...and so the hammer fell

An addendum to this afternoon's post:

Thanks to the diligence, hard work and cunning of the lovely Miss H, the recruiter with whom we had lines in the water (Aclipse) has been revealed to be an affiliate of Chung Dahm Recruiting, which, according to informed sources, is one of the most unscrupulous, underhanded, dishonest and dangerous recruiters out there. Honestly, there's a list of violations, infractions, lies and criminal activities a mile long on Chung Dahm's rap sheet. Thank you, Miss H, for trusting your gut and checking the facts when I dropped the ball. Glad we're well out of there.

So, weeks of effort wasted. We are quite literally back to Square One. The only recruiter with whom we now have contact is ESL Park, the same company I went through last time. I'm expecting an update from them in early December, and then we'll see about what's available in K-Land and what isn't.

And of course, stay tuned for more info on that upcoming expedition to Vegas.

Postman, signing off.

disheartening dispatches, #1

Seems like I've got nothing to relate but bad news or maudlin musings these days, don't it?

I'm dreadfully sorry. This is supposed to be the Sententious Vaunter, not the Lugubrious Downer. I tell you what I'll do: from now on, whenever I'm posting bad news up on this blog, I'll label it with the above title. "Disheartening dispatches" should inform you that the following content is morose and sorrowful and downhearted, and, thus forewarned, you may skip it if you want. That way I won't ruin your day.

We got some more bad news about Korea.

"What else could possibly go wrong?" I hear you ask. I know, right? Don't seem possible.

Remember that lovely position in Cheonan I told you about? The one that started in December? The one I was absolutely jazzed about? The one that would royally save our necks (and wallets, and sanity)?

We're not getting it.

They gave it to somebody else.

We're back to Square One.

I knew it was a good idea to remain "cautiously optimistic."

Apparently the English academies in Korea are serviced by multiple recruiters, and even though I contacted our recruiter and volunteered us for the position, it had already gone to some other couple through some other recruiter. We waited several days for a phone interview from the school, but nothing materialized. So I finally called our recruiter to ask what happened, and it was only then that they gave us the bad news.

Marvy.

So this is pretty much how Miss H and I are feeling right now:

To say that this back-and-forth, up-and-down roller-coaster ride has inflicted a heavy toll on the two of us would be a gross understatement.

But we do have a few other prospects. We're slowly pushing through an application/interview process with Aclipse, but the soonest we can now get to Korea will be 2012 (most likely February).

And yet, hope springs eternal. Determined not to remain discouraged for long, we came up with Plan B. It's wise in this economic climate to cultivate multiple options, so instead of putting all of our hopes on Korea, we're going to hedge our bets.

We're planning a two- to three-day trip to Las Vegas late this week. Vegas, baby. That's the nearest place we decided we'd be okay with living. Others more far-flung (Chicago, Seattle, Anchorage) will have to wait. We're only 200 miles or so away from the Nevada border, here in our little corner of the desert; easy driving distance. So we plan to head up there this weekend and pound the pavement. We'll scour the classifieds, hit the streets, and shotgun applications all over the place.

I'm fairly hopeful about this endeavor. Job-hunting websites are all well and good, but nothing beats actually going to the city of your choice and having a look in person. And it sure would be a kick to live in Vegas. Despite Nevada's high unemployment, I'm confident I can find a bartending position there: they have more bars per capita in Vegas than...than...well, heck, think about it. Pick a casino, any casino. There's a bar every six feet. The hotels all have bars. And there are regular ol' free-standing bars not attached to any particular edifice. There's gotta be a job for me in one of 'em. Las Vegas is awash with airports and airlines, too, so I imagine it won't be difficult to get the rest of my commercial requirements (and perhaps even my instrument rating) done. Then I could start flying for one of those Grand Canyon tour companies, perhaps...!

Well, that's all pie in the sky right now. Again, I must remain cautiously optimistic. But I'll keep you posted on all this. Miss H and I aren't giving up no matter what the world throws at us. We're far stronger than that hard, cold, cruel place. This is just the bumpy road we have to get over before we turn left on Easy Street.

Stay tuned. And sorry for the bad news.

how to train a writer

"When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it."                                                                                                                           
                                                                                                                                        — A.A. Milne

Positive reinforcement.

They say it's the proper way to train dogs and children. (Doesn't work too well for soldiers or politicians, though.)

