Writing vs. Photography

And here's another self-portrait.

Lately I've been beating myself up because I haven't been writing. I went through a phase where I was contributing about two sentences a day to the short story I'm currently working on. Not only was I uninspired, but mostly, I was just tired of thinking. After 8 hours of writing computer programs -- well, maybe 5 or 6 -- I just didn't feel like getting into the frame of mind necessary to write.

And then the writing dropped off altogether.

So, instead I've been taking pictures and playing with them. Yes, this is fun and creative, but somehow it feels less serious. I don't take it as seriously as I do writing. But I'm not even sure what that means. I suppose it means that I believe I'm a better writer than I am a visual artist. But who knows if that's true, or if it even matters? I'm not likely to succeed -- read: make money -- in either endeavor.

I don't know though, somehow photography just feels carefree. And perhaps my masochistic personality won't allow me to take seriously something I consider to be fun. The state of mind I'm in while playing with images is much more relaxing than the one I'm in while writing. It's probably because no words are involved. The sound of my own brain chattering can drive me nuts, and sometimes it's nice to play around with shapes and colors and faces and think, "Ah... that's pretty."

I've also been reluctant to brainstorm new ideas. Back when I was writing-but-not-writing my story, I thought, Since I'm dragging my feet so much maybe I should just start a different story. But no. It seems I'm too lazy to enter the free-associating mindset, too.

The problem is, eventually I'll have to enter that realm with photgraphy, too. The picture above represents the execution of a concept, albeit a simple one. Wouldn't I have to conceive on a deeper level to bring my work to the next level?

But probably, the main cause of my writer's block is the belief that my ability to conceive outweighs my ability to craft, which I was getting at in my last post. I have all these big ideas, but I don't have the discipline, the focus, or the wherewithall to execute them.

But... but! I think this is coming to an end. I think I'm ready to start up again.

Maybe I will force myself to brainstorm a new story idea tonight.

That is, if I can tear myself away from surfing the Flickr photostream. Or the television, which is currently tuned to a very strange British sitcom.

Work Woes (Thank God for Kitties)

I took this picture in the alley behind my house. There are dozens of alley cats back there, and this is one of the more hyper and friendly ones. I've been told he looks like a pirate here. He's chewing on an electrical wire, which is unplugged, I hope.

I've been busy with work, busy with life. I'm totally wrapped up in a project at work that's going quite badly. Long story short, I bite off way more than I can chew, which is a recurring theme in my life.

When I was a kid I was in the Gifted and Talented program. We would get together once a week for a class period and work on advanced projects. My most prominent memory is a time we were told to create a word search -- you know, the puzzle where you circle words in a seemingly random field of letters. I was really excited. I had this really elaborate vision of what I wanted the puzzle to be. I had planned to have lots of intersecting words; I wanted to use really difficult words. Well, before I knew it, the period was over and I didn't complete my project. Everyone else was finished but me.

I realized then that it was a pattern -- that I always set out to accomplish much more than I'm capable of accomplishing. And for some reason, I never learned my lesson. I still do this.

And this is what I've done at work. Today I told my boss that I was way behind schedule on a project and that I needed assistance if I were to make the deadline. I would have been embarassing if I expected more from myself. I suppose I SHOULDN'T feel embarassed, after all, the project is on the right track -- it's just moving slower than it should -- and as long as my vision is implemented by SOMEONE then that's all that matters.

But still, I feel like a failure. Mostly because I know that I could have worked harder on it before giving in. Mostly because deep down I know that I am a procrastinator, and that if I had worked diligently from the outset I wouldn't be stuck in a hole like I am now.

Anyway.

I'm not going to sweat it. It turns out the guy assigned to help WANTS to help. Plus, I like working in a team situation. It's less boring than working alone.

(But I wanted all the credit.)

I've Been Out Of Touch

When I first started to keep a blog, I never thought there would come a time when I'd be too busy to write something at a minimum, a few times a week. Well, I didn't anticipate the effect warm weather would have on me. I'm outside pretty much all the time. I've been taking lots of pictures, so that's pretty cool. I've also been fooling around with Photoshop (see above). I don't know if I'm any good at photo manipulation, but it is a fun way to pass the time. It's simultaneoulsy mindless AND creative, if that makes any sense. Writing is much more difficult -- it requires heavy thinking, heavy processing of information. Visual processing is a much more pleasant experience, somehow. But somehow the end result is less satisfying. I guess I feel like I should suffer for any endeavor to be worth my time.

Anyway, I thought I'd post a passage from a short story I've been working on. In a nutshell, the story is about two people at the start of a relationship. I'm planning to switch back and forth between the male and female perspective. Of course, both of them are depressed and damaged individuals. The male's situation is complex -- his twin sister was recently admitted to a mental hospital.

Here is a scene that describes the first time they met. This passage is almost omniscient, but really it's from the female's perspective.

