On Writing Stuff Pt. 2

This is part 2 in my 11,789 part series on writing stuff. Today I’m going to talk to you about time management. The first thing I want you to do, (depending on where you live on this planet. And I say 'this planet' because I could have readers in the Cuellar System), is to take your watch and turn it back an hour. If you don’t know what a watch is, and I mean a real watch, not a digital clock or phone, its a little mechanical device that likely has letters set in a circular pattern instead of electronic numbers. I was going to say cell phone, but because with most people you no longer need to make that distinction, unless you are 50 years old or older, most of you don’t have a house phone. If you do have a house phone, it’s only because it was part of a package deal with your internet/cable service and it made your monthly bill cheaper to get the phone service and the only time you pick it up is when somebody calls to try to scam you into donating money to the firefighter’s ball or a bill collector is trying to reach the phone number’s previous owner. If you have my previous number, then that’s probably the case and it’s me the bill collector is calling about. Let’s face it; I am a writer and an artist and as such, my name is, for the time being, only associated with notoriously bad credit. I suppose that will change one day, but for now, as an active struggling artist, I reserve the right to be impoverished. If you do get a collections call, talk to the person in a fake foreign language. They love that!

[BTP]. For my first time readers BTP = back to point. So now that you’ve set your clock back an hour, you have completed your first lesson in time management. (Here in Devil’s Tookus, California, we partake in the annual nonsensical tradition of Day-light Savings Time. Essentially it’s the government’s way of demonstrating it’s power over the populace). If you followed my instructions, you now have your clocks set back to normal time and you have officially bucked the system. Stick to it. You are an independent free-thinker. When you go to work tomorrow and your boss tells you that you’re late, tell him…tell him…um… “No I’m not,” and say that you read that it was okay to set clocks back on a blog you found while cruising the web on the company computer and that you are now a free thinker.

Now that you have been fired, you will have a lot more free time. But the thing about having free stuff is that people always want what is free. Whether it be buy one get one free at Payless shoes, or free samples of Fire-Cracker Shrimp at that Chinese restaurant that I’m pretty sure serves the flesh of Panda bears and disguises it as Mandarin chicken, or your time, people will want it. People even wanted my book RISE OF THE PENGUINS when I offered it for free.

Here’s a little secret: the truth is that now that you are a writer, you don’t actually have a lot of free time. Writing is a real job. Writing takes work. Lots of work. And I’m going to tell you something else, the hordes of time stealing zombies who come to feed on the brains of your abundant time, all of who have no idea of the amount of very real effort that goes into creating a novel or short story or poetry, will view you being a writer as a cute little hobby you do to avoid a real job. And unless you hammer out a novel and immediately reach the success of authors that they are familiar with like King, Rowling, Patterson or Steel, they will not see you as having a real job. And to be honest, I doubt they will even if you do hit the Power Ball of writing and become a household name.

The time eating zombies won’t come at you all at once and you do have the power to stop them. It will start small. Stuff like, if you take a break from your writing, can you go to the store and get this or that? And you’ll do it, because you feel guilty about doing something that others don’t view as work. You say yes because even you doubt that it is real work because it is so damn fun. So you feel guilty and run to the store and get those all-important pizza pockets and paper towels. Let me ask you this: Would you call a bank-teller in the middle of a transaction and ask her to stop what she is doing and go buy cheese? Or stop a firefighter while he’s fighting a fire and ask him to pick up the kids from someplace? The answer is no.

In case you didn’t notice, I just gave you your weapon to fight the time eating zombies. It’s “NO.” That’s right—two little letters, en and oh, strung together to form the small yet powerful word--ON. (wait, that’s wrong...jeez). The weapon is NO! NO! NO!

“Can you go to the—”

“NO!”

“Will you pick up some—”

“NO!”

“Will you help me undress?”

“NO! I mean YES! Wait…what?”

Okay so there are times when the zombies aren’t so bad. And I’m not saying that you should close yourself off from the world and only write. After all, you need to experience the world in order to write about it. Just help out when you can, but set your own work schedule and stick to it as much as possible. And tell the zombies that you’re working during that time. View yourself as a writer first and maybe, just maybe, others will fall in line. Not likely, but there’s a chance.  

