Ranting about "writers"

My latest printed publication came out today and I was accepted for a second one in a newspaper (instantly mind you. I submitted at 2 yesterday and got the response "Awesome!" within the hour. I had already left for my camping trip so I didn't get to brag in the tipi, but I can do it now and that's almost as good. SHIT this is a long parenthetical side note).

Two complaints though.

1. This next publication is being printed in January and I leave in December. I won't be able to pick up a copy for sentiments sake. Not my sentiments mind you. I have no sentiments to speak of. My parents and friends do, however.

2. Pulp is absolute crap. Trite, boring, free for anyone to submit, hounding anyone to submit, encouraging people to write crap and even teaching them how.

Don't get me wrong; any one can be a writer if they put in the work. Talent means nothing in writing. It's all about cultivated skill, something I've spent two years honing to the point that I'm on average at the professional level. This rag is edited by three people, one who starts her submission titled "Creating Flash Fiction" with "The reasons for writing flash fiction are numerous."

Let's dissect this sentence so I can show you the real mind of a writer. First problem, it's a boring sentence. There's no individual voice. It's how you're taught to start essays in middle school when you don't know any better and are just writing because you have to. An opening sentence ought to grab you, even in an instructional essay.

Second problem, it doesn't say anything. How many reasons? Why do you have to tell us there are reasons if you're about to present these reasons? Won't we be able to tell these are reasons when we read them? It could be combined with two or three sentences in the rest of the paragraph and the one after it and it'd still only say "Flash fiction challenges the writer to find creative solutions to solve the word restraint." That's not the greatest sentence ever, mind you. But it at least tells you SOMETHING.

Third problem. The rest of paragraph says something decent. It talks about Hemingway's six word story: "For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn." With slight problems in economy, it's a worthwhile paragraph. She could get rid of the first sentence and lead with Hemingway.

Fourth problem. It shows how lazy she is and how bad of an editor the other two are. An editor would tell you to cut it because it's a useless sentence. These "editors" are just friends who don't want to hurt the girl's feeling because amateurs always take editing so personally. It's not attacking you and your ideals and politics and religions. The red marks aren't blood; they're just ink. But her friends couldn't tell her this, or they did and she had the power to stick it in anyway so she did.

Most writers would see the problem themselves and know to fix it. You can't become attached to your words. The characters, images and themes, sure. Words, no. No writer cares about his words in a personal, sentimental way.

The second editor wrote an article about her failure at NaNoWriMo. If you don't know what it is, I refuse to tell you because I don't support it. It is the biggest waste of time and effort as a writer. A waste of words, really, and you shouldn't waste those.

I've had friends participate in this blasphemy. I do not condemn any man or woman who does. I condemn the writers who do. I don't consider them fellows. They're people who have nothing better to do that month, but who don't have the interest in writing to go about it over the course of years.

Do you diet for a month then pig out? Do you study a subject you love for a month then forget about it? No. Why would you write for a month then be done with it? The point of NaNoWriMo isn't that, but it's what happens. You get your finished piece of crap and you show it to friends because you're real proud of it (though you swear to god it's not your best writing). You show it to friends. You ask for feedback and they skim through it and say, "Yeah, it's pretty good," because they don't want to crush you and they don't have a clue how you'd go about fixing it. (I'd suggest white-out, a shredder, flames and a shoe-box coffin).

The real flaw in the activity itself, since the one above is more the flaw of people, is that it encourages you to rush. Forget about content, quality, editing. Don't write when you're of sound mind, when you're relaxed and prepared. Don't worry if the characters change throughout. Don't worry if it's a trite plot or if the characters are interesting or if you're delving too much into things that no one really cares about. WRONG.

Writing and good ideas take time to develop. They need perspective. They need to sit and to be addressed at a later date so you can look at them objectively. Characters don't need plotting out, but they need a little consistency and depth. Scenes should be planned so that they show the characters and their developments. Instead, writers are encouraged to use whatever comes to mind so long as they get to the word count.

