On Shitty First Drafts

Last night I shared the beginning of my current (and longest) piece at the university's writing club. The response was overwhelmingly positive and it was great ego boost. But in a way, it the experience highlighted my issue with the piece.

The first passage of the story flows very well and has imagery strong enough that people commented that they felt like they were really there, looking just over my protagonist's shoulder at the scene. I think it's one of the best things I have written. But there is a sharp decline in quality immediately following it.

Why? Because the first part has been meticulously edited and rewritten multiple times. Most of the remaining story has only had the initial pass of writing it, and as a result lacks any sort of rich details or particularities that establish a sense of the place and action.

It gets worse, though. The story suddenly hinges on a series of coincidences and characters become pawns for the plot rather than entities with the illusion of agency. It has become especially hard to continue to slog through writing it, knowing that not only does it suffer from the roughness of a typical first draft, but the story itself is rapidly unraveling as I reach parts I have planned out less.

One tactic that may help is to try detailed outlining. As it stands, my outline is vague, with events separated by undefined distances—I discovery write between the points. I think that if I treat the outline as discovery writing, with a beat-by-beat breakdown of the action, I might find more success.

So, that's the plan, I guess?

Feels

It normally takes me a while to discuss my mental issues out in the open.

When I was younger, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease and immediately began telling everyone I knew about it in all the gory details (including showing people pictures of the inside of my small intestine). Part of me actually thought it was cool, but in retrospect it is clear that this oversharing was a defense mechanism that made me feel better about something that was very scary at the time.

The thing about mental illness is that there is a stigma attached to it. People tend to view depression as something you can “pull yourself out of,” despite the fact that if someone died from cancer, no one in their right mind would argue that “they just did not fight hard enough.” (Maria Bamford demonstrates this much better than I ever could.)

So, despite a part of me wanting to be open about my depression, I tend to hold back until I know someone better. There is something inappropriate about explaining the time I entered acute group therapy on a first date, for example. Additionally, most people on the street do not need to know about my late nights listening to Coldplay’s “The Scientist” on repeat.

But sometimes, not being open about struggles can cause problems. Keeping things bottled up and suppressing emotions is not healthy. And so, I find myself writing a far too revealing blog post.

When my mental illness was officially diagnosed at the end of high school, the prognosis was depression and anxiety; however, almost all of the symptoms I have been able to consciously notice have been depression related. While anxiety was a problem, it usually manifested itself as clenching my jaw, rather than my heart racing. The only time I have ever had a panic attack was when I tried to get on a (small) rollercoaster and collapsed in the queue. That probably deserves an entire post of its own, though.

Recently, however, I have been experiencing bouts of anxiousness that I only can only compare to how it felt to live away from home for the first time. Those went away eventually, and I came to view the college I was attending as a genuine second home that I miss to this day.

It is entirely possible that the main culprit this time around is the same as before; I recently enrolled in a four-year university for the first time in five years and there is a lot riding on my academic performance. To say that it is the only source of anxiety would be short-sighted, though.

I am not very skilled at making friends. I have always been introverted and shy and self-conscious (some of which was the result of mental illness rather than an inciting factor). Moving to a city for the first time, I naively expected things to be easier this time around. While there are more like-minded folks around Pittsburgh than in the wilds of Pennsyltucky, my social skills have not improved much in a half a decade. Yes, I am more confident in who I am, but I am still very much a loner at times and just plain do not mesh that well with most people.

I am completely okay with that, provided I can find a close-knit group of people to take the place of the dozens of friends a more social person would acquire. And you know what? I have found some of them, already.

So what is the problem? Not to play coy, but I am only comfortable divulging a certain amount publically. But the heart of the matter may be that I am afraid of easily losing that which I gained.

I used to always get the impression that people disliked me. To be fair, I can be very annoying, as so many people in elementary school explained by creating clubs at recess with the sole purpose of excluding me. As my sense of self has matured in the past decade, and as I received treatment for my mental health issues, this has been reduced greatly. But now, it seems that somewhere in the deep recesses of my heart, that fear is alive and well.

