Writer's Block: Blogger's Bane

There is nothing more intimidating than a blank slate. Whether you're a struggling artist staring at a blank canvas, a gifted composer looking at a blank sheet, or an amateur blogger watching the cursor blink hypnotically in an empty text editor. You've created in the past, and you know that you've the potential to produce something worthwhile, if only you knew where to begin. You know that you've the necessary skill, and it frustrates you to no end that can't employ it at will. However, to create requires inspiration, from within or without, and, unfortunately, inspiration can often be hard to find, especially when deeply immersed in the endless unremarkable drudgery that is daily life. There are times when you try to convince yourself that, if you just stare hard enough, the slate will fill itself. You become so focused on filling that slate that the very effort itself serves to stifle whatever creativity may have been bubbling in your subconscious. There are only three ways to deal with this kind of creative block: you can keep staring at it until inspiration does finally strike, you can create something unimaginative and/or derivative (like, for example, writing about writer's block), or you can just give up. And that's why I don't think I could ever create for a living, however tempting it might be. I wouldn't have the patience to wait, I wouldn't have any self-respect if I proceeded without inspiration, and yet I literally could not afford to give up. To create at your leisure is joy, but to create on demand is torture.

So why does writing for a living still tempt me so? I've often questioned the direction that my life has taken. When I finished high school, I went to UNB because it was there, and because they threw money at me. Supposedly I enrolled in Computer Science because I was interested in a career in video games, but I was lying to myself-- if I had been serious, I'd have gone away to Digipen as I originally planned. The fact was that I had already given up on my dream, for reasons that not even I am sure of, and ended up in my current career for no better reason than the fact that I kind of liked computers at the time. And I've felt utterly directionless ever since.

Even within UNB, there were other options available to me, but for whatever reason I never seriously considered any of them. I had a fondness for the sciences coming out of high school, and thus toyed with the idea of concurrent degrees in CS/Physics (which is what Travis and Trevor did), but that would have taken me seven years in conjunction with the CS co-op program, and for some reason I was intent on enrolling in that program (which is one of the few things that I do not regret about my time at UNB-- the co-op program was very good to me, and very good for me). I loved my enriched introductory Physics course, as it was both challenging and rewarding, and I did quite well in it. However, that was as far as my post-secondary scientific pursuits ever went, as it is very hard to take Physics courses without Calculus II, which I never actually managed to take, since it proved irreconcilable with my specific co-op schedule until my fourth year, at which point it wasn't worth the bother, as there wasn't enough time remaining to get a Physics minor. Unfortunately, the scientific curiousity that I had back then has long since died a quiet death, and although I miss it, I don't think I'd ever be able to recapture that feeling, so that door has been closed to me.

I considered switching faculties after my first year, since I was having no luck with co-op initially, I found introductory Computer Science courses insultingly simplistic and thoroughly unrewarding, and two other faculties had caught my eye. I again gave thought to a Physics major, this time without any Computer Science, and a couple of Physics professors were gently encouraging such a switch (in fact, one was still advocating such a switch when I last spoke to her during fourth year :-P), but I didn't want to feel as if I'd wasted a year, and I just couldn't see a career in it. I also considered what would have been a much more significant departure for me: an Arts degree. I had a first-year English professor to whom I had submitted a number of creative writing assignments, and he was quite insistent that I would be wasting talent if I didn't pursue a career in writing. Specifically, he thought that I had a gift for humour and satire, and wanted me to enter the Creative Writing program. It was certainly tempting, since I enjoyed writing a lot more than I did coding (and still do), but I felt like I couldn't respect myself if I entered the Arts program, although I want to be very emphatic that I intend no disrespect towards any of the several people I know who are pursuing/have received an Arts degree. Whether it was valid or not, I felt like that would be settling, and I was still very much an over-achiever at that time, so I refused to settle.

