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.