Kyle Garret's Blog, page 26
December 12, 2011
Where Is My Mind?
The other day at work one of my co-workers asked me a question that amounted to "Is it hard being a creative person and doing a job that requires very little creativity?"
A fair question, really.
The strange thing is that just a few hours later, another co-worker, who hadn't been privy to that conversation, asked me more or less the same thing, although she seemed to phrase it more along the lines of "why are you doing this instead of something creative?"
Again, a totally fair question.
I like my current job well enough. It's obviously not my dream job, as that would be writing for a living, but how many people actually have their dream job? But I like the people I work with and I like that I'm learning a lot and I'm happy that I'm no longer as completely in the dark as I was when I started.
And there is a bit of creativity involved. At the very least, I'm forced to at least creatively problem solve.
But what was my response to these two co-workers?
It basically amounted to "I exercise the creative part of my brain at night when I write." This was to say that it was fine with me that I wasn't flexing that particular muscle during the day as it would get plenty of exercise after work.
Part of my difficulty in really answering the question is that I have a hard time when people refer to me as things like "creative." I suppose it's part of the self-doubt that so-called "creative" people have, particularly those who don't actually make a living on what they create. I don't think I really consider myself more creative than anyone else. Weirder, sure. Prone to think about seventeen things in the span of a minute, sure. But more creative? It's a hard label for me to accept.
These questions from my co-workers are not unusual. At every job I've ever had, people have made comments to me about how I'm just there temporarily, about how I'll soon be moving on to something better, something more in line with my abilities. I've always been amazed by this because it's not like I really share my work with many people. I don't know why anyone would think I'm destined for better things.
I don't mean to sound like I have no back bone. I realize that I have certain capabilities that would suggest that I can do a fair amount with my life. But I also feel like I'm a jack of all trades and master of none. I'm an above average everything, but not so far above average that I really stand out.
Fuck me, this entry has gotten really depressing! I don't mean to suggest that I don't think I'm awesome because I do, in fact, think I'm awesome. Maybe that's it, then: I'm just surprised that other people think I'm awesome, too.
I just kind of wish that all these things that other people see in my future would show up already.
A fair question, really.
The strange thing is that just a few hours later, another co-worker, who hadn't been privy to that conversation, asked me more or less the same thing, although she seemed to phrase it more along the lines of "why are you doing this instead of something creative?"
Again, a totally fair question.
I like my current job well enough. It's obviously not my dream job, as that would be writing for a living, but how many people actually have their dream job? But I like the people I work with and I like that I'm learning a lot and I'm happy that I'm no longer as completely in the dark as I was when I started.
And there is a bit of creativity involved. At the very least, I'm forced to at least creatively problem solve.
But what was my response to these two co-workers?
It basically amounted to "I exercise the creative part of my brain at night when I write." This was to say that it was fine with me that I wasn't flexing that particular muscle during the day as it would get plenty of exercise after work.
Part of my difficulty in really answering the question is that I have a hard time when people refer to me as things like "creative." I suppose it's part of the self-doubt that so-called "creative" people have, particularly those who don't actually make a living on what they create. I don't think I really consider myself more creative than anyone else. Weirder, sure. Prone to think about seventeen things in the span of a minute, sure. But more creative? It's a hard label for me to accept.
These questions from my co-workers are not unusual. At every job I've ever had, people have made comments to me about how I'm just there temporarily, about how I'll soon be moving on to something better, something more in line with my abilities. I've always been amazed by this because it's not like I really share my work with many people. I don't know why anyone would think I'm destined for better things.
I don't mean to sound like I have no back bone. I realize that I have certain capabilities that would suggest that I can do a fair amount with my life. But I also feel like I'm a jack of all trades and master of none. I'm an above average everything, but not so far above average that I really stand out.
Fuck me, this entry has gotten really depressing! I don't mean to suggest that I don't think I'm awesome because I do, in fact, think I'm awesome. Maybe that's it, then: I'm just surprised that other people think I'm awesome, too.
I just kind of wish that all these things that other people see in my future would show up already.
December 9, 2011
Top Search Terms!
For your enjoyment, the top search terms that lead people to my site, as of 12/08/11:
pointed titsnolan batman movies cover"so it begins" lost jack purgatorybazooka joe/ help i'm stuck at the plantbuilding pornokyle garretkyle garrett kickstandkylegarret.blogspot.compictures from 50's atlas comicssad nightwing I suppose if you add that all together, you get me.
pointed titsnolan batman movies cover"so it begins" lost jack purgatorybazooka joe/ help i'm stuck at the plantbuilding pornokyle garretkyle garrett kickstandkylegarret.blogspot.compictures from 50's atlas comicssad nightwing I suppose if you add that all together, you get me.
December 8, 2011
Unrequited
It was our seconddate when the world ended. Thiswas someone's basement once. There's awasher and a dryer down here and if the power were still working I'm sure wecould use them. The fact that the showerupstairs worked was blessing enough. Myclothes might not be clean, but at least my skin smells better. Sophybrought a few things down from the bathroom. She found a compact. She foundsome make up. It's still light outenough for her to put it on. She's justkind of sitting there, compact in one hand, eyeliner in the other. I'd be flattered if I thought she was actuallydoing it for my benefit. She's not. She's doing it for her own. Ibrought a few things down from the kitchen. I found a really big knife, the kind they only sell on the Home ShoppingNetwork. I found some canned goods thatcan be eaten raw. I found some bottledwater. Isearched every inch of this house and every inch of the garage and the shed outin the yard and I didn't find a shotgun or a hand gun or anything that could beconsidered a fire arm. In the moviesthey always find a gun somehow. In themovies they always know how to use it. Iknow she'd rather be sleeping upstairs in one of the beds. But I feel like the rooms are too shut offwith only one exit route. The basementhas a door to the upstairs and a door to the back yard. The floor is concrete and the walls arecinder blocks. I feel secure down here. There'sa small window, the kind made from a really thick block of glass. I can see the swing set in the backyard. I can see the sand box.
