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Sep 19, 2003

I love relaxing. I think it is my number one all time favorite thing to do. I love the feeling of having no obligations to anyone, even if only for a brief time.

I mention this because I'm sitting here in the SLC, relaxing and reading blogs with nowhere to go for another hour and nothing to do until that class is over, and I'm happy. I'm really happy sitting here in my little wooden cubicle gazing idly at a flatscreen computer which probably cost more than my apartment.

I like college, don't get me wrong. I love it. I've adjusted as close to painlessly as I think is possible. I don't miss home and I don't mind being responsible for everything. I don't even mind ridiculously long bus rides to Wal-mart in the middle of the week because I've run out of warm Vanilla Coke to hide from Roommate Brandonn.

But it's a different kind of feeling when I'm not relaxing. I'm generally content, or excited, or intrigued, or curious, or proud. I'm always doing something or meeting someone new, and it's really a cool way to live. There's just something totally unique in the happiness I get from relaxing.

It's especialy potent if I've been busy lately, as I have been this week. It really gets noticeable when I'm being a little irresponsible, relaxing when I have other things to do, like right now. It's particularly sweet when I've been kept up all night by Roommate Brandonn and his girlfriend having a screaming argument and then a screaming something else. (Seriously, all they do is fight and fuck. Their relationship is held together by the tenuous ties of mutual animosity and mixed body fluids.)

I can imagine nothing I'd rather be doing right now than lounging in this marginally comfortable wooden chair, composing a lengthy, languid essay on relaxation. Possibly pushing Brandonn out of the third-story window right beside me. But then, that's such an effort.
Nick ::: 3:05 PM ::: 0 comments

Sep 17, 2003

Last night I found myself reading some stuff by Drew and Daniel (actually, I found Daniel's blog for the first time...man I'm out of the loop), and as usual I started to feel more than a smidgen envious. Let's face it, it's annoying knowing that you aren't the best. Don't get me wrong; I am arrogant enough to place myself in a pretty high category of writers, but I'm just far enough up the ladder to reach up and shine these guys' shoes.

Pope's definition of wit is the ability to take a thought everyone has had and phrase it better than any of them. That means I'm witty just up to the point when one of them -- or one of a million other people whose skill at wordplay is just as far beyond my own -- decides to express the same thought I do.

I got over it pretty quickly. We can't all be our generation's greatest minds, but if no one but the best bother to write anything down, the rest of us will have very little to read. Whatever contribution I make will undoubtedly be overshadowed, but at least it won't get skin cancer. Despite the easy rationale for persistence, however, this situation led me to buy a ticket for a pretty somber train of thought. Put simply, I'm not giving up, but I don't know what I'm not giving up.

I may have given some of you the five-year plan. Study hard, get a job, work towards a degree, and start getting published. If I find success in writing, kick ass! If I don't, I've got a solid degree and I'm on a career path. Sounds nice, right?

But where do I begin? I've never had a successful career in writing. I don't even know what one looks like. I know they're hard to build and I know that very few people have them. Barring a magical owl swinging by with an invitation to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Writing Skills, I don't think the opportunity for one is just going to be dropped in my lap, either.

So what do I do to get started?

Obviously write. But write what? You'd be surprised at the wide variety of stuff that you can get published if you're lucky enough. Some periodicals feature short fiction by little-known authors, usually focusing on a specific genre. Many publications accept articles from "freelance" writers too lazy to get a steady job. A good scribe can get a novel published if he's willing to commit that much time and knows what to do. A solid screenplay can be written in your bedroom, filmed in your backyard, and shown at Sundance. The options are practically limitless, which means that the choice between them is virtually impossible.

And that's only the start. What genre do I choose? I've written lots of natty little scifi things, but there's such a stigma associated with that area of writing that I'm afraid I'd be branded. Don't even talk to me about modern fantasy; I'm pretty open-minded, but even I think most of that stuff's trashy. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I could write some miserable soggy tragic drama which would be tremendously well-received by the artistic community. Never mind that I'd hate writing it, hate reading it even more, and be utterly mortified by my own pandering.

I could try for some sort of teen angst story, or maybe something with a little action and adventure. I've never written a horror story; maybe that's a hidden talent. Then there's comedy, only marginally easier to write than it is to act (this is from my experience, but then I'm not what you'd call the world's best actor). I could just commit to a random particle of inspiration and follow through, which is what produced the Punks script, but that commitment fizzled and another might do the same.

(It will be filmed, damnit. I'm finding someone competent who's willing to direct it for me, and I'll learn from them. Yeah, I'd love to direct it myself, but I said competent. Don't argue if you haven't seen the reel from Day One-and-Only.)

This crisis is sort of like a recurring nightmare. It keeps cropping up in my mind and don't know how to resolve it. I highly doubt that my career counselor has anything for aspiring rich and/or famous screenwriter-slash-novelist-slash-columnist-slash-rockstars. I don't know of any successful writers who'd offer me tips, either. And it's not as though there's a Make a Name for Yourself Through Writing During College for Dummies.

Sure, I want to write. I'd love to make a living at it. I'd be absolutely in heaven if I gained some popularity.

But first, I have to start. And I don't know how to.

