Writing

Yesterday, I posted something about writers' companions.  Today, I had a talk with someone I could refer to as my mentor.  He told me that now that I have a lot of time on my hands, I need to write my novel.

Of course, I laughed nervously.  I do love to write--I just don't like to sit down to write.  I do what most writers must do; I invent things in my mind, places, plot points, characters, whimsical happenstances.  But when it comes time to commit or delve deeper than psychological sock puppets, I freeze.  My stomach ties up in knots, and I avoid impulses to just sit down, stop watching stupid Youtube videos, and get down to some serious creative work.  I have a few guesses why this might be, but something tells me it's most likely because I'm afraid that my writing will be horrible.

Rebekah asked an important question in her last post.  What would you do if you weren't afraid?

If I wasn't so afraid, I'd get serious about my writing.  For most of my life, I've written different things, some things I would consider pretty good, others that I wish I could destroy (but nostalgia or my mother prevents me from doing so).  I guess I've never been convinced that I was actually good at writing.  My parents encouraged me, my classmates and friends have been supportive.  But where they being protective?  Nice?  Fulfilling their roles as loved-ones?

I'm taking my wonderful co-pilots challenge.  I pledge that by this time two weeks from now (give or take a day) I will have a short story in some form.  It may not be perfect or in its final stages, but I will have something to show.  I may post excerpts or have it be a serial every Saturday, I'm not sure.

Regardless, I won't become a better writer by being afraid that I'm not.  If I don't write now, I won't ever.

M&y

Fluff, Part One

I'm in the same position as Rebekah, as I just got done eating after I just got home from work.  My brain doesn't contain enough words for a proper post tonight, so instead I'll post stupids today and something substantial tomorrow.  

Tv Tropes

This is basically a writer's best friend (next to a dictionary and a baby-naming book).  It categorizes themes and character traits and etc etc from different books, video games, TV shows, and movies.  I've lost my fair share of hours just reading different entries.  Definitely good when you're bored and have no friends.   

I'll see you back here tomorrow when I have something worthwhile to say.  

M&y

In which courage is mentioned

It's already late, and I've just got home, so this'll be a short one. I've been thinking on something for a few days now. On Saturday morning, I woke up an hour before my alarm, and settled myself in for a little luxuriating. (This is one of my favorite things in life: being awake, but not up, and knowing you have plenty of time to snuggle, stretch, and laze of a morning.)

Anyway, so I had this time on Saturday morning, and I decided to finish a book my friend had recommended to me. The book posed this question on one of its pages:

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

Well?

rkb

Readers beware

I stumbled upon this article on Flavorwire while exploring all of Tom Hawking's articles (writer's envy... he's great) and found it amusing. I have to confess, I've only touched one of the books he talks about- Tristram Shandy- and gave up after a couple hundred pages. But Mandy, I know you'll be pleased to see The Sound and the Fury up there. Well done, my friend.

Saturday Stupids

This may inspire another post in the future, but I think video games are wonderful.  Not all video games.  Some are horrible and disgusting and worthless.  That doesn't mean that the medium of video games is not worth utilizing.  There are some games out there, dare I say it, that communicate story on a level a book or movie could never achieve.

Video games offer something unique to story telling.  Go out there an find one.  You may actually learn something, well besides how to kill a man or not pay a prostitute.

I go here to find games.  It's not scary, promise.  There's a lot of cutesy games, a bunch of nonsensical ones.  But "Jay is Games" never fails at finding the promising games published out in that world wide web.

Gender Relations-- i.e. Why I'm Not Having Sex

Let me be a little (post)modern here and say something that will not be connected with the rest of my post, or at least as far as I know from what I know about it so far. I have something akin to strep throat right now. It's probably not, because I went to the Medcheck this morning, and the nurse told me everything was not strep throat. She did however look unsure about that upon seeing my germ riddled (virus riddled?) innards, so she gave me the antibiotics anyway. Hence, I'm at home, doing nothing after calling into work. I mean, I can't just go out into the work place with my throat reminding me of sandpaper every time I swallow... or breathe... or move my tongue for whatever reason.

I guess that above paragraph can serve an example of how I don't have a social life. It's not really surprising, seeing as I didn't really have one in college. Or at least not one that you think of when you think of college. I called in sick and have done nothing but go to lunch, get soup, watch the pets and house, and play Mad Men on Netflicks.