I miss being an over-achiever. I've been one all of my life, but especially in my last year of high school. In fact, I'm convinced that I kind of peaked in grade 12, and that my entire academic career from that point forward was a slow downward spiral. Had I remained in school instead of entering the workforce, I'd probably have completed that spiral by now, crashing and burning. I strongly suspect that if the me of grade 12 were to speak to the me of now, he'd be disgusted by what he saw. And I'm not sure he'd be wrong. He'd be my superior in every respect: he'd be smarter, he'd be funnier, he'd be a harder worker, he'd be a better writer-- hell, he'd even be happier. If I'd been that man when I'd graduated from UNB, I strongly suspect I'd be in a graduate program somewhere right now, and loving every minute of it. However, with each passing year of university, I just began caring less and less. By the end, I just wanted out, so I could at least start making money to offset my dissatisfaction. Granted, I did find a bit of direction, in that I chose a specialty and got my Honours in Information Systems, but that was simply because, through my experience with the co-op program, I'd found which item in an unsatisfactory subset most appealed to (or, to be more precise, least appalled) me.

Well, I did get out, and I found a job, and I did start making money, which brings me to my current situation. I've made no secret of the fact that I find my work to be interminably boring. That's hardly unique to my position here at DOT, though-- it's simply a product of the career I find myself in. It's not as if I find the work distasteful or anything. I'm very good at what I do, it pays fairly well (although I might be able to make more if I were to give private industry a shot), the people are nice, and there is the occasional bright spot, such as when I find an elegant solution to a problem or receive praise for the results of my work. It's just boring, is all. Very, very boring. But if that's the worse that I have to complain about, then I should count myself lucky and not give it any further thought. And yet, my mind still wanders to writing...

Writing is fun. It's that simple. Whether it's a blog entry, a forum post, an e-mail to a friend, or a passage for a novel that will never be completed, to write is a joy. It just feels so elegant-- it allows me to express myself in a way that I can't ever seem to through speech alone. I'm just more comfortable with the written word-- I needn't fear stumbling over myself or making mistakes, and I needn't moderate my pace to suit the listener. I'm free to refine my thoughts to a degree of precision far beyond what I would be able to achieve with speech, and to do so at my own pace, letting the reader assimilate those thoughts with whatever pacing they please. However, I suspect that the only reason that I find writing so fun is because there is no responsibility associated with it-- the moment I had to do it for a living, it would cease being fun, and become a chore. I'd run square into the imposing wall that began this post (in more ways than one): a blank slate.

[Editor's Note: This is where this post should have logically concluded. Even though I ended up on a tangent and didn't talk about what I'd intended to, it still came full circle just now, ending on the thought with which it began, and matching the post's title. However, I was five paragraphs further along before realizing that (ironically discussing my aptitude for editing, which prompted the "Editor's" part of this section's label), and I refuse to waste that much effort, so onward we go...]

However, even if that weren't a problem, there's still one other big deterrent: I don't think that my writing is good enough for me to make a decent living off of it. Don't get me wrong-- I still think that I'm a good writer, and I'm generally pleased with what I produce. Once I have an idea to fill that slate, the rest almost writes itself, the only pitfall being that my brain sometimes gets so far ahead of my fingers that I forget what I'm presently typing and my train of thought derails entirely, although I can generally avoid that by jumping forward and writing bullet points in an attempt to play catch-up when my brain refuses to wait. It's still a significant time investment (as I do nothing quickly), but the effort required is minimal. In fact, sometimes I'm writing so much on auto-pilot that I'll fall asleep mid-sentence. But proficiency does not enjoyable writing make.

I used to be proud of my writing. I feel as if there's some intangible quality that it has lost. I can still take pride in the mechanics, but not in the content itself. There's one thing in particular that's damning in its absence: humour. I used to be funny-- I'm sure of it. People always told me that I was, anyway. I had a kind of, to quote a high school teacher's yearbook signature, "dry scathing cynicism" that I was quite fond of. But these days, rather than being genuinely funny, I feel more as if I'm trying vainly to recapture past glory. It feels like I might be onto something while I'm typing, but when I examine it afterwards the humour just isn't there. Whenever I try, I either fall short or over-shoot.

