Darren Endymion's Blog, page 10

Getting Better…More Work Ahead

Today I really don’t have a whole lot. I’m still trying to pull myself out of the pre-depressive funk I’ve been in and doing an okay job at it. Alas, the process is not yet complete, and I’m afraid that it will come back, but I’m doing okay.

My writing, my taxes, my reading, my job performance, my social life (such as it is) have all been on hold. It’s annoying. I’m trying to make all these changes yet my brain is too busy being an asshole to let me do anything other than watch TV. I’ve moved on (mostly) from Forensic Files. I think, when I’m coming out of it, I will watch the old, OLD Shark Week I have on  my DVR. Nature, animals, and sharks always put me in a good mood.

I also have something to look forward to — my vacation to my state of interest in the middle of April. After that? I don’t know. I hope that, if I love the place, I will be inspired rather than despondent. I’ve mentioned that vacations serve as our steps back, which allow us to see the reality of our home and work situations in a way that few other things can. I think I’m pretty sure that I am aware of my situation, but what if I’m not? What if it gets WORSE when I get back. I need my job for now. I am prone, especially when despondent or full of other people’s shit, to verbally and in action and in all other ways not care enough to restrain myself. Corporate America, for me, has been a place where I have learned when to shut my mouth and when to double down and chew through someone’s jugular. If that goes away, I won’t have to worry about my team and their drama, as I will be fired.

So, I’m taking it all in stride. I can’t worry about something I have little control over. What I do have control over is my own actions. No matter how I feel, I choose what comes out of my mouth (usually). How I feel often seems to be up to the whims of the gods, and the amount of salt in my life also seems to be up to them. All I can do is learn, plan, and fight to not only get out of this funk, but to press forward with everything, the new stuff as well as the old stuff I have put aside because of whatever I was dealing with inside.

Having emotions sucks sometimes. Haha. I’m determined to cheer the hell up and pull myself out of this haze, so next week’s entry should be much better. For those few who have read, thank you. For the others…well, I’ll get better so they won’t see the difference. Wish me luck!

 

Forensics of Impending Depression

If you’ve been reading much lately, you know that I’m courting change and trying to do a lot to better my situation after a very long time of inactivity. I have not wanted to read, write, blog, go to work, cook the dozens of recipes I want to try, watch movies…anything. What I have wanted to do more than anything, in fact, is come home, look at simple memes, hot boys, scenic pictures of nature, sleep, and watch Forensic Files. Just Forensic Files. Nothing else.

I love forensics shows, and they are inherently sad, but lately I have centered in on that show with unholy enthusiasm. I’m fascinated by all the evidence and legalities, the DNA and the minute traces, everything about the show. I always have been fascinated by stuff like this, but the zeal with which I am watching this show isn’t normal. I’m getting emotionally involved, cussing out my TV, predicting the outcomes, and eventually laying there in a daze. I’m rewatching old episodes and letting them play in the background while I nap or space out and enter a daydreaming state. I don’t want to listen to music, even. I just want to space out and watch freakin’ Forensic Files.

I thought about why, why this show rather than something fun, and whether this could be affecting my mood (which on some level it absolutely must), and the only thing I could come up with is that there are just so many of them. There are 80 episodes on Netflix and the show airs at least 2 times a night on TV. I can put it on, space out, and let the time pass. There are plenty of Forensic Files for me to devour so that I can…what? Train me to be a cop? To run DNA evidence? Concoct the perfect murder? Doubtful.

Anyway, though the signs have been there, I haven’t fully realized how close I am to slipping into a depression. I suppose there’s a lot on my mind and I have a lot going on, but usually I jump up and DO something about it. I don’t even want to put on something I really like. The only shows that can intrude are Bates Motel and this final season of American Idol. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to cook. When I try to daydream, to whisk myself away, to think of my wolves, some terrible event always manifests from my brain to mess it all up. I’m sabotaging my own daydreams so that I only sit and think about nothing. Or the next episode of Forensic Files. And the one after that. And after that.

It hit me this past weekend. I was watching TV early on Saturday evening (can you guess what I was watching?) and I thought that I only had one night and the next day left before I had to return to work. I had almost half my weekend left and I was ready to collapse in exaggerated horror, grief, and malaise at the thought of going to work, of having to do ANYthing. Clearly, Forensic Files wasn’t cheering me up (I’m not sure how it could), so I jumped on YouTube.

