Application is Done

So grad school application goes in tomorrow.  Then I get to wait. And wait.  I have no idea when they’ll tell me if I’m in or not.  It could be months.  Sigh.

And in other fun time news, my computer fizzled.  I should know better than to ever shut down that ancient machine, because everytime I do it gives up the ghost and refuses to boot.  I’m never giving it a rest again.  It gets to run until the power goes out or the bloody thing implodes.  Also, I’m giving in and putting together a machine that hasn’t seen the rise and fall of sentient reptiles.   The only mildly scary part of this whole process is the fact that years of writing are stored on that damn computer.  I know, I know. One should save often.  And I keep meaning to get an external drive and back things up.  But we’re talking about a girl who buys new panties instead of doing laundry and has been pretending her car will work again if she just ignores the fact that its dead for a month or two.   Doing things the reasonable way isn’t very imaginative, now is it?

On the plus side, I do have copies of the things I need to work on for my other applications.  So there is grace in the small stuff (and in gmail which saves us all)

Nothing to see here, move along

I am Jack’s wilted inspiration.

Hopefully once the whole grad application process is over I’ll find the ability to sleep and maybe with that sleep will come a sweeping revival of the cognitive process.  It could happen.

I have a story to finish for the Clarion Writer’s West Workshop admission and less than a month now to finish that up and polish it.  And by polish it I mean force it down the proverbial throats of a few friends via email and nagging until I get feedback.

Hopefully by the end of this week I’ll have a more useful or insightful update.  Oh, and hi to my one reader, whoever you are.

Purpose! At Last!

I think I have something to blog about, finally.  It seems a shame to let this little corner of the vast interwebs rot away into wherever abandoned things go.

I got the 2008 Writer’s Short Story and Novel Market Guide.  In it one of the guest writers proposes that one should write a novel every year for ten years and then see where they are with the whole submission and publication thing.  This idea is offered as a way to see if one is cut out for the publishing world as well as a way to know when to let a particular written baby climb out of the nest and fly (or fall to its doom).

So I’m going to do that.  I’m going to write one novel per year for the next ten years. At the end of every year I’ll start the submission process and move on to the next novel. Considering I have at least 5 novel ideas in me already waiting, this won’t be too difficult to start.  I think I’m going to make Jan 1st the date, for the sake of simplicity.  However, this first year I have to finish editing my first novel, but I’m going to try to write and edit the second by the 1st of 2009.

So this journal will be for that process. I’m going to try to document ideas, ups, downs, and all the fun in between.  Hopefully in ten years I can read back through this and laugh because I’m a selling writer.  We’ll see.

Good luck to me.

Random Find of the Day

When I’m stuck at work, or home, or need to crawl outside my head, I use the internet.  Or a newspaper. Or a book.  But lately, the internet.

Nothing helps off-set a nice hearty bout of depression like people being oh so human.  Take, for example, this ad in the Barter section of my local craigslist:

“Slightly modified xbox comes with one controller. I’m looking for a rifle, hand gun, shotty, and am also open to offers. Let me know what you have. If you have a picture of your offer please include.”  (it had a pic of an xbox, highly modded, next to it).

I can imagine the stories that could come with that.  Maybe the guy has a really annoying wife.  Maybe I’m assuming it is a guy, and really it is a woman who desperately wants to trade in the xbox for a gun to protect herself from raving zombies.  Or, some teenager has decided to live up to the media stereotypes and graduate from videogames to the real thing and can’t get a gun.  Two things lead me to suspect the poster is male.  The first is the request.  Who would think to trade an xbox for a gun but a guy? I have a lot of male friends, this is exactly the kind of thing they might joke about.  Of course, it is the kind of thing I might joke about as well. So much for stereotyping.

The second thing is the word “shotty”.  I don’t think any woman on the planet (or at least my side of it) would use that word.  It reminds me of an ex boyfriend who called my clitoris a ‘clitty’.  This was not a turn on. It was, however, a very male sort of thing to do in my pigeonholing mindset.

The tone of the ad is very brusque and business-like.  I lean away from the teenager theory and more towards the man fed up with someone version.  It has been modified, which means some education or at least ability to use the internet to learn things.  Only one controller means single and likely not a social gamer.  So I put it as a male, most likely caucasian, age 20-40, single and lives alone, who is intelligent or at least technologically capable.  We have here the recipe for a serial killer.

Perhaps he’ll save and trade the games for a good shovel.

The other barters are mainly what one might expect.  Also, a crazy number of people trying to trade things like housework, yard work, childcare etc… for tattoos.  And one lone tattoo guy trying to get his truck painted.   Someone should hook that guy up.


Starting things without a clear purpose is something I am both terrible and adept at doing.  The space between I ‘will’ do something and I ‘am’ doing something is a vast ugly chasm in my world.  If I tell you I ‘will’ do something or that I want to do something, it might get done.  It means the decision is not made.  Between decision and action for me there is no space.  For me a decision isn’t the leap off the cliff, but the moment after. 

People who blog, far as I can tell, generally operate under the usually poor assumption that they have something to say that somebody else will give a damn about.   I don’t believe that I do.  I don’t believe that I don’t.  What I do know is that my view of the world, my experiences, my thoughts, are unique to me.  I’m different, just like everyone else as the old joke goes.  I surprise people, on occasion.  I’m told frequently that I have a “fresh perspective” or an “active mind” when they are being nice.  I’m told I have an “overactive imagination” and am “illogical and irrational” when they are not feeling so kind.  

When I was little I thought I was just different, that I must smell funny or talk weird or something, because I had a terrible time understanding my peers and getting along with them.  As I grew, I realized I was experiencing a very different reality than most people.  I have a mind that explores possibilities and associations to the point of obsessive imagining and occasionally near catatonic visual states.  I exist in a world that is rich with visuals I hardly understand on a cognitive, rational level.  I swim through this world, picking a path utilizing both habits and observation that allows me to function in the world that others around me dwell in.  I’m not in a different world, merely one that is the same and more.  For years I feared I was crazy.  I read about psychology and disorders and was unable to diagnose myself.  I finally ended up going to the professionals and they were unable to do any better.  I’ve got a lot of imagination, was basically the sum of the findings.  So I’ve come to what I feel is the only rational and human conclusion about my brain’s workings that I possibly can live with at this time.

It’s not me.  It’s you.  Yeah, you, i.e. the people who are not me.  It isn’t that my imagination is overly stimulated or that I live in some sort of freaky continual dreamstate.  No, it’s you.  You’re all underdeveloped, under-imaginative, under-stimulated.  You live in a world where your food doesn’t try to escape or change colors suddenly, where the tiny hole in the ceiling isn’t the eye of a roof-beast recording your every move.  (Stupid roof-beasts.)

That is the point of this blog.  It isn’t a conversation.  I’m not aiming for brilliance, merely communication.  Reading this won’t be a beam of light from my mind into your eye, painful and somehow effective.  No one ever opened their eyes wider to see better in the bright light anyway.  I’m imaginative.  You’re not.  Simple premise.  Welcome.

There aren’t any roof-beasts, by the way.  I’m sure if I went and got a chair I could prove it to myself.  I’d reach up and touch the white plaster, run my fingers around the dark spot above me.  Maybe if I pull on the edges until I can get my hand inside I’ll be able to keep going.  Maybe it isn’t an eye at all, but a portal.  I could pull it open until it was a gaping rift from my world to somewhere other.  A place dark and cool, smelling faintly of wet grass and salt.  I could easily find out where the passage leads.  All it will take is a chair, and a little imagination.