Tornado Joe

This summer has been a little crazy. Good crazy.

Found this googling "Tornado Party" and found the book
I will soon purchase titled "Dad's Are the Original Hipsters."
http://www.powells.com/biblio?isbn=978-1452108858
http://dadsaretheoriginalhipster.tumblr.com/post/23926506997

A door opened on my birthday this year to move out of my little apartment and stop hibernating. I'd spent a year hiding from the world, trying to convince myself I wasn't a monster and failing. And when my current housemate offered the keys out of my personal prison, I made a plan and escaped.

Over the last two months, I've moved myself from my old apartment to a new house with a great housemate, a lot of space, outstanding stairway acoustics, an oven-like upstairs bedroom,  and a chance to safely connect with more people and ease myself out of hibernation.

I completed the move with a good friend, but I schlepped most of the boxes by myself on some of the hottest days of one of Portland Oregon's warmer summers on record. I felt slightly lonely, but again, this was me slowly waking from hibernation to seek contact with humans. I often see myself as a robot and must push my programming to build those important connections that keep the spirit afloat.

As soon as I moved I unpacked and tried to settle myself. I started pitching a superhero comic to the comics publishing company I work for, I wrote and revised and revised and revised said comic, I prepped my brain for the biggest week long comic convention of the year within the comics industry, I charged my extrovert battery for an alumni return to the publishing program I attended in 2008 to share often hard won enthusiasm for the coming grueling job search, and I tried to make my new abode a solid stepping stone for a college acquaintance I wished to impress.

I didn't have a lot of time to think. As it turns out this was a good thing for me. I often over analyze and overwhelm myself with the weight of possibility that stacks upon making the right decision for any choice in my life. Any choice. I can stutter and stop, procrastinate and postpone, giving voice to self-doubt and a sense that perhaps this world is too big for me, that it moves too fast.

When this part of my brain is shut off however, I simply live in the moment. With this life-editor toggled down I create, I build, I connect and work to achieve goals I've long held without thinking twice about the consequences. No feedback, no lessons to learn, just me asking myself what I want and how to get it.

I want more of this.

Sometimes I wish I were a character in my head called Tornado Joe. A creature that seeks to pursue his passions with wanton abandon; a storm that leaves a wake of destruction through the projects and people he's known; a fighter that punches that shadow of doubt in the face and leaves it bleeding on the curb as it parties in the club. But the chain of control not only holds me, but is something I cling to to make sense of the world. Tornado Joe is a beautiful fantasy that windmills his arms through life and hurts too many people I care about.

The trick is to find the balance between Tornado Joe and the fearful shadow that shackles expression of who I really am. As a robot who attempts (far too often) to understand the best protocols to connect with people instead of recklessly expressing passion for the wonders of this world I love, it's difficult to disregard the barriers we all create between each other.

But I really want to windmill your face. Not in a bad way...

Lessons I've learned:
I drink too much.
Writing, when I'm in the thick of creation, gives me as big a high as insobriety.
The lonelier I feel the harder it is to feel safe in connecting with even my closest of allies.
I don't dance enough to make this soul of mine groove.
Triscuits and Cream Cheese fucking rock.

The Steaming Pile of 98%

Give yourself room to fail. It's a phrase I need to tattoo somewhere, but likely never will, because who wants that shit in permanent ink on their body? I say it to myself in the mirror, when I'm stressed at work, when I'm writing...or when I'm chewing my nails staring at the blank page when I should be writing. Note to self: write post titled "Fuck the Blank Page". The truth is I have an unhealthy fear of failure despite all of the times I have done so. I rarely give myself the free pass to fail and criminally seek to avoid any failures despite what it might teach me, about my limits, my strengths, my feelings, about myself in any way. It's a constant struggle for me. I'm getting better at it. Slowly.

I read a blog piece recently by a writer named Andy Bobrow from Community who wrote about the experience working with Dan Harmon. I think it was called How Writing for the TV Show Community Cured Me and it's about "Shit Writing Syndrome". It reads like it sounds. He talks about the experience of working with Dan Harmon and how his writing was shit. He asks Dan for the cure, but Mr. Harmon has none. He says everyone's writing is shit, there's about 2% in anything you write that's not shit. Your job as a writer is to take that 2%, throw out the other 98% of steaming feces, then rewrite. You find the 2% that's not shit from what you just rewrote and you repeat this process until you can get to an acceptable percentage of not shit.

Is it odd that the idea of this is inspiring?

In college, I took a playwriting class. The professor had mentioned a similar axiom. 90% of what you write will be crap, 10% has the potential to be good. But you can't get to that 10% without writing the 90% that's shit. Good to hear it again.