Iremember when internet dating was a joke. Idon't know when it happened, but at some point meeting people online became trendy. I guess the ability to screen people wasappealing. You could literally type inthe kind of person you wanted to meet and the computer would spit out results. It was like natural selection with photos. That'show I met Sophy. Ithink most people have a list of traits that they look for in a significantother. And I think most people are smartenough to realize that they'll never find someone with every single one ofthose traits. To a certain extent, weall know that we're going to have to settle. You trade wit for kindness. Youtrade taste in movies for taste in music. You trade intelligence for looks. Everyone knows that this is how it works and everyone knows thateveryone else does it. You have tosacrifice to survive. Ididn't feel like I was settling with Sophy. Thisholds true for meeting people online. Goahead and do a search for someone who has the exact same favorite movie asyou. I can guarantee that they won'tlike the same music. Do a search forsomeone with a post-graduate degree. Chances are good that they'll be dull as dirt. When the facts are laid out and pixilated onthe screen twenty inches in front of your face, you learn to pick andchoose. You learn to prioritize. Itwasn't like that with Sophy. She likedthe best movies. She valued wit. She enjoyed getting drunk. She was nearly as aimless as me and just afew months younger. There wasn't asingle trade to be made. I didn't haveto pick and choose. Everything lined upthe way I wanted. Andthen, of course, there were the pictures. As online dating had gotten more popular, more and more attractivepeople were actually using it. I'm sureinitially it was the last resort for the homely and misanthropic, but it turnedinto a veritable potpourri of beautiful people. No matter what your type might be, you were bound to find someone tomatch it. The problem, of course, isthat everyone knew this. Youget a lot of glamour shots, pictures that seemed to have been takenspecifically for the purpose of having a great online profile. You get a lot of action shots, pictures ofpeople doing something "cool" with their friends. Those are actually kind of intimidatingbecause you're getting a glimpse of that person's entire life in onephoto. It's a world that seems foreignand complete and not a world that needs you in any way. You also get a lot of artsy shots, created tobe mysterious and appealing when, in reality, they're just annoying. Sophywas different. Ifound her by doing a search for favorite movie. We were a match. Her picture wascandid enough (and cute enough) for me to think she had potential, so I clickedon her name to view her profile. Notonly did we like the same movies, we liked the same music, too. It seemed to me that I had every single oneof the qualities that she looked for in a person. It seemed to me that her hobbies paralleledmy own. Withina few minutes of reading her profile, I'd already fallen for her.
Wemanaged to slide a mattress down the stairs and we took sheets and comfortersfrom the linen closet. It felt weird totake them off the beds. The mattress wasone thing. Sheets made what we weredoing seem too real. Nighttime is always the hardest. I watch asthe last light from the sun fades away. Sophy crawls on to the mattress and pulls the sheets up around her. I look at my watch. It's only 6:30. I wonder howmuch longer the battery will last in this thing. I suppose at some point time will cease toexist. Wesleep in four hour shifts. I know itdoesn't sound like we're getting a whole lot of rest, but it's not as if eitherof us is getting any quality sleep. You're half awake the whole time, anyway. Part of you doesn't think you'll wake up. Therewas one point when we felt comfortable lying next to each other. I think we preferred it. It was a way for us to stay warm. I liked to think it was comforting, that Iwas just as comforting to her as she was to me. But we've been pretty scared lately, too scared to be lying down at thesame time. "Ifeel like we're buried," she says as she rolls over on to her side. She always starts off on her side. At some point she'll end up on her back. Gently, casually, and sound asleep, she'llroll on to her back, no longer curled up in the fetal position, open andaccepting of the world around her. Ithappens that way every night. It'salmost graceful. I'vewatched her sleep every night for a week now. Ilook back out the window. The sun isgoing down and the last bit of light is starting to form shadows anywhere itcan. I try not to let my mind fool me. I've got enough to worry about withoutimaging things.Those trees in thedistance are just trees. They're notmoving. They're not headed this way. Ialmost wish they were.
The rest of Unrequited can be found as a 99 cent eBook, available on iTunes, for the Nook, and for the Kindle, as well as pretty much any other eReader or Tablet. Unrequited can also be found in print, as part of the short story collection, Unrequited and Other Stories .
Iremember when internet dating was a joke. Idon't know when it happened, but at some point meeting people online became trendy. I guess the ability to screen people wasappealing. You could literally type inthe kind of person you wanted to meet and the computer would spit out results. It was like natural selection with photos. That'show I met Sophy. Ithink most people have a list of traits that they look for in a significantother. And I think most people are smartenough to realize that they'll never find someone with every single one ofthose traits. To a certain extent, weall know that we're going to have to settle. You trade wit for kindness. Youtrade taste in movies for taste in music. You trade intelligence for looks. Everyone knows that this is how it works and everyone knows thateveryone else does it. You have tosacrifice to survive. Ididn't feel like I was settling with Sophy. Thisholds true for meeting people online. Goahead and do a search for someone who has the exact same favorite movie asyou. I can guarantee that they won'tlike the same music. Do a search forsomeone with a post-graduate degree. Chances are good that they'll be dull as dirt. When the facts are laid out and pixilated onthe screen twenty inches in front of your face, you learn to pick andchoose. You learn to prioritize. Itwasn't like that with Sophy. She likedthe best movies. She valued wit. She enjoyed getting drunk. She was nearly as aimless as me and just afew months younger. There wasn't asingle trade to be made. I didn't haveto pick and choose. Everything lined upthe way I wanted. Andthen, of course, there were the pictures. As online dating had gotten more popular, more and more attractivepeople were actually using it. I'm sureinitially it was the last resort for the homely and misanthropic, but it turnedinto a veritable potpourri of beautiful people. No matter what your type might be, you were bound to find someone tomatch it. The problem, of course, isthat everyone knew this. Youget a lot of glamour shots, pictures that seemed to have been takenspecifically for the purpose of having a great online profile. You get a lot of action shots, pictures ofpeople doing something "cool" with their friends. Those are actually kind of intimidatingbecause you're getting a glimpse of that person's entire life in onephoto. It's a world that seems foreignand complete and not a world that needs you in any way. You also get a lot of artsy shots, created tobe mysterious and appealing when, in reality, they're just annoying. Sophywas different. Ifound her by doing a search for favorite movie. We were a match. Her picture wascandid enough (and cute enough) for me to think she had potential, so I clickedon her name to view her profile. Notonly did we like the same movies, we liked the same music, too. It seemed to me that I had every single oneof the qualities that she looked for in a person. It seemed to me that her hobbies paralleledmy own. Withina few minutes of reading her profile, I'd already fallen for her.