Hemingway published 10 novels, the first two when he was 27 and he killed himself at 62. His short stories only cover 700 pages. Why are people killing themselves to write 200 pages in a month when Hemingway wrote an average of (I'm doing the math now) approximately 100 pages of fiction a year in his writing career (actually less but whatever). The more prolific Dickens only wrote 20 "novels" (things like A Christmas Carol are included in this) in his 34 years of writing and he did it through weekly and monthly serials. He knew not to rush things.

The final editor stole this list of "Top 22 Creative Writing Tricks You've Never Tried" and then he attached his name to it. I bet he didn't even come up with the title, the goddam moron. He can't even be bothered to create his own trite crap so he steals other people's from the internet.

 Let me transcribe a few of the more ridiculous ones for you. Let me warn you that I hate experimental writing.

"Try tacking large pieces of paper on your walls and go to work with some heavy duty pens, chalk or even paints." While fun, what the hell does this have to do with writing? Are you such a shitty writer and boring person that this is your version of a creative outlet?

"Try
                              Moving
                                                          the
                                                                                   words
around."

Yeah that'll make your shit shine. Make it look good. That's what people want, a pretty picture that they don't have to see in their mind. You know what? Just include a coloring book with your publication. That way the infantile readers won't lose interest.

"Replace every adjective with the one three entries down in the dictionary." Really? This might have good intentions. Adjectives and adverbs from beginners are wastes of words. Most should be cut or combined with the weak verb or noun to form a strong verb or concrete noun. But replacing them with random words is nonsense. Not creative.

Creativity should be defined as recognizing what was important in your life. Not obnoxious bullshit.

Brilliant, lovely and funny

My Creative Writing class has come to an end now that professor Blower is having a baby. She was a good professor, though too kind to others for their average writing. Today I read my setting-focused story out loud for the class, and I stumbled and fumbled and stuttered and coughed through it but everyone had a copy so they could read along. They loved it. Professor Blower, before I read, said she had read it last night and it made her giggle because she recognized the website I used to watch movies. That's how specific I was. Then afterwards she said it was brilliant. Others said they loved it and it made them laugh and we had a hoot discussing the clever end because of its insight into the male psyche.

All of it was intentionally done on my part because I'm that good. Here it is:

Angie and I, both being Americans in Wales, needed a Mexican and Movie night. We shortened it to “M&M night,” to which we brought M&Ms. It was a monthly event with countdowns on Facebook and she’d text me the day of, asking “U pumpd 4 2nite?!!!”

I’d reply, “Of course.”

She cooked tacos and quesadillas, and I ate a bag of nachos while waiting. We complained that nothing tasted right. I told her, “It’s the ingredients, not your cooking.” We’d eat them sitting on her quilt. It was white with colored circles and I’d always sit on the orange one at the foot of the bed. She didn’t have any plates so we ate from paper towels on our laps. She warned me if I spilled I’d better only stain my pants and not her quilt. It was a present from her boyfriend’s nana.

She set the laptop on a purple circle and tilted the screen and asked, “Can ya see alright?” She wriggled closer so our knees touched. I could smell the salsa on her breath.

During horror flicks she’d squeeze her plush bear Jimothy. She’d hold him up when the eerie music signaled a killer or kitten to spring from the bushes. She’d flinch and bang her head on post cards of castles and cathedrals in Edinburgh, Dublin and Cardiff that were taped to the wall. Sometimes Jimothy wasn’t enough so she’d clutch my shoulder. Her fingernails would dig in.

I’d snicker at the cheesy effects or clichés or at the truly scary moments when I didn’t want her to know how desperate my lungs were to breathe again.

The movies were online and we could only watch seventy-two minutes before the website made us wait half an hour.

“Why they gotta do that?” she asked.

“Probably bandwidth restrictions.”

“What’s bandwidth?”

“Something technical,” I said. “Hard to explain.”