I think it might work for writers, too.

I haven't been a writer for long. (Or, perhaps, it's more accurate to say that I haven't called myself a writer for long.) But even in such a short span of time, it's occurred to me that a writer's medium is ink, paper, and ego. We're violently insecure creatures, we writers. After all, we are putting ourselves down on paper, not just words. Our most intimate feelings, fondest wishes, darkest desires, and wildest imaginings all appear on the printed page. It's only natural that we'd feel shy about baring so much of our psyche for all the world to see.

But it isn't only our imagination that's on trial: it's our ability to translate our imagination into words on paper. Dreaming up an idea is only half the battle. (I could go into the planning vs. pantsing debate here, but that's a blog post for another day.) After giving mental form to our brainchildren, we must make them tangible. Somehow those impulses, feelings, and thoughts must wend their merry way from our brain to our fingers, diffuse through our skin onto the keyboard, and pop up magically on the page (or screen) in front of us.

That is where the real insecurities manifest themselves.

An idea, a paragraph, or a sentence which seemed so real and true and good and pure and perfect in our heads can fail miserably to materialize on the page. Distilling haphazard neural impulses into English isn't quite as easy as our favorite writers make it seem. Something inevitably gets lost in translation. As Stephen King puts it, the best writers are the ones who can conceive a viable idea—discover a fossil, as he puts it—and then, through hard work, persistence, critical thinking, and hefty revision, tease most of that fossil out of the ground without breaking, chipping or scratching it. You're never going to get all of it. But with practice, you can retrieve everything important.

I think it's that arena where I'm most lacking as a writer. I could dream up good story ideas all day—one pops into my head every hour or so. But putting 'em down on paper is another matter. Whether it's because I haven't practiced enough, or haven't read widely enough, or just haven't had that seminal burst of inspiration...I'm not sure of the reason, but I have awesome difficulty in translating my ideas into words. I can think of a good story, but not write one.

I've been meditating lately about my difficulties as a writer, and my shortcomings: all the things I wish I could do better, like the professionals. I wish I could bestir myself to write more. Seems like every time I feel I should write something I inevitably wander off to my books, games, movies, or introspective evening walks.

Strike One: Not working hard (or often) enough.

Even if I do start something, I'll inevitably bang a few thousand words out, then stop for the day. I'll read some rewarding piece of fiction by Clarke or van Vogt or Asimov. I'll take another look at my paltry work, and delete it in disgust.

Strike Two: Not having enough confidence as a writer.

Let's say I even finish something (long odds, now that you've seen what I'm up against). Suddenly, as the last word is typed, and I sit back and look at the project as a whole, I'll become afraid of it. It'll mutate into a monster, a hideous abomination of unpolished writing, undeveloped themes, flaccid characters, and puerile premise. On the instant, my lovingly crafted story becomes an unconquerable mess. Self-destructive thoughts spin through my mind: Yuck. This is terrible. There's no way I'll be able to fix this. Robert Heinlein couldn't salvage this junk. There's so much to read over, to repair, to tweak, to trim, to perfect. I'll never finish. Hell, I don't even know where to begin. I think I'll just leave it for later.

Strike Three: Not having the persistence, or courage, to edit and revise (let alone submit).

Noticing a pattern here?

Fear.

All of my shortcomings as a writer stem, fundamentally, from fear. Insecurity. Lack of confidence. Inexperience.

I understand that I am afraid. I've blogged about it before. (Go back and look for the specific post if you want; I'm too distracted to get up a link.)

Now, that begs the question: since I know what my problem is, how do I go about solving it?

Well, a little affirmation would be nice. It'd be great if somebody (preferably a discerning science fiction fan) would come up behind me while I was typing, look over my shoulder, and say "Cool idea," or "Nice turn of phrase there, chief," or "Wow!  I never thought about it that way," or "Hurry up, I wanna know what happens next!"

I caught myself thinking these exact thoughts this morning, as I revisited a science fiction novelette that I had submitted to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, which had been rejected for "failing to excite the interest of the reader."