But there is hope. Just as in writing itself, there is someone out there who is better at this than I am. Somewhere is a person who knows exactly what I have to do. I'm just hoping that someone reads my blog, and leaves a comment that makes everything fall into place. If you might be that person -- even if you're not sure -- drop me a line. I could definitely use the help.
Nick ::: 2:24 PM ::: 0 comments

Sep 16, 2003

Macitore42: flying though the air....
Macitore42: with the spikey hair....
Macitore42: more chaotic than loki....
Macitore42: he's the man
Macitore42: he's the myth
Macitore42: he's...cariochi
EquinoxStar: no
EquinoxStar: he's ciarochi
Macitore42: well i get two points for the attempt...and now you have a theme song
EquinoxStar: I'm writing it down as we speak
Nick ::: 8:41 PM ::: 0 comments

Tuesday Evening Update Part Two / Considerably Later in the Evening

You may be wondering why I'm writing this after my lab instead of before, in the convenient time slot I discussed earlier. You're probably not, but I'm going to answer the question anyway.

Today was a nightmare from hell. First of all, I had two tests -- English and Psyc -- and no time to prepare last night. I haven't read every single English assignment, because we get assigned at least one every class day. "But no problem," I think, "I'll just read them on the bus on my way to class."

Swell plan. Until I get on the bus, open my backpack, and realize I've left the readings at home.

I BS my way through the questions on the stuff I haven't read fairly well, aided by the pick-ten-of-these-twelve-questions test format. I still had to fudge some info, and creatively forget to answer parts of questions, but I got through it OK. What was more disturbing was when, 30 minutes into the 40-minute quiz, I was still working on number six.

Psyc was a bit less scary, as it was multiple choix, but it was more time-consuming. And then I had a long research questionnaire to fill out, full of invasive questions about my relationship. And I only have 15 minutes between classes on Tuesdays.

Of course, as soon as I got out of that class, I realized that I'd left both of today's books at home, including my lab manual. Shit.

So I had to jump on the ridiculously crowded 3:30 bus, stand up holding a rail for half an hour, run down the hill to my apartment, grab my book, trudge slowly and painfully back up the hill, wait in the roasting sun for half an hour, and then get back on the bus -- just so I would have a map to fill out later on. I was supposed to be watching the film version of Pride and Prejudice, not scrambling for my life!

But wait! On my way out the door after I'd grabbed my book back at the apartment, my cellphone rings. "Damnit, Caroline, timing," I think, but it's not Caroline. Oh no. It's Rachel Votta, recruitment editor for the Red & Black, calling to nag me about the architecture article I'd all but given up on doing. She doesn't even mention the article I've already written and they still haven't published, of course.

So now I have to get this freaking architecture article (which I haven't even started) finished and run it out to the R&B offices by Friday. Which means getting up early tomorrow and the day after and scrambling around campus trying to find an expert on the school's design.

Of course, I still have tests tomorrow.

Ugh.

Roommate Brandonn is getting even more annoying. A couple of nights ago his girlfriend found his phone bill, and she suddenly became suspicious that he was cheating on her.

No! Not Brandonn! That boy is a saint!

After several hours of them screaming at each other in ebonics, my eyes had become permanently stuck in the "roll" position. I mean, how dense do you have to be to miss that boy's cheating? He's not particularly subtle about it.

And no, I'm not misspelling it. I've discovered that it is actually spelled "Brandonn." Surely a proud, traditional African name. No way could that one be made up.

Oh, here's another one. I bought a big two-liter of Vanilla Coke, because I love Vanilla Coke. I have a glass, put some ice in, and put the bottle in the fridge. Brandonn and a friend enter and start getting something to eat. I'm not concerned until I go back to get a second glass and find the bottle HALF EMPTY!!

Considering that I had to devote about two hours to waiting for and riding the bus to get this bottle (and some other groceries; I'm not that addicted), Brandonn can get his own fucking Coke. I'm keeping it in my room from now on; better warm vanilla coke than no vanilla coke at all.

The B-dogs mutilated the G-cocks. I didn't actually get to watch the game, but I hear we were awesome.

Caroline still didn't bring my effing ethernet cable, so I'm still stuck with only the office lab and the SLC for net needs. E-mail me, or call if you're in the neighborhood!

Accomplishment of the Week
Surviving.

Activity of the Week
Laying very still on my bed, pondering my misery, eating saltines.

Professorial Idiocy of the Week
My economics prof: "If I hold out a dollar in one hand, and fifty cents in the other, he'll take the dollar. Of course he'll take the dollar. My dog will take the dollar. Well, my dog won't take the dollar. But if I had a big steak, he would take that."

Lame Poem of the Week / "Can't Sleep"

twisted blankets
sockets welded open
writhing wringing retching
intermittent thuds and drive-bys
product of an anguished mind

face shoved squashed
limbs tangled yanking hair
pain-curled digits
muscles taut and stringy

lacking wanting wishing
squeezing eyelids
lips clenching jaw of gnashing teeth
skin peels away from brittle bone

Glittering Insomniac
voices raised in torture conversation
flaking fragment fading brain
jumbled jangling thoughts
crying dying in my darkened den

knotted soul of worthless baubles
dredged up dumpster fodder
vast pathetic waste
of transient humanity

groan a guttural prayer
ground under godly bootheels
dragged at speed over crackling concrete
boiled brain lacking nutrients

and nothing valued
worth redemption
I'm so tired
all is lost





...Comment, all ye fuckers! 'Til next Tuesday!
Nick ::: 8:35 PM ::: 0 comments

Sep 15, 2003

Hree is a bit of fhgreniitng rseacerh: it smees our birnas are set up so taht it dseon't mteatr how a wrod is spleeld so lnog as all the lteetrs are peresnt and the fsrit and lsat are in the rhigt pacle. We can unastdernd stnecenes taht, by all rhgtis, shluod be cmolepte giebribsh. Haeevn hlep us if wrod of tihs gtes out...
Nick ::: 2:42 PM ::: 0 comments