It may or may not be related to a stylistic departure I've taken from my writing of several years ago. I used to strictly adhere to grammatical and stylistic guidelines, but lately I've allowed by writing to evolve a bit of much-needed character. Where once I used to balk at breaking the rules, I am now confident enough in my writing that I discard those conventions that I disagree with. Punctuation should be enclosed within the closing quotation marks? Fuck that-- it looks stupid. Paragraphs should be kept constrained to within certain lengths? Fuck that-- I have a point to make, and I'll damn well wait for a natural break in the flow. The word I chose isn't in the dictionary? Fuck that-- it should be. I should be using semi-colons instead of paired dashes? Fuck that-- I like the dashes. In fact, I love the dashes. Although I've been making a point to over-use them in this post, examine any lengthy piece of writing that I've written in the last year or two and you'll find that it's liberally peppered with them. I've taken to viewing them as a kind of personal watermark, and I've grown very attached to them.

But has this stylistic departure served to kill the humour that was once present in my writing? I very much doubt it. In fact, I'd think that it would better lend itself to humour. Which forces me to conclude that I'm simply not funny anymore, and that no efforts on my part will be able to change that. So, writing for a living would seem to be out of the question. And yet I read plenty of work by those who do write for a living that looks positively amateurish. In fact, I know that I could improve upon it. And that little revelation, had several months ago, revealed to me another road not taken: editing.

I love editing. It has a very different appeal than writing, but I feel that it is more uniquely suited to my talents. While I think I can turn a pretty good phrase, I'm even better at turning someone else's phrase into a better phrase. Every editing experience that I've ever had has been enjoyable and rewarding, without exception. And unlike the other possibilities I've mentioned, I don't really see a downside. In fact, I think I'd enjoy it even more if I could get paid to do it. But that's the rub-- how precisely does one go about getting paid for that? I don't really know, but I'd wager that they don't just walk out of a programming career into an editing position without any previous education or experience. And I'll be damned if I'm ever going to go back to school-- as stated [far] above, the end of my education couldn't have come soon enough, and I'm in no hurry to take that particular backward step.

So, even though I question if I'm where I should be, I'm here to stay, and content to restrict my writing and editing to amateur efforts. However, if I know that nothing's ever going to come of it, why do I bother? I could be using this time to catch up on my novel back-log, my larger manga back-log, my yet larger anime back-log, or my dizzyingly larger video game back-log. And as I said, writing on demand is not the joy it would otherwise be, which is precisely what this is. I didn't feel particularly like writing another post this week, but felt obligated to do so, and thus spent the last day or two beating my head against the previously mentioned blank slate. So why do I do it? It's certainly not without it's merits. Writing provides me with some much needed intellectual stimulation, and keeps my writing skills sharp. But why should I care if my skills dull? It may be largely an issue of ego-- knowing that I can still write well provides no small measure of self worth. However, I suspect that the real reason is the same one driving most aspects of my life: now that I've started this blog and stuck with it, I'm too stubborn to stop.

That being the case, despite the fact that my week was entirely uneventful, I directed my energies upon the slate and tried to will something into being. My first thought was to write about a classic PC adventure game that I'm currently playing through (courtesy of Nathan): Gabriel Knight. It's certainly deserving of my praise, it's very much on my mind, and it lends itself quite to well to post title word-play ("A Knight to Remember", "Good Knight, Tim Curry", etc.), but, for whatever reason, I just wasn't "feeling it". I considered writing about my current Advanced Squad Leader scenario, but there is precisely only one other person demented enough to be interested in that, and that person already knows everything that I might say. I thought of just putting up an amusing picture of myself as a child that Darcy sent earlier this week (my red-eyed stare looks as if it could flay the skin from your bones), but decided that I should strive to provide actual content instead (and I'm generally disdainful of pictures on a blog anyway). I also thought of a post that I strongly suspect that not a single one of my readers would have taken an interest in (not to say that I've ever let that stop me in the past)-- comments on a map of Oblivion's overworld, detailing my current progress and giving everyone some idea of the scope of the task before me. Fortunately for all concerned, I decided against that one as well. My final thought before arriving at the one I ran with was to just post a list of intentionally inflammatory statements on various polarizing social issues in an ideally transparent (and therefore funny) attempt at soliciting as many comments as my previous post got. However, I wasn't willing to take the risk that people might take it all at face value and miss the joke entirely.

