On Profits, or Lack Thereof
Monday morning, and it's cold in the office. I'm guessing it's because the heat goes off at night to save on energy, which makes sense. However, it makes my already gaffe-prone fingers shake over the keyboard, increasing errors and upping my stress level. It also drives me to drink more coffee, something I'm loathe to do both because I quit the stuff last summer because I was drinking way too much of it and having gone through the whole detox thing with the shakes, headaches, and exhaustion, I hate the idea that I've backslid to become dependent on a chemical again. Also the coffee isn't very good.
Lately, I've come to find my inability to write anything frustrating. At the end of the day, after work, hitting the gym, cooking dinner, doing the dishes (I often forget I have a dishwasher in the new apartment, having been here only a week), and preparing my lunch for the following day, I have little interest in doing anything besides shooting imaginary zombies on my 360, or some other ballistic target deemed socially acceptable by the moral code imposed by the game. Free will my ass. If you don't want to get shot, then do not stand in front of the man with the automatic weapon. At some point I feel these MPC's have had their chance and need to accept responsibility for their actions. If a man in a firefight dings your car and your response is to run up and take a swing at him, then you deserve the bullet-riddling you are about to receive and I, the player, should not be punished for giving you what you deserve. But no. Instead, I wind up having to off half the police department and set a major downtown intersection on fire before I can leave the area in my stolen tank. Some people just don't think.
My point is, as entertaining as digital anti-social mayhem can be, it's not terribly productive and I feel lazy when another day has gone by and I haven't produced anything. I feel about writing much the way I do about acting. I'm sure I could do it, and well at that, if I could just find someone to pay me. Problem is, I have to do loads of it for free first, all while doing what people are willing to pay me for, which isn't much. So far, the only financially remunerative thing I've found is monitoring the slow degradation of my own soul, though most job adverts call these, "Administrative/Clerical" positions. Sadly, this appears to be all I'm qualified for. I try to look into taking classes, obtaining some more marketable job skills, but classes cost money, which I don't have because I can't get a better job, which I can't do because I lack any skills because I can't take classes because I don't have money...and so on.
I've become part of a theatre company, the American Demigods, founded by my friend Rory. He's written a number of things and directed me in the past. For reasons that remain unclear to me, he has an extraordinarily high opinion of my acting abilities. He'll be directing the next show I'm in, Monks in Trouble. It's a brilliant show and I encourage everyone to see it. At any rate, I now find myself charged with the job of promoting this theatre company and helping to set up its website, something that adds to my stress and work load, especially since it's all very committee-based. I'm hesitant to do anything without approval from the rest of the board since I didn't start this project. In short, it's not my baby, and I don't feel right teaching it to walk. That's for its parents to do.
On the rare occasions I do write anything, I have a hard time joining it up with the other things I've written. I'll have several plot points, but I won't know where the story is going nor how the points link together. I've got a beginning and an ending as well as several points in between. But I'm at a complete loss for how it all fits together. And while I usually like puzzles, you know looking at one that there is a solution and that if you stare long enough, you will find it. Here, the project is more akin to having a box full of puzzle pieces, some stuck together, some not, some, possibly, from one or more different puzzles than the one you're working on. Unfortunately, you have no idea what the picture looks like as you've lost the box top, so there's no help there. You have to squint at the colors and shapes of the pieces and try to work out which of the thousand bits you can use. And when you're done, the picture could prove to be very ugly, say, one of those weeping clowns, or very boring, say, anything by Georgia O'Keefe. So now you've worked for ages on this thing that turns out to be a giant yak skull on a pile of sand. It's not a very interesting yak skull and the sand is a particularly distasteful shade of yellow. Congratulations. You've invested all your hope and energy into something you're going to throw out.
It all reminds me of something Hunter S. Thompson wrote. "Every now and then you run up on one of those days when everything's in vain....a stone bummer from start to finish; if you know what’s good for you, on days like these you sortof hunker down in a safe corner and watch. Maybe think a bit." I find I have more and more of these days lately.