Wemanaged to slide a mattress down the stairs and we took sheets and comfortersfrom the linen closet. It felt weird totake them off the beds. The mattress wasone thing. Sheets made what we weredoing seem too real. Nighttime is always the hardest. I watch asthe last light from the sun fades away. Sophy crawls on to the mattress and pulls the sheets up around her. I look at my watch. It's only 6:30. I wonder howmuch longer the battery will last in this thing. I suppose at some point time will cease toexist. Wesleep in four hour shifts. I know itdoesn't sound like we're getting a whole lot of rest, but it's not as if eitherof us is getting any quality sleep. You're half awake the whole time, anyway. Part of you doesn't think you'll wake up. Therewas one point when we felt comfortable lying next to each other. I think we preferred it. It was a way for us to stay warm. I liked to think it was comforting, that Iwas just as comforting to her as she was to me. But we've been pretty scared lately, too scared to be lying down at thesame time. "Ifeel like we're buried," she says as she rolls over on to her side. She always starts off on her side. At some point she'll end up on her back. Gently, casually, and sound asleep, she'llroll on to her back, no longer curled up in the fetal position, open andaccepting of the world around her. Ithappens that way every night. It'salmost graceful. I'vewatched her sleep every night for a week now. Ilook back out the window. The sun isgoing down and the last bit of light is starting to form shadows anywhere itcan. I try not to let my mind fool me. I've got enough to worry about withoutimaging things.Those trees in thedistance are just trees. They're notmoving. They're not headed this way. Ialmost wish they were.
The rest of Unrequited can be found as a 99 cent eBook, available on iTunes, for the Nook, and for the Kindle, as well as pretty much any other eReader or Tablet. Unrequited can also be found in print, as part of the short story collection, Unrequited and Other Stories .
December 7, 2011
Something to Forget
I feel like I'm not allowed to miss Los Angeles. This feeling comes from a number of different sources.
The first and, as always, most prominent, is self-inflicted. Moving up north was a fairly monumental decision, one which I thought I understood at the time, but which I really didn't. This was one of those moments in life where everything changes; it was a crossroads, if you will. I made my decision and I stand by it.
The problem is that I feel like if I miss Los Angeles, I'm undermining the choice I made. It's as if I'm trying to be strong and admitting I sometimes wish I was back in SoCal is showing weakness. And perhaps there's a part of me that worries about what will happen if I let myself miss the life I had in the city I called home for nine years. My over active brain will take that opening and run with it, and introduce the idea that maybe, just maybe, I'm regretting my decision.
Because I have an amazing ability to convince myself of pretty much anything, regardless of whether it's true or not.
In this respect, Nicole is only a minor player. I will admit that I feel like talking about missing Los Angeles will make her think that she's forced me into this move, when it was actually my idea. I know she's having a hard time with it herself, but my wife is much less insane than I am. She also has the very normal ability to process her emotions in reasonable ways, whereas I just bottle them up until I explode, and in the meantime I act moody and weird (or weirder than usual).
And everyone seems to think I should love Northern California. Part of that is that they want me to be happy and they want me to embrace my new life up here, and I appreciate that. I like Northern California a lot. In fact, I actually wanted to move here instead of Los Angeles originally, but fate had other ideas.
Digression: A few weeks ago we had a party here at the house for Nicole's brother. He invited some of his friends over and we cooked out, etc. It turned out that almost all of them had lived in Southern California at some point, and some of them had lived up here, down there, up here, down there, and so on. I mentioned how interesting it was that so many people seem to go back and forth like that.
One of my brother-in-law's friends mentioned that he thought it would be weird at first, moving to SoCal from NorCal, because of the rivalry between the two parts of California. I had no idea that there was such a thing, which wasn't surprising, as he said that he discovered that no one in SoCal is even aware of this rivalry -- it's entirely one sided.
It understandable, of course. San Francisco is a great city, yes, but it doesn't get nearly the amount of air time as Los Angeles. It's almost always warm down there. They have celebrities. You can drive to Vegas. No one ever seems to get older in that town. I could see how that would rub some people the wrong way.
I don't really look at it that way. For me, it's just that Los Angeles was home, and NorCal isn't...yet.
I'm looking forward to the day when I'm more settled in here, when I feel like it is my home. I'm sure that will happen soon enough. In the meantime, I'll have to find a way to get over Los Angeles. Based upon my life experiences, the way I get over a break-up is by drinking a lot and then finding someone new.
I'm looking at you, NorCal.
The first and, as always, most prominent, is self-inflicted. Moving up north was a fairly monumental decision, one which I thought I understood at the time, but which I really didn't. This was one of those moments in life where everything changes; it was a crossroads, if you will. I made my decision and I stand by it.
The problem is that I feel like if I miss Los Angeles, I'm undermining the choice I made. It's as if I'm trying to be strong and admitting I sometimes wish I was back in SoCal is showing weakness. And perhaps there's a part of me that worries about what will happen if I let myself miss the life I had in the city I called home for nine years. My over active brain will take that opening and run with it, and introduce the idea that maybe, just maybe, I'm regretting my decision.
