmas and New Years. . .

Nope, enough. Here's the deal. I'm giving myself until after Snow White, and then I'm really going to pull my thumb out me arse, focus on what needs doing, and make myself even busier than I am now, and at the same time stop using it as an excuse.

Halloween

It's time, once more, to brave the hordes. And as halloween is on a Saturday this year it'll be busier than usual. And as clocks go back an hour, everyone gets another hour to. . .wait, it's Vegas, places don't necessarily close. I have a very mixed opinion of Halloween. Sometimes I love it, and sometimes it drives me crazy. Actually, most of the time it drives me crazy. It was never a big thing growing up in England. We didn't really trick or treat, and I don't remember if I ever dressed up. I guess I just don't get it.

I've gone off on holidays before, and I suppose this is going to be another one of those blogs. Sorry. Oh well, here goes: Halloween is just another example of a fake industry that's been set up for no other reason than to make more money. All the costume makers, and costume stores that sprang up about a month ago, and will be gone in a week, what do they do for the rest of the year? I think I could be more for halloween if people still used it as an opportunity to excercise their creativity, made their own costumes, scouring goodwill etc. for things to make their own costumes. None of this buying a little plastic bag with the costume all there, ready to be donned for one night then discarded. And I'm bored with the whole 'sexy...............' costume thing that goes on in Vegas. Honestly, you see half the women going into the clubs wearing dresses they obviously aren't too comfortable wearing most of the time, so why do they need a license to do it one night a year and not be embarrassed.

Actually, it's quite funny in a slightly tragic way to see them, standing in line with a bunch of their friends waiting to go into a club, looking around nervously and pulling the hem down because there's no way they would wear something like that back in Indiana and they're only doing it cos it's Vegas and everyone does it here and I really need to get inside because it's dark in there and noone will see how short my dress is and I need a drink too so I feel more comfortable. Funny and tragic. What's not funny is a couple of girls wandering around a casino wearing nothing but pasties, g-strings and body paint, and being asked to leave. I mean come on, that's not a costume, it's a cry for help.

Anyway, we need more originality with our costumes. Here's a suggestion: Next time someone has an 80's party, dress like you're 80 years old, complete with Zimmer frame (a Walker for all the Americans). Don't do the side ponytail and neon everything.

Actually, scratch that, we need more originality with our everything. TV needs a kick in the arse. Take a leap, do something different. Don't do another bloody CSI. Don't take a bad reality TV show and recycle it--  there's rumours of a reality show about Jon (of Jon and Kate +8 notoriety) and Nadya Suleman (the octomum) dating. Double-you. Tee. Eff. Seriously. Have we really stooped so low as a society that our idea of a fun fancy-dress party is to buy the bloody thing prepackaged and ready to go, and our idea of entertainment is to watch two incredibly sad people possibly date?

Shit, if we're going to keep on with the reality dating TV shows, let's make it really interesting. Make Jon date an alligator. Make Tila Tequila date a panther. And while we're at it, let's change a couple other things on TV. Real survivor, where they're abandoned on an island somewhere and actually have to survive, instead of backstabbing each other. Make 'em have to eat another contestant. THAT's my idea of entertainment, and I don't even like blood that much. Course, I'm also all for making baseball more interesting by playing it on a  minefield.

But I digress. I just ask that this year, for halloween, spend a little bit of thought on your costume, come up with something original, and don't just buy a prefab one and have it shipped to you, then wait impatiently while UPS buggers up the shipping.

Uncle

It's official. I'm going to be an uncle. My sister and brother-in-law are expecting their first in about six months. And so continues the progression of generations. I've been ignoring it for the past year, even though part of the reason I went up to Portland last month was to visit friends and meet their kids. Both of my roommates from Salzburg, Ian and Clinton, had kids. Next door neighbour from Salzburg, Nate, had one. Erik, Nate's roommate, is expecting his first. It isn't like the signs haven't been there, I've just been ignoring them. Photos of me holding their sprogs aside, I can pretend that it isn't really happening, we're not really all growing up.

I have a very strange memory, and still have no idea how it works. I can forget someone's name the moment I'm introduced to them, or what I did last week. At the same time, and this is what makes it strange, I can remember things that happened to me when I was very young. And one of these memories is when my parents brought Lorna home for the first time.

It was in the first house we lived in in England. St. Paul's road. I remember being in my parents bedroom, on the bed, while mum held this tiny little person that they told me was my sister. I remember the sunlight in the room. Lorna had just come home, so she was days old, and I was three and a bit.

She'll be bringing her child home in six months. Not to any older siblings, but she'll have traded positions. She'll be holding a tiny little person, and one day that little person will be a bigger little person looking on at a new little person, and then replaying the whole thing out again. And again and again, like a line of Matryoshka dolls, leading off into the future and gods know what. Except we won't exactly be sitting inside each other.