I'm inspired by this, because writing is just the act of failing over and over and over and over until one time you don't. Then you start a new project and you fail over and over and over and over until the piece reaches just above the point of failure. To write I have to give myself the room to fail. I've spent so much of my life afraid of failing that I don't write anything, or I write something and it's shit and I can't see past that horrible punch to the gut when I realize it's shit to find the 2% that's good. I stop before I can cut the rest and the keep writing and cutting and revising until the whole percentage reaches something acceptable to share.

At first it might seem disheartening to realize that such a large percentage of what you write is shit. But it's freeing. I don't have to worry about making everything great, rolling right up out the gate. Frankly it's likely impossible for me to accomplish. I can stop staring at the blank page wondering if what I'm about to write will be good until my writing time is up and I stand to leave the page still blank. I can just write. Review what I've done later, grab the 2% that's good and write more.

No the difficulty at that point is the hard work involved, the discipline to keep at it until the percentage seems acceptable. The difficulty is being completely brutal with words you invested time in writing, in stories you spent time constructing. To get what you want, to create, is hard work. No getting around it. It just is. And I have to choose the hard work. I often don't.

Back in February I was writing a short story on my Typewriter. I was still in the heady days after the New Year where I felt like I turned a new leaf, really dug in to change my life and work hard on my writing, pumping out short stories for practice. I had a great idea that seemed like a sexually awkward and hilarious story I could really have fun with. Once I started however, the sexually awkward made the story somewhat sad and painful to write. I was determined to finish, but it was a slog. As I finally brought it to a close something interesting happened. In the last two pages I rushed the ending, introduced a new character and stumbled upon one of the sweetest moments I never even would have thought of writing going into the story.

When I think of the story, I think of that final scene, the 2%, beyond the concept of the story itself, that I would like to take with me as I go to rewrite the story. It made writing the whole damn thing, slogging through page after page of painfully awkward sexual ostricizing of my main character, worth it. And in hindsight, I might not have even gotten to that scene if I hadn't written the whole thing. If I hadn't failed and failed and failed at writing a good story until finally something amazing actually hit the page. It's still a shit story overall, but now I know what the heart of the story is. I understand it better than I did when I had the idea of a bunch of sexually awkward and hilarious scenes.

I need to give myself space to fail. To learn. To accept the percentages and choose to work harder to achieve what I want. And now I leave you with a quote that's bordering on cliche as the business world continues to doll it up on their self-help propaganda. But it still helps my brain with the creative process.

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”--Samuel Beckett

My Lucky Underwear

I have a lucky pair of underwear. It's a hidden talisman I wear to aid the universe looking kindly upon me as the Earth spins through 24 hours. I learned about this phenomenon from Calvin and Hobbes and have almost unconsciously included this in my life since I was 11 years old.

Calvin had a lucky pair of Rocket Ship underpants that aided in his best days, his feeling of confidence, his plots to rule the world.

I'm not a superstitious person in most cases. I have a favorite sports team, but have not an item or ritual I believe will help them win. I care little for religion and seem to hesitate when spirituality rears its head in my life. But for some reason I pick a pair of undergarments to represent my confidence on days I feel it's necessary to up the ante.

I performed in a number of plays and musicals while in high-school and undergrad and I never quite got into character until we finally put on the costumes. Something about the fabric, the style, the cut really sold my brain on who I was suppose to be in those shows. And it was never until the moment I first wore the costume on stage that I really understood the character or feel my body inside their skin. Something about the idiosyncrasy inherent in the clothing the character might wear that spoke volumes of who they might be.

And thus it makes sense that on days I'm not sure who I am supposed to be and could use a little boost to carry me through, I wear the clothes that carry bits of me in them. On a day where I can't seem to pinpoint myself without my glasses, my Seahawks beanie, the belt that I've worn more often than any other piece of clothing I've owned over the past 5 or 6 years, or a lucky pair of underwear, I seek those out. Once those are on my body, I can look in the mirror and recognize myself, feel the idea of me and the physical manifestation click together.

It's not as though there's one set of underwear I've cared for and worn on necessary days for years, it changes (the thought that it wouldn't makes me uncomfortable). No, I empower a new pair every so often when a particular color or pattern intrigues me. You'd think such a mercurial and arbitrary decision to bestow confidence into fabric touching my junk might make me so very aware of how ridiculous it might seem. And some days you'd be right. As it holds as much sway as any other superstition upon triumphs and trials of a day. None.

But what it can do, is reboot my brain for a short period of time to believe I have things in hand. To help me feel as though the world isn't too big for me, or moves too fast. It reminds me on days when I need it to, to breathe.

