I am really sick and tired of turning on the news and hearing the news babes and news hunks spouting constant doom and gloom. Too many times they are creating news, and creating panic where none needs exist.
Well, ok, don’t turn on the news, some might say. That’s a pretty simplistic solution to one problem but one can’t hide from what might actually be important and what one might actually need to know about all the time, can one? Or two. That’s not the answer; that’s a joke, Smokey. Turn it off? Sheesh. Bite me.
I actually do that far more than I used to because it’s frickin’ depressing and I really don’t need anymore of that. But I do need to stay informed, if only so I can poke fun of or rant about things in my blog. Or make small talk when forced to talk to the neighbor, something I also try to avoid.
But this dramatizing of the news, enough already. News people simply used to report what was going on—mostly, though there has always been a few who felt the need to insert their opinion, which I care about as much as Lindsey Lohan’s opinion on, well, anything, or make a dull piece of news scintillating, usually by hyperbole. Now they embellish or even outright lie, one way or the other. I won’t get into a debate whether they lean left or lean right, but they certainly do lean. And the primary focus of that lean, other than to push some news channel owner’s thinly veiled agenda, is to beat the other news babes and hunks in the ratings war and make more money. Everything comes down to money, it seems. And fear equals money.
Swine flu. Pigs are invading the USA, streaming across the border from Mexico, grunting their apocalyptic grunts of doom. Beware these pigs because if they kiss you you are D-E-A-D! Yeah, that’s right, folks and folkettes, guns don’t kill people—frickin’ pigs do!
Sure, Swine Flu is something we need to know about and need to take precautions against. But I am seeing people cower in fear. The gym was practically empty today, and I am pretty sure it was because the local stations are warning about contact with people. Hmmm, I wonder how the brothels are doing? Or is that a whole different kind of flu?
By the time we are done there might be a couple hundred total cases or there might be a million. But it won’t matter to the news stations because their rateings will be up and more money will be flowing in and the whole damn country will be scared swineless.
It’s not just flu. It’s the economy, some war, an asteroid hurtling towards earth, greenhouse garbage or Paris Hilton suddenly has become a flesh-eating zombie. (Ok, that one might have happened.) It matters not, crisis big or small, all are exploitable.
But why are people? Is scaring them into a panic or depressing them into hurling their frightened asses off a bridge really worth the extra bucks?
Guess it must be to those who run the media. No news, well, hell, make it, fake it and serve it with a frickin’ big shovel.
Well, screw it. I’m gonna believe that Santa is real and coming with his band of merry little elves—all of whom just happen to look like Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jessica Alba—to save the world. So there, news babes and hunks and media mogals. Put that in your teleprompter and roll it
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monkey Love
I think monkeys don’t have enough to do. Especially those in zoos, because when you think about it—and don’t ask me why I am—all they do is fling poop or sit around playing with themselves all day. Neither activity makes you want to give them a job in the food service industry.
That, of course, begs the question: just what can they do to stay out of trouble? Monkeys like trouble, so I’m thinking they need some kind of hobby that keeps them interested for long stretches of time. Those chimps they teach to punch buttons that ask for bananas and other treats in scientific labs seem to occupy them pretty well. But of course those machines are expensive and the other jealous monkeys would just use that poop flinging habit to muck them all up. Zoos don’t want to spend that kind of money or clean that sort of mess.
So I think it might be worthwhile to teach them how to read. And since they appear so preoccupied with their own genitals, perhaps we, as authors, need to create an entirely new genre for them: Monkey Erotica. That would entertain them, though I am not entirely sure it would cut down on the sitting around playing with their bananas and coconuts thing a whole lot. But, hell, one problem at a time, right?
So monkey erotica it is. And we need to get them some glasses because I’m sure monkeys will get eye strain. And really tight pants so they can’t, you know…
Jungle Love Line. Maybe that’s what we’ll call the books. We’ll probably have to teach them to write, too, because, really, what human’s gonna write monkey love scenes? It was hard enough watching King Kong swoon over Naomi Watts. I can’t imagine writing something like: In the dark of the night, their tails entwined and they knew their monkey souls mated in scalding primal…
Nevermind. I’ve been thinking about this too much. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to go fling poop at some noisy neighbor kids…
That, of course, begs the question: just what can they do to stay out of trouble? Monkeys like trouble, so I’m thinking they need some kind of hobby that keeps them interested for long stretches of time. Those chimps they teach to punch buttons that ask for bananas and other treats in scientific labs seem to occupy them pretty well. But of course those machines are expensive and the other jealous monkeys would just use that poop flinging habit to muck them all up. Zoos don’t want to spend that kind of money or clean that sort of mess.
So I think it might be worthwhile to teach them how to read. And since they appear so preoccupied with their own genitals, perhaps we, as authors, need to create an entirely new genre for them: Monkey Erotica. That would entertain them, though I am not entirely sure it would cut down on the sitting around playing with their bananas and coconuts thing a whole lot. But, hell, one problem at a time, right?
So monkey erotica it is. And we need to get them some glasses because I’m sure monkeys will get eye strain. And really tight pants so they can’t, you know…
Jungle Love Line. Maybe that’s what we’ll call the books. We’ll probably have to teach them to write, too, because, really, what human’s gonna write monkey love scenes? It was hard enough watching King Kong swoon over Naomi Watts. I can’t imagine writing something like: In the dark of the night, their tails entwined and they knew their monkey souls mated in scalding primal…
Nevermind. I’ve been thinking about this too much. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to go fling poop at some noisy neighbor kids…
Sunday, April 26, 2009
And Your Little Pink Dog, Too!
Folks view writers in certain ways. Besides the types I’ve written about in the past, the ones who consider writers nonworking or just monkeys pounding keyboards, there’s another group who view authors in a more romanticized manner. They see writers as celebrities, like Stephen King, Dean Koontz or Stephanie Meyer, all of whom have made a lot of money and garnered a lot of fame and influence from their literary endeavors.
The majority writers come nowhere close to that. Most struggle to make ends meet, and sweat over every word that hits the screen. The romantic view of the writer sitting in his smoking jacket, drinking a brandy whilst dictating silver prose to a buxom secretary is about as far removed from reality as a Lindsey Lohan’s attempts at telling the truth or Jessica Simpson actually saying something erudite.
Writers generally work long hours, sleep little and worry a lot. A hell of a lot. They suffer from an unusually high rate of depression and anxiety syndrome, and even manic-depression. Poe and Hemingway are two good examples. The old adage “suffering for your art”? Well, far too often that applies. And there’s a tendency to grow bitter, or socially retarded (or perhaps many of us are so introverted we start out that way and it’s a natural progression).
We don’t sit in mansions, either. And few of us drive a Lexus.
And pay? Novelists have no union or scale payments the way actors do. We never get paid 180 million bucks the way some sports figure do. And don’t even asking about the boob-flashing groupies, though there was this one librarian once…
Er, but moving on…
Most authors simply come nowhere close to the celebrity perception with which some folks view them. Writing is tough work. Emotionally draining work.