Or maybe we are. My ancestry contributes to who I am, so it's always inside me. There's a little bit of all those relations, whether I'm conscious of it or not, sitting inside me. So each generation adds a new layer, and finally it's my turn to add something to the next Matryoshka doll layer, the outside layer. Maybe one day I'll have my own kid, but for now I'm just an uncle, and I'm almost ready for it.

Although it's probably better I stay an uncle. Gods forbid I have my own kids and subject them to mumbling rants like this one, full of mostly-remembered sentimentality and crappy metaphors. If I do, their layer of Matryoshkosity will probably end up like one of those really cheap, squashed face ones, that looks like the blind painter might have had a face explained to them once.

money

it fascinates me. I don't get it. It makes no sense. I have $46.91 in my wallet right now. Actually, it's on the table next to me cos I just counted it. $43 is paper, and the rest is coins. This is more cash than I usually carry, I prefer to debit everything-- I tend to keep a closer eye on it, whereas if I have cash it's like I've already spent it.

But what actually IS money? I don't mean the typical definition, that it's a medium of exchange for goods and services. What I mean is, how can it not be worth the same all the time?

For instance, I'm looking to buy a car. For the same price, I can get a hyundai Sonata limited edition v6, 2007, with 7k miles on it, navigation system, the works, or a 2006 VW Passat, 16k miles on it, and not much else. Why is the money worth so much more when buying a hyundai? Or my townhouse. It's dropped in price by quite a lot since I refinanced nearly three years ago, but it still has the same number of rooms, it's still the same size, and it hasn't changed location. And it can't be because of supply and demand, because there aren't all of a sudden millions fewer people in the world and less demand for housing. The house hasn't technically lost value, because nothing's changed about it (actually I put in bamboo flooring in March and did some tiling, so if anything it's gained in value). When petrol prices change it's not like all of a sudden you can't drive the same distance on a gallon. When milk increases in price you still have the same amount of calories in a pint.

And there's a problem with using words like value or worth, because they've become so linked with currency, which at the end of the day has no intrinsic value of its own. Money is just a matter of geography. I can't walk into a store in the UK and exchange US dollars for goods or services (cos it's not colourful enough), thereby proving the worthlessness of currency. 'Ah, but you can go and exchange it in a bank for GBP, and then it has some worth,' I hear you say. Fair enough. Then let's shift to a desert island (incidentally, they might have found the place Amelia Earheart and her navigator had to emergency land on and died. Just find that interesting, that's all). On a desert island, the money truly is worthless because all you probably care about is food, water, and shelter. Oh, and battery power for your iPod, because save us all from being left alone in silence. So the value of the money you hold in your hand, or wallet, or on the table next to you is only worth anything because of location. But if you have a pint of milk, or a gallon of water, it's worth something wherever you go.

And now on to our worth. Humans have, and are, and will continue to be traded as a commodity. It's a terrible tragedy, made even more distressing that it's still going on today in numbers we can't even guess at. But who's to say my life is worth any more or less than some poor bugger born in a slum somewhere, who works in a factory for cents an hour? It's still the same length hour. I just don't get how we arrive at our estimates of value, and who gets to dictate it. As far as I'm concerned, Baseball players are worth less than a waitress working at Denny's. I have more use for the waitress, because she's going to bring me my Moons over my Hammy, but the chances are she makes minimum wage. The baseball player is worthless to me, yet he makes millions. I'm guilty of this too, though. I fix more value on myself, on my own time, because of my education, time put in learning the skills I need for my job, and so on and so forth. But again that's a matter of location. I doubt if I was on a desert island somewhere the ability to change out a brake contactor would be worth anything.

So yeah, who gets to dictate that this is worth more than that, and they should have more than them? Because I'd like some more, please, so I can buy that car.

And I've never actually ordered Moons over my Hammy, I just like the name.

merge

One of the worst things about driving in Las Vegas is the inability most people seem to have with merging. Why this should be, I don't know, but I'm beginning to think if people got the hang of it there wouldn't be so many traffic flow problems on the freeways. The thing I love the most is when people slow down before joining fast-flowing traffic. That's not the point of an on-ramp, people. You're supposed to get up to speed, generally 65 mph (although the always-present construction zones play merry hell with that limit). Instead people slow down, start to get nervous, so when they do actually join the traffic flow they cause it to slow a bit. When this happens several times over a couple of miles, it has a knock on effect and then you're moving as slow as molasses in January.