During the break she gave me a tour of her room. Seated next to me she’d wave her arm like Vana White and present each spectacle. “Trash bin’s under the desk. That’s also where I study. Over there’s the bathroom. Gotta potty? Do it now. And you’re sitting on my bed.”

“Awful tour. Give me some history.”

“Okay, you’re sitting on my bed and I haven’t had sex in it yet.”

I got up and looked at the photos on her desk. The frames sat on wrinkled and grease-stained syllabi for classes. When I picked a frame up, a diet coke can rolled down the desk and clattered on the crumbed carpet. “Your boyfriend?” I asked.

“That’s my dog.” She snatched the picture from me. “That’s my boo. And that’s Mommy. She looks like me, doesn’t she?”

We were on our fourth movie when we heard her flatmates stumble into the kitchen and slam the fridge. One yelled to the other, “Wer muh crisp-puh?” And the other shouted, “Dunno!”

I got up for the toilet. I had been holding it all night. There was hair in the sink. The floor was still wet from her last shower.

Her room was small, and with the toilet separated only by a plastic door, well, I was kind of shy. I let out my stream slowly, careful not to aim at the water. I drained my bladder as silently as possible and five minutes later I was done. I washed my hands using her raspberry soap that scented the bathroom. I walked out taking a big whiff of my hands.

“I could hear you, ya know.”

Changes?

The point of this blog was to chronicle my adventures so that I or whatever audience I have could watch the changes in me. I already stated at the beginning that I didn't think I'd change much because I went to another country. Psychologically speaking, we're determined by our nature (DNA) and our nurture (environment). I'm in basically the same environment as I am in America. There's more of a slope when I walk, I walk more, there's a better scenery outside of town and there's a lot of old buildings but I don't interact with those much.

My environment can be stripped down to classes and my room. Sometimes the class is in another city where I get to see castles and cathedrals and whatever else. I'm forced to interact with others when we get lunch or dinner on these field trips. I can't just sit in the hostel or in a cafe by myself. But I mostly observe and respond to anything directed at me then hand the conversation back to the others. It's a little different with Cathryn, since I'm more comfortable with her than I am with the others. We even had two movie/talking nights.

But all this environment is temporary and it's really not so foreign from my usual life. Boxing is different but I don't interact with the people there. I punch them and get punched by them and tell them good job as they finish a sprint, but there's no bonding between us. They don't shape me.

My mood is better lately, but the novelty of Wales hasn't worn off. I get to do all the fun stuff I did as a teen in scouts again. I get to see castles and live my childhood romance. I'm studying Arthurian literature, and realizing they are really bad stories. I don't have as many hours of class (I'm taking 12 SH instead of my usual 15 - 18 SH) and the British education system is more reliant on my work than on the professor talking at me. This gives me more time to write. I get new material to write about.

So is this improved mood really a change? It's not a personality change. No more than being full is different from being hungry. I still think people are ridiculously stupid and boring with the exception of a person. I'm not suddenly a people-person. I still prefer one-on-one or two-on-one. I'm still impatient, a little careless and unmotivated by things like grades.

So have I changed? I say no. People are the same wherever you go, like I said from the get-go. People from one ethnicity still surround themselves with others of the same language, skin color, culture, etc. People still walk in the middle of the sidewalk so people behind them can't get around them. Drivers don't want to wait for pedestrians. Shoppers still take years to decide if they want braeburn apples or royal gala while some of us know exactly which we want and have to wait. People have a herd mentality where they walk in hoards and block the entire sidewalk. Kids still skip class. Some are good students, others aren't, most are in the middle. Professors like the normal kids more than the others. Everyone likes sugar, alcohol and grease. Corporations are still screwing everyone out of their money.

Basically, life is the same here as elsewhere. I'm no more excited to be here than I was to visit Hawaii or Philmont or any of the dozen exciting places I've been in my life. Everyone looks for adventures on the other side of the map, but you don't even have to drive an hour to find it. 

These Two Mormons

I was studying in the library for two hours today about John Donne and Mannerist art and literature. On my way back to Ffridd site, these two boys in suits stop me and ask if I want to hear about Jesus Christ and the Church of Latter Day Saints. You know, Mormonism.