I was looking up interviews with random celebrities I like and decided to look up Kylie Minogue. She was on this British talk show with this obviously, clearly, amazingly gay man named Alan Carr on his talk show, Chatty Man. First, he was so hilarious that I thought I was going to die. My sides and stomach hurt the next day. Second, it’s the UK, so they can say ANYthing and they drink! Third, I can’t get over how funny he is and how witty and how willing he is to do anything.

It wasn’t until I watched that and laughed and laughed and laughed some more that I realized how odd it felt. I hadn’t laughed like that in days…weeks…longer? It loosened something in me that I didn’t know was wound so tight. I’m always talking about taking a step back and assessing what’s making you miserable, but it’s hard to do. Sometimes you don’t even know that you NEED the step back. I was on the downward slope of depression. I was losing a battle I didn’t know I was fighting. I should. I’ve been there before. Being aware of it will allow me to defeat it. Plus, I’m changing, that I’m on the road finally.

My own sense of humor has gone to absolute shit during this time, but Mr. Carr and the laughs he provided tickled me in the best of places. *evil grin* I feel better. I’m not out of it, but I’m aware of it. And there are plenty of Chatty Man episodes online to help me bilster my strength until it comes back.

Slow and Fast Progress

My life has been full of progress lately. I’m not complaining at all, but as I’ve stated before, I’m a creature of habits, ruts, and grooves. Progress is not a bad thing, but sometimes I wish it could be at a more reasonable pace. Of course, as soon as I wish that, things stall (or I stall them) and I regret it. However, this feels different, and I’m scared, but I couldn’t be happier about it.

I’ve mentioned hating my job and where I live. I hate my lack of writing progress. I want to get out, but certain things have prevented me from doing so. I’m so hunkered down against the bullshit of my work that writing becomes a chore and all I want to do is lay around and space out — something remarkably close to depression. However, I’m good enough to do something about all this now. Something clicked this week and I booked a flight and a hotel to go visit my desired state and check it out. I have made significant progress in both life and my writing. So, I’ll spill it here.

 

Life

First, there’s the obvious of needing to get up and go see the place to check it out.

Second, I have never been on a plane. Well, once when I was 10 months old. It goes without saying that I don’t remember it.

Third, I had been waiting for someone to go with me for this very reason — to walk me through everything. Also, who wants to go on vacation alone?

Fourth, I had no plan. Do I look for a job over the weekend-and-a-day I’ll be there? Do I just check it out and eat too much? Do I look for apartments? I got practical and said yes to all…if it happens. The apartment and job will be secondary, as this is a scouting trip.

Fifth, I was afraid of the freedom. Sounds stupid, but think about it. When you go on vacation, you pop yourself out of your rut. It’s a step back and away. Things come into perspective…but you have to return. Unless a miracle happens and I get a job and an apartment in a single weekend, I will have to come back. It will be likeactually walking into that light at the end of the tunnel only to have to return to the sewage depths of my current situation. It could be dangerous. I’m likely to care less and take less shit. I already am dangerously low on fucks left to give, but I need my job. For now.

 

Writing

First, it has been s-l-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-w.

Second, my mind is a stereotypical male. It had a few mental orgasms and it thinks it has done all the work it needs to and has gone to hibernate.

Third, all the stresses have caused me to have lucid, horrid dreams when I sleep so I feel like I get no rest.

Fourth, work has been painful. I can’t concentrate. I’m riding high on a wave of bile. I have been getting headaches (from stress, no doubt). One was so bad that I had to leave work for the day. I got home and slept for 7 hours, woke up, had dinner, and went right back to sleep. Between no good sleep and the headaches, I feel like I get no rest and can barely form a sentence.

Fifth, I was debating stopping this project and doing another short story for an anthology. Seriously. You know that thing I ALWAYS do that pisses me off and defeats me? That thing where I give up and move on to something else? I almost did that. Yeah, not today, bitch-brain. I rejected that idea in favor of my original idea.

Sixth, since all that has started to clear up, production, progress, and the happiness associated with those things have picked up. I’m reading, writing, and am celebrating every sentence I create. I haven’t kicked into the groove yet, but I will. I can feel it.

