Sock It to ME?!

There’s no good way to schedule time for writing when you work two jobs and can’t anticipate when you’ll be calm enough to compose. However, I was able to make a transition chapter work yesterday without knowing what to do beforehand. It’s easy to get anxious about not knowing where to take the story from a specific point. That’s what happened with My City By the Bay. That book should have been published in 2013. It was not and that’s the way it is, Cronkite. I still have it on my hard drive somewhere, but I’d like to at least finish this current piece before I die.

I could find myself blaming my two jobs for my inability to sit down and write, or the fact I could go from functioning one day to exhausted the next, or that my equipment is severely second-hand (i.e. keys are starting to break, AC adapter and battery failure, etc.), or my house is ill-suited for writing. While problematic, no one could argue otherwise, I have been dealt the cards of this situation and really have no other option but to play them. Every hand’s a winner and every hand’s a loser. Right, Rogers?

Being the glutton for punishment that I am, I plan on typing the pages I’ve written tonight and it’s probably a decent idea to revise the previous chapters to include things I’ve left out, such as the name for the currency and the like. With that indifference, I say “sock it to me.”

More from my book:

Pooling rain makes small rivers down the path on the way back, sometimes large enough to slow down the wagon with the slurping and sucking of mud. Boards ramp up the wheels in the more difficult areas for us to move forward. At times, Molvin provides counterweight around the trees as a last ditch effort to save the load. Our relief finds its way through a round grate off the path, set in the webbing of a massive root system. Pounding three times, a voice shrieks from behind the iron.

“What is low, strong and moves all night long?” the banshee demanded.

“Your mother, Analeese, now let us in!” I stop mid-belch to clear the sour mash from my throat while wincing. The cowl of my cloak caves in and pours water all over my face. I grimace.

Analeese comes sliding outside like her ass is on fire. “Damn the gods, Jeshkin, quit being an asshole!” She rolls the lids right. Passing her, I wink with my right eye and show fillings in a wide smile. She hisses. There are times she claims her mother was raped by an anaconda and embodies the strength of the constrictor. I think she does it to intimidate people. She places the circle into its original position and pulls the arm back down onto the brackets.

Copyright © 2016 Corvidae in the Fields

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Saturday, January 4th, 2014

The snow… it laughs at me, and not in a playful “Frosty the Snowman” sort of way either. Yesterday was rather windy, and I came home to waist-high drifts against the garage. As much at the Zephyrus mounds looked aesthetically pleasing, it was not conducive to fitting the car into the bay. Parking the vehicle in a low spot, I spent a little over an hour and a half scraping tarmacadam. Amid huffs of cursing and puffs of making oaths, I’ve resolved to start saving money for a snow blower. There’s simply to much to shovel by hand, and it might jeopardize my health some day.

I haven’t much time to do anything other than work and sleep. This is slightly tragic as there was a story idea that I wanted to write about, but it was forgotten in the haze of taking calls and compiling numbers. Getting distracted seems to be the mind killer these days.

This isn’t the time to be exasperated though, as I have a whole year to develop something wonderful. Not to be too proud, but I’m finishing my year-end materials quicker than usual this year. Once the last of the governmental demands are fulfilled, I should get out somewhere. It can’t be expensive, but there has to be something interesting around to visit. It couldn’t hurt the creative process either.

Sometimes, events unblock memories that I’ve put away for a long time. This makes me debate whether I should make a post about the first (and only) time I went to a strip club. It left such an impression on me, that I never did go back.

Should I Stay, or Should I Go?

I love The Clash’s popular stuff. Sometimes I get the notion to dig into their catalog for the rest of the story, but then I get distracted.

Aside from my muscles screaming in four different languages on Monday, I had mental block about what to post. I spent the weekend doing all sorts of physical labor, including helping my sister paint her house. Apparently, mortgage underwriters are sending out shady inspectors to be capricious with their repair recommendations. The paint was peeling too much for Bubba’s liking and he wouldn’t give the green light to the underwriter until it was repainted. Super.

Of course, she was carrying on about it, because she had to fork over another $450 and wasn’t used to getting in and doing the job. It would have chewed up her whole weekend. She’s a public employee. Those people don’t work unless they really need to do so, you know. I keed! I keed, public employees! Not really. I’ve had to work with several Federal, state, and local departments for 14 years. I’ve had more help from a chocolate chip cookie.

What it brings me to is a post that I’ve been meaning to write over the past five and a half months. That’s about as much time as I’ve been on WordPress. I’ve read a lot of other poster’s material, and can say I’ve seen some great stories from some great people. On the other hand, I’ve seen some rather childish posts too. It’s a grab bag of the good and the bad, which I somewhat expect from a world-wide website.