"No thank you."

"Do you have a belief in God?"

That's how they get you. You say yes, they ask what sect and how long and then continue on with their well-rehearsed spiel. If you say no, they ask something else. They're like telemarketers. They have a script that covers every possible choice and the only way to win is to not play.

So I listen to their speech, being polite and thinking I'd get great material to bombard them with, or better yet, I could convince them of their own lunacy. There's nothing wrong with a belief in God or any religion. But if that religion makes no sense then it is stupid.

They ask me what it would mean to me if there was a living prophet. I said it would mean absolutely nothing to me. If there is a good, then it can be known. If there is a good, whether a person is a prophet or not doesn't change the good. I tell them this and they ask me what Moses did that made him so memorable and historic. He relayed God's messages. They tell me "Good!" like it's some hard question, but really they're just happy that we're back on track with their scripts. If God relates the good to Moses, then Moses tells me, all he's done is save me time in figuring out what is good.

But since the days of Martin Luther, there has been no need for prophets. The bible has been open to study by anyone who wants to. They can read it and interpret it and figure out their own good. It's been going on since before then too. It's called philosophy, ethics, not-being-an-idiot/sheep.

I raise this point to. Instead of answering, I get introduced to the second guy, a massive, blemished boy. It looks as though God put a curse of boils on him and all those boils popped leaving him hideously scabby. The guy doesn't say much but the first guy continues to tell me about this new prophet and how they asked God if this guy was the real thing and not some impostor and guess what? God told them yes, yes he is.

So I accept their premise that God talks to his followers. I asked, "Why would I need to see this guy then? If God is telling me whether or not this guy is a prophet, why doesn't God just tell me the message himself? It'd save everyone some time."

At this point they realize I'm not interested, though I'm sure I stated that at the beginning. They don't give up though. Instead they ask me when a better time would be to learn about this prophet? Or to go meet him? I say look, I told you right away I wasn't interested but you had to keep talking. I'm not interested in meeting him for the reasons I said before. You don't have any arguments that convinced me. I've pointed out the flaws in them all. No offense to your religion but it doesn't make sense as you've presented it."

Then I walked off and wrote this post. This is not a reflection of Mormons, but one of these two boys. I was told, very accurately, that if they took no for an answer then they'd never talk to anyone. That's true, but it's still annoying. 

Exercise then Grease

So most of boxing class is just technique with some sprints and groundwork like push ups or sit ups at the end. To get everyone conditioned they set up a fourth practice of the week that's focused on running and muscle endurance. It lasts half an hour.

Today was the first one and I was the only one who showed up other than the coach. We waited and stretched and watched students walk by and I even saw Will headed back to Ffridd site. And then the breeze turned into 25 mph winds, and then it rained--sidaways.

We ran down steps, then down hills on wet stone, then we went up steps and at the top he said "might as well go the extra mile" and we ran up twenty more steps. We did the ~400 meter loop four times then he told me to run back to my dorm, without stopping during the half mile up hill, and then I was to do as many types of sit ups as I could think up and do three sets of them, each for thirty seconds.

And I did all of this with my banged up knee, which is still sore and swollen. I'm awesome so I deserve pizza.

"Hands up!"

Okay, Ow. First two hour session of boxing today and suddenly that praise from last time isn't meaning so much.

There were only about fifteen of us this time. We did the warm ups like usual then the coach propped two mattresses against the wall. These were our makeshift punching bags and my group went over and hit them 1, 1-2, 1-2-3, etc up to twenty then back down. Then he said to repeat that three times. Jesus that's hard. And all of the times I lost count and redid a number, I must've hit the thing a thousand times. I just did the math, 1260 times and then add in my unnecessary repetitions. The coach came over and held his hand just under where I should be hitting to force me to keep my right hand up. He'd forgotten that he had praised me before, and I probably should have too. Wouldn't want to be too confident.