But then, in defense of these timid drivers, the people they're trying to merge with are generally bastards. They won't necessarily let you in when you signal because that would mean they'd drop back one spot and <gasp> get to where they're going a second or two later than they deserve. The horror! How dare they be a few seconds later than they would have been? How dare they have to drive with an ounce of common decency? I have no problems speeding up and pulling in in front of them if they're trying to block my attempts to merge.

And you know what struck me about that? No, not another car. Driving in Las Vegas is very similar to politics in this country. Everyone's trying to get to their destination, and unfortunately you have to share the road with other people. Sometimes you have to merge, take another road, or if construction's really bad and there's absolutely no traffic flow, you have to find another route. And that's not happening right now. There seems to be an inability from politicians to merge with one another. There's no yield, no give way. If they don't make it through the traffic light then they'll block the intersection. And that's not how a country should be run. It shouldn't be-- it CAN'T be-- my way or the high way, and that's what it seems to be like right now. The traffic is jammed, it's not moving because politicians are so absorbed with their own destination that they don't want to let anyone else merge.

It seems as soon as a politician gets in to office, the first thing they think about it their re-election chance. If they got in to office thanks to a majority of votes from a certain demographic, then they'll do anything to not piss that demographic off. Keeping your elected position is now half the job of being a politician, in the same way that keeping your job is half of having a job. But I keep my job by running shows to the best of my ability, and not doing a completely crap job. They keep their jobs by talking about what they're going to do, and how much the other candidates would suck. If I went around talking about the cues I was going to run, or the contactors I was going to replace instead of doing it, I wouldn't have a job. And while I might disagree with the way some things are done, and people might not like the way I do things, we still all work together to do two shows a night, five nights a week.

Part of being a society is a bit of give and take. Not all give and take-- this may come as a bit of a shock, but I like a decent argument. But when we have political parties fighting tooth and nail against every suggestion given by the opposition, the only thing that's going to do is bugger everyone. If people don't learn to merge then we're going to end up with one hell of an almighty pile-up, and then no one's going to get anywhere cos the road is blocked, and there's a bunch of rubberneckers looking on. And if we can't learn to merge while doing something as everyday and interactive with other people as driving, then what hope do we have of our elected officials leaning to work together?

And use your bloody turn signal. I can't let you merge if I don't know you want to. Go on, move your finger that one inch. . .

sod the sun

I've made a lot of references to this book I'm writing, and I'm trying not to give too much away about it for a couple of reasons. One, I don't want some random person who might stumble across this blog take my idea and write it first. Two, I'd like everyone to buy a copy so's I can get rich and not have to work a 330-1130 (it just doesn't have the same ring to it as 9-5). Thirdly, I'm shy and nervous that you might not like it if you know what it's about. Shut up. I bloody well am shy and nervous. Anyway. One of the best things about writing is creating your own world. And if you write science fiction you can literally create your own world. Actually, it's a bit like being a god. For instance, I decided that a calendar with random numbers of days in each month is silly, so I mostly got rid of that. Of course by doing that I have to think about the number of days a year, which affects the size and rotation of the planet so I can keep an approximate gravity. This playing a god thing is harder than I thought. . .I kinda wish I'd gone to all my AP physics classes now instead of half a semester's worth. No, I wasn't skipping them, I was taking another class in the same time slot. (I'm not sure why they let me do that, but considering they told me I didn't have to go to school at all when I applied, then almost didn't graduate me when I did go for the year, I suppose they probably aren't sure either).

Eroding physics and maths skills aside, I think I want to give my characters a 26 hour day. I know I could do with the extra couple of hours, and I don't think anyone else would say no. Right? In fact from now on I'm going to live as though I have two extra hours a day. I'm not entirely sure of the logistics, but what is the sun that it should boss me around? Just a big gassy ball of flaming hydrogen and helium, and as someone who has always had a mildly (shut it) anti-authority streak, living to a 26-hour clock is the ultimate 'sod off.'

I'll let you know how it goes.

uisge beatha

tonight, I broke 40,000 words for my novel. Shit, that seems like a lot.

I suppose it is. Especially as it's all focussed on one thing. Since I tallied up and started keeping track of how much I was writing, it's now half of all the stuff I've written. Nine short stories, a blog, four unfinished screenplays = half a novel. It feels good. I came home tonight instead of heading to a bar, because I wanted to say I reached forty thousand, and I actually didn't want to stop when I got there. It's feeling more comfortable. I like the characters, even the complete bastards. I like where they're taking me-- or rather how they're getting me there, it actually feels like their story now.