And then it hit me: maybe the reason I'm so afraid, insecure, and under-confident about my work is that, well, I've never received any positive reinforcement. Nobody in a position of authority has ever told me "Well done, keep up the good work." My friends and family have read my drivel and told me they liked it, that it was well-written and engaging, but as kind as their comments are, they're not expert. The editors of sci-fi magazines have been reading sci-fi for years (and often write the stuff themselves). Moreover they are well-informed where their readers' tastes are concerned, and know exactly what'll turn an audience on or off. And so far, none of my stuff has been up to code. And it's been rejected. Flat-out.

So maybe, subconsciously (for I would never think something as insecure or foolish as this out loud), I've gotten the idea that I'm not a good writer, and that I shouldn't even bother trying.

Amazing, huh?

Fancy your humble Vaunter thinking a thing like that!

Hell, I know I'm a good writer. I like what I do. I have a masterful command of the English language, and I can turn a phrase on a dime. It's just funny what the lack of positive reinforcement can do to a person's mind. Just because Gordon Van Gelder has never written me an enthusiastic letter praising my brilliant work, and begging to be the sole recipient of any future fictive endeavors, I somehow assumed that I wasn't that good. And that lack of self-esteem and confidence might've proven absolutely debilitating if I hadn't caught it in time.

I'm glad I had this epiphany. Praise is not a shot of espresso (or adrenaline). It's the icing on the cake, a pleasant glow to bask in after one has achieved something...usually not the something that one expected to achieve. If the famous writers of sci-fi had set about their work with popularity and acclaim in mind, and refused to budge without it, then the annals of science fiction would be barren indeed, if even extant.

I just have to keep perspective. I need to look at every fresh project as a clean slate, and to give it my all (and fix its shortcomings in the revision phase). I need to keep working, keep learning, keep practicing, keep writing. I need to remember that there is victory even in the attempt. I mustn't let my fears and doubts weigh me down. Nothing worthwhile in history was ever achieved without effort—or fear. The winner is distinguished from the loser not by his lack of fear, but by his refusal to bow down to it.

And so, cheers to you, fellow writers. Cheers from the catbird seat. Your brother-in-arms is out here, still endeavoring to craft something worth an editor's second glance. Keep calm and carry on.

POSTSCRIPT:
For the final irony, I was listening to AC/DC while typing this post. The last song played before I finished was "Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be."

a breakthrough...maybe

At this point I must label myself "cautiously optimistic" (in the manner of a seasoned politician or similarly practiced equivocator), for I've been disappointed before, and am warned against further indiscretion.

THE STORY SO FAR: Things have gone rather rotten for me in the past few months. I had accepted a job in South Korea as an English teacher, but it fell through due to paperwork delays. (Totally unexpected and unfair paperwork delays, mind you.) In consequence, I lost my job, because I gave my notice too early. When I finally did get my paperwork, the job market in K-Land had dried up like a...like a...like a thing that dries up really fast. So there I was, in limbo: no job, no prospects, still stuck in my parents' house, bills to pay, and hope fading fast. Miss H was in the same boat, only ten times worse because her parents drive her up the wall.

THE BREAKTHROUGH: One of my friends (and a fellow Korea expatriate), whom I'll call Smithy, pointed out to me that, in the absence of a job offer from one recruiting agency, I should court several more and see if they could turn anything up. This I did, and was both genuinely surprised and ludicrously glad when a service called Longbridge Pacific e-mailed and told me they had a splendid couple's position available in Cheonan, Chungcheong-do, South Korea.

Cheonan!

If that name sounds familiar, there's a darn good reason: the ROKS Cheonan was the unfortunate Pohang-class corvette that made headlines back in March 2010 for being split in half and sunk by what North Korea assured the world was most definitely not a North Korean torpedo fired by a North Korean submarine.

Curious, I went online and looked it up (the city, not the ship). Cheonan, it seems, is the main transportation hub of western Korea, and serves as the gateway to the Seoul area. My interest was already piqued. Living on Geoje (the second-largest island in the R.O.K.) was nice and pastoral and everything, but a two-hour bus ride (or a bouncing ferry) was required just to get to civilization. It would be nice this time around if I lived someplace that was well-connected to the rest of the country by road and rail. And the location was perfect: central Korea, only 50 miles or so south of Seoul, and about as far north of major cities like Daejeon (where the Costco is).

This was looking really good. And it was looking that way before I noticed that the job offer paid each of us ₩2.2 million per month (about $2200); that we'd be working with no less than six other foreign teachers; that our apartment came fully furnished; and that all the usual goodies (paid rent and airfare) were in place.