...you're welcome

Like Rebekah, I too feel guilty about not having a social life. I keep telling myself baby-steps are enough to get my life to "adult status," whatever that means. One of my goals is to find a nice little social group at a local church, but that means I have to find a new church, make sure that's the right one, test drive that bible study, and then commit. That's like a month long timeline here.

But I'm not one to rush into things. Though I don't fill my life with pros and cons lists, I research even the make up I buy to make sure it has enough five star ratings. But you can't just look up a social life online to research the best people to spend your time with. Well, I guess you can, but I think that's what rapists do on Craigslist.

On a bigger scale, I guess that social life thing will lead me to the fabled "boyfriend." That means that in maybe... three years I'll meet a boy and then see where I go from there.

The boyfriend conundrum (as described by my co-blogger) doesn't fill me with rage, so much as the question, "What did I do wrong?" or the "Where the hell is he already?" I don't frequent Facebook much anymore, and that's only because I don't like being blindsided with people's happiness. Look at all these kids getting married! Good Christian kids! I guess I didn't read the chapter of Matthew where Jesus said it would be an unknown rule that marriage should happen between the twenty-first and twenty-third year of your life. Maybe I should have taken a class at Taylor about finding a mate, or how to find one, or how to at least appear more enticing.

Sorry bro.

I've had two boyfriends in my life. Three if you count the one in middle school. They were all long relationships. But nothing really in college. No one I've met outside of high school. And I wonder what I'm doing wrong. Is it this way for everyone? Am I that much of a loser? Or should I care at all?

If the right man is out there, he'll show up. But will be I in the right place to meet him? God'll give you the boat, but you have to row yourself to shore. But which way is the shore?

All this sad-sackery aside, I wouldn't date the first schmo to come along and ask. I'm not desperate. But I feel as if I should be.

Where did that come from?

M&y

I'll take Brody or this catnip, please

How is everybody? I don’t know why I feel compelled to start this thing like I’m a stand-up comedian, but I feel sort of weird just jumping in without acknowledging y’all. Our readership. And by readership, I mean Hannah Chupp, and my mother (hi Mom). Hello to both of you- and anyone else who accidentally stumbled upon this blog and managed to read this far. Welcome. It’s about to get real.

          Weirdest dating add ever...the couch makes it even more creepy, right?

I want to write about something that’s been bothering me this week: a question that was posed to me by two separate friends and a family member (hi again, Mom) over a space of three days (and in two different languages). That question was this: “Do you have a boyfriend?” (with accompanying iterations of “Don’t you want one?” and “But you forgot to tell me about your boyfriend!”)

Indulge in my self-diagnosis for a while. Because while being asked this question really quite bothers me, I’m not sure exactly why. First of all, to be clear, I am single. Secondly, I’m feeling pretty happy about that (there’s no object of affection that I am pining after…Adam Brody aside). What I mean by “feeling pretty happy” is that I enjoy my friends, my job, my life, and in general don’t find myself missing the guy who isn’t there.

                                                  ...you're welcome

So why does the question bother me so much? Whenever I am asked about this, I feel immediately defensive. Like I should be able to account for the fact that I don’t have a boyfriend. Or should be prepared to offer reasons for my general disinterest in most of the men I have met thus far. I think it also strikes me as (somewhat- only somewhat, but still) sexist. Like the other major events in my life (graduating from college, getting a job, etc.) are interesting in their place but surely can’t be fulfilling. Right?

So what’s my problem? I want a boyfriend… I guess. I feel like it’s hard to say that with any level of certainty until I actually meet someone with whom I really connect. I find myself not making too much of an effort to “meet new people”, and I wonder if I should feel guilty for that. And to be honest, the one guy who asked me out last month, I basically flaked on (which I do feel bad about… but not enough to call him). Canceled on him, told him I would call him, and didn’t. I just wasn’t that into it, I suppose.

