More Useful Bullshit

I’m having a depressive incident today – not quite suicidal, but the serious mood dive where you stare at things and can’t concentrate for all the swarms of self-loathing flitting about.
I’m trying to think about Why This Is.  Is it because of my terror of starting a new novel, and potentially failing at it? Is it some unexpected fallout from the Jezebel post the other day?  Is it a slightly awkward conversation I had with an old friend/crush last night?
The thing is, if I find a reason, I’ll feel better.  “Oh, that’s it,” I’ll go, and having found the core of my anguish, I’ll manage to get on with my day.
Except I probably haven’t.  I think for many people – myself included – the process of self-analysis is actually making up reasonable-sounding explanations for this incoherent mass of emotions at the center.  You don’t really find the reason, because there often isn’t a single reason – no, it’s this intertwined mixture of chemicals and subconscious bits floating about in your brain, nothing tractable, a mess.
But you find a reason.  It jines up with the random signals bouncing around in your head, like a line drawn neatly through several points of static, and you decide that this is the Reason.
And you feel better.  Because even though it makes no legitimate sense, you’ve just Learned A Lesson and Made Sense Of The Universe and Had A Personal Breakthrough, and the triumph suffuses your system, and you feel more rational and focused.  And lo!  Things are solved, for a time.
Right now, I’m deciding that this is a bunch of blog-fear I’m working through, as I always feel terrified whenever something I have is about to go out to a wide audience, and this is the sort of, say, sub-drop that you feel after an intense scene.  That’s probably not it.  But as I decide that is the reason, I feel a shadow lifting, and I find myself a little happier, and more able to start buckling down and doing real work.
It’s bullshit.
Useful, useful bullshit.

Tell Me Something Good

So I had the kind of day where I lay in bed for an hour, afraid to get up and face the day.  Not that there’s anything particularly challenging about the day, but I’m in a bit of a blue spot lately, and it is a comfortable bed.
On a day like this, I need reinforcement, so I’m going to ask a question:
What is so wonderful in your life that you just need to tell somebody about it?
That somebody is me.  The world is full of wonders, and I’m not seeing enough of them.  Bring the happiness here and share it a little, if you please.

Why I'm Giving Up My Writing Career

After graduating Clarion, I wrote short stories for four years.  I did this because short stories were easier to write; I could take drastic differences in tone and approach, attacking a different problem with each story, and get it all done in 5,000 words.
I got published in a few venues, and then I got my first professional publication, which set me on my way.  What would happen next was predictable: I’d sell more short stories to a mix of markets, until eventually I got my third pro sale (which was my entry to the Science Fiction Writers of America), and I’d sell more stories until my name was out there.  Then maybe I’d get nominated for a major award.  Then I’d write a novel, and I’d get an agent to sell it, and that novel would get good reviews.  And I’d keep writing novels until I made a name for myself, and then I’d be a Real Writer….
Except that didn’t happen.  My finished novel is circulating among agents, and has gotten some interest, but has not been an automatic sale.  In the meantime, I started work on another Very Salable Novel, which imploded after six months of writes and rewrites, and I eventually determined that I couldn’t write it at all.
Now I’ve got a third novel I’m planning, and my so-called career is a weight around my ankles.
I’ve literally been unable to get out of bed in the morning, harried by thoughts that OMG I don’t want to start it, because what if I fail?  If I don’t get it published, then I’ve wasted time.  My career is supposed to move smoothly from “well thought-of short stories” to “starred review first novel,” and if that doesn’t happen then who am I?  I’m certainly not a Real Writer.  I’m just some fraud, throwing out words but not moving down the correct path.
Plus, as I’ve gotten desperate to push this stalled career along, I’ve started thinking in terms of commercialism.  “People like happy endings,” I think.  “Maybe I should write happy endings.  People liked Sauerkraut Station, what lessons can I learn from that?  Sauerkraut Station was a Little House on the Prairie riff, what else can I emulate?”
The problem?  Sauerkraut Station wasn’t a goddamned commercial fiction.  It was this unwieldy, horrible novella I was convinced I’d never sell, let alone get any acclaim for; I liked it, and for the longest time I was the only one who did.  My best stories, as always, are the ones I write for myself.
What I’ve come to realize is that my writing career needs to get fucked.  All it ever does is make me compare myself to other writers, wondering where I’m ahead or behind on the curve, bringing unwarranted feelings of envy for people who write delightful stuff.  All it ever does is make me feel like shit for not hitting arbitrary goals.  All it ever does it is make me feel as though there will be some point in my life when I’ll feel so confident about writing that I’ll know how to do things… and the truth is, writing’s complicated.  I’m going to be taking huge chances all the time.  If I ever did get to the point where I knew how to toss off a bestselling novel, I’d start experimenting on the side with the things I didn’t understand.
I am never going to feel comfortable with this.
So fuck my writing career.  I’m still going to write, of course.  I’ve got this novel I’m excited about right now.  But when I write it, I’m not going to think of the agent who’d want it, or whether it’ll fit in this market, or what will happen if I don’t get it published.  I’m just going to put the words on the fucking paper, and make it the kind of thing that is as good as I can get it, and everything else will happen in its time.
I called a mulligan on my writing career, once.  I’m doing it again.  From today forward, I have no plan aside from my fingers, on these keys.  Writing.
Maybe someone will even like it.