Open Nodes

When I was attending the Denver Publishing Institute in the summer of 2008 I was enduring a crash course in what the publishing industry was about. And while they overwhelmed our brains with info that isn't exactly the end game practice of publishing, it certainly gave a glimpse of the industry as a whole and bred motivating enthusiasm for jumping head first into achieving career goals. But much of its focus was building a network of publishing professionals that shared the same passion to get books into the hands of everyone. They tried to impart the importance of networking. Not in a sleazy "get what you want" kind of way--though that aspect is certainly present everywhere--but more in the let's all work together to get where we want to be kind of way.

While this new perspective of networking was wedging its way into my brain matter I lucked upon a blog by a young independent author I'd been following at the time. Blake Butler was in the midst of his early days of getting his name out there. Writing bizarre fiction and doing his damnedest to get his work in front of people. He wrote a blog that really struck home for me and echoed the thoughts coming at me from DPI, but with a stronger more down to earth approach. His argument basically stated, Be an Open Node.

If you read his post it list ways that you can be a solid literary citizen. Write to authors you like to tell them you enjoy their work. Review author's work you enjoy to share why someone ought to read it as well. Interview other writers. And start a journal. His ideas are certainly very specific to the literary world of up and coming writers trying to make a name for themselves, but I've since begun to assimilate his thoughts into my own view of networking.

I approach networking mostly as an opportunity for me to help others. I truly enjoy helping folks that I meet who can honestly express their passion for something they want career wise. I may not personally have the opportunity that person is seeking, but if I can connect them with someone who might, or someone who knows someone who might, then I'd like to help. I'm not advocating for giving up what you want so someone else can get what they want or spending all of your time focused on helping others, but don't shy away from opening doors for others if you can possibly guide them on a short length of their journey.

When I was set to move from one department of my company to another, I thought of who might replace me. The fella who'd taken my place when I was in another part of the company didn't exactly have a lot of opportunities to expand his horizons and while I don't make claims to getting him nearer to any goals he might have personally, I do feel good helping him get into a better work environment. I spoke with my supervisors and recommended he be given a chance to contribute. And it worked.

I was invited to my old publishing program in Denver to talk to students there this last August. I met one who was moving to Portland and interested in getting into comics after an internship. We met for coffee and I later introduced her to two people I thought might be good resources in the field who'd likely have more doors to open for her. About two months later she's working for one of the people I introduced her to. This makes me feel amazing. Again, I didn't have an opportunity ready for her myself, but if I can be an open node willing to assist someone on their journey then I consider it a win.

Be an Open Node. Be willing to help others achieve success. Encourage those you care about and those who show a genuine passion for a positive pursuit. Be optimistic that despite all of our terrible flaws as humans we have the ability to positively impact others. Be an Open Node.

The Basilisk

I got scared. Frozen by fear.

This evening I went out to a movie with a large crew of folks from where I work and some who used to work there. It's a gathering of really amazing people that happens often for big crazy movies.

We were watching The Lego Movie and it was better than it had any right to be. I really love watching movies like that with that group of people, because they give me permission to simply enjoy the movie as I might have had I seen it when I was 11. Just amazed by all the wonder that they can create.

And then the movie ended and we gathered outside the theater to decide what to do next. As that group often does, they followed the default plan of heading to a Bar named North as it's close to where a large percentage of them live in SE Portland area. It's a bar I like a great deal. And in that moment I agreed that I would go with them. I had driven myself and so I headed for my little Red Hyundai hatchback named Ron Weasley to follow along.

But when I climbed into the driver seat, I froze. This overwhelming fear came over me and I couldn't decide what to do. The group that I was with is a good group of people. They are welcoming, honest, realistic, kind and generally all around good people. So when I explain this fear know that I truly am revealing my own neuroses. I got scared that I would have to participate in conversation.

I'm not terrible in conversation, but neither is it a natural ability for me. Conversation is a learned skill of which I am all too self-aware. Which hinders a real immersion in the experience. I spend so much time thinking about how I should respond, what that reaction should look like, what question I should ask next, if I am speaking or telling a story in a way that is eliciting the ideal reaction from my audience. This doesn't happen with people I am really comfortable with or if somehow I have figured out a way to shut this part of my brain off, but it does happen often.

The reason I am big, big fan of parties or gatherings that include dance or karaoke is that I can lose myself in those things so that I don't have to converse with people for more than a surface level interaction. When we talk with someone, even in small talk we seek a connection. That connection makes us vulnerable. This is a good thing. This is healthy. And I am afraid of it. So at such gatherings I can sing a song or dance, because somehow those actions feel so much more natural to me. I'm not worried about how those actions will stand up during interaction with someone else.

Is it weird that I feel like the language I use to try and be as clear as possible feels so robotic?