But what writers do have? An unquenchable passion for telling stories and seeing words assemble like an immense jigsaw into a glorious prose picture. A driving NEED to write, to entertain, to touch others’ live in some way. To have our souls heard.
We might not tote around little pink dogs, but we do carry around an abiding thirst for examining life and a burning desire to pass our observations onto others. No mansions, no fancy cars, no busty secretaries who can’t type…but lots of heart, and lots of desire to make the world a better place through words.
So, now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a groupie to attend to. Miss Jane is at my door and she’s looking unusually ravishing today…
The majority writers come nowhere close to that. Most struggle to make ends meet, and sweat over every word that hits the screen. The romantic view of the writer sitting in his smoking jacket, drinking a brandy whilst dictating silver prose to a buxom secretary is about as far removed from reality as a Lindsey Lohan’s attempts at telling the truth or Jessica Simpson actually saying something erudite.
Writers generally work long hours, sleep little and worry a lot. A hell of a lot. They suffer from an unusually high rate of depression and anxiety syndrome, and even manic-depression. Poe and Hemingway are two good examples. The old adage “suffering for your art”? Well, far too often that applies. And there’s a tendency to grow bitter, or socially retarded (or perhaps many of us are so introverted we start out that way and it’s a natural progression).
We don’t sit in mansions, either. And few of us drive a Lexus.
And pay? Novelists have no union or scale payments the way actors do. We never get paid 180 million bucks the way some sports figure do. And don’t even asking about the boob-flashing groupies, though there was this one librarian once…
Er, but moving on…
Most authors simply come nowhere close to the celebrity perception with which some folks view them. Writing is tough work. Emotionally draining work.
But what writers do have? An unquenchable passion for telling stories and seeing words assemble like an immense jigsaw into a glorious prose picture. A driving NEED to write, to entertain, to touch others’ live in some way. To have our souls heard.
We might not tote around little pink dogs, but we do carry around an abiding thirst for examining life and a burning desire to pass our observations onto others. No mansions, no fancy cars, no busty secretaries who can’t type…but lots of heart, and lots of desire to make the world a better place through words.
So, now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a groupie to attend to. Miss Jane is at my door and she’s looking unusually ravishing today…
Friday, April 24, 2009
Lie Down and Do it for Your Country
I rarely get into politics in my blogs. I have my opinions, but the subject seems too dicey to talk about with too many people. Tempers flare and barbs fly. Or do barbs stick? Huh.
However, the present exorbitant spending and recessional blues have got me down. So I decided since nobody seems to be presenting real and fast solutions, I would offer one. Because while I no longer want to take it lying down there’s a small percentage of our population who do, er, literally, take it lying down. And it’s that small percentage who can solve our country’s debt in a very short period.
Who are these people, you ask? (And if you don’t ask I’ll eventually tell ya anyway, so go ahead, ask because I’ll just annoy you till you do.) Well, they’re a service-oriented segment of our population who already bend over backwards to provide relief to many of our nation’s populace. Well, maybe not many, but some. A few. Um, ok, it’s hard to tell because they don’t all get caught.
I am talking, of course, about prostitutes. Yep, you heard it right. Er, read it right. We should legalize prostitution and collect taxes from these hard-working, hip-swaying gals and put this national debt right to bed. The Dutch do it. They have a special area where they display the hookers in shop windows called the Red Light District. Escort service signs hang right outside Amsterdam hotels. The country collects taxes from these ladies of the line and that helps pay for all those wooden shoes and stuff. C’mon, you didn’t think those shoes carved themselves, did you? And don’t forget the prostitutes double up making chocolate. Or is that cheese? I’m sure it must be one of those. There is the matter of that mugging stuff that goes on in the Red Light District, but ignore that. You give to get.
I propose we set up a chicken ranch much like the one in Nevada in every state, maybe every city. Provide a nice clean working environment with a little can-can music in the background and set about bringing down our national debt by raising the flag everywhere. I’m wondering if maybe we could even have drive-through prostitution, sort of a fast food franchise for…um, never mind. Too many golden arches jokes there.
There are other benefits to this. Legalizing it would give the police more time to pursue the real criminals, you know like graffiti artists and public pissers. The real dregs of society. It seems right now they spend far too much time tracking down these energetic nymphs and, um, building their cases. I think they’ve gotten stuck in a rut.
And just think of the home businesses that would be created? Why, that would give a much need lift to state and national revenue right there. Entrepreneurship would rise to a whole new peak. Condom sales would balloon too, so the monetary infusion would penetrate into other areas, promoting an even deeper economic upturn.
So make those saucy debt-saviors legal, then maybe the rest of us can stop getting screwed with taxes.
That’s my plan. My name’s Howard and I approved this message.
However, the present exorbitant spending and recessional blues have got me down. So I decided since nobody seems to be presenting real and fast solutions, I would offer one. Because while I no longer want to take it lying down there’s a small percentage of our population who do, er, literally, take it lying down. And it’s that small percentage who can solve our country’s debt in a very short period.
Who are these people, you ask? (And if you don’t ask I’ll eventually tell ya anyway, so go ahead, ask because I’ll just annoy you till you do.) Well, they’re a service-oriented segment of our population who already bend over backwards to provide relief to many of our nation’s populace. Well, maybe not many, but some. A few. Um, ok, it’s hard to tell because they don’t all get caught.
I am talking, of course, about prostitutes. Yep, you heard it right. Er, read it right. We should legalize prostitution and collect taxes from these hard-working, hip-swaying gals and put this national debt right to bed. The Dutch do it. They have a special area where they display the hookers in shop windows called the Red Light District. Escort service signs hang right outside Amsterdam hotels. The country collects taxes from these ladies of the line and that helps pay for all those wooden shoes and stuff. C’mon, you didn’t think those shoes carved themselves, did you? And don’t forget the prostitutes double up making chocolate. Or is that cheese? I’m sure it must be one of those. There is the matter of that mugging stuff that goes on in the Red Light District, but ignore that. You give to get.
I propose we set up a chicken ranch much like the one in Nevada in every state, maybe every city. Provide a nice clean working environment with a little can-can music in the background and set about bringing down our national debt by raising the flag everywhere. I’m wondering if maybe we could even have drive-through prostitution, sort of a fast food franchise for…um, never mind. Too many golden arches jokes there.
There are other benefits to this. Legalizing it would give the police more time to pursue the real criminals, you know like graffiti artists and public pissers. The real dregs of society. It seems right now they spend far too much time tracking down these energetic nymphs and, um, building their cases. I think they’ve gotten stuck in a rut.
And just think of the home businesses that would be created? Why, that would give a much need lift to state and national revenue right there. Entrepreneurship would rise to a whole new peak. Condom sales would balloon too, so the monetary infusion would penetrate into other areas, promoting an even deeper economic upturn.