With all of those ideas rejected, I settled for an ironically unoriginal topic: the classic "speak about writer's block to dodge writer's block" fall-back. The odd thing was, though, as you can see from the lengthy confused mass of text above, that actually inspired me to take things in an entirely different direction, and resulted in an in-depth self-examination. So what I'm left with now is a rambling and unfocused train of thought that is only tangentially related to this post's title. Given the name of my blog though, I guess that's almost appropriate. So, in a most fitting fashion, this post is yet another example of the problem I detailed above: it almost wrote itself, and seemed to be of quality as I was writing it, but now disappoints me as I examine the finished product. I guess I'd better not quit my day-job.

Ninety-four Trimesters and Counting

I'm not certain what level of media attention that this is garnering, so I'll start by bringing all of my readers abroad up to speed on what I know has at least caused quite a stir locally. Here you go. Now, for those who don't want to be bothered, the Coles Notes version is this: an anti-abortion group camped out in downtown Fredericton, displaying large graphic photos of aborted fetuses and handing out pamphlets to passerby. Many pedestrians and motorists found these pictures to be in poor taste, which prompted many complaints to police and many shouted insults. I'd assimilated this information from various sources over the last couple of days, so I was aware of it, but it didn't really impact me in any significant way, so I didn't really give it much thought. That is, until I found myself standing in their midst yesterday morning, and subjected to discussion with them, heckling from their detractors, and attention from television cameras.

I gather that they were out and about on Monday as well, but I didn't see them at all while either walking or driving, so they apparently relocated on Tuesday. There was a notification on the radio that very morning that they were out in force again, but it hadn't even occurred to me that I might run into them on my way to work. So, when I passed through the graveyard and suddenly found myself among them, I was taken rather by surprise. And, in an extra bit of cosmic humour, I just missed my walk light, which left me standing there for roughly a full minute, with refuge tantalizingly waiting just across the street. I've never wanted to get to work so badly in my life. I've been more comfortable crossing picket lines, and let me tell you, I've had some very awkward moments in picket lines (long story, involving a co-op term on base and some ambiguities surrounding the specifics of my employment).

As protestors go, though, they were admittedly a pretty light touch. They were friendly and polite, and only a couple of them left their sign-holding positions to approach me and ask me if I'd like an informational pamphlet, to which I awkwardly smiled (as if I am able to smile in any other fashion), replied "sure", and took a pamphlet. Now, don't get me wrong-- that shouldn't necessarily be interpreted as an endorsement. I'm pretty sure that if they were standing there in Nazi uniforms and handing out pamphlets entitled "Ethnic Cleansing: Not so Bad?" that I'd still have reacted in precisely the same way, simply in the interests of avoiding an awkward conversation. I guess that I should probably be ashamed of that, but it's a pretty fundamental character trait-- I will go to great and often irrational lengths to avoid awkward social encounters of any kind.

Now, had that been the end of it, I likely wouldn't be bothering to relate this story. However, after I had been standing there conversing with them for roughly twenty seconds, the jeers began. The first was a passing motorist, who honked his horn and gave us the finger. Now, presumably (or, hopefully, I guess I should say) this, and everything that followed, was directed not at me but the people around me, yet I still couldn't help but begin to feel very nervous. Then another driver passed a few seconds later and shouted "Go home!" and also flipped us the bird. After that, a pedestrian passed by, gave us a baleful stare, and spit on the ground at our feet. Then, the light turned red, which, while prompting the joyous arrival of my walk light, also left those waiting in the quickly growing line of vehicles time to more thoroughly express their hostility. As I crossed the street as fast as I could without breaking into a jog (making a point to avoid the locations that the TV cameras seemed to be pointed at), and tucked the pamphlet into my pocket as surreptitiously as I could manage, the shouts and insults quickly grew in volume, frequency, and intensity:

"You're not welcome!"

"What is wrong with you people!?"

"Get the fuck out of our city!"

"Fuck off and go home, assholes, before I have to get out of this car and make you!"

Finally, one woman leaned out her car window, looked directly at me, and shouted: "That's disgusting. You should be ashamed."