I just got my flu shot. I find a part of myself hoping I get the flu so I can take a few days sick leave. Given the choice, I'd rather be at home curled up under the covers wishing I were dead that feeling the same sentiment while sitting at my desk.
Lately, I've come to find my inability to write anything frustrating. At the end of the day, after work, hitting the gym, cooking dinner, doing the dishes (I often forget I have a dishwasher in the new apartment, having been here only a week), and preparing my lunch for the following day, I have little interest in doing anything besides shooting imaginary zombies on my 360, or some other ballistic target deemed socially acceptable by the moral code imposed by the game. Free will my ass. If you don't want to get shot, then do not stand in front of the man with the automatic weapon. At some point I feel these MPC's have had their chance and need to accept responsibility for their actions. If a man in a firefight dings your car and your response is to run up and take a swing at him, then you deserve the bullet-riddling you are about to receive and I, the player, should not be punished for giving you what you deserve. But no. Instead, I wind up having to off half the police department and set a major downtown intersection on fire before I can leave the area in my stolen tank. Some people just don't think.
My point is, as entertaining as digital anti-social mayhem can be, it's not terribly productive and I feel lazy when another day has gone by and I haven't produced anything. I feel about writing much the way I do about acting. I'm sure I could do it, and well at that, if I could just find someone to pay me. Problem is, I have to do loads of it for free first, all while doing what people are willing to pay me for, which isn't much. So far, the only financially remunerative thing I've found is monitoring the slow degradation of my own soul, though most job adverts call these, "Administrative/Clerical" positions. Sadly, this appears to be all I'm qualified for. I try to look into taking classes, obtaining some more marketable job skills, but classes cost money, which I don't have because I can't get a better job, which I can't do because I lack any skills because I can't take classes because I don't have money...and so on.
I've become part of a theatre company, the American Demigods, founded by my friend Rory. He's written a number of things and directed me in the past. For reasons that remain unclear to me, he has an extraordinarily high opinion of my acting abilities. He'll be directing the next show I'm in, Monks in Trouble. It's a brilliant show and I encourage everyone to see it. At any rate, I now find myself charged with the job of promoting this theatre company and helping to set up its website, something that adds to my stress and work load, especially since it's all very committee-based. I'm hesitant to do anything without approval from the rest of the board since I didn't start this project. In short, it's not my baby, and I don't feel right teaching it to walk. That's for its parents to do.
On the rare occasions I do write anything, I have a hard time joining it up with the other things I've written. I'll have several plot points, but I won't know where the story is going nor how the points link together. I've got a beginning and an ending as well as several points in between. But I'm at a complete loss for how it all fits together. And while I usually like puzzles, you know looking at one that there is a solution and that if you stare long enough, you will find it. Here, the project is more akin to having a box full of puzzle pieces, some stuck together, some not, some, possibly, from one or more different puzzles than the one you're working on. Unfortunately, you have no idea what the picture looks like as you've lost the box top, so there's no help there. You have to squint at the colors and shapes of the pieces and try to work out which of the thousand bits you can use. And when you're done, the picture could prove to be very ugly, say, one of those weeping clowns, or very boring, say, anything by Georgia O'Keefe. So now you've worked for ages on this thing that turns out to be a giant yak skull on a pile of sand. It's not a very interesting yak skull and the sand is a particularly distasteful shade of yellow. Congratulations. You've invested all your hope and energy into something you're going to throw out.
It all reminds me of something Hunter S. Thompson wrote. "Every now and then you run up on one of those days when everything's in vain....a stone bummer from start to finish; if you know what’s good for you, on days like these you sortof hunker down in a safe corner and watch. Maybe think a bit." I find I have more and more of these days lately.
I just got my flu shot. I find a part of myself hoping I get the flu so I can take a few days sick leave. Given the choice, I'd rather be at home curled up under the covers wishing I were dead that feeling the same sentiment while sitting at my desk.