Because I have an amazing ability to convince myself of pretty much anything, regardless of whether it's true or not.
In this respect, Nicole is only a minor player. I will admit that I feel like talking about missing Los Angeles will make her think that she's forced me into this move, when it was actually my idea. I know she's having a hard time with it herself, but my wife is much less insane than I am. She also has the very normal ability to process her emotions in reasonable ways, whereas I just bottle them up until I explode, and in the meantime I act moody and weird (or weirder than usual).
And everyone seems to think I should love Northern California. Part of that is that they want me to be happy and they want me to embrace my new life up here, and I appreciate that. I like Northern California a lot. In fact, I actually wanted to move here instead of Los Angeles originally, but fate had other ideas.
Digression: A few weeks ago we had a party here at the house for Nicole's brother. He invited some of his friends over and we cooked out, etc. It turned out that almost all of them had lived in Southern California at some point, and some of them had lived up here, down there, up here, down there, and so on. I mentioned how interesting it was that so many people seem to go back and forth like that.
One of my brother-in-law's friends mentioned that he thought it would be weird at first, moving to SoCal from NorCal, because of the rivalry between the two parts of California. I had no idea that there was such a thing, which wasn't surprising, as he said that he discovered that no one in SoCal is even aware of this rivalry -- it's entirely one sided.
It understandable, of course. San Francisco is a great city, yes, but it doesn't get nearly the amount of air time as Los Angeles. It's almost always warm down there. They have celebrities. You can drive to Vegas. No one ever seems to get older in that town. I could see how that would rub some people the wrong way.
I don't really look at it that way. For me, it's just that Los Angeles was home, and NorCal isn't...yet.
I'm looking forward to the day when I'm more settled in here, when I feel like it is my home. I'm sure that will happen soon enough. In the meantime, I'll have to find a way to get over Los Angeles. Based upon my life experiences, the way I get over a break-up is by drinking a lot and then finding someone new.
I'm looking at you, NorCal.
November 29, 2011
Hey, I'm Giving Away Books on Goodreads!
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I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At by Kyle Garret 
I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At by Kyle Garret Giveaway ends December 04, 2011.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to win
November 28, 2011
When Bad Reviews Behave Badly
Grad school was something of a mixed bag, and at some point I'm sure I'll go into more detail about that. But one of the best things I took away from the two years I spent studying writing, was how to take criticism.
Writing workshops -- particularly in grad school -- seem to thrive upon harsh judgments. There's a pack mentality that kicks in when a group of people are sitting around a table, discussing a classmate's work. It's honestly kind of hard to believe, because it can be so very, irrationally, mean. The idea, it seems, is that by tearing everyone down, no one can be better than anyone else in the room.
Eventually, you learn to take these criticisms with a grain of salt, and you learn which ones are useful and which are just spiteful.
This isn't to say that I don't still have to fight my gut reaction to criticism. My wife will tell you that I have to take some time before I can respond to any comments she's made on my work -- and those are comments I get from someone whose judgment I know and trust.
When my book, "I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At" was released, I expect to get some bad reviews. You can't please everyone all the time, and while I think the book has mass appeal, it doesn't have uniform appeal; I expected negative reviews.
I got them and they were understandable. Like I said, "Pray" isn't going to be everyone's cup of tea. But I never got a negative review that crossed the line, or that was illogical.
Never say never.
Such a review showed up recently on Amazon. It was actually brought to my attention by my dad, who was up in arms about it. Before reading the review, I just assumed my dad was overreacting, as he was protective of his family. And then I read it.
It was just as bad as he'd indicated. It wasn't just that the reviewer didn't like my book, it was that the criticisms bordered on the personal (some might say "bordered" is too kind of a word). And even the things that the reviewer mentioned that came from the book itself revealed a gross misunderstanding, or perhaps a flat out inability to read.
What bothered me the most, though, was that the reviewer called my nephews "bratty." I go into great (some might say too much) detail in the book of the developmental problems my nephews have for a variety of different reasons. They're special needs children, and calling them "bratty" wasn't just insulting to me, but to them and anyone who has special needs kids in their family.
The silver lining in all of this isn't just that the reviewer purchased the book (although I'll be honest that, under other circumstance, I would feel bad about someone forking over cash for a book they didn't enjoy, but in this case I'm okay with it), but that it was brought to their attention by a recommendation on Twitter. In other words, there's at least some marketing component out there that's working, which was great to read.
Initially, I figured I'd ignore the review in question. Then I considered taking the high road and leaving a comment that was overly nice. Finally, I decided to share the review with others, just to make sure I wasn't being overly sensitive. They assured me I was not. A few of them even came to my defense on Amazon.
In the end, it wasn't really bad reviews that I needed to prepare myself for, it was irrational reviews. And given how much time I spend on the internet, you'd think I would have been expecting them.
Writing workshops -- particularly in grad school -- seem to thrive upon harsh judgments. There's a pack mentality that kicks in when a group of people are sitting around a table, discussing a classmate's work. It's honestly kind of hard to believe, because it can be so very, irrationally, mean. The idea, it seems, is that by tearing everyone down, no one can be better than anyone else in the room.
Eventually, you learn to take these criticisms with a grain of salt, and you learn which ones are useful and which are just spiteful.
This isn't to say that I don't still have to fight my gut reaction to criticism. My wife will tell you that I have to take some time before I can respond to any comments she's made on my work -- and those are comments I get from someone whose judgment I know and trust.
When my book, "I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At" was released, I expect to get some bad reviews. You can't please everyone all the time, and while I think the book has mass appeal, it doesn't have uniform appeal; I expected negative reviews.
I got them and they were understandable. Like I said, "Pray" isn't going to be everyone's cup of tea. But I never got a negative review that crossed the line, or that was illogical.
Never say never.
Such a review showed up recently on Amazon. It was actually brought to my attention by my dad, who was up in arms about it. Before reading the review, I just assumed my dad was overreacting, as he was protective of his family. And then I read it.