I hope our little chats help. Feel free to ask any questions or make a comment.

Join me next time when I talk about Writer’s cramps and making sure the chair you sit in has decent air-flow.

On Writing Stuff

Hey look! Account recovered. I know that makes everybody so very happy. My 6 or 7 loyal readers were probably wondering where I have been. I mean how can you get by without reading wonderful tales of moobs, toilet issues or lists of things that let the reader know just how much my mind doesn’t function on the normal level of human thought? Normally I would sigh in resignation at not being considered ‘normal thinking.’ But it’s that abnormality of being which has earned me literally tens of dollars, a handful of Pounds and several Euros, off of my first novel RISE OF THE PENGUINS. The book has been in the top seller bracket on Amazon in the U.S., the U.K and Germany (made it to #23 in Deutschland) so I guess that makes me an international bestselling author. (Admittedly I was on the list for about 2 days, but I can put that on my resume and not feel too guilty about my honesty level). In celebration of my success I blew my first royalty check on the dollar menu at Taco Bell. Eleven crunchy tacos please!

All of that aside, I am frequently asked: Why don’t you blog about writing? By frequently, I mean it happened once or twice. The short answer is I feel that the blog world is full of bloggers who have far greater expertise on the subject than me. Kristen Lamb, John Daulton and Michelle Browne all come to mind as people who have excellent blogs on the subject. The long answer is the same as the short but with superfluous wording.

But if push comes to shove and shove comes to throw me on the ground and step on my windpipe and force me to blog and talk about writing or have my trachea smashed, I am full of trite expressions and clichéd advice. The first is Writers write. Well duh! That is what we do. So if you want to become a writer, just freakin write. Write all of the time. Bring a notebook with you wherever you go. (Do I need to say bring a pencil or pen along with your notebook?) Every word you write will make you a better writer. Which leads me to my next poor advice, practice makes perfect. Practice doesn’t make perfect. Perfect is an ideal that is imperfect. I will burst your bubble—nobody has ever been nor will they ever be perfect. To be perfect means you are incapable of making mistakes, everything you do is flawless and you fart rose scented rainbows. What you have to be is good enough. Take the time to learn your craft, read books on the craft, ask others writers what they do, join a writers group. Whatever it takes, just get to the point where you are good enough. You might become really good or even great, though there has probably been only a handful of writers in human history that would qualify as great.

By being good enough I mean, does your story have structure, is it compelling, do you care about the characters? Because if you don’t have that or if something you write bores you, then the reader will pick up on that right away and all of your hard work will end up in the next yard sale or deleted from the Kindle. Also, good enough means don’t edit your book to death. Yeah, hire a quality and experienced editor, but don’t keep rewriting it until it becomes a pamphlet. Remember that you can only sharpen a blade so much before it loses its edge. (I think that was quote from A Nightmare On Elm Street part 36 when Freddy was training his apprentice, the young Frederick Krueger the third, to take up the family business of dream-murder. The rebellious grandson didn’t see the point in murdering the unconscious and comical mayhem ensued). My point is, or was, do the best you can and on your next, take what you learned from the previous work and good enough will be even better. 

Remember—any job worth doing is worth doing well. So go out there and hit the ground running because the ball is your court. And never forget that writing is a labor of love. Oh God, I’ve descended into cliché hell. 

Feel free to send me a message with any questions or comments. <(")

Of Urinals and Men

To Pee or not to Pee

I am a man. And being such a creature I am set to suffer indignities. Life places burdens upon a man, his strength wanes and, over time, his body crumbles. But this isn’t a tale of life and death. This isn’t a story about great loss or of great joy. This is a story of indignity. To some it may appear trivial. To the women who may stumble across this blog, I hope you sympathize with me as you do not have to suffer through this particular ignominy. What I speak of today is the urinal. Now before you go saying, “another potty blog? Really?” Let me say to you, this is an account, a story, a tale which, unfortunately, is non-fiction. It’s the truth. Every word of it is the truth.