I was talking to my dad a couple nights ago bout writing. I've been sending them links to the first few chapters, and they keep asking for more, which is a good thing. But he was asking me about how I'm doing it. I don't think he ever really thought about the logistics behind writing a novel before, but now I'm doing it it brings it a little closer to home for him maybe? He asked me if I had it all in my head and just sat down and wrote. It's not as easy as that. Wish it was sometimes, but it's not. And then I realized the perfect analogy for him. I have the story in there. I know where I want it to go, and the things that are going to happen to get it there for the most part. But the longer I think on it, the more solid, the better it gets, so that when I do come to write everything feels ready. It's like whisky, and my head's the oak cask. You bung all the ingredients in it, let it sit for a while, and then it's ready to drink. Except my head's not made of oak, and I'm not going to let my story mature inside it for 12+ years, but apart from that the analogy's perfect.

If only I could stretch the analogy a bit further and sell each book (bottle) for $50. . .

celebrity

I've been slacking on the writing, I know. Sorry. But I haven't had all that much to say. Or, rather, I've had a tonne of things to say and just haven't felt like saying any of it in such a public forum. We're all celebrities in the information age, in that just about anything we do can be found out about. Some of this is to do with putting ourselves out there-- as I do with my blog, and twitter, and facebook, and deviantart, and match.com, and amazon.com wishlists, and so on and so forth. I'm sure with all the information out there about me, about any of us, online, you can know almost every thing there is to know about someone.

Maybe that's why we're also the 'celebrity age.' It's especially noticeable living in Las Vegas; every celebrity ends up here at some point or other. But I have to admit I feel like I've been a little left behind. I feel like I just spent a week knapping the flint tool to end all flint tools, I've come out of my cave, and people all of a sudden have this shiny brown stuff they call bronze. Who are these celebrities? Where did they all come from? I think a lot of it is to do with Vegas.

See, there's quite a few clubs here. Probably about fifty. And one of their favourite things to do is host a celebrity birthday. There are probably only so many celebrities who are willing to spend their birthday in a club surrounded by people they don't know, which means at some point the celebrity quota dries up. All of a sudden the clubs are in a scramble to find someone to be a draw to people who want to be a fully fledged member of the celebrity age, so they elevate some sad twat from a reality show to the status of 'celebrity,' and then people are flocking to the club. The newly christened celeb, baptized by overpriced vodka and legions of new fans, goes on to fight for their celebrity in tabloids and the internets-- when they really haven't done anything that deserves adulation other than actually having said adulation. . .I am adored, so you must adore me. . .

Anyway, yeah, I'll admit it, I wouldn't mind a bit of fame. I'd love one day that I could sell all this bollocks I'm typing in my down time, and never have to work another 9-5 job again. The book of the blog. . .the blook? And fair enough, I don't exactly work a 9-5 job, I've never worked a 9-5 job, but I'd rather be a writer than have to punch a time card every day, and fame helps if you're a writer.

But I want to earn it on my own. I want to deserve it. I want people to read what I write, say 'hey, this is pretty good,' and tell their friends about it. I don't want some club to decide I should be a celebrity, and invite me to host my own bloody birthday party just so people can see me on a billboard and think 'hmm, I don't know who that is, I'd better go and find out because I don't want to miss a celeb.'

Unless anyone has an opening for my 30th next year, because it's easier than making plans. . .Tabu? Body English?

typing away. . .

back on the writing kick. Pretty pleased with myself, in that I set a goal for 20,000 words for September, and I was only 400 shy of 25,000. Not too bad considering I'm still working full time, BNTA produced a show, and I spent five days visiting with friends in Portland. Actually, getting back from Portland I've been a bit of a slacker. Hardly written anything, and for no good reason other than I didn't write anything. . .but the novel is sitting at around 35,000 words, which is right around half a novel, so I can't stop here. Got Mum and Dad reading the first couple of chapters, and so far Dad says he's hooked, and if you know my father he's not just blowing sunshine up my arse.

So if anyone wants to take a look at chapter 1, let me know. I have it on google docs, just send me an email or summink and I can send you the url. . .but bear in mind that it's completely unedited, first draft, working things out as I go along right now. I want to finish the whole bloody thing before I go back and edit it, so it'll probably be the end of the year before I can get on with that.

Or sooner, it all depends on how much motivation I can keep up, so back to it!

Taking Stock

Numbers from my Portland trip: Five thousand, two hundred and sixty-nine words written.

Thirty-one beers, two bottles of wine, and two jack and gingers drunk, and eleven new wines tasted

Twenty-one friends and two professors seen, and nine people met.

Four offspring introduced to.

Three hours spent in Powell's City of Books.

One Pub Quiz won.

And yet quantifying things like this doesn't really give the whole story behind a trip. For instance, some of the beers were drunk on my own, winding down, relaxing, while others were watching Joe, Eese's fiance, try to hula-hoop. The conversations, religious and political discussions, and memories dredged to the surface are the treasures I'm taking away from the trip. Meeting the kids of some of my best friends for the first time still hasn't sunk in, even though I've got pictures to prove that I didn't drop any of them. The ache in my legs that only feels like it's gone now, from a night of drunkenly wandering around Portland looking for another bar with Shannon-- that is one thing I'll miss about Vegas if and when I move away from here. There's always something open; a bar, a pub, a grocery store or supermarket if you need.