It was just as bad as he'd indicated. It wasn't just that the reviewer didn't like my book, it was that the criticisms bordered on the personal (some might say "bordered" is too kind of a word). And even the things that the reviewer mentioned that came from the book itself revealed a gross misunderstanding, or perhaps a flat out inability to read.
What bothered me the most, though, was that the reviewer called my nephews "bratty." I go into great (some might say too much) detail in the book of the developmental problems my nephews have for a variety of different reasons. They're special needs children, and calling them "bratty" wasn't just insulting to me, but to them and anyone who has special needs kids in their family.
The silver lining in all of this isn't just that the reviewer purchased the book (although I'll be honest that, under other circumstance, I would feel bad about someone forking over cash for a book they didn't enjoy, but in this case I'm okay with it), but that it was brought to their attention by a recommendation on Twitter. In other words, there's at least some marketing component out there that's working, which was great to read.
Initially, I figured I'd ignore the review in question. Then I considered taking the high road and leaving a comment that was overly nice. Finally, I decided to share the review with others, just to make sure I wasn't being overly sensitive. They assured me I was not. A few of them even came to my defense on Amazon.
In the end, it wasn't really bad reviews that I needed to prepare myself for, it was irrational reviews. And given how much time I spend on the internet, you'd think I would have been expecting them.
November 16, 2011
Tears for Fears
A little over a week ago, I wrote a death scene.
This isn't really newsworthy, I know. Thousands of writers write death scenes every day, if I had to guess. And, really, I generally don't write about the specifics of my writing, as they're pretty boring. No one cares about them but me.
But writing this death scene nearly made me cry...and I was totally sober.
Years and years ago, I read an interview with Joss Whedon, creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, and Dollhouse, and the guy most people will know as the director of the upcoming Avengers movie. In the interview, he talked about how he locked himself in a room and wrote a scene involving Buffy and Angel, who were, for lack of a better term, star crossed lovers. He talked about how he acted the scene out, right there in the room, and how it devastated him emotionally, because while he was writing it, he was living it.
When I read that interview, I thought it was a little bit insane, which is funny, given that it's something I've always done with my writing, too. Okay, I might not actually act things out out loud, but I still act them out. And, yes, sometimes I get emotionally involved, but those are the moments when I know what I'm writing is working.
Of all the stories I turned in to workshops throughout my college career, only one really seemed to gain any traction with my professors and my peers. It was called "Mercurial" and you can find it in the collection in the link. I cried when I wrote it. I won't deny that. I cried when I wrote it and I think the fact that I was able to get to that place was why it worked, why people responded to it.
I should point out that, given I was in grad school at the time, it is not unreasonable to assume that I was drunk when I wrote the aforementioned story. It's always easier to get to a crying place with alcohol. Side note: I gave that story to visiting professor Francois Camoin. He referred to it as "the story written on drugs," which I should really be using as a pull quote.
I would get choked up here and there, but the next time I would go full on cry was while writing "Unrequited." Writing that story was rough enough, but the ending took a real toll on me. Looking back on that time in my life, though, I would say there's a really good chance I was drunk when I wrote that, too.
My next big moment of break down while writing came when I was working on my book, "I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At." The thing about "Pray..." is that it's a true story, so when it came to crying about the subject matter I really didn't need a social lubricate, although I admit that it might have been involved.
All of this, then, leads me to last week, when I wrote a death scene and I nearly broke down into tears, even though I was stone cold sober. Not unlike a psychiatrist, I view crying as a good thing, and the fact that I came close to crying while totally sober just as good. I think I might actually fear for my sanity a bit had I really broken down last week.
And I also think this death scene has power.
In fact, it has so much power that I've now been forced to go back and make all the chapters that lead up to it better.
Here is one of the great insanities of being a writer: making myself cry is the goal, and is the high water mark of success. But, you know, so far all of the stories that have made me cry have managed to strike a chord with those who read them, so it seems like it's a goal that pays off.
At the very least, it's good to know that I'm not just crying in my office alone for nothing.
This isn't really newsworthy, I know. Thousands of writers write death scenes every day, if I had to guess. And, really, I generally don't write about the specifics of my writing, as they're pretty boring. No one cares about them but me.
But writing this death scene nearly made me cry...and I was totally sober.
Years and years ago, I read an interview with Joss Whedon, creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, and Dollhouse, and the guy most people will know as the director of the upcoming Avengers movie. In the interview, he talked about how he locked himself in a room and wrote a scene involving Buffy and Angel, who were, for lack of a better term, star crossed lovers. He talked about how he acted the scene out, right there in the room, and how it devastated him emotionally, because while he was writing it, he was living it.
When I read that interview, I thought it was a little bit insane, which is funny, given that it's something I've always done with my writing, too. Okay, I might not actually act things out out loud, but I still act them out. And, yes, sometimes I get emotionally involved, but those are the moments when I know what I'm writing is working.
Of all the stories I turned in to workshops throughout my college career, only one really seemed to gain any traction with my professors and my peers. It was called "Mercurial" and you can find it in the collection in the link. I cried when I wrote it. I won't deny that. I cried when I wrote it and I think the fact that I was able to get to that place was why it worked, why people responded to it.
I should point out that, given I was in grad school at the time, it is not unreasonable to assume that I was drunk when I wrote the aforementioned story. It's always easier to get to a crying place with alcohol. Side note: I gave that story to visiting professor Francois Camoin. He referred to it as "the story written on drugs," which I should really be using as a pull quote.
I would get choked up here and there, but the next time I would go full on cry was while writing "Unrequited." Writing that story was rough enough, but the ending took a real toll on me. Looking back on that time in my life, though, I would say there's a really good chance I was drunk when I wrote that, too.
My next big moment of break down while writing came when I was working on my book, "I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At." The thing about "Pray..." is that it's a true story, so when it came to crying about the subject matter I really didn't need a social lubricate, although I admit that it might have been involved.