Maybe I'll post the whole thing when I'm done. If I ever finish. I'm writing at a rate of about one paragraph a day, if I'm lucky.

******

They play several games. Ellie wins most of them. They don’t chat very much, but they communicate. They communicate with their eyes and their bodies and the tones of their voices. Each time they make eye contact, Ellie feels herself smile. He always smiles back, always swallowing a little when he does. She feels demure. When she leans to take a shot, she tries to be sexy. Not provocative, but subtle, sophisticated. She hits the cue ball from one corner of the table to the other, knocking in the 8-ball and winning the game. He makes a noise that sounds like disappointment, but she knows he’s joking. She stands straight, rests her cue stick on her shoulder like a soldier holding a rifle at ease, and then curtsies. He laughs. She likes being watched, being admired. She doesn’t like being leered at. She wants him to covet her, but to respect her. She wants him to think she’s lovely.

They play until closing time. He asks if she would like to take a ride to the beach. She thinks it’s too cold but she agrees. During the ride she talks about the moon. It looms large and bright in the clear night. Looking at the moon makes her feel strange, conflicted. Primal urges swell within; compulsions to howl, to grasp the giant rock with both hands, to stare at it for hours on end, without words, with an empty mind. But she also feels distinctly human, evolved, dreaming of the vastness of space, of the lifespan of planets and stars and people and trees, and of the unfathomable number of those before them who dreamed those same dreams.

Welcome to the Machine

Spring is Pretty

View the series.

I Think I'm Dying

Oy! What a terrible week! Ever since my party my body has been rejecting me in various, awful ways. First, I had a stomach virus. Once that went away, I suffered aches and pains and chills for a few days. Then yesterday, I woke up with a cough, a sore throat, and a slightly stuffy nose. Last night I went to a reading, which ran much longer than I'd expected. About halfway through I got really hot and woozy, but that didn't stop me from going out afterwards. I was feeling okay, but by the time I got home I felt like I'd been hit by a bus. I woke up this morning with serious congestion, a pounding headache, and the whole lot of it. I think I have the flu.

I went to work anyway because I am SWAMPED this week. My co-worker and I already pushed back a deadline, and even still I don't think we'll make it. My biggest shortcoming is making accurate time estimates. By now I should know to always triple the amount of time I think I'll need. But even if I do, I still need triple of that!

The problem is, I am a major procrastinator. I can't seem to focus on any given task for more than 20 minutes at a time. I wasn't always like this. Things have gotten bad in the past year or so. There are a few reasons for this.

About a year ago I decided that I needed to change my career. I realized how much joy a creative lifestyle brought me, and I realized that my current day job just wasn't cutting it. But being the practical-minded person I am, and also being the daughter of immigrant (which means I have an inherent sense of duty), I figured there was no way I could become a WRITER. There was no way I could justify idling my days away THINKING LOFTY THOUGHTS. So, I took a career test, it said I should go into the field of psychology, which wasn't surprising.

It wasn't a bad idea. One skill I'm certain I possess is an ability to listen well, to empathize, and to deliver practical and sensitive advice. Plus, I really enjoy studying theoretical models, especially those that relate to the "human condition". I won't enumerate every reason I'm well-suited for that profession -- nevertheless, I liked the image of running a practice out of a home office while raising kids and kittens.

But once I realized I needed to take a few classes, take the GREs, probably volunteer, collect recommendations from long lost professors who likely didn't think much of me to begin with (I was a B student), I became overwhelmed by the improbability of the whole idea. A phD? After all this time! What if I hate it?

Which brought me back to writing. I thought, "Hey, I can work a senseless day job until Paul starts making decent money and then I can quit! Then I can have babies and write full-time!"

But after awhile of not taking my day job seriously AT ALL, after blogging and writing an absurd amount, I noticed that my soul began to seep from my body ever-so-slowly. I also noticed that gradually, my co-workers no longer bothered to keep me informed about incoming projects, current issues, etc.. I did the minimum of what was expected of me and that's all anyone expected of me.

Some friends seemed to think that was a gift, "As long as you don't get fired, and they keep paying you, who cares?" And that's what I told myself. Should I care if I rip-off a stupid, soul-sucking multi-million dollar corporation?

Well, I suppose my ego started to get the best of me -- as well as my dutiful and guilt-ridden immigrant roots kicked into gear. I didn't like feeling out of the loop. I didn't like being perceived as apathetic.

So, in the past month or two I've been busy as a bee, redeeming myself to myself, and straightening things out. You see, I'm actually quite good at my job -- which is why no one fires me.

But... but! I don't love it. Not by a long stretch. And this knowledge has paralyzed me in all other aspects of life.

I haven't been writing, hardly at all -- the full examination of why left for another post.

I have some ideas for an Internet project, good ones -- but have I done anything about it? No. Not at all.

It seems I enjoy myself the most when I'm walking in the park or lying on the couch with a book. Are those such bad pastimes?

Why am I so compelled to produce? Not everyone is.