Hot diggity damn.

So I jumped on it. I e-mailed Longbridge back and told them to sign us up. We're waiting on phone interviews, and then we'll send our documents off and get our visas. And then...we're gone. Like, in December. We don't have to wait around until flippin' February to get jobs! Halle-frickin'-lujah!

And then, ladies and gentlemen, we'll be having the time of our lives. Pigging out on kimchi and bulgogi and sannakji (you remember that, don't you?); taking in the majestic sights and sounds of the Korean countryside; reveling in the nation's proud history and cultural traditions; living it up with our fellow foreigners; and, of course, raking in the won. Why, by the time this little junket is over (two years, if I can talk Miss H into it), we'll have enough money to go anywhere in the States that we like, get a decent apartment, find jobs, pay off loans, maybe even get Miss H her master's degree and me my commercial pilot's license. Maybe even my instrument rating! Hot diggity damn!

Oh wait. I'm supposed to be cautiously optimistic, aren't I?

the silver key

or, the long road to literary enlightenment

I hope you'll have the patience—or tenacity—to stick with me on this one. This is a landmark post. Seminal, you might call it. Yeah, definitely seminal. It marks a turning point in the career of that damn novel sitting under my bed, dusty and neglected.

Sometimes it pays to reread things. Be it a news feature, an essay, or a work of literature, there's usually some information to be gleaned from it the second time around...and only on the second time around. I knew this to be true with humor pieces (like Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker series) and epic novels, but just a few minutes ago, I received a surprising piece of inspiration from an unexpected piece of material. It's funny how the passage of time and the garnering of experience can alter one's perspective.

Maybe this lays a morbid cast over my efforts as a writer, but the source of this evening's epiphany was none other than the master of cosmic horror himself, H.P. Lovecraft.

I have a tradition. I instituted it this autumn. When the weather turns cold, grey, wet, and otherwise inclement, I take out my H.P. Lovecraft collection and reread it. It's a modest collection, but it includes almost all of his better-known short stories and a modest number of undiscovered gems. It consists of two books: the novel-length At the Mountains of Madness, which has a few brief stories tacked on at the end, and a compendium, The Best of H.P. Lovecraft: Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre.

I didn't really believe that I'd find anything truly instructive in them. Like I've said before, I read for pleasure and education. There's always something to be learned from any book. Every author's style is either a lesson or a warning. I had been warned against Lovecraft's writing by Stephen King, who, by his own admission, adores Lovecraft's talent for horror but loathes his tin ear for dialogue and adjective-soaked prose. Both King and I are ardent fans of Lovecraft and hold the man in high esteem, but I can see King's point. So I keep the editing goggles on whenever I read Lovecraft, to protect my own writing from negative subliminal influences.

So there I was, perusing Lovecraft's best works. I was flipping through the pages, vaguely wondering what to read next. I had reviewed "The Dunwich Horror" and "The Thing on the Doorstep," had devoured the very brief "In the Vault," "Pickman's Model," and "The Rats in the Walls," and was making inroads on "The Whisperer in Darkness." It was a toss-up whether to proceed onto "The Haunter of the Dark" or "The Colour Out of Space," the latter being lengthier but of considerable quality.

Then something caught my eye: "The Silver Key." I have a photographic memory, and a title will usually remind me of the finer details of plot and character. "The Silver Key," however, evaded the grasp of my recollection. Curious, I began to read.

The following passages hit me like a thunderbolt.