So I froze. I sat in my car for a good 15-20 minutes just trying to figure out what I should do. The thought of sitting in conversation with these awesome people scared the shit out of me. I battled back and forth in my head. Should I go and just brave that vulnerability? Or just accept this overwhelming feeling and ride it out. And here I am riding out the anxiety.

The problem is decisions like this isolate me from others. It keeps me from building larger networks of friends that I trust to have real conversations with. The only way to build a sense of comfort with new people is to put yourself out there and test the boundaries. Yeah, sometimes I'm going to get hurt, sometimes it's not going to go well and I'm going to feel like I have no safety net. But sometimes, just sometimes, I'm going to find that I can really express myself, without being frozen by fear.

The Basilisk is only defeated when you face it head on and bare yourself. It's a painful process, but it is in fact worth it. So chalk this evening up as a point against me on the scoreboard. You win this time Basilisk. But next time...next time...

Story Concept Vs Story Theme

When I begin a story I often have a particular image, or scene, or bit of dialogue in mind. I'm rarely sure where it goes, but I try to build a story around it just so I can get to that piece. Sometimes it is an overall concept and I'm not sure what to do with it, but I spend a lot of time trying to make the story about that scene or piece that has haunted my brain for a while.

It's taken me a long time and I'm still not sure that my creative brain fully accepts the truth of this, but it's the wrong way to go. You see when I am writing the story I am so focused on trying to meet this goal of getting the scene in my head write or the dialogue to fit, that I mistakenly believe that it's what the story is about.

It's not.

As many writers have told me and many have advised in their books on writing. You simply write a story and find out what it's about later. I have a hard time with this. There's a bit of uncertainty of leaping into the void that I don't deal with well at all. I have to have some faith that my stories going to reveal something worth reading when it's done and I doubt that all too often.

So in writing, I focus on the idea or the concept as if that were the goal, and when it doesn't meet that goal I get discouraged and will often cease writing out that particular idea. It's a problem. If I were to simply write a story, any story that I'm passionate about and then be open to the idea that it could be about something completely different I'd probably get a lot more done.

I'm still working on accepting that. I have to be willing to experiment.

Con Man

I feel at times in my life like I have some how pulled one over on a great many people who know me. I had a meeting weeks ago with a woman who runs a book festival in PDX. I have volunteered for this festival in the past, but for the last couple years had to step away to make sure I was providing my work life with the proper attentions. I am volunteering again and wanted to meet with her to discuss what positions were available amongst the volunteers. When we met she had mentioned that other volunteers had 'mentioned me in tones of excitement'. Much of this is likely blowing smoke up my rear, but I'll it admit it made me feel good. I've got a pretty fragile sense of self-esteem.

But like alchemy it mixed up a concoction of clever wording and a sense that the quirky smirk I pose is more effective than I believe it is.

You see, I take heart in the fact that I am a kind, friendly, and sometimes a generous man. I like to make others feel comfortable when they tell me about themselves, when they divulge their thoughts and opinions. I like to let them know that I care what their about. Because I do. It intrigues me to know how  someone ticks. Not just their motivations, but the little quirks that are their signature. I like to see the poker-table ticks when they're excited, when they're sad, when they can't help but express the pieces that are truly their own. I'm not really great at responding to those pieces and cultivating them, but I tend to see the surface of their passions in brief flashes.

But it confuses me some when people respond to me in a positive way. When few detail that there's an appreciation for my presence; for my particular brand of company. I see myself in one way and the persona I display--I feel--is a bit different.

I feel I have managed to convince a great many people I am smarter, more capable, and kinder than perhaps matches reality. But perhaps this is a pervasive cloud of doubt.

I'm certainly not saying that such a personality is entirely absent in me, but I so very rarely see it in myself. It's jarring to hear a particular view when I carry a differing observation of my own. I feel like a con man. I feel like so often I have managed to put on a character that fits in well with the rest of society, that doesn't trip flags in anyone else's awareness. I feel as if I have worked hard to chameleon myself into the proper channels to get what I want.

But the dissonance comes when I hear someone discuss qualities I have affected upon the world. It seems odd that the persona I feel I put on, that I separate myself from, seems to represent a particular character that people can relate to. And one from which I feel distant.

I believe this all to be a personal flaw. I might be distancing myself from a rather accurate version of myself because of a lack of confidence in said simulacrum. When the con man is successful I can't seem to understand why. But when my image doesn't quite meet snuff I can step back from it and adjust the chemical balance to make the amalgam more palatable. By something of me sometimes gets lost in translation.

Douglas Adams  has a joke in his Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy series details the effects of the pan-galactic gargle-blaster. Often the imbiber feels present at a distance of five feet to their left. Welcome to my life.