Seventh, I listened to a fantastic, wonderful, gruesome, awful, amazing novel for the second or third time, and it was just right. This novel I’m writing is more gruesome and visceral than the last, mostly because of the main characters. And this novel I listened to was exactly the flavor I needed. The novel? Why, it was Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Suskind. The movie, which is all but impossible to find (unless you buy it streaming on Amazon), stars Ben Whitshaw, Dustin Hoffman, Rachel Hurd-Wood, and the late (great) Alan Rickman. It was exactly what I needed to spur me on. The novel is a classic and is one of those sensory experiences that makes you read it and think, “If only I could be half this good…” If you’re a Nirvana fan, Kurt Cobain was said to carry the book in his pocket, identified with the alienation of the main character, and the song “Scentless Apprentice” was inspired by the novel.

 

And that’s where it all stands. It’s all progress, some leaps, some crawls, and some revolting little slitherings. But I’ll take it where I can get it. Pretty soon, I will sprint. Maybe I need a vacation. *cackle*

Lost Neverlands

I think too much. I know that. But, I’ve been thinking a lot about childhood and how growing up is a constant process. It’s not like you grow from childhood to adulthood and you’re done. Even once you’re an adult the process is eternal, though we usually term them “life lessons” or some crap. It has been on my mind because I’m trying to inflict another life lesson on myself and get myself out of the rut I’m in and become a better, more complete person in the process.

Well, who is the symbol of not growing up? Peter Pan! So, I’m rereading the original book and came across a line that really saddened me. The author, J.M. Barrie, is talking about the various Neverlands in our minds and wrote this:

“We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.”

It hit me right in what passes for my heart. It’s like those places we visit in childhood can never be visited again. Granted, if an adult goes around acting like a complete child, hiding in hardboard boxes, pretending he’s a pirate, running from the boogeyman, and so on, he should be an actor and getting paid for it, playing with his children, or we lock him up. But there’s something terribly sad to me about losing touch with that inner child, with that sense of wonder we experienced every day, that explosion of imagination we had at the smallest things, when, for even the briefest of moments, we actually believed that we were cat-beings from another planet, or that we had super powers, or that we were wizards with griffins for pets. It doesn’t matter what the actual dream was, because for a moment it was real, and maybe that’s the Neverland that J.M. Barrie was talking about. That’s where we will never land again — in that place of impossibility.

To be disconnected from that forever is both disheartening and a little scary. Call me stupid, call me pretentious — I may be both — but losing that seems like losing our pathways to the infinite. What are our adult, grownup Neverlands? Winning the lottery? Being famous? Having a beautiful romance that sweeps you off your feet? Those things have their merits, but I have a feeling that Peter Pan would be disappointed in us.

As adults we are taught what is possible, what is recommended, and — worst of all — what we cannot do. With this last, our tickets to Neverland are taken from us until all we have is the memory of its forests and jungles and the echoing sound of its waves.

I’m reminded of another quote, this one by Shirley Jackson:

“No live organism can continue for long to exist under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.”

Reality can be awesome. It can be an amazing place; it’s like a nest you tend to on your own and are ultimately responsible for — you’re the one living in it, after all. But I agree with Shirley Jackson. Absolute reality kills the mind. I think that’s where fiction comes in. It allows us controlled madness. We are transported to someone else’s Neverland, whether we call that place Narnia, Hogwarts, Manhattan, Hollywood, the moon, another planet, anywhere fiction can take you (which is truly anywhere), and it doesn’t matter if you get there through a book, a movie, your own imagination, or a dream.

For that time, you are indulging in your own madness, you have your ticket to Neverland back. If you are a writer or an artist or a movie maker, you can make your own Neverland and allow people to join you there. Or you can escape there whenever you want and not share — my own lamentable writing habits are an example of this. I hope to never lose touch with my own Neverlands. I hope to be able to believe that I am a wizard with a cat-person from another planet as my friend. If I don’t believe it as a writer, how can I make YOU believe it?

Honestly, though, my motivations are so much more selfish than that. I need to grow up, to have those “life lessons” we all go through, but without that insanity, without that bit of madness in my life, I’m not sure what I would do or if I could even function. Some Neverlands are lost, but not all. Never all.

As the Cheshire Cat said, “We’re all mad here.”

The Sad Spreadsheet

In my novel Winter’s Trial, I have a character, Austin, who is stuck where he is and cannot get out until certain things come to pass. He has most of his apartment boxed and ready to go, though there is no end in sight, because the packing of a box helps him look forward to a time when he will be out, when he will be away, when he can be happy. The one box he hates most of all is the one in which he keeps the clippers for his hair, because that constantly has to be unpacked, used, repacked, and put away. Each time he does this, he hopes it’s the last time he had to unpack it, the last time he has to repack it in that place.