So make those saucy debt-saviors legal, then maybe the rest of us can stop getting screwed with taxes.
That’s my plan. My name’s Howard and I approved this message.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Horror, The Horror...or Not...
I don’t know if it’s me or if the standard for horror movies that are truly frightening has been lowered. I know the old phrase, “they just don’t make movies like they used to” is a cliché, but, hell, they just don’t make movies like they used to. Especially horror movies. Oh, there are attempts, like the Saw movies, but I find those unwatchable, merely sick as opposed to scary. Recent movies like The Bogey Man, A Haunting in Connecticut and Shutter are all mediocre scare flicks at best. None of them have the true suspense and fear factor of some of the truly frightening horror flicks of yesterday.
I understand most are quickly produced for a teen audience, but they do nothing for the genre as a whole. Teens can appreciate a good horror movie too, they don’t need what passes for cheap shocks shoved down their throat. Or maybe they do; I’m not a teen anymore, but when I was Phantasm, for all its choppiness, scared the living crap out of me. The Tall Man character was truly frightening (Phantasm 1, because past that they are just gore fests and gore does not make a horror movie a horror movie. In fact I feel it gets in the way because story is usually left out to make room for special effects.)
Rosemary’s Baby was scary. Moody and scary. And frustratingly maddening at times because you felt something for the lead, whose whole world went askew the moment she got knocked up. Drink your vitamins, dear.
Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark, a low budget TV movie was scary, because you couldn’t see what was terrorizing the protagonist and what happens to her…well, we’ll wait for the DVD.
Even The Wolfman was frightening. Because there was an unpredictability, a wildness about it. And a moodiness. It didn’t rely on blood and guts but you weren’t too sure who was or wasn’t going to be wolf toast for a while. And the tragic ending only added to it.
Prince of Darkness was devilishly scary, and finally a little cerebral. They could have gone farther with it but it established something ominous and maintained it, something modern movies don’t seem to do very well. Even the ambiguous ending left you thinking. It also had that archetypical apocalyptic sense to it.
Too often modern horror movies rely on week stories and cardboard characters. There’s not much at stake except to see who going to get the axe next or flash the ta-tas the most (not that that is necessarily a bad thing. I’ve sat through terrible movies just on that chance). I’m not really sure why they bother. Shutter could have been scary. It was an “almost.” Not bad, but not memorable either. Things like Scream…I don’t even know how I sat through that crap fest.
So I am waiting for a great scary movie. I have the feeling I will be waiting a long time.
Anybody seen one they think is a modern horror classic? Tell us why.
I understand most are quickly produced for a teen audience, but they do nothing for the genre as a whole. Teens can appreciate a good horror movie too, they don’t need what passes for cheap shocks shoved down their throat. Or maybe they do; I’m not a teen anymore, but when I was Phantasm, for all its choppiness, scared the living crap out of me. The Tall Man character was truly frightening (Phantasm 1, because past that they are just gore fests and gore does not make a horror movie a horror movie. In fact I feel it gets in the way because story is usually left out to make room for special effects.)
Rosemary’s Baby was scary. Moody and scary. And frustratingly maddening at times because you felt something for the lead, whose whole world went askew the moment she got knocked up. Drink your vitamins, dear.
Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark, a low budget TV movie was scary, because you couldn’t see what was terrorizing the protagonist and what happens to her…well, we’ll wait for the DVD.
Even The Wolfman was frightening. Because there was an unpredictability, a wildness about it. And a moodiness. It didn’t rely on blood and guts but you weren’t too sure who was or wasn’t going to be wolf toast for a while. And the tragic ending only added to it.
Prince of Darkness was devilishly scary, and finally a little cerebral. They could have gone farther with it but it established something ominous and maintained it, something modern movies don’t seem to do very well. Even the ambiguous ending left you thinking. It also had that archetypical apocalyptic sense to it.
Too often modern horror movies rely on week stories and cardboard characters. There’s not much at stake except to see who going to get the axe next or flash the ta-tas the most (not that that is necessarily a bad thing. I’ve sat through terrible movies just on that chance). I’m not really sure why they bother. Shutter could have been scary. It was an “almost.” Not bad, but not memorable either. Things like Scream…I don’t even know how I sat through that crap fest.
So I am waiting for a great scary movie. I have the feeling I will be waiting a long time.
Anybody seen one they think is a modern horror classic? Tell us why.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
My Muse Drags Her Caboose
A few blogs back I wrote about my Western in progress and how I felt strangely flat writing it and didn’t really know why. I was trying to cut down on the violence, let it occur more offstage, since the publisher requested less violence across the entire line. I also tried to base a little more on suspense and emotional impact, less gunplay and a more straightforward plot.
But even after I finished it I had an odd feeling it wasn’t what I wanted and wasn’t entirely happy with it, By the same token I could find nothing concrete wrong I needed to fix. I thought I nailed the ending and the beginning…everything else in between well…
So I sent it off to the publisher, knowing the longer I fretted over it the more chance I had of going back and zapping any life the novel did have by editorial overkill. Or lack of confidence overkill. This past Saturday I got the acceptance letter and contract for DEAD MAN RIDING and a wonderful note from the EIC telling me how splendid the book was. His exact words:
“…a splendid example of how to maintain suspense without a complicated plot and without vast quantities of shooting. A truly splendid western.”
He also mentioned enjoying it greatly. To say I was surprised is probably an understatement. I expected something along the lines of “Well, we’ll take it but not your best work.”
Which brings me to my point: Can writers be truly objective about their own stories? I thought I was. But I have written stories I thought were the bee’s knees, ones I’ve gotten hyper excited about—only to have them come back with a rejection slip or some snarky comment. And the one I felt less enthused over got probably the best comment I have had from an editor. So apparently there’s a disconnect between my enthusiasm and the actual produced work.
I wonder if it is simply mood, affected by external events in a writer’s life. That flat feeling I was experiencing on the book seemed across the board in my life over the past year or two. I’ve being feeling a little burned out between maintaining my own blogs, tweets and what have you, plus working for some other blogs, all the while producing a number of novels and short stories. Like there was just this lead weight squatting atop my muse. But apparently that mood did not affect this particular tale or my writing ability. And my hyper mood didn’t help it.
So maybe it’s not mood. Maybe it’s something subconscious or right time/right place oriented that makes one book garner better opinion than another. I’m not sure.
Anyone got any ideas?
But even after I finished it I had an odd feeling it wasn’t what I wanted and wasn’t entirely happy with it, By the same token I could find nothing concrete wrong I needed to fix. I thought I nailed the ending and the beginning…everything else in between well…
So I sent it off to the publisher, knowing the longer I fretted over it the more chance I had of going back and zapping any life the novel did have by editorial overkill. Or lack of confidence overkill. This past Saturday I got the acceptance letter and contract for DEAD MAN RIDING and a wonderful note from the EIC telling me how splendid the book was. His exact words:
“…a splendid example of how to maintain suspense without a complicated plot and without vast quantities of shooting. A truly splendid western.”