For example, my brother enjoys playing music. He spends almost all his free time playing the piano. He doesn't WRITE music. Why is he satisfied? Why can't I be find a mentally stimulating, non-creative activity?

Though I suppose the real question is -- why can't I just create without the burdens that accompany the act of creating? Why must I question myself so much? Why am I so inert? Why do I assume the quality of my work is poor? Why do I ask myself questions like, "What is the meaning of all this?" when I know the only answer is, "There is no meaning to this." Why do I care?

Ugh. My nostrils are sore. Woe is me.

Maybe I'd be inspired if I had a piano like this.

Crash (A Real Life Philadelphia Story)

On my way home from work last night I experienced my first automobile accident. I am fine. I am not injured, but my arms, neck, shoulders, and back are sore from the impact. I crashed into the back of car when the car behind me crashed into me after another car had crashed into it. Think of it like dominos – four cars, the last one hitting the third one, the third one hitting me, and so on.

Immediately following the collision, I was a little shaken, but otherwise, cool as a cucumber. The woman behind me was completely freaking out. She was holding her face, sobbing uncontrollably and screaming through her open window, “Call 9-11! Help! Help me!” I opened her door and asked her questions, “Where are you hurt? Do you want to get out? Can you breathe? Do you legs hurt? Let me see your face.” The latent lifeguard in me kicked into gear. I suppressed an urge to administer CPR.

Once we established that her worst injury was a bruised hand, I said, “It’s okay. Your car is fine; you’re fine.”

She snapped, “My car is not fine!”

“What I meant was, it’s not totaled.”

“Bah!” she said, waving dismissively.

It turns out people have a very different idea of what “damage” means. My hood is crumpled a bit, the driver-side headlight is cracked, and the front bumper is bent. After I got hit I was convinced my car had been squished like an accordion, so I was really pleased to find it as it was.

The girl who had been driving the car in front of me, on the other hand, was very upset to find her back bumper and license plate dented slightly (and I mean slightly). If it had been me, I wouldn’t even make an insurance claim. She was nearly in tears after speaking with her mother on the telephone. Apparently she had been scolded for getting in an accident, even though she was the least responsible for its cause, and even though she appeared to be at least 25 years old, for crying out loud.

The people from the fourth car, the first car to crash, seemed about as ruffled as I was. They were very young, 20 years old, and according to the girl, this was the third incident she’d experienced that day. That morning she found her door window had been smashed, so she called the police to file a report and to make an insurance claim. She taped plastic to the window and headed to work. While driving later that day, she ran out of gas. She left her car in the shoulder and had to walk to a gas station to fill a canister with gas and then bring it back to her stranded car. After that, she picked up her boyfriend, and on their way home, she got into our accident.

After she revealed this information, the other women started gossiping immediately. “I bet she isn’t covered,” “Oh, we’re screwed, we’re going to have to pay our deductible,” “They’re young and stupid, they aren’t going to deal with this.”

And I suddenly got a strange vibe – a Crash vibe (the movie). I wondered if some latent racism was driving their suspicions. The young girl was Hispanic and her boyfriend was black. He had a large tattoo of a spider web across his neck. I dunno – there was just something about the way they were eyeing the couple, something about the nature of their words, and the tones of their voices.

And then, the woman who had been hysterical began to loudly state to whomever would listen that the young girl CLEARLY caused the accident, that SHE didn’t cause the accident, and neither did I or the other girl. She must have said this about 18 times.

Now, to be fair, the young girl didn’t have her registration or insurance information in her vehicle. She said she had left it at the such-and-such precinct earlier when she filed her first claim. Sounds fishy, I know, but I believed her. Maybe I’m a sucker, but she seemed very sweet and honest.

Actually, I think she won me over once we exchanged ages.

“I’m 29,” I said.

“What? I don’t believe you,” she said. “You really shouldn’t lie. Lying doesn’t become you, you know.”

“You’re crazy,” I said, laughing and clearly flattered.

We chatted a little more and she said, “Thank god I didn’t have my baby with me. All of my stuff flew from the back into the front. God knows what might have happened.”

“Oh, how old is your baby?” I asked.

“6 months.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “You’re a young mother.”

She laughed and said, “I am.”

"Oops. I meant to say, You’re a NEW mother."

I tried to apologize but she just shook her head, and showed me a picture of her baby. He was very little and very cute. He looked like he was being swallowed by his sweater.

Soon after that I headed home. I hadn’t realized how shaken I’d been until I got inside. I collapsed on the couch and fell asleep almost immediately. I woke up a few hours later feeling anxious, replaying the event over and over again in my mind.

I kept thinking, “Why am I so stressed out? What’s the big deal? Everything’s fine.” Eventually, my boy cat calmed me by resting on my chest, and I fell asleep again.

Oh well. Live and learn. All in all, it was an interesting experience. At the most, I’ll be out $500 if the young girl turns out uninsured. I’m just thankful none of us were hurt.