Simply stated, I’m a white, American male with a masculine set of traits. That, apparently, makes me the Devil around certain parts and I didn’t even have work for it. That’s a little disheartening, as I earn my reputation. Someone has denied me the opportunity of burning down a village in Bangladesh or stealing candy from kids in the projects. Mmm… tastes like the sorrow of impoverished children. Does anyone really think that’s a viable point of view, or are they screaming to feel justified? I’m going with the latter, because the former is too hypocritical to even be discussed.

Getting to the point, if I sense a lack of discretion in you, then I will be less motivated to interact with you. Many of these posters on WordPress don’t seem to be willing to write with this understanding. It is also why I don’t follow anyone screaming blanket rage over men. I’m with everyone else that rape’s vile act, but not every man’s a rapist. I’m not sitting on the chocolate suede, my beloved couch of 10 years, reading fiery feminist posts thinking “wow, you’re right. I’ll have to cancel those rapes I was planning for the weekend.” Why? Because I wasn’t planning anything of the sort.

This is where “knowing your audience” helps. The people that are going to commit criminal acts will not be reading your WordPress blog. In other words, you’re insulting a section of your readership big time. They don’t have to put up with your crap. You’re a dime a dozen, and they have plenty of options.

Does this mean you’re to wrap yourself up in heteronormative stereotypes? Not even in the slightest, but you’ll go farther by being a friend. That’s why I don’t follow blogs that scream or act like a little brat on every single post. We all have our moments of anger, and I get that you’re frustrated in your position, but the lack of cooperation gets you nowhere. You do realize I don’t have to bother with your opinions, right? After society pretty much said I was on my own, it’s not difficult for me to go it alone. It’s a blessing and a curse, but one that’s not going to benefit your single-sided view on life. I’ll be off to help the people willing to work together. Sorry, Charlie.

I like you for who you are, as long as you’re comfortable in being who you are.

Gratitude and a Cabbie

Gratitude

I live, for better or worse, in my own sphere of life. It can be as large or small as I’d like, but I do enjoy the room to grow. Being in said bubble, I don’t always think of the little extras to acknowledge the people around me. Showing gratitude is one of those “nice to do” actions, as people don’t often read minds. I’m one to show my appreciation through action. I might fix a door, or paint a window, or whatever. People don’t always pick up on this I’ve noticed. They need to be addressed directly.

When my blog follow count passed 50, I will tell you straight up it took a few days to remember the previous observation. I’m often Hell-bent on whatever piques my interest at the time. So, in this moment of clarity, I will say it: thank you all very much for your interest and feedback in my work.

When I came to WordPress in late March, I had left a fairly unappealing forum. There were a small number of quality people willing to engage in my interests, which I appreciate immensely. It wasn’t all bad, no. On the whole, though, I found it a fairly unrewarding experience. I spent the better part of three years trying to make sense of my life on there with little to show for it. I said adios to that place, and closed that chapter in my life.

For the last two months, I think I’ve had a better response in volume and quality of feedback from you all. There is also a greater shared interest with other bloggers. We all love to write, and that brings us closer together. I like visiting other people’s blogs, too. If I can throw in my two cents, I usually do. It’s all about interacting with one another. I wanted a community, and this is the best thing I’ve found so far. It certainly beats my hometown.

For this, I shall sing “Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love for You,” a la Glenn Mederios:

Just pretend I’m singing. It’ll work out better for the both of us.

 

Taxi Driver

Reading this series by Andra Watkins made me recall a situation that happened earlier this week.

My relatives from Pennsylvania were here over the weekend to visit an even more distant relative. On Monday, I decided I will take them back to the Columbus airport. On our way, my aunt was discussing her interest in genealogy. With little to provide on the topic, I drove the car and listened. Our family is fairly loose knit, and we barely know a thing about one another. Apparently, my great-grandmother’s surname was adopted by her when she was a child. We now have no clue what her real family name is. Oh, noes! My aunt wanted to know my thoughts about not really knowing my heritage.

I was quite comfortable with it.

People find this sad for some reason, but I’m not too bothered by it. I’m still here, aren’t I? It wouldn’t change my life too much to know that I had a couple of dead kinsmen build a church out of the boat in which they arrived over in some one-horse town close to Hooterville. Whoopie! Wow, I’m so complete now.

In fact, I don’t want to know much more about it. Instead, I declared I’ll make it all up as I go along. I’m quite serious about this. Sometime in the near future, I shall tell you about my family. They may not be remotely real, but I’m sure going to enjoy it.