He also mentioned enjoying it greatly. To say I was surprised is probably an understatement. I expected something along the lines of “Well, we’ll take it but not your best work.”
Which brings me to my point: Can writers be truly objective about their own stories? I thought I was. But I have written stories I thought were the bee’s knees, ones I’ve gotten hyper excited about—only to have them come back with a rejection slip or some snarky comment. And the one I felt less enthused over got probably the best comment I have had from an editor. So apparently there’s a disconnect between my enthusiasm and the actual produced work.
I wonder if it is simply mood, affected by external events in a writer’s life. That flat feeling I was experiencing on the book seemed across the board in my life over the past year or two. I’ve being feeling a little burned out between maintaining my own blogs, tweets and what have you, plus working for some other blogs, all the while producing a number of novels and short stories. Like there was just this lead weight squatting atop my muse. But apparently that mood did not affect this particular tale or my writing ability. And my hyper mood didn’t help it.
So maybe it’s not mood. Maybe it’s something subconscious or right time/right place oriented that makes one book garner better opinion than another. I’m not sure.
Anyone got any ideas?
Monday, April 20, 2009
Octodumb
I can’t figure out whether Nadya Suleman, the so-called Octomom (and why not, octopi have a lot of suckers too), is either the stupidest woman I had ever seen or just plain mentally ill. A woman, who, with six children already, decided she didn’t have enough rug-monkeys skittering about went and got herself turkey basted with eight more. A woman with no husband, no job, living with her mom and on public assistance; a woman who seems to have some unnatural obsession with Angelina Jolie to the point of inserting rolled tube socks into her lips, sees an equally stupid (and criminal in my opinion) fertility doctor and says, hey, Doc, can ya hit me up with another barrel full of monkeys?
So let’s see, we now have 16 lives depending on a nutcase. Like there aren’t enough damaged children in this country already.
I have other problems with her, like the state having to pay for all those kids to stay in an environment that can’t possibly be healthy for them emotionally. And the fact she seems to seek out publicity like a horny dog looking for a leg to hump, and may have a book deal, a movie deal, a reality show deal and God knows what else that will shove these poor kids into the spotlight and sordid world of pseudo worship that will affect the rest of their lives. There are plenty of talented writers out there not getting book or movie deals. I guess they all need to go out and have litters. Children are disposable when it comes to our own needs for validation and runaway selfishness, after all. Why not? You can always go to the doc store and get another, or eight.
Maybe Miss Baby Factory isn’t totally dumb. Maybe she’s smart, connivingly so. She’s going to make more money than most of us in a much shorter period of time just because she spread her legs and machine-gunned out babies. Babies who to her aren’t human beings, but a means to an egocentric end. And God bless our tabloid media for giving her a red carpet right up to the catbird seat.
I’m tired of selfish, money-grubbing mentally deranged people being made into celebrities. I’m tired of talented people writing books that get ignored and rejected while someone whose only talent lies between their legs or heinously murdering somebody or walking around with a little pink dog in their purse being worshiped and given multi-million dollar deals and fame. What the hell is wrong with our society? Is the Octomom a symptom or a disease?
Well, for the time being I guess she’s just crazy like a fox. It’s just a pity 16 children are headed for an infamy that will probably ruin their future. And that’s what I am tired of he most: throwing away a child’s future.
So let’s see, we now have 16 lives depending on a nutcase. Like there aren’t enough damaged children in this country already.
I have other problems with her, like the state having to pay for all those kids to stay in an environment that can’t possibly be healthy for them emotionally. And the fact she seems to seek out publicity like a horny dog looking for a leg to hump, and may have a book deal, a movie deal, a reality show deal and God knows what else that will shove these poor kids into the spotlight and sordid world of pseudo worship that will affect the rest of their lives. There are plenty of talented writers out there not getting book or movie deals. I guess they all need to go out and have litters. Children are disposable when it comes to our own needs for validation and runaway selfishness, after all. Why not? You can always go to the doc store and get another, or eight.
Maybe Miss Baby Factory isn’t totally dumb. Maybe she’s smart, connivingly so. She’s going to make more money than most of us in a much shorter period of time just because she spread her legs and machine-gunned out babies. Babies who to her aren’t human beings, but a means to an egocentric end. And God bless our tabloid media for giving her a red carpet right up to the catbird seat.
I’m tired of selfish, money-grubbing mentally deranged people being made into celebrities. I’m tired of talented people writing books that get ignored and rejected while someone whose only talent lies between their legs or heinously murdering somebody or walking around with a little pink dog in their purse being worshiped and given multi-million dollar deals and fame. What the hell is wrong with our society? Is the Octomom a symptom or a disease?
Well, for the time being I guess she’s just crazy like a fox. It’s just a pity 16 children are headed for an infamy that will probably ruin their future. And that’s what I am tired of he most: throwing away a child’s future.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
You Collect What, Now?
Have you ever run across people who collect, how shall we say it, peculiar things?
I like collecting stuff as much as the next guy. I collect certain pulp hero books, comic books, superhero busts and a few other things. Used to collect coins as a kid. And pictures of Olivia Newton-John but I grew out of that. Mostly. Ok, maybe not so much.
But I have stumbled across a few people who collect things that befuddle me. Nay, gross me out would be a better term.
One guy I know collected metal TV dinner trays. Had stacks of them piled on his kitchen counter. I don’t know why. They never moved. They all looked the same. There was no first collector’s issue tray or collector’s edition number stamped onto any of them. They fell over once while I was there. Made a hell of a noise and scared the dog into peeing on the floor. He (the guy not the dog) stacked them right back up again. My choice would have been to haul them to the local scrap yard and see how much coin per pound the aluminum would fetch.
Then there was another who collected the skins/shells his tarantula shed. That one creeped me out. Big time. I don’t really have any desire to have a live tarantula in my house, let alone the ghosts of tarantulas past. Shiver.
Oh, and there was the toenail collector. I kid you not. Had clear pill bottles full of toenail snippings dating back to the fifties. The collection grew at a tremendous clip…er, sorry couldn’t resist. Add that one to the gross me out category.
Beside the bottles of clippings he had bottles of gall stones and a few things I dared not question right up there on the shelf with the toenails.
So what next? Nose hair clippings? Dehydrated boogers? Rosie O’Donnel bobble heads? Petrified chipmunk poop?
I’ll stop. I’m getting sick thinking about it. I think I’ll stick to collecting comic books and feeling a lot more normal than I started out feeling writing this piece.
So, anyone know somebody with a strange collection?
I like collecting stuff as much as the next guy. I collect certain pulp hero books, comic books, superhero busts and a few other things. Used to collect coins as a kid. And pictures of Olivia Newton-John but I grew out of that. Mostly. Ok, maybe not so much.
But I have stumbled across a few people who collect things that befuddle me. Nay, gross me out would be a better term.