So taking stock in the trip, it was a good one. The numbers may speak for themselves, but not at any volume. That's where the details come in, the little incidents and trivialities that seem and are so minor, but all of them added up made it a good trip. A very good trip.

PDX

I'm not sure what I expected coming to Portland. I spent three years going to University here (with a year interlude in Salzburg, Austria). Most of my friends still live here, but I never really come up for more than a day or two, between weddings and other trips and not enough time off in the corporate world (any coincidence that corporate is close to corprolith, a word meaning fossilized shit?). So this time I wanted to give myself a longer stay. I got a hotel rather than stay with friends, because I don't like being a burden. Five night stay should be long enough, right?

Yes and no. I've got two nights left, so I'm still squeezing peope in. There's some I'm not going to get to see, places I'm not going to get to go, things I'm not going to do that I wanted to do. But it's all about balance (which I've come to the conclusion means running around like a headless chicken, frantically trying to get everything done). It's noon, and I'm still in bed so I'm not doing the shopping/reminiscing I intended to do today. But the flip side to that is I hung out last night with someone who is a much better friend now than she was beforehand. . . Even if she did tell me to fuck off on Twitter.

It's all about using your time. It's the one thing you can't hoard, the one resource that truly is precious. So having said that, I'm going to haul my almost-hungover arse out of bed, and continue to bounce around Portland from commitment to commitment, with maybe a litte sushi for breakfast/lunch.

Morbidity

I hemmed and hawed about writing this post. If you've read any of my short stories or the bloggage I did back on MySpace, you know I talk about death a tad.

Still not really sure about the whole dying thing, whether it scares the shit out of me or whether I just don't care. I definitely don't want to die just yet, but only recently do I feel like I really have a reason to not die yet.

I have to write. I have to finish the stories I've started, write the ones I haven't started but have been thinking about, and I have to share them with people. As to whether they're any good or not, I can't be the judge of that. The novel I'm writing right now, I'm not sure if it's what I set out to write-- there's more characters and twists to it that I had originally thought about-- but I feel a compulsion to finish it, cos I want to see how I get where I'm going. I've surprised myself so far. Cryptic I know. I just don't want to give too much away, and I want you buggers to actually buy the bloody thing when it's published. I'll sign your copy.

But here's the thing. If I were to die in a plane crash tomorrow, flying up to Portland for a much-needed get-out-of-vegas trip (too many hyphens?), then I'd leave these stories unwritten. I don't even have the 28,628 words I have written saved anywhere that someone could come in when I'm dead and print them off, or finish the book. The only people who would really care are Dee, a bloke I work with, because he's been reading every chapter as I finish it, and my Dad, because he's read the first one and wants to know what's going to happen. I'm talking about caring about the book, by the way, not me. I hope all of you are mourning if I'm dead. And by mourning I mean raising a glass with the alcoholic beverage of your choice.

It's the idea of leaving it unfinished that worries me. I've set this challenge for myself, and I want to complete it. I want to finish them all. I want to be able to erase the big whiteboard on my bedroom wall because everything I've hastily scribbled down on it has been done, and needs to make way for the next several ideas.

If I don't die in a plane crash tomorrow, then there is more likelihood of me finishing my novels than there is of something that's quite likely. But there's the shitty thing about this situation. Now I've joked about dying in a plane crash, if I do then this blog will be some strange, tragic foreshadowing of my fate and I'll become famous for the exact thing I don't want right now. People will lament the fragments of stories they are able to piece together from printouts and digital echoes I've let behind. They'll read this blog and wonder what could have been. Well, except for the fact I'm not taking it seriously at all. If I die, I die, and while I won't be happy about it, after writing this blog know I'll probably be laughing at the sheer stupid irony of the situation, while crapping myself at the same time. And did I actually cause it to crash because of this blog? Does the world really, as I've come to believe every time I wash my car and it rains the next day, does it really revolve around me? Cos if it does then this would be the absolute worst time to have that confirmed for me.

But is it better to be James Dean, who had a lamentably small body of work and will always be young, full of unrealized promise, or to be like Marlon Brando, who did a lot of good work and is lamentably remembered for his large body?

Either way, if I'm dead, and you have a copy of anything I've written, let my parents know and maybe see about getting it published. With the disclaimer that I didn't have time to edit it properly cos I died in a fucking plane crash, so that's why it might not be that good. . .cheers!

