Making people feel terrible for good reasons.

You know what I like about this book I'm writing? The main character has an anxiety disorder that keeps him from doing a significant number of things (mainly going to college without stressing out about the whole thing). Throughout the story, he continually tells himself things like "I should work through my meaningless panic" or "This is silly, I'm ridiculous and inferior" or "Why can't I be better than this and be like people who aren't as stupid as me?" and general self-defeating things that would also be said by society at large.

And your average reader who's part of society at large would nevertheless probably be feeling sorry for this character throughout the whole story (because fiction has this way of getting you to look inside a character's mind and make you relate to them or at least think positively of them in ways you might not have if you knew them in real life). And at some point, this hypothetical person will be reading the book and yell at the character, "Stop saying such negative things about yourself!"

And then the average reader will realize, with a sense of rising horror and shame, that the kinds of things the character is saying to himself are the kinds of things they would say to someone with similar problems if they met them in real life.

(I love writing things that make people feel horrible for very valid reasons.)

Buy bad soda.

I've attempted to live more "adventurously", for a certain definition of "adventurous". For me, "adventurous" is understood to mean "a situation that you've never quite been in before and which provides an opportunity for failure and bad outcome, which you of course must take". For me and my dull little life with no chance for adventure in the traditional sense, this usually means "doing something slightly different and seeing whether or not it's a good idea, like doing tasks in a slightly different order or mixing two types of tea that I typically don't mix together". However, last Wednesday, the opportunity for adventure manifested itself in the buying of bad soda.

Here is what happened. My library hosts a variety of events that supposedly draw people to the library and help them understand what a beautiful safe haven of books and community experiences it is. I don't know if it helps them realize that libraries are indeed magnificent, but it's still fun. Some Wednesdays, there are "anime nights" for teenagers, and while I am arguably not a teenager (I'm eighteen and I'm in college), I'm still allowed to come because I look young enough for the program and the guy who supervises it knows me and likes me. I've developed some acquaintanceships or at least positive relationships with some of the people there. It was originally an adventure when I started coming to the events and didn't know if I would like them. It's no longer an adventure because I know I like it and I know exactly what I'm going to get (that is, goofing around while making Doctor Who references and not actually watching anime - it's that sort of thing).

Now, I did get a chance for adventure when three of my acquaintances decided they would leave the library to go to a soda-and-ice-cream shop nearby. I thought that would be fun, so I followed them. That wasn't an adventure; I knew what the place was like and I knew we'd be able to get there and back again pretty safely and predictably. It was when we got to the soda shop that the real adventure started.

A fact about me: I am cheap. I am a penny-pincher. My money and I are not soon parted. Sometimes I make the surprising act of buying something immediately instead of thinking about it for ten minutes, but normally, I dislike spending my money unless I know exactly what I'm getting and the price is reasonable (sometimes frighteningly reasonable). The fact that the sodas were about $3 each was a deterrent to the possibility of me buying one.

But then I noticed cheap soda. I noticed Christmas-themed sodas still left over from the holiday season, which were on sale for $1.50. That spoke to my financial sensibilities. I purchased an eggnog-flavored soda, which sounded horrible but still piqued my curiosity at a reasonable price. I explained to my compatriots that it would be an adventure. Which it was.

As could be predicted, it was bad. It was bad soda. It tasted like warm eggs with cinnamon in them, and that's not what you want your soda to taste like, even if you like warm eggs with cinnamon in them (I hate eggs and I have a semi-tolerance for cinnamon). I ended it palming it off to the only member of our group who had no purchased their own soda. (She didn't like it either.)

It was an adventure, though. Had I bought a soda I knew I liked or no soda at all, I wouldn't have a story to tell. I could have said, "Oh yeah, I had a soda," or "I didn't drink anything" and I'd just move on. But now I can say, "Oh yeah, I had eggnog soda. It was terrible. It tasted like warm eggs with cinnamon in them. I know, right? Sounds disgusting!" And now I know never to have eggnog soda again. Yes, this is probably one of those lessons that is completely incommunicable to any other situation, but it did result in this interesting story which I tell now.