It’s a small detail, but one I included not only to show how ready he is to leave, but because I do the same thing. Frankly, I hate my job and I’m in a ghastly rut. I’ve been talking about trying to get out of it and getting away, but I’ve been here for a very long time and it’s difficult. I’ve always been one to want to set roots and cling to them, and it becomes difficult for me to pry myself out of my stubborn ways. Taurus traits, I hear. There are certain things I need in a job (a.k.a. good insurance, sustainable income, and coworkers I don’t want to clobber — or more that I don’t than ones that I do), and since I’m also looking to move at least a state away, it becomes that much more intricate of an ordeal. Change bothers me, but now it has become a driving force. It’s hard to upset the bull, to make him get up, but when he does, it’s a charge forward. There’s a lot of work to be done, but I’m finally doing it…instead of just talking about it. Rut be damned.

The preceding two paragraphs come together because I have a little breathing room this month at work and so have spreadsheets I have to update for the quarter (for the whole team), for the year (for each person on my team), and a place to compile all the information (for my supervisor). Each time, like my character Austin, I think about where I will be at that time. When I make the spreadsheets for the year for the whole team, I think, “Will I still be here then? Will I see another Halloween, another Christmas, another dreaded January here?”

Preparing these types of things used to bring joy, excitement, and pleasant anticipation. I was practically Pollyanna, disgusting as that may be. I would think of all the things I could do, all the fun I could have, all the accomplishments I would celebrate, maybe even the romance(s) I could have. Whatever. I saw it as a book, one where I couldn’t peek at the end, no matter how the anticipation got to me. Life is essentially a choose your own adventure book, anyway. I would grin like an idiot when I would print out a calendar for the year and write in people’s birthdays because of that feeling of pleasant anticipation, like the calendar was a diary not yet filled, as if, by concentrating hard enough, I might see the writing on those last few pages, or peer through some magic window at those last months of the year.

Now, however, the thought only fills me with dread. Am I preparing these spreadsheets for my successor or will I be the one filling them out, nine-and-a-half ghastly months from now? My team is like quicksand, a roach motel, a black hole, a trap from which nobody escapes, nobody gets out, nobody gets promoted (except me, I guess.) My team hasn’t lost a single person in about 8 years (despite the desperate need for a purge), but I still think about who will be added to (or subtracted from) from the list in the ensuing year. I think about who will be doing the work that goes IN the spreadsheets — me or someone else? I think about where I will be when those months roll around — in a new job, in another state? Or will I be here still, still firmly rooted in my rut, still miserable, still with the same backbiting slugs, still dragging forward to the weekend…and the one after that…and after that? Will I still be stuck in a depressing, endless cycle until all the spreadsheets are filled…by me?

So, sad spreadsheets, indeed. Last week I finally updated my résumé after literally a year (plus) of talking about needing to do it. I’m recovering from my random accident a year ago and working out and getting better and am making amazing strides (literally). I’ve talked to a friend about going on vacation in a few months to view the city I hope to call home someday. If she can’t, then I shall nervously go alone. I can start looking for jobs when some of that is done. I wanted to be out by the beginning of summer, but it’s looking like the end will be more probable. I’ve never moved so far in my life, and haven’t moved without help ever. It’s scary. Terrifying. But sometimes you just know…it’s time. No more sad spreadsheets for me. Right? Right???

Fiction Heals

Sometimes the best thing we can do to heal our psyche is to get away from it all. Life sucks sometimes and we need that escape, not only to get out of our lives, but to step back and gain that perspective we so often need. We can’t all take vacations away from life whenever it gets troublesome, just pack up, jump on a plane and GTFO. Very few of us can, in fact. Life, work, kids, school, other obligations don’t go away, not for most of us.

That’s where fiction comes in to save the day.

Whether we experience that fiction by watching a good movie, reading a book, relaxing into a consuming daydream, spacing out to music, or even writing it all out, it invariably seems to help. I know that, if things get really, really bad, all I have to do is read the Harry Potter novels again. The world goes away. I’m at Hogwarts, next to Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna, Sirius, Molly, McGonagall, Dumbledore, and all the others. I’m fighting, feeling, caring, and living in that world. Those troubles become my own.