All of this, then, leads me to last week, when I wrote a death scene and I nearly broke down into tears, even though I was stone cold sober. Not unlike a psychiatrist, I view crying as a good thing, and the fact that I came close to crying while totally sober just as good. I think I might actually fear for my sanity a bit had I really broken down last week.
And I also think this death scene has power.
In fact, it has so much power that I've now been forced to go back and make all the chapters that lead up to it better.
Here is one of the great insanities of being a writer: making myself cry is the goal, and is the high water mark of success. But, you know, so far all of the stories that have made me cry have managed to strike a chord with those who read them, so it seems like it's a goal that pays off.
At the very least, it's good to know that I'm not just crying in my office alone for nothing.
November 15, 2011
Hitting a Wall
Sweet fancy Moses, I can't wait for Thanksgiving.
This isn't to say that I have any real affection towards the holiday itself, as I don't. This is to say that I have never needed a long weekend so badly in my life (note: that might be hyperbole).
I've kind of droned on about how different things are now that Nicole and I have moved from SoCal to NorCal, but lately I've realized that, while I may have been aware of these differences, the changes hadn't really settled into my head like they were real. In fact, the differences don't bother me, it's just that I've gotten this general feeling of weirdness after so much change.
For example, I don't feel like going to the gym is giving me the rush that I used to get. I'm not entirely sure why that is. I'm sure part of it is the fact that I now have to go to a gym where other people work out, so I'm a bit more self-conscious. It's probably also the fact that going to the gym is no longer the hardest part of my day, as I now have a real job that requires real work.
As far as the gym goes, there's also a certain element involving a change in motivation. Living in the suburbs, I've see no shortage of men with the typical middle age physique. I don't think I really even have to explain it to you, because you can probably picture it. There's a certain part of me that now feels like working out is my way of holding off that fate, and thus becomes something I'm doing because I have to, not because I just like the way it makes me feel.
Not that there's necessarily anything wrong with any of that, it's just different.
Another, even more petty example: I'm not a fan of how the sink in our kitchen is situated. I don't like the size or the set up. If I had been apartment or home shopping, it's the kind of thing that would have turned me off (if we were only renting, at least, and thus couldn't make any changes). But it's what I'm stuck with, at least for the foreseeable future. Is it really that bad? Of course not. But it's not what I'm used to or what I would prefer.
People always talk about Los Angeles being a haven for stunted adults, those who are in a perpetual state of adolescence. And I really can't argue with that, because all of the things that are messing with my head up here are, to some degree, the things that an average adult deals with. But I've never been an adult before, not really. It's like I suddenly have to grow up.
I suppose a lot of it has to do with familiarity. I miss the gym in our old building. I miss the office I had in our old apartment. The office in our house now has yet to really become mine. I've yet to bond with it, which is something every writer can understand -- you have to connect with your work space. It's still really early in the process, but I miss what I had before.
This all makes me wonder just how long it will be before I really process exactly where I am now, and I don't just mean physically.
I've been working out this equation lately:*
I'm at work (including lunch break) for 9 hours a day, 5 days a week = 45 hours.
If I'm good, I'm able to spend about 10 hours a week writing, or doing something writing related.
I probably spend 4 hours at the gym and another 4 hours in traffic during the week.
We're at 63 hours so far.
Let's optimistically say I'm in bed for 8 hours a night, which might actually be true if I make up time on the weekends. Now we're at 119.
Add 1 hour each weekday for breakfast and dinner, 2 hours for all 3 meals on the weekend. That's another 9 hours.
I watch 8 hours of TV, on average, most weeks (don't judge me).
Now we're at 136.
Now say I spend, on average, 4 hours a week on domestic duties, like running errands and household chores. And let's add in another 4 hours for socializing, which would more be weekly average, as I'm not really all that social.
We end at 144. There are 168 hours in a week.
This means that I have 24 hours that aren't accounted for.
I have 24 hours to do whatever I want.
So the question, really, is what am I doing with them?
I think when I figure that out, I'll start to get a grasp of this whole situation.
*No, seriously, I have done the math on this in my head like half a dozen times in the last two days... because I am a crazy person.
This isn't to say that I have any real affection towards the holiday itself, as I don't. This is to say that I have never needed a long weekend so badly in my life (note: that might be hyperbole).
I've kind of droned on about how different things are now that Nicole and I have moved from SoCal to NorCal, but lately I've realized that, while I may have been aware of these differences, the changes hadn't really settled into my head like they were real. In fact, the differences don't bother me, it's just that I've gotten this general feeling of weirdness after so much change.
For example, I don't feel like going to the gym is giving me the rush that I used to get. I'm not entirely sure why that is. I'm sure part of it is the fact that I now have to go to a gym where other people work out, so I'm a bit more self-conscious. It's probably also the fact that going to the gym is no longer the hardest part of my day, as I now have a real job that requires real work.
As far as the gym goes, there's also a certain element involving a change in motivation. Living in the suburbs, I've see no shortage of men with the typical middle age physique. I don't think I really even have to explain it to you, because you can probably picture it. There's a certain part of me that now feels like working out is my way of holding off that fate, and thus becomes something I'm doing because I have to, not because I just like the way it makes me feel.
Not that there's necessarily anything wrong with any of that, it's just different.
Another, even more petty example: I'm not a fan of how the sink in our kitchen is situated. I don't like the size or the set up. If I had been apartment or home shopping, it's the kind of thing that would have turned me off (if we were only renting, at least, and thus couldn't make any changes). But it's what I'm stuck with, at least for the foreseeable future. Is it really that bad? Of course not. But it's not what I'm used to or what I would prefer.
People always talk about Los Angeles being a haven for stunted adults, those who are in a perpetual state of adolescence. And I really can't argue with that, because all of the things that are messing with my head up here are, to some degree, the things that an average adult deals with. But I've never been an adult before, not really. It's like I suddenly have to grow up.