So the point I'm trying to make here - most people don't have the opportunity for adventure in their lives, but if you find a tiny opportunity for it in your life, you should do it. Especially if you have nothing to lose but a little time and/or money and either a nice experience or a good story to gain. For me, my unexpected adventures are found in sodas. For you, it may be something completely different. All I can say is that buying bad sodas is always a good bet.

I had rather a manic episode today. I mean in the actual bipolar sense. It wasn't too bad. It made me extremely hyper, gave me an attention span that would have made goldfish proud of theirs, and caused me to flail my arms and scream about toupees. (I was listening to a song called "Purple Toupee" at the time, so it sort of made sense, but still.)

I couldn't really focus on my projects, and I was trying to write several things (including something for that John Lennon project, as I'm referring to it as). And knit. And draw. And hold text conversations with my friends and acquaintances (though I did that with frightening lucidity; never let it be said that I am/was the sort of crazy person whose speech was unintelligable and incoherent.) I wasn't really able to focus on things, though, so I mostly ran around the house (which was thankfully empty) and yelled. The sort of happy yelling that one does when one is silly. And singing. I sang a lot. Mostly They Might Be Giants songs.

I calmed down once I realized that I had to get around to writing my John Lennon song. So I just sat down at the piano and sort of...I don't know, sort of hammered stuff out, I suppose. (I use the phrase "hammered out" quite a bit, actually.) And then I gradually became more focused and settled down and got actual stuff done. Yes.

You know, I think this is the first time I've ever really described bipolar disorder in detail on this blog. So, uh, have a description of what I'm like when I'm rather manic. I'm not a frightening insane person or anything. Just rather off-kilter and prone to screaming about toupees.

Anyhow. Tomorrow's an exciting day for me because I'm finally going in to shoot the interview/song for the John Lennon project. I wrote the song today (yes, the "hammering out" thing, that was when I did it). It's a rather convenient fact that the same time of my life when my personal appearance has become actually relevant (such as giving authors' pictures or being in videos and stuff) is also the same time of my life when I begin dressing respectably ("respectably" being a word which here means "wearing cardigans, button-up shirts, and ties pretty much every day"). It's nice. My aesthetic can be now described as "nice professor guy" (which an acquaintance of mine said was "the best fashion label ever") and I finally look like the sort of writer I probably am. I'm not quite certain. (Well. I feel as though I've spent too much time talking about my personal appearance here and I feel vaguely embarrassed. Anyhow.)

Things are becoming interesting in my life, then, I suppose. At least I have projects. I'm really alive when I've got projects, I suppose. Things are going okay, even if I do have moments of mania. Yes.

In which I am invited to write about John Lennon.

Well. I got some really quite exciting news today. The mother of an acquaintance of mine has a publishing company that is working on an Apple iBook called “A Lennon Pastiche”. It’s about John Lennon (who hopefully needs no introduction here) and what his work and life mean to various fans. There’s going to be a “page” for each fan, and there’s going to be text, art, music, videos, etc. involved (it’s going to be this awesome interactive-like thing).

Anyhow. My friend’s mum asked me through means of an e-mail if I’d like to participate in the making of this (she is aware that I am good at writing and that I like the Beatles). I said yes. I haven’t fully discussed with her what I intend to put on my page, but I’m planning on writing something about him, obviously (specifically about his particular ideas and thoughts contributed to making the Beatles pretty much the most-renowned band in the world and how you can learn some things about his own life through listening to the songs) and a psychedelic-style piece of art depicting him. I haven’t done psychedelica for rather a while, but I don’t think it’s one of those things that one really forgets how to do (or at least this is true of me, I think).