There’s a passage in Misery where Paul Sheldon thinks that, by becoming a writer of stories himself, he has condemned himself to a life of picking them apart automatically, seeing what works and what doesn’t, reading it with the eye of a writer rather than someone almost lovesick with the world he is meant to dive into. I don’t pretend to be a writer like that, but I can tell you that this does exist. I took a creative writing course in college and we learned to pick stories apart, to become editors. It helps my own writing. It’s a wonderful tool, but it is double-edged.

Harry Potter, however, turns me into an avid reader. There are times of admiration for J.K. Rowling’s impressive writing and worldbuilding gifts, but I think that’s inevitable. She is a master, and through her and Harry, I am transported. I don’t realize it, but I am healing inside when I read her work (even though she often tries to rip apart your soul because you care so much for her characters).

There are other examples, and any writer or reader of fiction has just his or her own examples of this transportation and healing power of fiction. Being a writer (Quasi-writer? Wannabe writer? Some idiot struggling with himself to just do it? Whatever…), I have the advantage of writing it out. I’ve been so absorbed in the wolves I’m prepping and writing and researching that I can’t find a way to get out my own issues in as direct a way as I’d like through that story.

Another story had been in my mind for years, and it’s not time to write it (it’s wolf time), but I find that my world issues are taking over and that I find ways to escape that rather than working on my beloved wolves. Until today. Today I realized that this other idea was 100% the scenario to get out all of my issues within the framework of this story that has just been racketing around in my head forever. The scenes haven’t left me alone in a few weeks, and so today when I realized that I could encapsulate them all in one or two small scenes, I decided to write them out.

I feel no urge to abandon my wolves or to pursue this other story just yet. But by writing it out (which I’m still in the process of doing, pausing only to write this), I feel better. Not only that, but I feel like a block to my wolves and writing has been lifted. Instead of avoiding it all, pushing forward without dealing with my other issues, I’m healing through this fiction. And that’s worth everything.

Mondays are Gonna Suck…

…for doing anything productive, anyway. I’m not a big TV freak. There are shows I love (like Salem on the WGN), that I am woefully behind on. I’m not even halfway through season 2 and season 3 is about to start. I have Shark Week from last year still clogging up my DVR. I have the final 5 episodes of Jim Henson’s Creature Shop Challenge on my DVR. I had to delete an entire season of Face Off and then some because it was backing things up. I have TV intentions, but I fall short of the reality. I’m watching American Idol because it’s the last season and I’m actually really enjoying it despite my previous disenchantment (I’m looking at you, Taylor Hicks). I loved Hannibal, but haven’t finished the first season. Watching TV shows are like a commitment to me, and it feels like an obligation after a while.

When it comes to TV, I’m someone who thinks he’s a serial monogamist but is actually a giant whore. Salem, Gotham, Flash, Hannibal, shit… even the old-ass cartoons for Teen Titans and She-Ra …they all go down as series I loved and wanted to watch before the time investment became too much. The commitment scared me off, so I fixed that by being a whore with a new series.

The only shows I have ever been able to keep up on while they air are American Horror Story and Bates Motel (though last season was iffy in the middle). Bates Motel tonight was amazing and sets up for so much. I don’t know where, but I read that they only intend to go for 5 seasons and so we will see a further decline in Norman’s psyche between this season and next, if it is truly meant to be the last.

Then we have Damien. I watched the premier tonight and really liked it. The reviews are just mean, though, and most of them aren’t objective at all (if you remember, Bates Motel got terrible reviews initially). Part of it stems from taking an old property and making it new, bringing it into the current decade. And it’s not like horror gets a fair chance anyway. What I do agree with is that the show seems to flounder a little, like it doesn’t know where it wants to go. Will Damien fight against his evil nature, or will he give in? I think that’s pretty much the plot, though, and I’m hoping that the series does well.

With Bates Motel we know how it will end. Norman doesn’t get out unscathed and Norma doesn’t make it out…unless you count as a mummified, stuffed corpse in the basement. Norman is out and running the motel and Norma and her boyfriend (Sheriff Romero? We don’t know yet.) are dead by Norman’s hands. Psycho, the movie on which Bates Motel is based, is an end point. The Omen is Damien’s beginning.

As a quasi-writer I can say that knowing where you will go allows you to drop hints, foreshadow, and to have a path. Before Winter’s Trial was published I had written a lame, shallow attempt at Taylor’s story. While ashamed of that beastly waste now, and while many of the things have changed about it, it gave me an idea of where I was going. From that original story, though largely abandoned, I had a jumping off point and so was able to map the past. Knowing where I’m going allows me to have a plan. Things change and alter, and so the end result is fluid, but I have direction.