Then we switched with the other group who had been holding the pads and one person would hit 1, 1-2, 1-2-3, etc up to twenty then back down, then the two switched. This seems like a pretty standard workout, but I was paired with a girl and a rather small one at that. I couldn't hit hard. It's not a sexist thing. She's just small and thin and I don't want to hit the pad then have her hand fly back and smack her in the nose. That'd be bad!

The coach would come over and steal one of us to hit the pads with him doing different combos. I always thought I was next but I never was. So I did the pad hitting with a partner two more times, except I got a new partner. He was stocky, about my height but with a lot more power. When I hit the pad, I was actually going backwards. Most people don't have sturdy arms so the pads always flailing. When he hit the pad, I was backing into the wall.

One of the experienced members dragged me away from my water bottle to teach us some advanced blocking, more like parrying. But when you block the cross the way he showed us, it leaves the body wide open. It seems like bad practice. Anyway, I wasn't too good at it and we only practice for a minute or two then the coach gathered us and taught us basic blocking. I was even worse at that. I was paired with Jim and we were told to hit four times mixing jabs, crosses, hooks to either body or head then we switched and I blocked while he punched. He was another beginner and I only got three or four hits on him in the entire ten minutes we did this. He was good defensively, or I was just too slow to be a threat. But every time he threw his four punches, at least one would land. Usually the left hook to the body. I could block the straight punches (jabs and crosses) but the hooks always came as a surprise and I was flailing about trying to guard.

But only two or three of the shots hurt. One to the body, one to the head (both left hooks) and one to the nose (a jab in the beginning).

We did groundwork after that. Squats, squat thrusts, squat jumps, wide arm push ups, regular push ups, step ups, jumping, flutter kicks, leg lifts, and a slew of other things that I can't name and couldn't do too well. But everyone was exhausted by then.

And we watched sparring again and it was pretty basic except Steve got cut in the first round he fought. Kevin had a bloody nose against Patrick. And they were supposed to be keeping the power down but Kevin smacked the tall kid good and the tall kid, who usually dodges everything, got fussy. Kevin is asian, and short, and small and the tall kid is TALL. They nearly got into a real fight then and it was a big to do.

Afterwards, I paid my club membership and promised to bring my AU card next time and left. I tried finding the path through the forest that Jessie had showed me last week, but I was a bit lost until who did I see? ADAM! Another American who is in my Outdoor Pursuits group and who did boxing with me last Thursday. He had a soccerball and found another on our way back. He showed me the way I should be going because I was just headed back to the road. 

Bangor Boxing (that'd be a bad spoonerism)

I got praised! He said "Have you boxed before?"

I started a post earlier about how busy I'll be with my two lit classes and 5,000 word essay, but it was complaining and I'm no longer in the mood to complain about it. So you get a recap of my night.

Tonight was boxing practice. Every Monday and Thursday at 9pm for an hour (unless it runs over) and Saturday at 2pm for two hours. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I've been running and so I feel in pretty decent shape. It was a fifteen minute walk to the gym and the karate class that uses the gym before us always runs over so we stood there waiting for the sweaty runts and their sensei to file out.

Adam was there, though he was already tired from Frisbee drills (what?) and track practice. We did the usual warm ups, then as a big group did some quarter-turn hops, half-turn hops, and full-turn hops then some jab-cross combos, then more hops, then jab-cross, left hook right hook to the body combos, more hops, jab-cross, left hook-right hook to the body, left hook right hook to the face, more hops and finally jab-cross, left hook right hook to the body, left hook right hook to the face, left and right uppercuts to the body and more hops.

Then we broke up and one group hit their partner pads going one, one-two, one-two-three, etc up to twenty. My group did some shadow boxing (more of the same combos) while the coach took one kid and had him hit the pad and corrected his form and had him move around and try out different moves. It took forever to get to my turn and then the other group was all finished so they switched.