A notable thing about my involvement with this project is that I’m going to be the only member of my generation to contribute to it. (I’m eighteen, for those who did not know.) I really feel rather honored; I think the younger generation has a lot to say about the music of the past in general, and it’s quite telling that the Beatles and John Lennon are still just as popular with us as they were in the past. (Okay, not exactly as popular. But much more than you’d expect.)

I have a feeling that this may be my Big Break (capitalized for emphasis). This is going to be published by Apple. Apple is rather big. People shall be reading this. People shall know the name of Jude Conlee. I rather feel that publishers may even be impressed by this. I don’t have to really explain why this is an exciting opportunity. I’m really excited about this. I really am.

A good day and a number of ways to say "let's do this thing".

The poem I sent to Romania got accepted yesterday. I was happy. I wanted the bragging rights. I wanted to be able to say, "Hey, guess what? I've got something that was published in Romania." Very soon, I shall have the right to do so.

They wanted a picture from me. Well, two pictures. They wanted to publish it with my poem. I didn't have any good pictures, so I got my sister to take a bunch of pictures for me. Then my little cousins wanted to take pictures of me, and their work was actually really good. I sent the Romanian people two pictures that were taken by the two little cousins who got to handle the camera. It was kind of a surreal experience, somehow, to send two pictures taken by a seven- and five-year old to a literary magazine in a foreign country. 

Yesterday, I also made cookies with said little cousins. Well, I decorated them. The cookies, that is, not the cousins. I made a gingerbread man that looked like the Fifth Doctor and some circular cookies with the TARDIS and the word "Allons-y" and 3D glasses on them. I express this fact to the world and I am not embarrassed. It's a sort of childish thing to take pleasure in, and I possibly enjoyed it more than they did, but I'm not ashamed to admit it. Life is too short to not make Whovian cookies with little cousins. Life is also too short to do these things and not post it to your blog that no one reads.

I had a really nice day yesterday, really. Which was good, because that was a thing I needed. I've been needing more nice days lately. My days come in three flavors - nice, bad, and dull - and "dull" is by far the most common. The dull days don't make me hate my life, but they do make me like it less and less. They keep making me feel as though everything I do is slightly futile. And yes, the dull days are usually comprised of the things everyone else does on a regular basis, and I probably ought to get over it and be as well-adjusted as everyone else, but I just feel useless on the dull days, and I don't think everyone else is quite as obsessed with doing good for others or being sure their actions are all for others' benefit as I am. I may or may not have talked about this in a previous blog entry, about how I'm obsessed with doing good for others with every action I take. It's an impossible goal, yes, but since I always fail to reach the goals I set, it's nice to think that, if I aim for perfection, I'll probably reach something close to it (even though I don't succeed). I guess I just needed an enjoyable day to remind me that life isn't always dull, even though I didn't help anyone through my enjoying of life.

In other news, I'm considering occasionally posting some of the drawings I do on this blog. I'm not sure if anyone else would want to observe them (especially since, as I've iterated before, no one reads my blog). But, on the other hand, since no one reads this thing, it doesn't matter what I put on it. Besides. As I said last blog (and have been saying to myself relatively frequently), carpe diem. Or, as the idiotic kids of the nowadays say, YOLO. Or, as the Tenth Doctor says, allons-y! Or, as I often say, "We're doing this, man. We're making it real!"

Carpe diem all the way to Romania!

I did something rather interesting yesterday. I submitted to a literary magazine in Romania.

It's called Nazar Look. The link takes you to the site. There was a very specific reason I did this, too. It wasn't for any of the usual reasons I submit my writing. Usually, I submit my writing so I can further my goal of becoming a well-accepted, widely-known writer and have total strangers remember my existence after I die (I'm serious, this is what I do it for. I do it so total strangers will remember my existence after I die. That and because I like it and because I'm sort of good at it and I want my stuff to become part of people's inside jokes.) Oftentimes, with my writing, I'll submit it to a market that pays well, or at least pays (I took this up after realizing that 1. there are more paying markets than I thought there were and 2. this stuff is work, sod it! Hmm. "Sod it" is not something you're supposed to say in England. I say it relatively frequently because I'm from America and no one much minds if I use impolite British phrases. I try not to be impolite on my blog. I apologize, hypothetical British readers.)