I hope that Damien does, too, because it has potential. Meander too much and people like me, TV series whores, will blink away. Hell, it’s not like I don’t have at least three other shows (and Shark Week) that I loved and could watch again at any time. Still, for the next few weeks, Mondays are likely to be taken up by Bates Motel, Damien, and maybe even some sharks, witches, or She-Ra while I’m feeling in a series-watching mood. Very little will actually get done, it seems.

Too Much Salt

I’m always talking about a certain Buddhist meditation/book/audio book by Sharon Salzberg in which she describes the problems in life as salt. She says that you have no control over how much salt comes your way, but you do have control over the size of the vessel it goes into. Meaning, of course, that if you expand your mind and horizons and perceptions, you are able to deal with just about anything.

I agree with this fully and so I try to deal when some salt comes my way. However, sometimes it comes at you, not like assholes throwing rice at you after a wedding, sprinkling salt on you as you pass them by onto better things, but rather they back a dump truck up to your tea cup of water and, while dumping all that salt in your cup, they proceed to beat the shit out of you with a horse-sized salt lick in a sling. This happened to me very recently, and when that much salt comes your way, it becomes increasingly hard to expand the size of your mind to deal with this annoyance in time to let its impact be negligible.

However, it’s not impossible. Since the main source of salt in my life comes from work, I took a day off. I was *cough* “sick”. Normally, playing hooky isn’t like me, but I really needed this. In fact, I liked it so much that I took the next day off…and the next. I had a general doctor’s appointment today anyway, so I used that as evidence that I was indeed very badly off.

In that time off I had the mental O about my writing, I meditated, I exercised, I calmed myself, and (possibly of the largest importance) I made a list of everything I need to do to get out of not only that job but out of everything that is currently dumping salt into my life. That’s the real lesson, though, and if I needed three days off to deal with it, to come to terms with it, then it’s a small price to pay. I call in “sick” maybe once a year, usually less, so it’s not like my employment is in any danger.

By planning ways to get myself out of the situation rather than just whining about it, I was able to expand that thimble full of water into a lake within a day or so. Bring on the salt, bitches. By focusing on my writing, I was able to open a portal to another world into which I can escape at any time, thereby not only furthering my goals, but rendering the real world temporarily, blessedly irrelevant. More salt, whores! My meditation, reading, chatting, and exercise gave me an outlet to blow off the steam. Is that all the salt you’ve got?!

And so there really is no such thing as too much salt. Sometimes your cup is just too little. There’s always a way out, and things can always get better.

The Randomness and Necessity of Mental Os

Once upon a time I mentioned that I call insane bursts of inspiration Mental Orgasms (Mental Os for short), because they are like a sort of telepathic pleasure explosion. Sometimes they aren’t anything that’s going to make or break you, and sometimes they are about as profound as finding a piece of gravel stuck in the ribbing on the bottom of your shoe, but they come at a time when you most need them. They are links to the rest of what is happening.

These don’t have to be with novel writing or anything creative. I had one recently — although very mild — concerning something happening at work (ugh. There’s a sordid and vile drama that few would want to read.) Tonight, however, I had one regarding the work in progress, my second wolf novel.

This thing has been so hard to get off the ground that I often wonder if it’s what I’m supposed to be writing. It’s rarely that hard for me to start or imagine anything. Tonight put it in perspective and I know why I was having such a hard time.

Since I am listening to the audiobook for Stephen King’s Misery, I will relate two instances from it that illustrates what I’m talking about. Annie Wilkes forcefully coerces Paul Sheldon into bringing the recently deceased heroine of his bestselling novels back to life and to write another novel concerning her. He does manage to bring her back to life, and it’s gruesome but believable. He thinks to himself that now that he has snatched the heroine out of the grave convincingly, he needs to focus on what the book is actually going to be about. Later, while lying in bed, he has a giant Mental O and it’s all figured out. In this same book, Paul Sheldon thinks about not being sure where a writing project was going, thinking that not being sure was a corner of purgatory reserved for writers who are often driving blind with little sense of direction.