     He had read much of things as they are, and talked with too many people. Well-meaning philosophers had taught him to look into the logical relations of things, and analyse the processes which shaped his thoughts and fancies. Wonder had gone away, and he had forgotten that all life is only a set of pictures in the brain among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value one above the other. Custom had dinned into his ears a superstitious reverence for that which tangibly and physically exists, and had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. Wise men told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and even more absurd because their actors persist in fancying them full of meaning and purpose as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something back to nothing again, neither heeding nor knowing the wishes or existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness.
     They had chained him down to things that are, and had then explained the workings of those things till mystery had gone out of the world. When he complained, and longed to escape into twilight realms where magic moulded all the little vivid fragments and prized associations of his mind into vistas of breathless expectancy and unquenchable delight, they turned him instead toward the newfound prodigies of science, bidding him find wonder in the atom's vortex and the mystery in the sky's dimensions. And when he had failed to find these boons in things whose laws are known and measurable, they told him he lacked imagination, and was immature because he preferred dream-illusions to the illusions of our physical creations.
     ...
     With his dreams fading under the ridicule of the age he could not believe in anything, but the love of harmony kept him close to the ways of his race and station. He walked impassive through the cities of men, and sighed because no vista seemed fully real; because every flash of yellow sunlight on tall roofs and every glimpse of balustraded plazas in the first lamps of evening served only to remind him of dreams he had once known, and to make him homesick for ethereal lands he no longer knew how to find.
     ...
     Then he began once more the writing of books, which he had left off when dreams first failed him. But here, too, was there no satisfaction or fulfillment; for the touch of earth was upon his mind, and he could not think of lovely things as he had done of yore. Ironic humor dragged down all the twilight minarets he reared, and the earthy fear of improbability blasted all the delicate and amazing flowers of his faery gardens. The convention of assumed pity spilt mawkishness on his characters, while the myth of an important reality and significant human events and emotions debased all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire. His new novels were successful as his old ones had never been; and because he knew how empty they must be to please an empty herd, he burned them and ceased his writing. They were very graceful novels, in which he urbanely laughed at the dreams he lightly sketched; but he saw that their sophistication had sapped all their life away.

Wow.

This is heavy stuff.

And with it came a revelation, a breakthrough, a foe-tossing flood of self-discovery.

I was stricken on two fundamental levels: first, I recognized that I had been laboring to construct my own science fiction novel as...well, fluff. Under the noble guise of science fiction, a revered medium which the savants of yesteryear employed to paint pictures of the Universe both unsuspected and overawing, I had constructed something intolerably artificial, mere varnish laid over a poisonous message of social criticism and allegory. Second, it reaffirmed my confidence in my chosen genre. The more I tried to summarize to myself (and explain to others) the premise of my novel, the more I found myself overcome with shame and doubt, a creeping disbelief in the credibility of science fiction as a vehicle for one's literary goals. Sci-fi, I increasingly allowed myself to believe, was kid stuff: childish and immature, not as worthwhile or credible as "realistic" novels.

Lovecraft saved me from that self-destructive train of thought. In one stroke, he made me realize the needlessness and puerility of embedding a sociopolitical message in the flesh of my fiction (indeed, why should it not stand on its own?) and simultaneously assured me of its worth. He reminded me of the marvels of science fiction and fantasy, the wonders which the mind can create, the boundless adventure that the wizard author may manifest on the printed page for all the world's dreamers, poets, thinkers and star-gazers to enjoy.

So here's where the seminal part of this blog post comes in. I'm instituting a major (and I mean major) overhaul of my novel manuscript, effective immediately. I haven't touched the thing in months, years. Perhaps I've been overcome with reality. Logic and realism have—how does it go?—"dinned into my ears a superstitious reverence for that which tangibly and physically exists." I've been unsure of myself as a writer, but more than that, unsure of myself as a writer of science fiction. Thanks to Lovecraft, I'm no longer afraid to delve into fantasy. Why the heck not? It's fun, dang it. You're supposed to do what you want with your life, aren't you? Hang the critics!

But most important of all, I'm ridding my novel (and all subsequent novels in the series) of all traces of ulterior message. The political significance, the social commentary, the biting satire—out with it. I don't need it. It was becoming too much to handle anyway: constantly scrutinizing my plot devices and characters to ensure they encapsulated the proper symbolism. Fundamentally, the novel is about doing what you want with your life, and having the guts to actually carry it through to the finish. So that's what I'll focus on. To the blazes with all the rest. If my fiction isn't good enough to stand by itself without political messages, social mores, commentary or satire, then it shouldn't be written in the first place. I've been ignoring the advice of Stephen King all along: I should write first, and worry about the thematic elements later. I should be teasing them out during the editing process instead of hammering them in too early. I'll write first, and if a message develops out of the subsequent product, then I'll refine it. But it won't be anvilicious and it sure as hell won't be political. If I was meant to be a political writer, then you'd be reading about Obama and Romney and Palin and Pelosi on the Sententious Vaunter, and not Lovecraft and Heinlein and Asimov. Same thing applies to my novels, starting this minute.