I suppose a lot of it has to do with familiarity. I miss the gym in our old building. I miss the office I had in our old apartment. The office in our house now has yet to really become mine. I've yet to bond with it, which is something every writer can understand -- you have to connect with your work space. It's still really early in the process, but I miss what I had before.
This all makes me wonder just how long it will be before I really process exactly where I am now, and I don't just mean physically.
I've been working out this equation lately:*
I'm at work (including lunch break) for 9 hours a day, 5 days a week = 45 hours.
If I'm good, I'm able to spend about 10 hours a week writing, or doing something writing related.
I probably spend 4 hours at the gym and another 4 hours in traffic during the week.
We're at 63 hours so far.
Let's optimistically say I'm in bed for 8 hours a night, which might actually be true if I make up time on the weekends. Now we're at 119.
Add 1 hour each weekday for breakfast and dinner, 2 hours for all 3 meals on the weekend. That's another 9 hours.
I watch 8 hours of TV, on average, most weeks (don't judge me).
Now we're at 136.
Now say I spend, on average, 4 hours a week on domestic duties, like running errands and household chores. And let's add in another 4 hours for socializing, which would more be weekly average, as I'm not really all that social.
We end at 144. There are 168 hours in a week.
This means that I have 24 hours that aren't accounted for.
I have 24 hours to do whatever I want.
So the question, really, is what am I doing with them?
I think when I figure that out, I'll start to get a grasp of this whole situation.
*No, seriously, I have done the math on this in my head like half a dozen times in the last two days... because I am a crazy person.
November 9, 2011
The Post About YA Books
About a year and a half ago, I sat down to write a YA book ("Young Adult," for those who might not know). It took me three months to write the first draft. It's been revised a few times since then, and is currently in the hands of my fantastic, live-in editor, Nicole.
This wasn't the YA book I thought I was going to write; I had another idea that got pushed aside by this one, but that I hope to come back to down the line. Unfortunately, I have two other ideas that seem to have more potential, so I've moved on to those.
But I've never had a problem with ideas; it's the execution that gets me.
I decided to write a YA book because, aside from perhaps comics, YA books take up the bulk of my reading list. I've also basically been writing YA books in my head for most of my life, I just never realized it. In some ways, my education in creative writing was something of a hindrance, as I was under the belief that I needed to be writing serious literary fiction, and that all of my crazy ideas about superheroes and dragons had no real value.
That's not to say that I don't enjoy serious literary fiction. But it's a fickle mistress that doles out far more pain than pleasure, although I suppose that's why the pleasure is so great.
...wow, that was a bit of a un-YA diatribe there...
As I said, I read a lot of YA books, and I've come to realize that there are, more or less, two distinct genres in the YA category: angst and fantasy.
Angst would be something like Twilight, of course. The focus is on interpersonal relationships that are intensely emotional and overly dramatic, but in some way relatable to the audience. I would imagine that books in this category generally skew a bit older, perhaps to high school kids.
Fantasy would be something like the Percy Jackson series. Plot is foremost, and that plot demands a certain level of detail, complexity, and creativity. Sure, the interpersonal stuff is in there, but it's not the central focus of the story. It's there to add depth. I would imagine these are the books that skew both younger and older, the books that middle school kids and their parents read, because neither group is too concerned with angsty teenagers.
The two genres can mix, of course. Harry Potter is a great example of this. That series began as mostly fantasy, but by the end it was equal parts fantasy and angst. The genius of Harry Potter is how it evolved from book to book, taking the readers along with it. For all the credit JK Rowling gets for her creativity, it's her vision of the big picture that I found most impressive.
Lately it seems as if the "angst" group has been mostly made up of post-apocalyptic and vampire stories. This make sense, of course, because both areas lend themselves fairly easily to angst. Sadly, it's resulting in a flood of books that are mostly about being melodramatic. It feels like this group has reached its saturation point, but I'm not sure how it becomes any better.
On the flip side, "fantasy" books have yet to find a pattern. Sure, most feature protagonists who are roughly the same age as the target audience, but beyond then there's been no set criteria for success. It would have been very easy to see a ton of books featuring wizards after Harry Potter changed the book world, but that isn't the case. There's a such a great variety of subjects in the "fantasy" group that it's ultimately the more interesting of the two categories.
Then again, I say that as an adult reading young adult books. In fact, maybe the "angst" group is the better of the two, the one that will last the longest. It certainly seems to have the most rabid fans.
Let's just hope the market for YA doesn't dry up any time soon: I've got 5 different series in my head, and it would be nice if someone paid me for them!
This wasn't the YA book I thought I was going to write; I had another idea that got pushed aside by this one, but that I hope to come back to down the line. Unfortunately, I have two other ideas that seem to have more potential, so I've moved on to those.
But I've never had a problem with ideas; it's the execution that gets me.
I decided to write a YA book because, aside from perhaps comics, YA books take up the bulk of my reading list. I've also basically been writing YA books in my head for most of my life, I just never realized it. In some ways, my education in creative writing was something of a hindrance, as I was under the belief that I needed to be writing serious literary fiction, and that all of my crazy ideas about superheroes and dragons had no real value.
That's not to say that I don't enjoy serious literary fiction. But it's a fickle mistress that doles out far more pain than pleasure, although I suppose that's why the pleasure is so great.
...wow, that was a bit of a un-YA diatribe there...
As I said, I read a lot of YA books, and I've come to realize that there are, more or less, two distinct genres in the YA category: angst and fantasy.
Angst would be something like Twilight, of course. The focus is on interpersonal relationships that are intensely emotional and overly dramatic, but in some way relatable to the audience. I would imagine that books in this category generally skew a bit older, perhaps to high school kids.
Fantasy would be something like the Percy Jackson series. Plot is foremost, and that plot demands a certain level of detail, complexity, and creativity. Sure, the interpersonal stuff is in there, but it's not the central focus of the story. It's there to add depth. I would imagine these are the books that skew both younger and older, the books that middle school kids and their parents read, because neither group is too concerned with angsty teenagers.