That’s what was happening with me. I knew that the main couple was going to get together and that there would be some specific issues within the relationship. I knew what the secondary characters were doing, and I knew all the different plots going on in their heads. What was the book supposed to be about? Who the hell knew? I thought it would come to me eventually, but careening into the unknown without a map only scares me. I know sometimes we have to just go with it, but what I’m trying to do with all these wolf novels is hint and foreshadow so that people can go back and read them and pick out all the clues I’ve left. It’s something I want to play with, a writing tool I want to hone, and it’s fun besides.

So, tonight it happened. I was catching up on a show on my DVR when I thought some guy’s cheeks looked as though they had been rouged by a blind man with a paint brush, using wide, generous strokes. That led to looking at my movie collection, which led me to thinking that I wanted to watch a particular movie, when my phone notification went off to tell me that an app needs tending to.

There is no connection between these things. None at all. But it all came together and I had that flash. I don’t think I blinked for a full minute. (Try doing it. It’s not pleasant.) After that came another aftershock Mental O, and then another even smaller one happened as I was writing this. I know where the story is going. I know how to get it there. To get it where I want it, I get to try something I’ve never tried before, and I like that. I’m excited. I knew…er, I HOPED it would come. And it did. Finally.

May the gods bless those exhausting Mental Os and keep them coming.

The Burden of Entitlement

I’ve unfortunately come face to face with some severe sense of entitlement lately, and I may have to bite through someone’s jugular. I once did a small entry here on narcissism and it was a general look at one of the things that bothers me most. Narcissism, inflated ego, and a sense of entitlement are all linked and they drive me nuts. So, I looked up signs (which I will share later in this entry).

Some people at my job are…special. One in particular is not a good worker. He’s very smart, but totally lazy. Rather than do his work, he will find all sorts of new and astounding ways to get out of it. The work he DOES do is wildly subpar. This alone puts him in dead last in the rankings for the team. Sources tell me that his poor performance earned him no raise for the year and a ranking that says he needs to (FINALLY) shape up or be put on corrective action and eventually fired.

He freaked out. He went above everyone’s heads and to our manager, giving a sob story. He’s trying to personally attack me (as the team lead and someone who does the quality assessments) and say that I’m biased and picking on him. What struck me about this is the audacity. You don’t do your work consistently for years and finally have a supervisor who is calling you on it, and you are failing miserably using the same metrics that everyone else on the team has…and you think you’re being picked on? When all the evidence against you is checked by your lead, supervisor, and manager upon request? Seriously? Luckily, the manager knows this guy’s full of excrement, and so nothing has really changed.

Unfortunately, through this smear campaign, the idiot in question has done everything he can to not only bring me down, but to rip apart the team by retelling gossip, twisting it, and putting it out there as fact. As the team lead (and possibly being pushed to be a supervisor *shudder*) I’m trying to play damage control so that the team doesn’t end up in murdering each other over some malcontent’s hateful actions. He feels as though I, our supervisor, the manager, and the people who end up having to pick up his slack should ignore all his shortcomings and award him good quality scores and not only a raise, but a substantial one.

But it got me thinking about the sense of entitlement that he has and, through this incident, that other people on my team are showing. So, I looked up signs that someone has a bloated sense of entitlement and found this:

1) Expecting that the same rules that apply to others not apply to you.

2) You feel massively put upon when others ask you for favors while expecting people to go out of their way for you.

3) You expect other people to be more interested in you and your life than anyone else’s…even their own. Your goals and dreams are more important than other people’s, not just to you (which they should be) but to others as well.

4) You ignore rules that are intended for everyone’s comfort.

5) You freeload. (See above where he expects others to not only do his work but never say anything about it).

6) You inconvenience others without thinking. (I think the key here is “without thinking”. The arrogance and entitlement within you suggest that it doesn’t matter and so it never occurs to you.)

7) You think it’s okay to upset or offend people. People who can’t handle your “quirks” are weak.

8) You cheat, specifically in places based on reciprocity.

9) When in groups, you think you should be the leader or get the most credit, regardless of your actual contributions.

Going over this, I see some of these qualities in myself, which is distressing. I’m certain that most people will see some part of themselves in this list. It’s when you have more and more of these tendencies that some real evaluation is needed. However, someone with a severe sense of entitlement (see my story above) doesn’t think there is an issue. It goes on and on. I’m certain that we could all apply these thoughts to someone we know. There are ways to help, but sometimes, like with this, there are only two options: to get rid of the problem or divorce yourself from it. Wish me luck on doing one of them.