One guy I know collected metal TV dinner trays. Had stacks of them piled on his kitchen counter. I don’t know why. They never moved. They all looked the same. There was no first collector’s issue tray or collector’s edition number stamped onto any of them. They fell over once while I was there. Made a hell of a noise and scared the dog into peeing on the floor. He (the guy not the dog) stacked them right back up again. My choice would have been to haul them to the local scrap yard and see how much coin per pound the aluminum would fetch.
Then there was another who collected the skins/shells his tarantula shed. That one creeped me out. Big time. I don’t really have any desire to have a live tarantula in my house, let alone the ghosts of tarantulas past. Shiver.
Oh, and there was the toenail collector. I kid you not. Had clear pill bottles full of toenail snippings dating back to the fifties. The collection grew at a tremendous clip…er, sorry couldn’t resist. Add that one to the gross me out category.
Beside the bottles of clippings he had bottles of gall stones and a few things I dared not question right up there on the shelf with the toenails.
So what next? Nose hair clippings? Dehydrated boogers? Rosie O’Donnel bobble heads? Petrified chipmunk poop?
I’ll stop. I’m getting sick thinking about it. I think I’ll stick to collecting comic books and feeling a lot more normal than I started out feeling writing this piece.
So, anyone know somebody with a strange collection?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
You Can
There’s always someone all too eager to piss all over your dreams.
I suppose it goes back to the blog I did a few weeks ago on those who like to subvert our success, often those closest to us—friends, relatives, neighbors. But plenty of other folks of a certain persuasion enjoy degrading our successes, or better yet, our dreams before they can even become successes.
To clarify, when I am talking about dreams, I am not talking about our hopes. Hope, to me implies sitting around waiting and believing something good will happen. Dreams are the mental conception, the gas—or petrol for my Brit readers—that fuels the engine. Dreams birth hard work and focus.
Not the kind of dreams we have each night—those are more akin to hope, otherwise Jennifer Love Hewitt would be sitting in my living room. But the dreams we have of achieving something, whether it be wealth or power, our dream job or career, our perfect mate (yeah, ok, that last one is stretching it a bit). There’s an old adage: What the mind can conceive, it can achieve. In large part that is perfectly true, if whatever dream we have is within out skill set and we work hard enough for it. As much as I have played instruments and sung for folks at nursing homes and churches, I know I don’t have what it takes to be an American Idol. No matter how hard I work for it. Or maybe I just don’t dream of being that intensely enough and can’t garner the drive to achieve it, though a lot of that relies on luck and sleeping with Paula.
But back to point: voicing your dreams around people is sometimes a dicey thing. Because many of them don’t have that same drive to turn their dreams into realties. They sit around hoping, or worse, bitching about others’ achievements. And heartily enjoy subverting those who express their dreams and evidence working towards them.
Couple cases in point, one my own: I once worked at a place the sold photocopiers and typewriters. I fixed them (translation: made them more screwed up than the condition in which they had been brought in), but was taking guitar lessons at the time. One night a mediocre salesman for the company wanted me to stay overtime and get a machine ready for him, which was against company rules (he was trying to snipe another salesman’s prospect), and besides I had my guitar in hand and was halfway out the door. He became agitated, then muttery. Ok, he said, no problem. But you’re never going to be famous, you know…the last added with a heh heh just joking but not edge in his tone.
No matter that wasn’t my goal (though he assumed it was), but had it been…I guess he would have been pulling my guitar out of his ass.
Second example, a writer I know recently sold his first book and worked extremely hard to get said book into a position where it became a large pre-seller for the publisher, in fact the largest pre-seller ever in the line. Another individual who at first had been encouraging suddenly began making subtle and not-so-subtle digs buried in letters of praise designed to put the writer in his place and shake his confidence. He even went so far as suggesting the interest the writer had created might destroy the line if the book didn’t live up to its expectations (and how could it, since it was a first time out effort? said subverter insinuated), thereby ruining it for the other authors, especially the one who considered his work to be far superior to the majority of other authors writing for the brand.
I don’t understand folks like that. Those who subvert success or cause it to be stillborn, by being one of the “You can’ts”. I have seen plenty of those.
I have a dream to become a successful writer…
Oh, you can’t, there’s too much competition. You aren’t no Stephen King, you know. Those published people all know somebody (ok, that one is sometimes true…) You’ll give up after a few months. Writers all get flat asses anyway…
On and on and on.
My advice? Don’t let the “You can’ts” saddle your horse. They will just leave the straps loose enough to get you thrown off. Don’t let anyone discourage or dissuade you from your dreams and from working towards them with everything you have. It’s YOUR dream, not theirs, and therefore not theirs to ruin.
You can. That’s the only phrase you need to know. All you need to believe. All you need to live it.
I suppose it goes back to the blog I did a few weeks ago on those who like to subvert our success, often those closest to us—friends, relatives, neighbors. But plenty of other folks of a certain persuasion enjoy degrading our successes, or better yet, our dreams before they can even become successes.
To clarify, when I am talking about dreams, I am not talking about our hopes. Hope, to me implies sitting around waiting and believing something good will happen. Dreams are the mental conception, the gas—or petrol for my Brit readers—that fuels the engine. Dreams birth hard work and focus.
Not the kind of dreams we have each night—those are more akin to hope, otherwise Jennifer Love Hewitt would be sitting in my living room. But the dreams we have of achieving something, whether it be wealth or power, our dream job or career, our perfect mate (yeah, ok, that last one is stretching it a bit). There’s an old adage: What the mind can conceive, it can achieve. In large part that is perfectly true, if whatever dream we have is within out skill set and we work hard enough for it. As much as I have played instruments and sung for folks at nursing homes and churches, I know I don’t have what it takes to be an American Idol. No matter how hard I work for it. Or maybe I just don’t dream of being that intensely enough and can’t garner the drive to achieve it, though a lot of that relies on luck and sleeping with Paula.
But back to point: voicing your dreams around people is sometimes a dicey thing. Because many of them don’t have that same drive to turn their dreams into realties. They sit around hoping, or worse, bitching about others’ achievements. And heartily enjoy subverting those who express their dreams and evidence working towards them.
Couple cases in point, one my own: I once worked at a place the sold photocopiers and typewriters. I fixed them (translation: made them more screwed up than the condition in which they had been brought in), but was taking guitar lessons at the time. One night a mediocre salesman for the company wanted me to stay overtime and get a machine ready for him, which was against company rules (he was trying to snipe another salesman’s prospect), and besides I had my guitar in hand and was halfway out the door. He became agitated, then muttery. Ok, he said, no problem. But you’re never going to be famous, you know…the last added with a heh heh just joking but not edge in his tone.
No matter that wasn’t my goal (though he assumed it was), but had it been…I guess he would have been pulling my guitar out of his ass.