Her words may not seem as harsh as some of the others being bandied about, but these were directed at me, and I was taken aback at the intensity of the... hatred in her voice. Hatred is definitely the word. I've never in my life heard someone speak with such hate, let alone someone in Fredericton. And she wasn't the only one-- I heard similar acid in many of the other shouts. If she and all of the other motorists and passerby had suddenly started throwing rocks, I wouldn't have been surprised. In fact, I was fully prepared to duck-- I could already see the angry mob solidifying in my mind. I was beginning to fear for my own safety. I just can't quite process it all. I mean, I'm not ever sure that I think the imagery was all that inappropriate (I'm still in the process of deciding), but even if I did find it incredibly distasteful, I still can't fathom it causing a reaction that intense. You'd think that they were holding was a NAMBLA rally, to engender such a response as they did.

At that point, I did break into a jog, and I didn't stop until I reached the mall entrance. So terrified was I that I might be associated with those protestors again that I snuck into the bathroom at my earliest opportunity, and, after making sure that no one else was in there, quickly shoved the pamphlet into the garbage can and left. Yes, that's right-- I was afraid to use the garbage can in my office. I spent the whole day mulling over the events of the morning and dreading my return trip after work, but, fortunately, there was no sign of them at the end of the day. I presume that they all moved on to their next stop: Saint John.

You might think that such an experience might cause me to identify with the protestors a bit, but it actually had quite the opposite effect. I simply cannot fathom why a person would submit themselves to something like that. I'd like to think that I'm fairly socially minded, but I wouldn't touch such a polarizing social issue in that kind of setting with a ten-foot clown pole. The majority of such issues don't have any direct impact on my life one way or another, and I guess I'm fortunate in that, but even if they did I don't think I could bring myself to care enough to behave in such a fashion and submit myself to such intense public scorn.

The funny thing is that I actually find this issue to be a bit less clear-cut than many other similar issues, and while I am pro-choice, I am not firm in my convictions on this matter. In fact, I likely would have at least given their pamphlet a read had it been, say, distributed by a single person not surrounded by dozens of other people displaying pictures of aborted fetuses, because that single person likely would not have attracted any notice, which would in turn have allowed me to read what was handed to me without fearing for my own safety. It wasn't the imagery or the message that I was disgusted with, though-- it was the behaviour of the people of Fredericton.

Thunderstorm Bonus Feat: Smite Evil

Am I the only one who was terrified by yesterday's weather? I've never been all that scared of lightning before, but as I was walking to my car after work, it seemed very much as if God was pissed about something, and had decided to take it out on the general populace. When I first left my building, the sky was fairly cloudy, but the storm had yet to really arrive. However, moments later, as the winds quickly rose, and the clouds darkened, I suddenly felt an incredible sense of foreboding. It was as if there was some approaching malevolent force, like when Zuul arrives in Ghostbusters. If I had looked up and seen a giant marshmallow man, I don't think it would have surprised me. I was convinced that I was going to be struck down by God's vengeful hand before I made it to my vehicle, and every lighting strike and peal of thunder quickened my pace. As I jogged through the graveyard, mental images came unbidden of myself being hit by lightning and dropping dead right beside the British soldiers' memorial cairn. The sky finally opened up and the rain began to pour when I was still two blocks away, at which point I began running, for all the good it did in rain that heavy. I did finally manage to make it to the car in one uncooked piece, but that piece was thoroughly soaked.

I thought that I would feel safe once I made it to my vehicle, and I certainly felt safer, but a man can only feel so safe when he's convinced that his creator has decided to wipe his city off the face of the map. As I crossed the Princess Margaret bridge, the clouds were so dark and the rain was so thick that I couldn't see the river below (although I had a great view of the steady lightning in front of and on either side of me), and more water was pooling on the road surface than I thought physically possible. As I began to draw closer to home, a sight that I will never forget burned itself permanently into my consciousness, as, in the distance, directly in front of me, a perfectly straight bolt of white light shot down from very high up to strike the ground below. It was as if some divine spear had been thrust down from on high to smite the wicked. And then, just like that, it was over.