This past week, I have been feeling anxiety come over me at an unprecedented rate. At its worst, I was feeling it every few minutes. This has since subsided, thanks in large part to the help of the campus counseling center (those people are doing God’s work). But even as I write this, I wonder what the people I have come to know will think of this confession, and if it will lower their view of me. It is a silly concern, but at the moment, an unshakable one.

I feel guilty whining about it. I know people that struggle with anxiety issues far worse than this. To them, I fear, this rambling post may seem trivial. But it is all very unfamiliar to me and as a result, scary.

I will probably regret posting something this revealing for so many people to read, but I am a firm believer that you regret the things you do not do more than the things you do. Plus, this is super cathartic. And maybe it will make someone else going through something feel less alone.

Or maybe this is just me oversharing again to feel a little less scared.

Reasons to be Thankful

I meant to get this out by Thanksgiving, but the fantastic thing about blogging is that there are no deadlines. Random things I am thankful for this year, in no particular order:

• My friends and family
• My right to publicly disagree with my government
• Being a white 18-34 year old male in America

While I am sure that there are many other specific things I should be mindful of, these things came to mind the quickest. Mainly, I kept coming back to the privileges I have compared to most other people in the world.

This year, my big ticket item to receive for Christmas may be a tablet. But I am on the fence about it. On the one hand, it would be a pleasure to receive something that can so frivolously be used purely for my delight; on the other, I feel a little guilty about receiving something like that when money spent on me could be used to help other people instead.

My family normally makes donations to charities around Christmas. My favorite is a catalog in which you can order animals for families that depend on sustenance farming. I know that even if I receive my shiny, expensive gizmo, we will donate, but what haunts me is the idea that I alone could be preventing us from doing more.

This probably one of those times when my assessment of the situation is skewed. I have a nasty tendency to create obstacles when I have a chance to be happy. The fact is that I am normally okay with getting presents. It is difficult to determine where the line is between what is reasonable and what is selfish, between what is a sensible concern and what is overkill.

I should be thankful that my livelihood does not depend on the outcome, but what if someone else’s does? Why is it so difficult for me to just be thankful that we can afford such luxuries?

A Sorry Excuse for an Entry

Ah! In such a good place for creative musings (The coffee shop I like)!

So here they are.

Or not.

I have been greatly neglecting this blog, and like a baby, it will wither and die of exposure if I do not act swiftly.

So yeah.

What’s up with you guys? Anything interesting?

I want to see Cloud Atlas, but since the town I am near sucks, I will have to travel forty minutes to do so.

I am sure more interesting things would come to mind if I only tried a little, but there is an assignment I really should get to.

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On Discovery Writing

I suck at it.

Discovery writing, for those that do not know, is writing without an outline or guide. You may have a vague idea of where your story will go, but you are coming up with the actual plot points and character arcs while you are writing.

My “bad” story has been an exercise in this. I do not have a particular direction in mind for it to go. This is a problem for me. When I hit a block, it seems that much worse since I do not have a later scene that I can jump to.

Should have used an outline.

I am embarrassed to say that I have made barely any progress in that story. I am still under 9,000 words. I keep running into the problem that I have no plans for what happens to the main character next. I end up following him around his life as he does things like going to work. It’s some boring shit. In the right hands it could be used to make a point, but in my case it was because I had nothing else for him to do.

There is one positive thing I can take out of this ongoing endeavor; I have learned that I prefer outlining. There is always an element of discovery writing present when writing anything, but I do not think I can sustain it on its own for a whole book and produce something readable. I need some sort of lattice work to write things of significant length.

For completion’s sake, I am interested in continuing to write this story. I might try sketching out a few broad points, though.

Come to Philly for the Crack

I should be sleeping. I have to be awake for class tonight. But alas, I am out of melatonin. Since I am unable to sleep, I figure I can kill two birds with one stone by also being unable to write.

I have struggled to find something appropriate to blog about the past few days. It would make the most sense to talk about work, but it is my wish that this blog be something more than just a record of my spiraling occupational neurosis.

While at work, I did come across something that may be worth sharing anyway: I find Philadelphia accents indicate a constant orneriness. To me, it is as if the speaker is about to have an angry outburst at any moment.