Second example, a writer I know recently sold his first book and worked extremely hard to get said book into a position where it became a large pre-seller for the publisher, in fact the largest pre-seller ever in the line. Another individual who at first had been encouraging suddenly began making subtle and not-so-subtle digs buried in letters of praise designed to put the writer in his place and shake his confidence. He even went so far as suggesting the interest the writer had created might destroy the line if the book didn’t live up to its expectations (and how could it, since it was a first time out effort? said subverter insinuated), thereby ruining it for the other authors, especially the one who considered his work to be far superior to the majority of other authors writing for the brand.
I don’t understand folks like that. Those who subvert success or cause it to be stillborn, by being one of the “You can’ts”. I have seen plenty of those.
I have a dream to become a successful writer…
Oh, you can’t, there’s too much competition. You aren’t no Stephen King, you know. Those published people all know somebody (ok, that one is sometimes true…) You’ll give up after a few months. Writers all get flat asses anyway…
On and on and on.
My advice? Don’t let the “You can’ts” saddle your horse. They will just leave the straps loose enough to get you thrown off. Don’t let anyone discourage or dissuade you from your dreams and from working towards them with everything you have. It’s YOUR dream, not theirs, and therefore not theirs to ruin.
You can. That’s the only phrase you need to know. All you need to believe. All you need to live it.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Snack Whacks
Anyone else scared of salad bars?
Especially those in the supermarket, because lately I’ve witnessed some peculiar things. I have always kind of wondered about the folks who walk around the market munching on nuts purloined from out of the plastic bins, or worse the ones who open cookie or other snack packages and help themselves—then put the box back on the shelf.
But salad bars are in supermarkets, at least where I live, seem to be major attractions for some nibblers. The bars don’t have a sign that says, Stop and Snack While You’re Shopping Bar. They have a price per pound sign. Maybe I am missing the difference.
And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t seen a couple people foraging inside their nose before reaching into one of the containers and selecting a piece of something. Or letting their kids, almost always with dirty little fingers, scavenge in the bins for just the perfect piece while fingering all the others. I mean, eew. One guy was even scratching his crotch before sampling. And another woman with globs of deodorant on was adjusting her bra beneath her arm. This is stuff you shouldn’t be doing in public anyway, nibbling aside.
But it’s not just the nibbling that scares me. It’s the lady hacking her head off into the greens, or the guy sneezing into the croutons. Does nobody know how to turn away from the food or cover their mouths anymore?
For a while the supermarket got wise and put plastic covers on the bins, though this did not seem to deter some folks intent on shoving their hands beneath the lids and grabbing a handful of whatever. The lids are gone now. I don’t know why.
And so is my desire for open air salad.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just spleeny. It’s not that I don’t want a nice case of tuberculosis or whooping cough. Or not that I don’t enjoy the occasional booger-covered carrot. Oh, wait, grossed myself out. Bleck. If I had reached for something on the counter as a kid I would have pulled back a stub. So maybe that carries over into my adulthood and prevents me from sampling.
I’m thinking maybe of filling out a suggestion card to help prevent such antics. Maybe say install a mini bear trap in each bin beneath the more delectable items to make sure what they are taking can now really be called finger food. Hey, truth in advertising. Or maybe a shrieking alarm of some sort or exploding paint ball that leaves a crimson splotch on each offender. You have been marked, you are a SAMPLER!!! Off to the Sample Colony.
Or for kids, make sure every item tastes like DiGel. Or works like Ex-lax. Have to make sure there’s a time delay on that last one though, so it happens in the car on the way home.
I have the feeling they won’t go for some of those suggestions. Insurance and law suits and all that. But I can dream. And avoid buffet food.
Especially those in the supermarket, because lately I’ve witnessed some peculiar things. I have always kind of wondered about the folks who walk around the market munching on nuts purloined from out of the plastic bins, or worse the ones who open cookie or other snack packages and help themselves—then put the box back on the shelf.
But salad bars are in supermarkets, at least where I live, seem to be major attractions for some nibblers. The bars don’t have a sign that says, Stop and Snack While You’re Shopping Bar. They have a price per pound sign. Maybe I am missing the difference.
And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t seen a couple people foraging inside their nose before reaching into one of the containers and selecting a piece of something. Or letting their kids, almost always with dirty little fingers, scavenge in the bins for just the perfect piece while fingering all the others. I mean, eew. One guy was even scratching his crotch before sampling. And another woman with globs of deodorant on was adjusting her bra beneath her arm. This is stuff you shouldn’t be doing in public anyway, nibbling aside.
But it’s not just the nibbling that scares me. It’s the lady hacking her head off into the greens, or the guy sneezing into the croutons. Does nobody know how to turn away from the food or cover their mouths anymore?
For a while the supermarket got wise and put plastic covers on the bins, though this did not seem to deter some folks intent on shoving their hands beneath the lids and grabbing a handful of whatever. The lids are gone now. I don’t know why.
And so is my desire for open air salad.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just spleeny. It’s not that I don’t want a nice case of tuberculosis or whooping cough. Or not that I don’t enjoy the occasional booger-covered carrot. Oh, wait, grossed myself out. Bleck. If I had reached for something on the counter as a kid I would have pulled back a stub. So maybe that carries over into my adulthood and prevents me from sampling.
I’m thinking maybe of filling out a suggestion card to help prevent such antics. Maybe say install a mini bear trap in each bin beneath the more delectable items to make sure what they are taking can now really be called finger food. Hey, truth in advertising. Or maybe a shrieking alarm of some sort or exploding paint ball that leaves a crimson splotch on each offender. You have been marked, you are a SAMPLER!!! Off to the Sample Colony.
Or for kids, make sure every item tastes like DiGel. Or works like Ex-lax. Have to make sure there’s a time delay on that last one though, so it happens in the car on the way home.
I have the feeling they won’t go for some of those suggestions. Insurance and law suits and all that. But I can dream. And avoid buffet food.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Growing Down
What do you want to be when you grow up?
Why must adults always ask children that? I remember hating that question as a tyke. I was a kid, dammit, I didn’t really need that kind of pressure. I didn’t know what I wanted to be, other than maybe Superman, but that dream ended the first time I tried jumping off the roof with a cape. Well, I didn’t really jump because I chickened out the moment I looked down and suddenly lost all confidence in my ability to fly and in my invulnerability factor. Especially since I had taken a dump off a skateboard the week before and almost broke my bum.
Then of course when you get into that purgatory we refer to as high school, more adults are suddenly asking you to look through college books and career tomes. Just another way of saying, What do you want to be when you grow up? Like high school isn’t bad enough with all the zits and secretions and mob gym showering, along comes more pressure from those grown-ups. Like they figure you’ll support them in their old age or something.
Bah humbug.
Growing up is overrated. Highly overrated. In fact, it can downright suck…well except for the ta-tas we guys come to appreciate, sometimes obsessively. There are a few, er, perks.
But really, why grow up? I mean, yeah, sure we have to because of that silly law of nature thing, but I think we take growing up way too serious. So serious we lose that ability to see things through the eyes of the child, with wonder and innocence. And the loss of those abilities…they’re like that mortal on a roof with a cape compared to Superman. If you jump as an adult, you might land on your head. If you jump as a child, you just might indeed fly, or at the very least discover something new and magical (and people will sign your cast anyway).