But Adam and I stuck around until we got to hit the coach's pad. It was a glove with a flat surface and a target so that he could turn it with the flat side facing the ground and you'd hit it with an uppercut, or he could turn it to the side and you'd hit it with a hook. Usually you hit it straight on with one-two, jab-cross combos. And he moved around so you could work on keeping your stance and balance while pivoting, chasing down the opponent and all that.

It was my turn. I was already sweaty from the shadow boxing but I knew my turn was coming up so I took a break and was geared up to hit the pad. He said "One-two," pow-pow! "One-two," pow-pow! "One-two," pow-pow. "Have you done this before? Keep going. One-two, one-two."

Ah, it was great! Then Adam and I took turns hitting the pads going up to twenty, losing all form at punch ten and losing all strength at punch twelve. Then we did a cool-down and most people left. But there was some sparring after. It was between the older students who had done boxing before.

One kid was awkward and kept missing and getting hit and even when he hit it didn't seem that accurate. He's the kid always correcting our forms, telling us to get a move on, arranging socials for the clubs and posting videos so that we don't suck so much. And he was getting clobbered. His opponent was a giant, definitely a heavyweight. He wasn't experienced. He was awkward too, but he had power. Or weight. Or size. The first kid couldn't reach his face without hopping.

Then two other kids went. One had a year of experience and was quick and confident and ducked a lot and threw some odd punches. He was scrawny and Asian. His opponent was Steve, my size and had great technical skill. He moved in, hit, moved out, blocked, and always kept moving. He was big enough to have power but they weren't trying to knock each other out.

Steve stepped out and Bobby stepped in (not his real name, but he's a major player so I have to name him). Bobby was twice as fast as the Asian kid. Every where the Asian kid ducked, Bobby's jab found him. He slipped, Bobby still hit. He bobbed, Bobby jabbed. He weaved, Bobby clocked him. The movement into the punch added to the power and the Asian teetered a bit. Bobby got hit with a few jabs but everything else he slipped around or backed away from. He was clearly experienced. He didn't have a great guard and the coach kept telling him to keep it up but he let it fall after a few punches.

Then Bobby and the first kid, the awkward one, faced off. The guy couldn't do anything. He was too slow for Bobby. He'd throw a hook and Bobby would lean back, just out of the way of it, then he'd lean back in and throw his own shot. If he was trying, Bobby would've knocked the other kid out.

I wanted to see Steve and Bobby face off but they kept getting rotated out and never matched up with each other. I think if they had, it would've gotten serious and Bobby would've lost a tooth. He didn't have a gum-shield in.

I left before they finished sparring because I was starving. I have a weak stomach so eating then doing sprints too soon after makes me vomit. And by too soon I mean within two hours. So I ate at six and then was hungry again at 10 and we didn't get out until 10:30. I staggered down Holyhead road, following an old couple who kept stopping to look at the horses just over the fence. Remember, this is a twenty minute walk.

I figured they'd be closed, but I hoped I was wrong for a change. I wasn't. The student convenience store closes at 10pm each night, so I continued on to the 24 hour one by Morrison's. It's another five minutes from campus. The drunken were already stumbling back to their rooms, crowding the sidewalks and forcing me into the street. Some stumbled the wrong way, probably headed to another pub.

The convenience store didn't have much, but I found a Coke and a package of four muffins. Two were chocolate, one had a chocolate chips and one was cherry? It looks like a plain muffin with three cherries stuffed into the top. I haven't eaten it yet, but the other three are digesting.

On my way back, there was a group of seven kids and one had to be a fresher. She was fat and drunk and her drunk friend supported her while they stood in my way. She couldn't walk. She couldn't even stand still without falling backwards. I tried getting around them but they were a blob on the sidewalk and there was a fence on my left and a stone wall on my right. So I set my muffins on the stones and plucked a chocolate one from its wrapper and ate it while the drunks continued upward.

I devoured that thing and nearly chugged my whole Coke. And after I started walking again, I was already caught up to them! But there was no fence and no traffic, so I crossed to the other side of the street.

There was a bit of complaining at the end, but most of it wasn't. And I'm off to try this cherry muffin.