So, now that you've borne witness to the Great Revelation, I'll go one step farther and include you in the Great Work. I am GOING to start rewriting my novel soon. I'll keep you up-to-date on the process. In my long hiatus from novel-writing, and my long steep in the cleansing waters of inspirational science fiction and related literature, I've had a few other minor epiphanies which I feel will thoroughly improve the plot, pacing, and characterization of my novel. I'll take this opportunity to implement those changes. And when I get done...I'll have a real, honest-to-God manuscript, not just a bunch of loose pages bundled together and stuck under the bed with the dust bunnies.

And now, you'll have to excuse me. I'm going to take Lovecraft's silver key and use it to open the gate of dreams. It's been shut far too long, and for too trivial a reason. Stay tuned.

May your epiphany come to you likewise, and bear equally righteous fruit.

perspective and soda

Alright, I'm working on two Gibsons and one whiskey and soda, so we'll see how coherent this blog post turns out. Coldplay's "Paradise" isn't helping, either (and yet, somehow, it's helping oh so much).

There are many recurring archetypes in fiction. One of the most overdone is that of the "invincible young dude." You know 'em, you love 'em: slick, loud, brash, overconfident. Unafraid of death or misfortune. They're on top of the world, and they're hot stuff, and nobody can tell them different. They're practically begging to be taken down a peg.

And sure enough, it inevitably takes a calamity (a buddy's death, a close encounter with the bad guys, a near-death experience, or some-such) to wake them up, bring them down to earth, and make them realize the truth: they are not invincible, and never were. They're just as human as the next man. They're privy to all the ills which flesh is heir to: pain, suffering, displacement, impotence, deprivation, loss, failure, death, injury, disability. And whenever a cocky young buck gets his comeuppance, there's a painful interlude in which they reappraise their outlook and readjust it—allowing for failure. It's a heartrending thing to watch, but it's a necessary growing experience. Ultimately the brash youth will be more mature the next time a catastrophe comes around.

Never have I identified more with this trope than I do now.

I have received my wake-up call.

For many years, I thought I was immune to life's downturns. Pukey economy? Ha! Job slump? Not even on my mind. Housing crash? Fuhgeddaboutit!

As Emperor Palpatine would say, my overconfidence was my weakness.

Keyword: "was."

Everything has finally caught up with me.

A niggling fear has been dogging me for the last few months, a fear I had never acknowledged or suspected before. I never dreamed that I would suffer at its hands, not in a million years.

The fear of mediocrity.

It feels, lately, that everything I ever planned, hoped for, strove for, dreamed, daydreamed, or wanted is slipping slowly away from me. All chance of worth, accomplishment, notoriety, fame, or happiness turns increasingly dim. These days it seems like the best I can manage is shadows and dust: a half-life, a skulking, underdone fugue of broken dreams, wants unanswered, hope turned hollow. Insecurity and doubt plague my every step. In the face of adversity, crippling economic disadvantage, the humiliation of dependency, and the general pervading listlessness, it seems as though all my personal demons have crawled out of the woodwork to torment me. Suddenly, my novel's prospects fall miserably short of expectation; at best it will manifest as a paperback on the bottom shelf of the science fiction/fantasy section in Barnes & Noble. Suddenly, my lofty pilot's ambitions fall to rubble before my eyes; I feel I will live out my days as a peon copilot for some regional airline in the Midwest, ferrying disagreeable passengers between Springfield and Chicago or Des Moines and Minneapolis. Suddenly, I realize that I will never work as a drink-slinging bartender in a high-class establishment in Las Vegas or Edinburgh or Santiago; the best I will manage will be half-assed Manhattans in my basement.

A painful process this has indeed been.

Yet hope springs eternal. I've got quite a few more novel ideas floating around my skull, and I think I know how to fix my current manuscript. I'm working on the perfect Gibson; pretty soon I'll turn my hand to Manhattans and polish them until they're perfect. And as for flying...well, I don't want to say anything too committal here, but I believe I have a deal worked out. I'm placing an important call tomorrow, the outcome of which will determine my fate. Further bulletins as events warrant.

In the meantime, I'll dream of Paradise.

turning point

Well, blast it all.

I used to look at pictures of people waiting in bread lines during the Great Depression and think "Wow, I'm glad that's not me."

I'm still far from living on the streets or Dumpster-diving for dinner, but nonetheless, I'm beginning to feel less and less exempt from the general economic crunch.