Anyhow. I apologize, hypothetical readers of all nationalities (American, British, Romanian, otherwise), for that digression.
 None of the aforementioned reasons were the reasons I submitted to the Romanian place. There was a very specific reason, and it was possibly even a good reason.

Bragging rights.

I'm not even kidding. I submitted something because, if I get accepted, I will be able to say that I am published in Romania. They'll be able to look up a copy and stuff. I'll be there. Published in Romania. (This is assuming I get in. According to Duotrope, they have a rather high acceptance rate, so if I don't get in this time, I'll probably find myself getting in pretty soon thereafter.) But my stuff will be published in a foreign country. One that doesn't speak English. One that most people don't really think of as a great place to get published. I don't know anyone who has been published in Romania. Of my circle of friends, acquaintances, and otherwise, I shall be the first. I shall have bragging rights.

Let's face it. I hate sentences that start with "life is too short", but life is too short to spend all your writing energy submitting to known places or paying places or known paying places or what-have-you. Sometimes, you need to do things for the bragging rights. Sometimes, you need to do things for the story you can tell everyone. Sometimes, you need to do things because you now can say you're the only person you know who has done a suspiciously specific but still kind of awesome thing. You know, there's this thing - carpe diem. Seize the day. I don't entirely know how carpe diem applies to this situation (in the literal sense, anyway - perhaps YOLO, "you only live once", is appropriate because, in this one life I have, I can submit to Romanians, but I sort of despise "YOLO".) But you know what I've done? I have done it, I have submitted, and I am going to carpe diem and send to all the foreign countries I like in hopes of getting accepted and being able to say "I HAVE BRAGGING RIGHTS! A FOREIGN COUNTRY ACCEPTED MY WORK! WHAT CAN YOU SAY ABOUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE WITH YOUR LIFE?"

Okay. Maybe not entirely like that. But something like that. At any rate, I shall have bragging rights and one more publication, and I think everyone wants that.



 

A major award and a not-actually-failure to write.

One of my pieces got accepted again. It was a flash fiction piece called "Patience". It got accepted by Words and Images. They're going to pay me, too. According to Duotrope, they pay 1-4.9 cents per word. It's about 500 words long. Not bad, not bad. Also, they're from Maine, which is odd, because the only other place that's paid me so far was from Maine. What is it with Maine people and paying? I don't know, and I'm not going to question it.

One thing that pleases me is the statistics. According to Duotrope, they accept 4.48% of what they receive, and they only publish once a year. I find this somehow significant, because it means that I only had one real chance this year to submit it, and I succeeded. (So it's not like I could have sent them anything else later on in the year.) So I (sort of) beat the statistics, which I find somewhat comforting. A lot of the other places that accepted me came with statistics somewhat in my favor (30% acceptances or more). So this one shows me that I actually am rather a good writer (something I haven't really believed for a while). Right on (a phrase I have never used before and hopefully shall never use again).

In other news, I gave up my NaNo novel (if I didn't already post about that; I don't think I did). It was because every word was feeling like torture and I was ashamed of what I was writing, and if I were actually complete the bleeding thing, I'd be working on it long into December (it was going to be longer than 50,000 words). And I'd rather write things that I enjoy. To that end, I am writing some short stories involving two characters that were in the NaNo novel. They're doing things that have nothing to do with the novel itself (one story has them going to a small town and investigating the presence of Lovecraftian horrors that they believe are keeping the town in a constant state of fear; I want to write a series of stories where they investigate such situations). I don't know what I'll do with the stories. They're supposed to build up a sense of continuity that would be hard to appreciate by sending them to random literary magazines, so maybe I'll make a blog where each entry is a short story and have it as a sort of serial. I think that'd work. I don't know. I'm just going to continue my writing.