So should I feel bad about this? I feel like so many people- and significantly, the people in my life who really matter to and care about me- seem to feel that I am missing something major here. I just don’t (internally) feel all that rushed to find someone now. Or, at all. I mean, I think marriage is wonderful, and I am certainly open to it… but I can also see myself living quite happily on my own. So should I buy the litterbox now, or later?

rkb

Postscript: Mami wrote to me this message after I emailed her back yesterday, telling her I am still without a boyfriend: “Claro que si voy a orar por el gran hombre y varon que Dios te de por esposo mija, ya sabes te queremos muchismo y estamos contentos por ti.” And I am humbled by this. Maybe the questions are less laden with pressure and implied failure than I think. Maybe I’m internalizing a lot more subtext than I ought to be. Maybe this is just people, wanting to keep with with what (and who) is important in my life. 

(Oddball) Homeowner's Association

Here's an interesting Saturday site for you... some of the weirdest houses ever created. Like where an "architect" (and I am using the term very, very loosely) poured concrete over bales of hay and had a cow (named Paulina) eat out the center. Or where a man crafted steel into the shape of a gargantuan pig. To live in. Or a piano-shaped monolith with supplementary transparent violin that someone built in a rural province in China. I can't even choose a favorite. Can you?

rkb

Post Script

Today I was told I would be receiving a gumball machine in honor of my services rendered at my job. It's kind of like "employee of the month" but instead it's called "top producer."

So life isn't so bad after all.

I earn so little the gov't gives it back.

I'm writing this from home, on the couch with the comforter around my legs and the door open to the small back yard. That may seem strange to you--I'm an adult, I have a job. What am I doing home on a Wednesday morning with dogs sleeping around me and my pajamas still on as of this sentence?

Unlike my companion here, I don't have one of those "real" jobs. I work around somewhere between twenty-three to twenty-seven hours a week. And this is not one of those luxury sit-at-your-desk types of jobs either. I'm talking wearing Nike shoes with the little air pockets in them (because that's good for your feet?), walking around in a maze of aisle and racks, and using a walkie talkie job. My schedule is never set either, which maybe exciting to some, but is a pain to all others who pretend to have a life (me). The place I work really isn't important for the post, per se, but I am one of those people dressed in khakis and a red shirt who asks you, "Can I help you find something?" when you just want to be left alone.

The thing that I have been realizing is that most people I have talked to have at one time worked a retail job. That doesn't mean it's not still a source of shame for me, but it helps me be part of the commiserating club of people who have also worn athletic shoes to work and had to climb ladders for people who want eight cases of diapers that are in the back room. These are the people who look at me knowingly when I say I'm "fine" when they ask how my day is going. They are also the people who try their best to fold whatever clothing they were looking at to a shape similar to the pile under it. "Oh yes, I remember when I used to" etc etc. It's like catharsis, to see me sweaty and hanging clothing up. They survived it. Now they can watch me do the monotonous tasks that used to be their own.

Circle of life

I don't get to read Neruda at work, but sometimes I get to walk through the aisles and make sure everything is pulled forward and straightened up. Like last night, I stood in the toothpaste aisle, making sure all the slim boxes of Crest and Colgate where stacked up just so while still being in the right spot. This while a Nigerian man around my age tried to flirt with me.

That's the thing about my job, I get to talk to him and learn who he is all while doing my job well. I can stand and talk to "guests" (that's a better term my work developed instead of customer, because that's so forward, I guess) about products and then to other things as well, and still look busy. I get to talk. Talk all day and night and morning if I feel like it, because as long as I'm fulfilling my tasks, I'm golden. I interact with people and learn about their children, their ex-husbands and wives, and what they had for dinner last night. I experience humanity at it's lowest and finest, whether that's with a co-worker who acts like the queen of the shoe department (probably more on this later), or with the man who grins when I bring the bike out of the backroom that his daughter wanted.

I don't do anything important at my job, and I don't work enough to be "important" either. But at least I see people. That may not be as nice as a snug cubicle, but it's a start.

M&y

(I'm trying to have a cool little signature like Rebekah over here, so bare with me while I try a few things out.)

Another day, another (taxed) dollar

I’m two months into my first real job. By “real”, of course, I’m applying certain parameters to the job, since I have legitimately been working since I was sixteen. (Odd jobs, though, we’re not talking about salt mines here. And if anyone other than me had already mentally jumped to salt mines, I’m gonna go ahead and suggest that you read less Neruda and spent some more time outdoors.) At sixteen I had a job as a sales associate at a retail store (hated), from which I moved on to the public library (loved), and then carried a few different jobs during college, mostly working for my university.