There was a portly gentleman from Philadelphia in town for the university’s homecoming. While eating breakfast, he asked for me to change the channel on the breakfast area television to weather. Something about the way he said it made me feel like he was in a bad mood. I turned the channel from the usual (CNN’s Early Start) to The Weather Channel.

“No,” he continued, “I want to see the weather for here.”

His tone seemed to belie a certain impatience. I was flummoxed (it had been a long night for me). Eventually it was made clear that he wanted the local weather, but not before I felt like he was on the verge of getting mad.

Of course, he could have just been frustrated. One of several incidents that kept me busy that night was his toilet clogging. The plunger remained elusive, so the best I could do for him was to instruct him to use the public restroom. When you also consider how long it took me to realize that he wanted a local channel on, you have a recipe for an irritable guest. But to me, he seemed to be teetering on the edge of an unearned eruption.

After this, he asked to change the channel again. With my permission, he began tuning the TV to something else. He settled on a screening of Major League on HBO. The movie has some saucy elements, and HBO is the one channel we are never supposed to have on for precisely that reason. Yet, I did not say anything. I was afraid of upsetting the precarious balance of emotions within the man.

I know, I know, this makes me look bad. He had an excuse to be a little upset. Taking this into account, one might draw the conclusion that I simply do not like people from Philadelphia. This is not true. I love It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and my godfather is from the city of brotherly love.

Just like how I'm not racist because of my black friend.

I maintain that even taking into account the circumstances, there was a rising inflection in his voice. It practically sounded like he was looking for a reason to get into an argument. I do not know how else to describe the effect his accent had on me.

Looking back, I am probably overanalyzing everything about this frankly unremarkable situation. And it is kind of boring. But dammit, I got a blog post out of it.

Being Sick Sucks

The past few days I have been afflicted by a foul cold. It started with a sore throat and became a sinus infection on day two. My head felt like it would explode. Today, day three, things are winding down. There is significantly less mucus trapped in my skull and my throat has made a full recovery.

I should not complain too much; I have been very fortunate to have not caught anything in a long time. This is a big deal for me, as the medication I take for Crohn’s Disease lowers my immune system.

It is particularly nice that I am feeling better as I am meeting with a couple of friends tonight to work on a personal project. More on that later.

I know. The suspense is killing you.

A Relatively Pointless Grievance

A friend on Google+ recently re-shared this story about Pope Benedict XVI issuing a statement against gay marriage. He tagged the post with the hash tag #nazipope.

This annoys me. Despite popular rumor, the Pope never actively supported the Nazi party. Whether he complied too much with Nazi rule is certainly up to debate, but to say he endorses Hitler’s views is a lazy exaggeration.

I am biased. I identify as Catholic (among other things), but I am not against calling out the Pope on this sort of thing (and there are plenty of things to criticize about him). Just leave the Nazi-calling to the Tea Party. Do not call him a Nazi, call him what he is: homophobic.

If by any chance that acquaintance is reading, I am not angry, just annoyed. And picky. And admittedly defending the reputation of a man whom I do not agree with. But I do not like inflating things unfairly.

Just Write Something

I sit on the couch, laptop in lap, staring at the screen. I have no particular topic to write about in mind, yet I feel compelled to write a blog post. Something about disciplining myself to write more regularly, perhaps?

A friend remarked that one of my entries seemed scattered and stream-of-consciousness, full of uncertain thoughts and backtracking. Part of me would like to think that I am, in fact, intentionally doing this and have succeeded in portraying my mind in print. Most of me knows that is not the case.

I made some significant progress last night in what I am starting to think of as my “bad” story. I am writing it to finish it—to actually have something novel-length—even though it is my weakest idea. It is a practice project, really. A generic urban fantasy that is entirely too much like Harry Potter. I caved last night and decided to specifically mention J. K. Rowling’s books. Yeah, this is definitely a practice novel.

They say that writers have a certain amount of bad words they have to get out of their system, the same way that artists have a multitude of terrible drawings they must work through before producing quality work. I just expelled 211 of them.