And just to be really twisted, I'm setting it so this is published half-way through the flight. . .

exes

I have a lot of exes. Well, we all do. Ex-friends. Ex-girlfriends. Ex-people we hooked up with a for a bit but it didn't get to the point of significant others. And I think that it's unusual that I'm still friends with the majority of mine.

I got an email from Jenny a couple of days ago reminding me that it was 11 years ago about now that we met, in a McDonalds in Munich at Oktoberfest. It should never have happened. First off, McDonalds in Munich? There's so much other incredible food, but I was with a couple of Americans, Leif and Clinton, and they wanted McDonalds. Clinton was lamenting the fact he can never meet women, and Leif and I were consoling him (and I was lamenting too, only to myself). Somehow Leif starts talking to this girl, Jenny, who is there on her own and is walking in the same direction that we are. He starts talking to her and introducing her to Clinton, and we're all talking until it turns out that even though the three of us are drunk off our tits, I have the better German and Jenny and I hit it off. We exchange contact information (all the while Clinton is cussing me out), and I visit in two weeks time and Jenny and I are officially boyfriend and girlfriend. (There's a little more to the story that involves 'accidentally missing my train' and telling her parents that there was nowhere else I could stay that night, but that's a story for another night).

One of my first exes is an ex friend called Hamish. I knew him the first year I went to school back in 198. . .hell, I don't know. A long bloody time ago. But he moved away, and when your age is still in single digits you're not fantastic at keeping in touch with people. For that matter, there's Becky Cooper who was sort of my first girlfriend. She was my first friend who was a girl, back in a time when the only differences between girls and boys was girls had longer hair and boys had cooler toys. I remember when I decided to take the scholarship to Chafyn she would barely talk to me and I would pretend that it didn't matter, and all our mutual friends were telling me it was a mistake cos it was her and I. Shit, we were six years old, but people had already picked us for each other.

Becky and Hamish, I'm not in touch with any more. Hamish, I haven't spoken to since the day his family left Salisbury-- but I still remember the cake we had for his going away. I've seen Becky a couple of times in the intervening years, the last time was in 199. . .6?, a year after I left England, when I was visiting Salisbury and she was dating a good friend of mine. Jenny, as I said, just emailed me a couple of days ago. I have exes who are pregnant, married, still stalking my dreams, and among the last people I want to talk to. There are scenarios I played out in my mind that never happened, and things they talked about with me that didn't come to pass.

So what exactly is an ex? Is it someone you once shared something with but don't any more? I shared something with Jenny that I don't any more, but we still share the same memories from experiences from our time together, and we still keep in touch. Just because they're in the past it doesn't mean those memories have ceased to be-- that's not going to happen until we're dead, or have altzheimers.

One of the best and worst relationships I ever had, with Melissa, is definitely an ex-relationship. But the memories are still there, and the realizations I made about myself and things I learned about other people are still very much relevant to my life now. She's one of the exes I'm not in touch with, and deliberately-- that's how badly I took the breakup-- and while I'm unusual in that I maintain relationships with several exes, I lose no sleep with the decision for her to remain in my memory rather than my life.

I guess my point behind this whole rambling, look-at-what-a-great-guy-I-am-cos-I-still-talk-to-exes post, is that time is what fucks us up. Yes, the exes I have, whether they be friends, lovers, partners, or work aquaintances, have all moved out of my life to a greater or lesser degree, but they still have helped form it to what it is right now. In that sense not a single one of them is an ex, because each has a presence in who you are, right now.

This was all triggered by a good night with good friends that I don't get to see often enough. And $2.50 draft and dogs at sherwood bar in the Excaliber

a drunken one. . .

The older I get, the more I crave my youth. Yeah, part of it's the whole 'wish I knew then what I know now.' But most of it is I wish I am now who I was then. Not that I've changed much. I don't think I have, but ask my Portland friends when I see them next week. I just think I could do with a little more levity in my life. I want to take things less seriously, like I did yesteryear.

Growing up I always cared what people thought. Then, for an all too brief couple of years I lost that, didn't give a shit either way. And now I do care, but in a different way: an older, much more boring way.

I had a great night Saturday night. It was absolutely, completely random, but it reminded me of what I used to get up to younger ago. And the problem with having random nights like that is you can't try to have them or you're usually let down. But the specific incident I'm thinking about is driving from an afterhours event at a sushi restaurant that we didn't get to in time, to a house party. I don't really know the girl who was driving me, and I didn't know anyone who was at the house we were headed to. But driving down sahara headed to I don't know where, she starts rapping to the music that's playing on the car stereo. I'm not the biggest fan of rap or hip hop or whatever the kids are calling it nowadays, but it was actually pretty cool. And pretty hot, but that's another story. This story is about her telling me it's my turn, and my being to chickenshit to actually do it. I blabbered something about performance anxiety, being too shy and not drunk enough. Why? When did I lose the ability to consciously make an arse of myself? Of all the things I wish I could still do, that's the one I want the most.