When I say urinal, what is the first thing that comes to mind? A long wall of men nestled against the wall relieving their respective bladders. For those of you who have never seen this, (mostly women I suspect. Though I know some of you sneak into the men’s room when the line is too long in the women’s), picture a backward facing police line-up where everybody has their hands on their naughty bits and their heads tilted up as if the restroom ceiling  is that of the Sistine Chapel. Every so often the heads look down. I guess to make sure things are flowing properly. I don’t know why we do this. Maybe it’s because we might lose focus and go wandering off with our tackle hanging out, thereby creating slipping hazards for those around us. So I think the downward glance is to remind us of why we are there. I mean thirty seconds or up to three minutes is a very long time to remain in a stationary position, especially considering the un-comfortableness of the task at hand, or in hand.

The aforementioned un-comfortableness is the reason why I’m writing this blog. Who decided that it was okay to stand shoulder to shoulder with your fellow man and relieve one’s self? I’m sorry, but that is just unnatural and I’m sure that’s why alien races haven’t made contact with us yet. They look at our bathroom habits and think why would they have a communal bathroom? There’s a reason why bathrooms have doors. Most civilized people would rather not listen to the sound of tinkle on porcelain. It’s not only the sound which is disturbing during this undertaking; there is also the risk of splash. Backsplash is a real and embarrassing problem. Ask any man who has used a urinal while wearing khakis and he’ll have a story or two to tell you about how he tried to cover up the speckled patterns the ill designed toilets leave on his pants. Thank God we are no longer in the 1980s. The Don Johnson white pants were an excellent canvas for a splatter painting that would make Jackson Pollock jealous. *note to self—could I make money if I invented trouser bibs?

The design of these restroom devices is one of the reasons why I hate them. They come in various forms and none of them are designed to allow any human dignity. The first and most common design is the half-urinal which is mounted on the wall. They always have one that is mounted a little lower for children or short people. I grew up in a time before the junior stalls and trust me, being forced into public urination by your father while standing on your tip toes is not a memory I recall with great fondness. The half wall mount is the one that causes the most khaki damage, and it does nothing to combat the ill-ease of standing next to a stranger while taking care of business. Oh on occasion certain places will have a partition dividing them, but they are usually about waist high and that doesn’t stop the creepers. The creeper is the guy who steals a glance when he looks down to check his progress. It’s a very nonchalant glance but a glance nonetheless. You think to yourself, did that guy just take a gander at my bits and pieces? You can’t confront him because you wonder if you are being paranoid and if you do say something it could lead to a brawl and starting a brawl while your vulnerabilities are exposed is not something you want to do. We’ll get to etiquette a little later.

The next version of urinal is the wall mount that goes all the way to the floor. It solves the problem of splash at the top of your pants, but does nothing for your shoes, or worse, feet if you’re wearing flippy-floppies.

The next one is the trough. Yes it is exactly what it says it is: a long basin which covers the length of a wall; has a constant stream of water flowing through and can accommodate up to fifty urinaters or urinators (spell check is telling me both aren’t words) at a time. This design can usually be found at sports venues and quite often will have hot dog wrappers and nachos scattered inside which impedes the flow of the trickling water. I understand the idea of economy and fitting as many patrons as possible at once, but come on, the last thing I want to do is stand side-by-side with a guy who has spent his entire paycheck on coliseum beer and have him stumble against me while I try to take care of my work. There are several variations of the trough. There’s the floor trough, the big metal pan trough and the grotto, which is made of concrete and, I believe, was designed by the Romans.

All of these pale when compared to the worst of the worst. I have experienced this one only once in my life and it was when I was a small boy and in the care of my grandpa while at the park on a family picnic. I call it the dish. I believe this is why I have what’s known as a shy bladder. *A shy bladder is when you can’t PP when others are around. This horrific design is, again, aptly described. It is a circular basin with a water spigot type thing in the middle and all of the men stand in a circle to wee-wee. It is the stuff of nightmares. Imagine for a moment being four years old, having to use the restroom and standing at eye level with the groins of seven or eight grown men simultaneously emptying their bladders. It was like being caught in some sort of terrifying medusa-like fountain. I don’t remember how long I was in there, but I do remember the torrential cascade of urine splashing into the basin and seeing cigarette butts caught up in the eddies of  foamy wizz. It was at that point I fled and eventually soiled my Sears Toughskins jeans. I mention Toughskins by name only because they were made out of tent canvas and didn’t absorb the moisture and instead diverted the flow toward my shoes, which were strangely absorbent. Thankfully, I haven’t seen a ‘dish’ in forty years. However, I’m sure they still exist in places like Nebraska.