Sleepwalk with Me (2012)

I had the pleasure of seeing a screening of Mike Birgbiglia’s Sleepwalk with Me. I had to drive to Pittsburgh to see it, because independent cinema has no place in Indiana, PA, but it was worth it. The screening I attended was actually packed, and I wondered if I would get in when I saw that there was a line outside of the theater to buy tickets.

The film is the fourth incarnation of Birbiglia’s tales about his sleep disorder (the others being his appearances on This American Life (which produced the film), a one-man stage show/album, and a book). In each version, he chronicles his life after college as a struggling stand-up comedian, his relationship with his girlfriend, and his increasingly dangerous sleepwalking episodes.

The film certainly feels “indie,” but this is a good thing in my book. Birbiglia gives a solid performance as a version of himself, and the cast is rounded out by myriad comedians. Notable cameos include producer/co-writer Ira Glass as a wedding photographer, and Dr. William C. Dement as himself. The story is strong and the film weaves together the different plotlines deftly, unifying the thematic elements.

One of the few problems I had was with some of the main character’s dialog. It might be because I am familiar with his material, but some lines felt like a comedy routine shoehorned in instead of naturalistic dialog. Then again, the character interactions between fellow comedians just hanging out rang very true to me (based on hearing many stand-ups shoot the shit on podcasts).

I especially enjoyed the dream sequences. Glass said in an interview on Fresh Air that he normally despises dream sequences in film as cheap, and you can tell that special attention was paid to ensure that the scenes were uncanny but realistic.

I will admit that this review is heavily biased in favor of the movie. As I have noted before, I enjoy seeing people I admire get exposure. I was a fan before the film was even released. It was great (and sometimes a little surreal) to see comedic bits I know portrayed in cinematic form, like the stilted confessions of love featured on Wedding Story Tales, or the dismal lip-syncing contest.

Me, being biased.

I would certainly recommend this film to anyone with a sense of humor—or anyone who is a little weird. Fans of Birbiglia will get exactly what they expect, and new viewers may find themselves introduced to a wonderful world of awkward moments and strange conversations comparing abstract concepts to pizza, tinged by a healthy dose of self-deprecation.

Write the Bad Story

I had a really, really good therapy session yesterday. Not in the sense that I was depressed and felt better—I went into it in a good mood—I just made a lot of personal progress. Also, my therapist is really cool, so shooting the shit with him is fun.

We talked about the sort of thing that causes my project ADD. It manifests itself in other areas of my life, particularly other areas that involve creating, especially writing. I am ashamed to admit it, but I have a great deal of difficulty writing research papers. It is like pulling teeth. And yesterday, we identified that a form of perfectionism is responsible for this.

I start writing something, I get a chapter and a half in, and then there is no way I can continue it. Or rather, there is, but it is not satisfactory to me. I stop myself because producing nothing is better than creating something that is not good.

I need to aim a little lower, really. No one’s first novel is published—I should not be wary of what people will think about it. I should just focus on actually completing a novel in the first place. Academically, my new goal is to focus on writing a paper that will earn a C (because that is better than a zero and I will probably earn a better grade in the process).

Mind you, there are still some issues holding me back from moving too far along with my story—mainly the lack of a coherent conflict—but I have a lot of hope.

I am going into the coffee shop right now to write. And I better hurry, because I’m about to say something flippant to the two stereotypes sitting next to me in the area outside of the coffee shop: a girl who is “not” a slut and her gay best friend.

"What's the Deal with Fiber Commercials?"

I realize that in this post I risk sounding like Andy Rooney, who (God rest his soul) has probably managed to find something to complain about in heaven. I would guess that he is griping about the clouds being too fluffy or something, but I am not a fan of portraying the theme park version of heaven.

Anyway, onto the kvetching: Fiber One’s latest rash of commercials bothers me. They are predicated on the assumption that fiber has a reputation for tasting terrible. It takes this assumption so far that in one commercial, parents hide the fact that Fiber One cereal has fiber in it from their child in order to convince him to eat it.

This is stupid.

Since when does anyone think that fiber tastes bad? I have never known anyone to shy away from trying something because of high fiber content. Sure, some high-fiber foods do taste terrible, like broccoli, but that is not because they have fiber.

In conclusion, no one thinks fiber is terrible, Fiber One. You are dumb.