             So when I say “real”, I mean a few, very specific things, meaning:

1.     Working full-time (40+ hours a week).

2.     Making a living wage (at least…theoretically. Once you factor in my student loans, I think I may actually be eligible for food stamps, and absolutely low-income housing).

3.     Developing an enormous aversion to taxation, even to the point of denying my dependence upon government-provided public goods (i.e. roads, mail, law enforcement personnel).

It’s kind of weird, working full-time. I never realized how much time it actually takes to be at work all day (and though it’s only 8 or 9 hours, it does feel like all day sometimes). And it feels strange that so much of my time and life experiences are starting to take place at work- away from my family, friends, and “real” life. I guess with a little more solipsism, work will start to feel more like real life and less like something I do in order to get back to my life afterwards.

So, obviously, I’m still figuring all of this out. I sort of feel the need to begin integrating my personality into my workplace so that my hours there feel less like lost time. I’ve found a couple things that have helped make me feel better about officially entering the workforce, though. (Not the least of which being able to use the phrase “the workforce”. It’s empowering, I think, for two reasons: one, it sounds like a lateral reference to Star Wars to me, and invoking a pervasive cultural phenomenon has never led anyone astray, right? And two, it also sounds vaguely cultish, which I can’t help but enjoy.)

                                    My desk at work

Decorating my workspace has been fun. I’m not talking full-size Beiber posters here (though I respect Beliebers; has anyone read his autobiography? That’s write- he’s already written one) I am talking about bringing some pictures of my family and friends, and a postcard from Quito that Hannah sent me. In addition, I posted this picture of the musical artist Darwin Deez next to one of my computer monitors. 

                                               You are my radar detector

Although I’m actually 90% sure that there’s an office rumor that I have a weird Al obsession, Darwin is staying. He makes me happy, and that counts for something.

I also try to find something fun to do during my lunch break. I saw a special on the news last week that recommended office workers Google a picture of a tree or stream and gaze at it for a minute during their lunch hour in order to rejuvenate, which kind of sounds sad to me. But the point is good to find something refreshing to do to make the day deepen. Poetry works for me. I’ll eat lunch and then read Levine until my day feels vibrant again. Maybe you listen to your favorite Beiber song. You know, whatever works.  

Maybe I’ll never feel totally myself at work; maybe that’s a good thing. I do think a level of detachment and professionalism is necessary and appropriate. But sometimes it leaves me feeling less than wholehearted. But perhaps not to be is to be without your being. Ok, now we all need to step away from the Neruda…

rkb

Hello, all

Welcome.

Have you ever struggled to make a decision? Felt like you’re spinning your proverbial wheels in the mud of life? Wandered listlessly through the house on a Saturday? Not had the job/apartment/boyfriend/girlfriend/life you want… because you’re not even sure what it is you actually do want? Asked too many slightly awkward rhetorical questions?

Well, this is where we are- and by we, I mean two buddies who met in college and who have been trying to pull it together since. This is our blog- wavering raised to the level of an art. And this is us:

Mandy is a young, lithe writer who likes They Might Be Giants more than can easily be explained. Her favorite writers include and are limited to Stephanie Meyer, Nora Roberts, Nicholas Sparks, Stephen Hawking and the poetry of Walt Whitman. Mandy is easily recognizable at a distance by the puce polka-dotted scarf that she wears knotted around her left arm at all times. Mandy’s favorite meal is what she refers to as the “triple burrito special”, which can be purchased for less than five dollars at Taco Bell (other taco retailers are available). Given the task of describing Mandy in one word, her friends often say “IHOP.”

Rebekah, on the other hand, is the world’s most prolific watcher of reality TV. When she’s not watching classics such as The Bachelor Pad, she enjoys I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant, Toddlers and Tiaras, and Jersey Shore.  The mere sight of a puppy has been known to reduce Rebekah to tears, but upon witnessing any sort of rodent, she will burst out in a high-pitched squealing noise that will render the animal unconscious.  On weekends, Rebekah can be seen in thrift stores, searching for that perfect addition to her large collector’s plate wall.  She is seen there so often, that it has become known as her “natural habitat.” 

Well, that’s what we would like to be known as.  Sadly, we’re no where near as exciting and cool as those descriptions make us out to be.  Then again, this is the rest of our lives, right?  (Awkward rhetorical question number five.)  We could aspire to be all these things and much, much more.

… If only we could make up our minds.