To this day I will only use the urinal under dire circumstances. And that brings me to urinal etiquette. If there are three or more open urinals, don’t take the empty one right next to me. That’s an infringement on my personal space. If you do have to take the one next to me, don’t try to strike up a conversation. I have no desire whatsoever to speak with another man while I’m piddling. This mainly applies to old guys. I don’t know why they feel the need to talk to a total stranger while their hands are shaking their intimate parts. It’s just creepy. Tell me your stories about Korea while you’re waiting to be seated at Denny’s, not while I’m taking a leak. *Note on the preceding statement—I don’t eat at Denny’s. I’ve covered that in a previous blog. Finally, and I shouldn’t even have to say this, eyes forward! Nobody enjoys being leered at, especially while using the restroom. Creeper.

Tune in next time as I try to enlighten people that those of us who live in California don’t eat only tofu and fruit. I will explore this topic because my wife spoke to a customer from, would you believe, Nebraska, who asked her if she was going to eat tofu and fruit for lunch.

If you’ve made it this far make sure you buy my book Rise of the Penguins. It’s available on the links to the side and here:http://riseofthepenguins.net/

A New Year

New Year’s Resolutions

I’ve often contemplated making New Year’s resolutions. A promise to bring in the New Year. What shall it be? Ah, yes! Lose weight. Well, while I do indeed need to drop some excessive pounds, especially given my penchant for heart attacks, I don’t intend to make an oath saying I will do so simply because of the change of calendar. I fully intend to return to yoga classes and stop eating all of this God-forsaken candy. But as far as making a promise? Nah. I know myself far too well. If I don’t adhere to the strict regimen of diet and exercise, then I will suffer another bruise to my psyche. But I’m an author! And bruised psyches is what we all (authors, artists and so forth), experience when sales are down or somebody criticizes your work after putting so many long hours into the act of creation. I wonder if God feels that way when somebody says, “I hate my life!” or “life sucks!”? Does he or she or it have an ego? Does he take it personally? Or does he take it like the Dude from The Big Lebowski and say, “Yeah, well ya know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man.”  I’m speaking as if I’m a religious person. I’m not…at least not in the traditional Western sense. I’m not an atheist, nor am I agnostic; I just don’t follow a certain creed. I believe there is something more than what we consciously know. I’ve felt the death of a loved one though nobody told me they died; known things before they’ve happened which has saved injury or worse. There’s more but people really don’t like having their beliefs challenged. So whether these incidents are psychic phenomena or Holy interventions, I have no idea and will not pretend to know. I just know that there is more than what we know. I have faith, but not for faith's sake.

[BTP] Back to point. New Year’s resolutions. Ah what the hell. I’ll make one or two of those resolutions.

First—If I should see the first day of the year I resolve to take care of myself a little better. Because, as I previously alluded to, there’s no guarantee there is anything after this existence.

Second—I resolve to understand that learning to forgive others for wrongs against you is really freeing yourself of the chains of anger. Those chains will lead to resentment and then to worse, so best to try and cast them off. I won’t pretend to forget, that’s impossible, I just gotta remember that people F-up sometimes.

Third—I resolve to try to see myself as my dog sees me. He doesn’t care if I sell 50 books or 50,000, he’s happy to see me no matter what. Gaining someone’s love and trust, even from a different species, is enough success for a lifetime.

Fourth—Regardless of the above resolution, I gotta eat and feed my dog so I resolve to keep plugging away and try to make a living at this writing gig.

Fifth—I resolve to no longer resolve. I want to solve a problem correctly the first time so I don’t have to go back and resolve it.

I’m going to call it right there. No more of these resolutions this year. So all seriousness aside, if you made it this far down the page, thank you for reading. And don’t forget to check out that link at the top right of this blog and pick up your copy of RISE OF THE PENGUINS so I can feed my dog. Have a New Year worth having!