Adulthood comes with too much pressure, too much stress. Shouldn’t we retain some of our childlike qualities a bit more to deal with that? Shouldn’t we let ourselves be whisked off to wondrous worlds once in a while? Be able to leap without fear? Shouldn’t we again believe in heroes?
It’s difficult to ignore the mold on the rose in the world we live in. Murders, rapes, robberies, poverty, terrorism, terminal sickness—those things we become too acutely aware of as an adult thanks to not only the idiot News’ morbid obsession with the Big Bad, but with the intellectual dawning of our own vulnerability.
Yet, still, what good does it do us to dwell on those things? Sure, focus and fix where possible. But don’t let it, the pandemic of adulthood, ruin our chance to enjoy life, to dream, to hope, to live.
To be a child again.
Now go to your room and play with your toys…
Er, not THOSE toys; get yer mind out of the gutter, you adult!
Why must adults always ask children that? I remember hating that question as a tyke. I was a kid, dammit, I didn’t really need that kind of pressure. I didn’t know what I wanted to be, other than maybe Superman, but that dream ended the first time I tried jumping off the roof with a cape. Well, I didn’t really jump because I chickened out the moment I looked down and suddenly lost all confidence in my ability to fly and in my invulnerability factor. Especially since I had taken a dump off a skateboard the week before and almost broke my bum.
Then of course when you get into that purgatory we refer to as high school, more adults are suddenly asking you to look through college books and career tomes. Just another way of saying, What do you want to be when you grow up? Like high school isn’t bad enough with all the zits and secretions and mob gym showering, along comes more pressure from those grown-ups. Like they figure you’ll support them in their old age or something.
Bah humbug.
Growing up is overrated. Highly overrated. In fact, it can downright suck…well except for the ta-tas we guys come to appreciate, sometimes obsessively. There are a few, er, perks.
But really, why grow up? I mean, yeah, sure we have to because of that silly law of nature thing, but I think we take growing up way too serious. So serious we lose that ability to see things through the eyes of the child, with wonder and innocence. And the loss of those abilities…they’re like that mortal on a roof with a cape compared to Superman. If you jump as an adult, you might land on your head. If you jump as a child, you just might indeed fly, or at the very least discover something new and magical (and people will sign your cast anyway).
Adulthood comes with too much pressure, too much stress. Shouldn’t we retain some of our childlike qualities a bit more to deal with that? Shouldn’t we let ourselves be whisked off to wondrous worlds once in a while? Be able to leap without fear? Shouldn’t we again believe in heroes?
It’s difficult to ignore the mold on the rose in the world we live in. Murders, rapes, robberies, poverty, terrorism, terminal sickness—those things we become too acutely aware of as an adult thanks to not only the idiot News’ morbid obsession with the Big Bad, but with the intellectual dawning of our own vulnerability.
Yet, still, what good does it do us to dwell on those things? Sure, focus and fix where possible. But don’t let it, the pandemic of adulthood, ruin our chance to enjoy life, to dream, to hope, to live.
To be a child again.
Now go to your room and play with your toys…
Er, not THOSE toys; get yer mind out of the gutter, you adult!
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Having My Baby
Had anyone asked me why women were the ones selected to have children instead of men I might have responded with, well, if that responsibility fell on a man’s shoulders the population explosion would have immediately come to a grinding halt. I mean, come on, there’d be nobody left on the planet if men had to be the ones to get pregnant. What man’s gonna want morning sickness (that doesn’t come from downing too much tequila, I mean), swollen ankles and ever-expanding boobs…um, never mind that last one because that might swing some of us over to the Bump Side.
Then, of course, what man wants the pain of child bearing? As far as I know no guy enjoys something akin to the discomfort of pooping a bowling ball. No thanks. I’ll take a kidney stone or hemroidectomy, please…though that swollen ta-ta thing…nah, can’t even justify it for that. I’ll rent a pair.
But lo and behold some nimrod, or actually two nimrods, since there’s some guy about to have twins, have gone and actually decided to carry a child. Um, dudes…really now, we don’t need to open that can of gummy worms, do we? We don’t want the responsibility. Or the lactating. And God forbid the stretch marks. And you’re totally ruining spontaneous breast feeding in public for the rest of us. Guys, think of the huMANity! We don’t want to baby buggy down that dirty diaper road.
I don’t understand it. I really don’t. I’m not so fond of throwing up every morning upon rising and peeing every fifteen minutes. Or wearing maternity tops. And wasn’t that Paul Anka song bad enough all by itself? Do we really need to be changing the lyrics and giving Boy George another hit? “Having my baby, lalalala, I’m man in love and I love what it’s doin’ to me…” Er, no, I most certainly do not.
Of course, maybe for us male writers there’s a huge untapped publicity potential here. Especially if I can mange to get knocked up with octuplets. Think of the publicity I would get. I’m automatically on Oprah and in her bookclub at the same time, so two birds with one, um, sperm, or eight, as the case may be. My own reality show, where I could easily sell my horror novels because let’s face it there’s gonna be plenty of horror with eight rug monkeys crawling around drooling and pooping all over the place. It’s not like you can set the babies up with beers and a remote, born of man or not.
Of course, with eight tiny terrors wailing and hurling everywhere there’ll be no time for writing anymore. So better write that novel first, before the screaming marshmallows come into this world. And better hide my action figures, too, because nobody’s gonna be playing with MY toys.
Sigh. I’m not sure it’s worth it. I don’t really like sticky wet stinky things much. And I need my beauty sleep. Surely the little buggers aren’t going to snooze through the night, the time I do most of my writing. Drat, maybe Octodad isn’t such a great publicity plan after all. And I’m thinking the method of impregnation isn’t going to be any fun for a guy at all. I don’t want to look into that too deeply because I’m sure it involves a needle somewhere and I don’t like those very much, either.
Wow. I’ve scared myself right out of it. Gotta be a better way to peddle books. And you guys having babies…quit that crap! You’ll only screw it up for the rest of us. Really. Think of the brotherhood.
And the diapers…
Then, of course, what man wants the pain of child bearing? As far as I know no guy enjoys something akin to the discomfort of pooping a bowling ball. No thanks. I’ll take a kidney stone or hemroidectomy, please…though that swollen ta-ta thing…nah, can’t even justify it for that. I’ll rent a pair.
But lo and behold some nimrod, or actually two nimrods, since there’s some guy about to have twins, have gone and actually decided to carry a child. Um, dudes…really now, we don’t need to open that can of gummy worms, do we? We don’t want the responsibility. Or the lactating. And God forbid the stretch marks. And you’re totally ruining spontaneous breast feeding in public for the rest of us. Guys, think of the huMANity! We don’t want to baby buggy down that dirty diaper road.