Don't get me wrong, I do make an arse of myself. I unconsciously make an arse of myself all the time. Sometimes I'll play it off as deliberate and people buy it, but usually I'll be kicking myself in the privacy of my own head. But to set out and try something I'm probably not going to be any good at and do it anyway, I don't seem to be able to do that any more.

So if you do happen to see me doing something stupid, please call me on it. Promise I'll admit if it's deliberate or not. And if I say it is deliberate, then it's just me trying to capture a little of my misspent, missed youth, and should probably be encouraged.

Fluff

Almost complete opposite places, from blog to blog. Last time I was camping in the middle of nowhere, the only sounds my breathing and the gurlge of who knows what as my body metabolized alcohol. Tonight, I'm sitting at a bar in a sort-of club, sipping a jack and ginger listening to top forty hits as performed by Zowie Bowie. Pretty sure I prefer the former. Reasons for the latter may or may not be disclosed at a later date.

And I don't really have much to say except that I'm writing for the sake of writing right now, keeping momentum even if this isn't anything much. And jack and ginger is yummy. Been plugging away the past week or so, keeping focus on one project and ingoring all the others. . . okay, that's not entirely true. I upgraded to Snow Leopard OS last week and it invalidated my final draft license so I have to call them and get it renewed, buy it means I can't work on my scripts. Bloody technology.

But keeping track of word count is surprisingly motivating. Admittedly, the count doesn't matter much if the words are complete tripe, but it feels like progress. Today, I broke 20k on the novel I decided I should write. Maybe a quarter way thru, don't know yet. And then there's the whole rewriting and editingand cutting out the crap and getting it to the point someone might want to read it. Converting quantity into quality.

Ah, but quantity is enticing. Adding a spare adjective here, an unneccesary descriptive paragraph there, and all of a sudden it feels like something's been achieved as the word count climbs higher.

Thinking about taking part in the 'write a novel in a month' thingy. November 1st, start writing. Have to write 50k by the arse end of November. Might be good to try and really focus like that, but wha with work and BNTA it's hard enough doing the 20 a month I'm shooting fr right now. At least on my own personal word count I get to use my blog toward the total.

Hmm, how much longer can I streatch this about nothing. . .

Shivering

Written Wednesday morning while camping. . . Technology is a shittily wonderful thing.

It's wonderful because I can lie here on my back at  330 am, using my phone to share the moment instead of looking up at the stars and trying to pick which plot of land on the moon I want to retire to (you know you can buy plots of land on the moon? That's the biggest scam ever, who he hell has the right to sell land on the moon? I want one! http://www.lunarlandowner.com/)

It's shitty because I can lie here on my back and type instead of counting the stars.

I'm camping at mt Charleston. I'm here cos it's a friends birthday. And it's gorgeous up here. I've drunk. . .well, let's just say enough. I've been breathing clearly for the past 8 hours, and been able to see stars for the part 8 hours.

I just took a walk, so I can't hear the other drunken bugggers, or see the light from the campfire. The only light is the 3/4 moon and the iPhone I'm typing on right now, and if I could trust myself to type up handwritten bloggage I wouldn't even have the phone.

Enough babblng. Here's the point of this blog. We're bloody lucky.

There's a shittonne of reasons were lucky, but right now it's the technology. A hundred years ago I couldn't have driven up to an altitude of 8500 feet just to camp and chill with my friends. I couldn't have done the travelling I've done, seen the places I've seem, at least not before the age of 30.

I want to be a writer for many reasons, but lying here looking up at the stars I'm reminded of one more than any other. I want to take advantage of the time I have, see what I can see, so wait I can do, and leave some sort of legacy. Maybe it'll just be shitty science fiction, or maybe it'll be as a memory of  eccentric uncle rich when my siblings start sprogging. Regardless, everyone needs to do something in their lives worth telling someone else about. And right now, with twigs poking my back and the moon almost bright enough for sunglasses, this s a moment that should be talked about, shared, maybe even tried out for yourself.

Cheers.

Too many disclaimers

I've been quiet on here for a couple of weeks now. It's not that I haven't had anything to say-- you should know me by now and know that I don't shut up. I just don't know what TO say. I'm disheartened by the way people can be convinced to be against something that would be nothing but beneficial for them. I'm frustrated that people will blatantly ignore facts that are easily accessible. I dislike that people will first pick a point of view and then go out and find evidence to support it, ignoring anything that is contrary to their pre-picked point of view. I'm disgusted that people can take what is a very good message and corrupt it to such an extent as to be unrecognizable.