Especially now, since I have no job.

Let me explain.

Remember how I said I was going back to Korea?

There are certain pieces of paper one requires if one desires to work overseas. The Republic of South Korea demands that all American immigrants obtain a background check from the Federal Bureau of Investigation and send it to the State Department to be notarized. This notarization consists of an apostille—a big fancy stamp, basically—which legitimizes the document for use by a foreign government.

When I checked the State Department's website in August, it clearly stated that the processing time for an apostille was four weeks.

Perfect, I thought. The job we've been accepted for in Korea starts September 12th. I'll send these forms off on August 5th, and we'll have them back by September 5th or earlier.

Ha-ha. What point did John Steinbeck make about "the best-laid plans of mice and men"...?

I sent the documents off on August 5th. A week later, I logged onto the State Department's website again, just to check up on the status of our apostille.

The Department's electronic literature now said that the processing time for an apostille was EIGHT weeks.

ARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!

It was all up with September. We missed out on the position. We had to call our recruiter, explain what happened, apologize profusely, and decline the position. The marvelous, marvelous position in Bucheon, Seoul, which would've netted us 4.6 million won (about $4600) per month, and left us with $50,000 U.S. to take home afterward.

Well, darn.

Our apostilles came in on October 5th. By that time, the jobs in Korea had all dried up. The hiring season was over. Our recruiter mournfully informed us that Miss H and I would be high and dry until January, when the next wave of hiring began.

Shazbot!

After a great deal of soul-searching and some late-night discussions, Miss H and I decided to wait it out. We'd obtain temporary employment here in the High Desert, work some dead-end jobs for a few months to keep afloat, and ship out for Korea in January.

It was shortly after this that we discovered that San Bernardino County has the second-worst unemployment rate in the entire country after Las Vegas, Nevada.

Mother&%@#er!

So here we are: applying for jobs all over the tri-city area, without so much as a callback or an interview. Both of us are going mad, being 23 and 25 years old (respectively) and still living in our parents' houses. It was cold comfort that Rush Limbaugh said on the radio this morning that 30% of all unwed males in the U.S. between the ages of 25 and 34 are still living with their parents. I don't wanna be one of 'em. I want to be out on my own, dammit. Self-sufficient. Independent. Striding forward to my destiny. I really feel like I'm stuck here in the desert. It was just an inkling before, a terrible dream, a half-imagined dread. Now it's real. And it's constricting my chest. I perpetually feel, living here in the Victor Valley, as though I can't get enough air. Some days I just want to walk off into the desert and see how far I get. Just to maintain the illusion that I'm my own man, and my fate is still in my hands, you know.

This would've been easier to take if I was still chasing Predators. But I'm not. After I'd read that the State Department would take only a month to process my apostille, I gave my one-month notice at work. I retracted it as quickly as possible after I learned of the State Department's true colors, but the damage was done: my superiors had already begun searching for a replacement. And they found one, and he'd quit his job to work with us, and he needed to work full-time to support himself and his wife. So there it was: I was out. There was no getting around it. No plea bargain, no parole board, no second chance. October 28 was officially my last day. It's my first week off and already I'm going crazy.

So I made a decision this evening. I decided that I would polish off that bottle of über-peaty Ardbeg 10-year-old Scotch that's been sitting on the pantry shelf for eons.

More importantly, I decided that I would swallow my pride. I went out to the living room and asked my parents (who had just forked over $500 to replace the leaf springs on my Jeep) for a loan of $4500 to complete my commercial pilot's license. It was hard, but I felt it was the right thing to do. They had extended the offer previously, and I had refused it. But now I feel like I have no other choice. I've got to start making money somehow, and my journalism résumé is far too anemic to do me any good in this economical climate. I'd wanted to get my instrument rating first (only one checkride that way), but that's another 45 hours with an instructor. I only need 38 more hours of PIC (pilot-in-command) time to get my commercial license, excluding checkride prep with an instructor and the actual test. If I go down to the airport every day and fly an airplane around for an hour or two, making landings at towered airports and doing a few long cross-countries and night flights, then I'll be up to speed in no time. Then, hopefully, I'll pass my tests on the first try and be able to saunter forth into the world of commercial aviation.

And I'll use my first paycheck to reimburse my parents' loan. I promise.

Hold me to that, will you?