Also: Me, In "Jezebel." Who Woulda Thought?

My essay “Can I Buy You A Coffee?” has been reprinted at Jezebel.  Judging by my Twitter-splosion, where I gained like thirty followers overnight, it’s been well received.
It’s a little weird to see, but overall I’m pleased.

Let's Talk A Little About Woo-Woo

Over on FetLife, there’s a really interesting essay called “I’m Going To Stop Calling It ‘Woo-Woo’,” which is about how those who deal with mystical practices talk about their beliefs to others.  One of the traditional ways of handwaving it is to say something like, “Yeah, I work with tarot cards and auras – all that ‘woo woo’ stuff.”  And in case you’re not willing to click through to FetLife to read it in full, the essay can be summarized with this excerpt:

“What I realized last night was that by referencing what I do as working in ‘woo woo’ stuff, I had taken away the seriousness of what I believe and had taken away some of the power that these concepts have and given up some of the power that I have as someone who practices these disciplines.”

And it’s interesting, because I am not a woo woo kind of guy.  Yes, I believe in God, but I also acknowledge that it’s a thoroughly irrational belief; I keep my science and my religion separate, thankyouverymuch, and God makes sense to me in a way that I cannot, and more importantly would not, explain to others.  It’s a personal thing, fitted to me as carefully as a tailored suit, and though it’s riddled with things that might not make sense to others it works for me. It probably wouldn’t hold up to any kind of rational examination, and doing so would probably cause me damage, as I’d just create increasingly elaborate mythologies to bridge the logical gaps.
Meanwhile, I think aura work and past lives and crystal and prayer and any number of other mystical stuff are complete bullshit – just stuff that people who want to believe make up.  Yet that bullshit is not a bad thing; these sorts of irrationalities can be a useful tool to focus the mind.  Alan Moore once said (in a terrible paraphrase via me) that he doesn’t really believe in magic, but he does believe that believing in magic allows his brain to arrange his subconscious in interesting ways, thus producing phenomenal ideas… so he practices magic.
And that’s largely how I view it: useful bullshit.  Which is not a contradiction.  A lot of what most people believe is bullshit, but if it’s the kind of bullshit that gets them through the day and makes them feel better, well, so be it.  (I think I’m an absolutely terrible writer, and nobody likes what I do, which is bullshit, but that self-hatred makes me determined to improve myself.  It’s not truth, and the belief often makes me miserable, but it spurs me in good ways – which is all you can really ask of useful bullshit.)
The problem with many of the woo-wooeticers, however, is that when they discuss their magic, they have this intense way of discussing it.  “I viewed your bedroom last night,” they’ll say, staring at you intently, as if daring you to disbelieve them. And if you say, “I don’t believe in astral projection,” they’ll often talk about it more, without even acknowledging that you’re not a believer and that you’ve said this isn’t your cup of tea.
I’m of two minds about this.  I mean, yes, if it’s a part of something that gives you power, then by all means discuss it.  Either it’ll be one aspect of a larger and more interesting conversation, in which case I’ll stick around, or all you’ll be able to talk about is your ability to divine the future via the magic stick-arts of Kau Cim, in which case I’ll move on.  I’m not trying to dismiss the satisfaction you get from such things, and I think that you should be able to talk about it freely. It’s a part of who you are.  It’s part of what forms you, and that is a vibrant and inextricable portion of your personality.
Yet at the same time, some of the Great Woo-Woo Practitioners seem a little… desperate.  As if they can’t really be comfortable around you until you acknowledge the truth of whatever it is they believe.  And those conversations tend to be subtle pressurings, a constant stream of “Yes, but you do realize that I possess a power that you do not even begin to fathom,” where it keeps circling back to that central mystical tenet.  And those conversations, yeah, woo to the maxifuckin’ woo.
So I don’t have an easy answer.  I don’t know how you’re supposed to talk to people who don’t believe.  I don’t think there’s a single answer, either.  All I know is that there’s some tenuous balance between handwaving it with “woo woo,” and asking me to pretend that yes, you are an eleventh-level psychic and can read my past lives in the dregs of this chicken soup.  There’s gotta be a way, but damn if I know what it is.