The two genres can mix, of course. Harry Potter is a great example of this. That series began as mostly fantasy, but by the end it was equal parts fantasy and angst. The genius of Harry Potter is how it evolved from book to book, taking the readers along with it. For all the credit JK Rowling gets for her creativity, it's her vision of the big picture that I found most impressive.
Lately it seems as if the "angst" group has been mostly made up of post-apocalyptic and vampire stories. This make sense, of course, because both areas lend themselves fairly easily to angst. Sadly, it's resulting in a flood of books that are mostly about being melodramatic. It feels like this group has reached its saturation point, but I'm not sure how it becomes any better.
On the flip side, "fantasy" books have yet to find a pattern. Sure, most feature protagonists who are roughly the same age as the target audience, but beyond then there's been no set criteria for success. It would have been very easy to see a ton of books featuring wizards after Harry Potter changed the book world, but that isn't the case. There's a such a great variety of subjects in the "fantasy" group that it's ultimately the more interesting of the two categories.
Then again, I say that as an adult reading young adult books. In fact, maybe the "angst" group is the better of the two, the one that will last the longest. It certainly seems to have the most rabid fans.
Let's just hope the market for YA doesn't dry up any time soon: I've got 5 different series in my head, and it would be nice if someone paid me for them!
November 8, 2011
"Call it fate, call it karma..."
In July of 2010 I made a choice, an illogical, fairly desperate, possibly awful choice. At the time, I was working a full time job that came with benefits, and while it didn't pay all that well, I had the opportunity to make more through commissions. Really, given the economic climate, who could ask for anything more?
Me, apparently.
I was miserable at that job. It was in property management, which is an industry I loathe yet was trapped in for years. I had no respect for the people who ran the company. And I worked in downtown L.A. -- not the hip, renovated part, the part that was a block away from skid row and the methadone clinic. Every few months our street would be shut down by the police for something like a stabbing or a jumper.
Nicole and I had a lot of other reasons to be miserable back then, too. The job just felt like the last straw.
So after a year at that job, I left, and took a job that was part time, no benefits, and even less money. The Midwesterner in me couldn't believe how irresponsible I was being. Nicole, who had seen me beaten down by this job, gave me full support to go.
Aside from the horrible decisions I've made involving relationships, this was the first time I'd really made a move based entirely upon my happiness.
Less than a year later, Nicole and I made the decision to move up to the Bay area. It was a pretty big deal, considering our lives were fairly entrenched in Los Angeles. But it was a move that would make Nicole happy and, ultimately, would make me happy -- besides, a happy Nicole often equals a happy Kyle.
Nicole left behind a pretty substantial career and a good amount of money. But we made this decision to be happy.
The company I jumped ship for isn't a large multi-national corporation, but they have purchased a few other companies that still maintain their offices. One of those offices was in the Bay area...and I happened to have been working for them, but in SoCal, this entire time. So when I told my bosses I was leaving, they told me that I should stay, but just transfer up north.
Suddenly, this incredibly rash decision Nicole and I had made to quit our jobs and move north wasn't so rash. I don't even know how to calculate the odds that the company I work for has an office 15 minutes from where we moved. It's almost impossible to wrap my brain around.
Nicole was going to face an uphill battle finding work. Most film editing jobs are in Los Angeles. The pie in the sky, of course, was working at Pixar (or even LucasFilm). But it could take her months to find a job, and maybe years to make the connections needed to get a job there.
But tomorrow is her first day at Pixar.
The timing was perfect; they just happened to have an opening within a month of our arrival. Nicole loves the hell out of Pixar and loves what she does. It's surreal, to be honest.
So perhaps Bill Murray was right. Perhaps everything does happen for a reason. I'm just too blown away by it all to really get beyond that.
Me, apparently.
I was miserable at that job. It was in property management, which is an industry I loathe yet was trapped in for years. I had no respect for the people who ran the company. And I worked in downtown L.A. -- not the hip, renovated part, the part that was a block away from skid row and the methadone clinic. Every few months our street would be shut down by the police for something like a stabbing or a jumper.
Nicole and I had a lot of other reasons to be miserable back then, too. The job just felt like the last straw.
So after a year at that job, I left, and took a job that was part time, no benefits, and even less money. The Midwesterner in me couldn't believe how irresponsible I was being. Nicole, who had seen me beaten down by this job, gave me full support to go.
Aside from the horrible decisions I've made involving relationships, this was the first time I'd really made a move based entirely upon my happiness.
Less than a year later, Nicole and I made the decision to move up to the Bay area. It was a pretty big deal, considering our lives were fairly entrenched in Los Angeles. But it was a move that would make Nicole happy and, ultimately, would make me happy -- besides, a happy Nicole often equals a happy Kyle.
Nicole left behind a pretty substantial career and a good amount of money. But we made this decision to be happy.
The company I jumped ship for isn't a large multi-national corporation, but they have purchased a few other companies that still maintain their offices. One of those offices was in the Bay area...and I happened to have been working for them, but in SoCal, this entire time. So when I told my bosses I was leaving, they told me that I should stay, but just transfer up north.
Suddenly, this incredibly rash decision Nicole and I had made to quit our jobs and move north wasn't so rash. I don't even know how to calculate the odds that the company I work for has an office 15 minutes from where we moved. It's almost impossible to wrap my brain around.
Nicole was going to face an uphill battle finding work. Most film editing jobs are in Los Angeles. The pie in the sky, of course, was working at Pixar (or even LucasFilm). But it could take her months to find a job, and maybe years to make the connections needed to get a job there.
But tomorrow is her first day at Pixar.
The timing was perfect; they just happened to have an opening within a month of our arrival. Nicole loves the hell out of Pixar and loves what she does. It's surreal, to be honest.
So perhaps Bill Murray was right. Perhaps everything does happen for a reason. I'm just too blown away by it all to really get beyond that.