All at once, the rain and the lightning just stopped. The road beneath me was bone dry, and clearly had yet to see so much as a drop of rain. None of the cars that I met had their wipers on, and some even had their windows down. However, I knew that I was enjoying but a momentary respite, as the storm was at my back, still very much in force, and following me home. So, I drove the rest of the way home (which wasn't very far by that point) in eerie silence, and then battened down the hatches and tried my very best to ignore was I knew was to come. In this, I was quite successful, as I felt much safer in the comfort of my home, and loud television worked in conjunction with several window blinds to make sure that I could neither see nor hear nature's fury. Unfortunately, it would seem that nature doesn't much enjoy being ignored, as roughly an hour later there sounded a clap of thunder such as I have never heard, sufficient to shake the whole house violently and send me tumbling out of my chair with a yelp. It felt as if God had just decided to bitch-slap the front of my house and put a healthy fear of him into me.

I guess what I'm trying to say here, through the use of religious imagery to lend gravity and colour, is that yesterday's storm was an impressive sight to behold at its full fury, and I'm very glad that God decided that I wasn't evil enough to smite outright, and instead contented himself with scaring the fuck out of me.

Nice day? FUCK YOU

When I got up this morning, I turned on the weather channel, and was told that the Maritimes were going to have a nice weekend. Fuck you, weather channel. While I was driving, a caller to the radio program that I was listening to lamented the fact that she had to work all weekend, and the fellow that she was speaking to said "Yeah, that's a shame-- it's going to be a real nice weekend." Fuck you too. As I was riding the elevator up to my floor, one of the two ladies that I was sharing the elevator with said to other "Nice day today," to which the other replied "Yeah, isn't it great?" To quote Captain Kirk: DOUBLE fuck you. No, it's not fucking great. It's fucking HOT. It's been too fucking hot all week, it's going to be too fucking hot all weekend, and if the weather channel is right, it's going to be too fucking hot for the rest of this God-forsaken month. It's hot, it's humid, and it's miserable. This weather is awful, and it boggles my mind that noone else seems to think so.

I hate summer. I fucking hate it; I fucking hate it; I fucking hate it. And I hate hearing about how crazy I am for hating summer. I'm not allowed to say something like "it's too damn hot" without getting something along the lines of "Oh, that's just crazy old man Bramble-- Ha Ha Ha." FUCK YOU. All I ever hear is how weird I am for not liking hot weather. Well, you know what? I've decided that I'm not weird-- everyone else is (FYI, I'm well aware what the definition of "weird" is, so you needn't point out the lunacy of the previous statement, of which I am already well aware). Why in God's name have we, as a society, decided that hot weather is "nice"? Who decided that weather in which we have to wear tinted glass over our eyes to see and coat ourselves in a special cream to avoid COOKING and getting CANCER is "nice"? You know what's nice? Room temperature. That's why it's called room temperature. It is the agreed-upon (although, incidentally, not firmly agreed upon, generally falling in the range of 21-23 degrees Celsius) natural temperature for a room to have, at which any item or event inside the room should not be unduly influenced, positively or negatively, by the temperature.

But, oh no, that's not good enough for everyone. They're not happy until it's so hot that the government has to issue warnings that seniors may die just sitting in their own homes. I often wonder at what point "hot" stops meaning "nice". Can we have a "nice" balmy 45 degree Celsius day? I'm sure some people wouldn't bat an eyelash. I'm half convinced that, at some point, the two words simply became synonymous, and everyone ceased actually thinking about whether or not the weather was actually nice. It's to the point now where I similarly just automatically switch the values of the words nice and bad, as they relate to weather, before they even reach my brain. I think it's a defense mechanism to keep me from going fucking insane after, for instance, nodding politely to the fifth fucking person who's mentioned how nice it is/is going to be today/this weekend, and it's not even 10 o'clock yet. It's going to be a long day. A long, HOT day.

Surely I can't be the only person who thinks this way? I'll admit that I'm an oddball, and I've taken some very lonely stances on issues before, but I've never met even one other person who feels the same way as I do about this. Maybe there's societal pressure to agree that hot is nice? Actually, there's no maybe-- there's definitely societal pressure to agree that hot is nice, which is the only reason that I haven't sent five people out of my office crying before 10 o'clock. So, I guess the more important question is whether or not that pressure is so significant that people would refuse to admit that they think it's too hot, even when I begin by saying that I think so. I don't know. What I do know is that it's too fucking hot, which makes me miserable, and I get more and more miserable as more and more people quip some variation on "nice day". But I just smile and nod and agree, suppressing that misery, and suppressing the urge to say what I really want to say: FUCK YOU.