Why Mean Comments Leave Me Baffled

I don’t consider myself a ‘Bad Dude’ nor a ‘Nice Guy’ but I can spot a bruised ego and bad writing when I see it. I hate labels because they put limits on people. Your premise that ‘Nice Guys’ don’t get sex is ignorant. Then again, I consider the source. By the way, 1990’s Hawaiian shirts, a goatee, fedora, fingernail polish, and back hair don’t make you a ‘Bad Ass’ dude. What they do make you is just like your writing? Out of touch and needing to be noticed…

Now, that’s the sort of comment that leaves me a little stung, but not for the reasons you’d think.
It was left on the FetLife cross-post of my “Why Nice Guys Don’t Get Sex: Reason #1 In An Infinite Series” essay, and that sort of furious essay reminds me of middle school.  Now, I don’t begrudge a few angry comments; after all, that post was about a behavior I find odious (and took aim at), and made some generalizations that could sting if you were caught in the cross-fire, so I don’t mind a few slams back. It’s only fair, after all.
(My favorite is the guy who claimed that women are having sex with all those assholes only because you’re such a wonderful guy, they know they don’t deserve you, and so they close their eyes and fantasize about you guiltily the entire time they’re banging jerks.  Um, I’m sure that happens often.)
But the angry comment here, when analyzed, is pretty detailed.  See, my default profile pic on FetLife doesn’t even have me wearing a hat.  Nor does it display my sad, thatchy abundance of back hair.  So to leave this comment, the guy had to go through all of my pictures, specifically taking stock of all my many flaws, just so he could leave a comment that was meant to be personal and cutting.
He failed, sadly.  They usually do.  If he’d read any of my writing or my status updates (which he probably didn’t do because that would be too time-consuming), he’d have known that I don’t consider myself a Badass at all.  I’m a neurotic train wreck who occasional partakes in ritualized acts of violence for sexualized pleasure, sure!  But note that I don’t call myself a Dom, or a Master.  I don’t swagger much, except occasionally when it comes to rejoicing in my fireplay skills (and even that’s mostly out of a vaguely surprised “I did it!”).  In fact, most of my writing is about me fucking up in some way, using it as an example to talk about How Not To Do This.
So it’s like, “Dude, if you were going to do the research, you should have done it all the way.”  There are plenty of ways you could have hurt my feelings – you just didn’t dig deep enough.
(Which is what most insults are, weirdly.  If you look at what people are picking on you about, it usually reflects what they’re most terrified of being.  Dude is probably very concerned about his badass status, and as such thought that trying to remove mine would be devastating.)
What wounds me is the time.  I see a lot of dipshit writings on the Internet that I disagree with.  If motivated, occasionally I’ll even argue them in the comments.  But it would take a lot to get me to do research to try to find personalized ways to insult them. I’ve spent time looking up links to defang someone’s argument, absolutely, but spending time rooting through their profile to try to find the things that I think would hurt them?
That’s mean.  And yet here’s the guy, taking time to do craft a personalized insult to a stranger.  The actual insult doesn’t hurt; the intent does.  It makes me wonder whether what I wrote was actually that bad, causing a self-reflection that’s troubling… And yeah, I probably could have written it better.  I’ll get ’em next time, tiger.
Yet there’s that pathetic attempt.  Someone took a shot at me, and missed.  And I wonder if that’s how Superman feels as the bullets bounce off him, going, “Do they really mean to do that?  Do they know what they’re trying to do?”
Not that I’m Superman, of course.  More like Jimmy Olsen; occasionally lucky, given more adventures than he truly deserves, but a little too cocky to be a true hero.