I don’t understand it. I really don’t. I’m not so fond of throwing up every morning upon rising and peeing every fifteen minutes. Or wearing maternity tops. And wasn’t that Paul Anka song bad enough all by itself? Do we really need to be changing the lyrics and giving Boy George another hit? “Having my baby, lalalala, I’m man in love and I love what it’s doin’ to me…” Er, no, I most certainly do not.
Of course, maybe for us male writers there’s a huge untapped publicity potential here. Especially if I can mange to get knocked up with octuplets. Think of the publicity I would get. I’m automatically on Oprah and in her bookclub at the same time, so two birds with one, um, sperm, or eight, as the case may be. My own reality show, where I could easily sell my horror novels because let’s face it there’s gonna be plenty of horror with eight rug monkeys crawling around drooling and pooping all over the place. It’s not like you can set the babies up with beers and a remote, born of man or not.
Of course, with eight tiny terrors wailing and hurling everywhere there’ll be no time for writing anymore. So better write that novel first, before the screaming marshmallows come into this world. And better hide my action figures, too, because nobody’s gonna be playing with MY toys.
Sigh. I’m not sure it’s worth it. I don’t really like sticky wet stinky things much. And I need my beauty sleep. Surely the little buggers aren’t going to snooze through the night, the time I do most of my writing. Drat, maybe Octodad isn’t such a great publicity plan after all. And I’m thinking the method of impregnation isn’t going to be any fun for a guy at all. I don’t want to look into that too deeply because I’m sure it involves a needle somewhere and I don’t like those very much, either.
Wow. I’ve scared myself right out of it. Gotta be a better way to peddle books. And you guys having babies…quit that crap! You’ll only screw it up for the rest of us. Really. Think of the brotherhood.
And the diapers…
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
A Friend Till the End
Do you ever run into people who like to call themselves your friend yet in reality seem to spend most of their time doing their best to subtly or even not so subtly hold you back from achieving the things you want to achieve? Doing the things you want to do? Maybe even believing in the things you want to believe?
I have. Too often.
They can come across as very sweet and sympathetic sometimes, but beneath the pseudo-supportive demeanor they seek to cast there’s an underlying agenda.
I think writers get it a lot. Usually things are fine as long as you are struggling, collecting that drawer full of rejection slips. They give you the shoulder to cry on, the gentle pat on the shoulder.
But…the moment that big sale comes…something kinda changes. It’s almost as if you can see a palpable shock in their eyes. In that moment you know they never truly supported you and never really thought you had a chance in hell of really making it. The status quo has changed and they don’t like it.
Why?
I’m guessing it comes down to one or more of three things—jealousy, insecurity, or fear. One “friend” I know always manages the sarcastic barbs whenever I make a sale. Or the subtle put down. I’m guessing that’s mostly jealousy of some kind. It’s annoying, because one expects those closest to be supportive and happy for our success, and vice versa. Yet they aren’t. They appear to resent it. Maybe it makes them wonder about the lack “something” in their own lives. Or maybe they always wanted to do what you do but didn’t have the drive or courage (some might say thickheadedness). I tend to dismiss jealous types fairly fast.
Then there are the insecure and fearful, which often cross categories. They worry your new-found success might mean you don’t need them anymore. Don’t need their shoulder or comforting. Maybe you’ll run off and make new friends, famous friends, or friends with writer stuff in common. Sometimes that happens (I have seen it personally happen with friends who suddenly came into money and swiftly wanted a higher social circle), but if it does the friendship wasn’t very strong in the first place and based on an uneven exchange. Or said writer is just a putz or an emotional vampire.
Some people feed off the failure and sadness of others, too. It gives them purpose, mission. It’s a perverted type of relationship, fulfilling some deep-seated need in one or the other participant, or even both persons, and it only works as long as one or the other doesn’t change the dynamics. And it’s much harder to deal with than run of the mill jealousy. Because there’s often a bigger emotional investment, one that usually ends up ruined.
But, you now, sometimes you have to risk change. Sometimes that person who has made a success needs another’s support even more than in the down times—to keep their head on straight, to see things a bit more clearly and guide them, to assuage their fears (and success can be scary, especially if it comes big and fast.) Fear does no good whatsoever, unless of course you’re the Roadrunner and have a coyote with a dinner napkin chasing you.
Beware of who and what your friends are, and what they are offering. And maybe even more so, be aware of yourself and who or what you are offering them.
Choose your friends wisely, because they are the ones who are going to be there to watch your back when the jealous, the users, and the abusers are not.
I have. Too often.
They can come across as very sweet and sympathetic sometimes, but beneath the pseudo-supportive demeanor they seek to cast there’s an underlying agenda.
I think writers get it a lot. Usually things are fine as long as you are struggling, collecting that drawer full of rejection slips. They give you the shoulder to cry on, the gentle pat on the shoulder.
But…the moment that big sale comes…something kinda changes. It’s almost as if you can see a palpable shock in their eyes. In that moment you know they never truly supported you and never really thought you had a chance in hell of really making it. The status quo has changed and they don’t like it.
Why?
I’m guessing it comes down to one or more of three things—jealousy, insecurity, or fear. One “friend” I know always manages the sarcastic barbs whenever I make a sale. Or the subtle put down. I’m guessing that’s mostly jealousy of some kind. It’s annoying, because one expects those closest to be supportive and happy for our success, and vice versa. Yet they aren’t. They appear to resent it. Maybe it makes them wonder about the lack “something” in their own lives. Or maybe they always wanted to do what you do but didn’t have the drive or courage (some might say thickheadedness). I tend to dismiss jealous types fairly fast.
Then there are the insecure and fearful, which often cross categories. They worry your new-found success might mean you don’t need them anymore. Don’t need their shoulder or comforting. Maybe you’ll run off and make new friends, famous friends, or friends with writer stuff in common. Sometimes that happens (I have seen it personally happen with friends who suddenly came into money and swiftly wanted a higher social circle), but if it does the friendship wasn’t very strong in the first place and based on an uneven exchange. Or said writer is just a putz or an emotional vampire.
Some people feed off the failure and sadness of others, too. It gives them purpose, mission. It’s a perverted type of relationship, fulfilling some deep-seated need in one or the other participant, or even both persons, and it only works as long as one or the other doesn’t change the dynamics. And it’s much harder to deal with than run of the mill jealousy. Because there’s often a bigger emotional investment, one that usually ends up ruined.
But, you now, sometimes you have to risk change. Sometimes that person who has made a success needs another’s support even more than in the down times—to keep their head on straight, to see things a bit more clearly and guide them, to assuage their fears (and success can be scary, especially if it comes big and fast.) Fear does no good whatsoever, unless of course you’re the Roadrunner and have a coyote with a dinner napkin chasing you.
Beware of who and what your friends are, and what they are offering. And maybe even more so, be aware of yourself and who or what you are offering them.
Choose your friends wisely, because they are the ones who are going to be there to watch your back when the jealous, the users, and the abusers are not.
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