Disclaimer #1: I'm not Christian. Not any more. I was raised Church of England, went to a C of E infants school, went to church one Sunday a month-ish. I was baptised in a Church that was built in the 15th Century, confirmed in said Church, and even served as an Altar boy for a year or so there.

There's a few reasons I don't consider myself to be Christian any more. Growing up, religion was always a comfort. I enjoyed the ritual, the sense of community and belonging it gave. As I got older, I didn't find that any more. But until recently I was comfortable enough just debating religion with people without necessarily coming out on one side or the other.

Now I find I cannot, in good conscience, profess any bond to Christianity. Not until those Christians who I believe are good, decent people, stand up and take back their religion from the people who are bastardizing it.

Pastor Steven Anderson. Nowhere in my knowledge of Christianity is someone like this man acceptable. Please, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't Christ preach love and acceptance? Wasn't he sent to show people the way back to God? I doubt Christ ever prayed for someone to die, even as he hung there on the cross, his breathing more and more laboured, blood seeping from his wounds. 

Disclaimer #2: I do believe that there was a historical figure that Christ is based on, and I think that he had a pretty good message that it wouldn't hurt us all to live by. You know, love they neighbour. Be excellent to one another. And party on.

It's the hatred that some Christians preach these days that disgusts me. The willingness to judge in a loud, clear voice and hold themselves up as morally superior. This Steven Anderson, that he would pray for the death of ANYONE, is foul. That someone would be proud about walking around with a gun and talking about using it, well that just baffles me.

Disclaimer #3: I hate guns. Didn't grow up with them, don't need them. Having said that, I'd love to go on a Pheasant or Grouse shoot. But I have no interest in taking another human life, and the majority of guns were designed to do just that.

I understand it's in the Constitution and it's your right to own a gun. And I understand that it's your right to free speech. But to claim to be a Christian and to use your pulpit to preach hatred? The two just don't mesh for me. There's a few people I do hate, I'll admit. And if people ask me I'll tell the truth about how I feel. I hate people like Pastor Steven Anderson. But not once have I wanted the death of these people.

If you believe in the power of prayer, and you pray for someone to die and they do, are you responsible for their death?

I was going to mention a couple of other things here, but can't think about it any more right now. It pains me that all the good people who consider themselves Christians have to share their ranks with the hate-filled, the xenophobic, those who prey on the insecurites of others. I know that the bigoted arseholes out there are the vast minority, but I'd love to have it proven to me.

Rejection

Yep, they didn't want my short story. Now I'm going to have to pick up a copy and see the sort of things they do use. Not because I'm bitter or pissed off- it's their publication, they can use whatever they want. I just need to learn about how to get published, and if it means maybe working on a different style, I'm open to that. I'm not going to change, just give them what they want for a bit until I can say I've been published (them as in the publishing industry, not thefirstline.com) Might even submit something for their next one, just for the hell of it. It's good practice for me to write to a deadline, because it helps me focus and actually bloody finish something. Right now I've got 8 short stories, only one of which I've done more than a first draft. I've got the beginnings of 2 novels, a first draft short screenplay, and 3 started full length screenplays. I'm completely writing for myself right now, whatever I feel like doing at the time, and that's part of the reason I'm keeping a word-count track instead of a time count.

Not that word count means what I'm doing is any good, but then a time allotment doesn't guarantee quality either. This way if I'm sitting looking at a blank screen I can do something else, and if I really feel the need to write I can do it whenever.

Anyway. Rejection. This was actually an easy rejection to take, because I feel like I had so little vested in it. Five days, three drafts, and submission. I love it when writing's like that-- the words just pick themselves out from the keyboard with almost no effort on your part. And now that they've decided they don't want it for their publication, I'm free to do with it what I will. So I am. I'm giving it a screenplay treatment right now, think it could make a great little short (bugger. I said one short up there didn't I? Make that one first draft and one in progress). Should be pretty cheap to film too, so I can actually try and get it made.

So maybe I'm over my fear of rejection. I think I might be. Does that mean I should start dating again? In five years I think I've asked out three women, all three of whom have initially said yes, but then two cancelled on me. The most recent didn't leave me feeling worthless, which is a huge step up for me. Maybe it's time to send out a few email on match.com, haven't done anything with it yet. Cos what's the worst that can happen?

Okay, so the worst that could happen is I'll meet someone, fall in love, decide to save our first time for marriage, and ten minutes before we leave the wedding reception to consumate, the world is destroyed by a meteor.

Or the worst is I could meet someone, they could end up scamming me for every penny I have and leave me destitute and with a nasty rash.

I could go on like this for hours. The point is, I think I can deal with rejection. Maybe I should go to the pub and see how many times I can get rejected in one sitting. . .