let not dreams be your master

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim...

                                                                               --- Rudyard Kipling, "If" 
       

Would you like to hear a funny story (and by "funny" I mean "relevant to my career, and yours too if you're a writer")? 

My hobby is trapshooting. It's where five people get together in a line and stand a set distance away from a small mound. Beneath this mound is a mechanical launcher which, at the first shooters' word, slings small discs made of frangible clay into the air in different directions and trajectories. The first shooter puts on his shooting glasses and earplugs, raises his gun to his shoulder, and shouts "Pull!" The scorekeeper, typically seated on a chair behind the shooters, presses a button and activates the launcher, which throws a random bird out from beneath the mound and into the line of fire. The first shooter does his best to blow the little target out of the air with a shotgun blast. If he or she hits it, then the fragile disc disintegrates into a million tiny pieces and falls to earth in forlorn fragments. If the shot was a miss, the disc wings off into the distance and shatters on impact with the ground. Then the second shooter raises his gun to his shoulder, shouts "Pull!" and the whole process kicks off again, and continues until each of the five shooters has shot at 25 "birds." 

It looks kind of like this:

I've done this dozens of times, and I've never gotten a perfect 25. 

Why?

Because I always psych myself out. I get to 24, and then I start to sweat and grit my teeth and clench my gut and think of that lovely "25" patch I could sew onto my shooting vest, and I invariably jerk the trigger too hard and miss the final bird. 

Sloppy. Eager. Shaky. 

Too much speed and too much noise.

Today I realized that I have been approaching my writing in the same way.

Most of you guys know by now that I'm a science fiction guy, but I do fantasize about mainstream fiction occasionally. One of my favorite books is The Sand Pebbles, by Richard McKenna. It paints a dynamic and emotionally moving portrait of the life of a simple machinist's mate Jake Holman, who serves aboard the U.S. Navy gunboat San Pablo. The vessel and her dedicated crew of "Sand Pebbles" patrol the Yangtze River in China, mostly a dog-and-pony show to intimidate bandits and warlords who are keen to rough up American businessmen and missionaries in the area. The book also brings to life the grand scale, social mores, political upheavals, and intimidating personalities at work in China in the 1920's. The action takes place right on the eve of Chiang Kai-shek's Northern Expedition, and the Kuomintang and the unification of China are central themes. More than a simple novel of an ignorant country boy at sea amid the oppressive hostility of the Orient, however, The Sand Pebbles is also an insightful commentary on the human condition: the raw power (and irrationality) of love, the madness and chaos of war, the eternal struggle of old traditions and new ideas. 

It's precisely the kind of historical fiction I wanted to write. So, in 2012, between penning the first and second novels of my epic sci-fi series, I did NaNoWriMo. What I wrote was a 52,000-word piece called Mugunghwa (the rose-of-Sharon, Korea's national flower). Apart from a few lackadaisical edits here and there, I haven't touched the manuscript since. 

Then, just recently, I picked up Paul Theroux's Kowloon Tong. Not historical fiction by any means—it was published in 1997, the same year that the U.K. handed over Hong Kong to mainland China. This handover, while merely a peripheral event in Theroux's novel, nonetheless forms the catalyst for much of the action. I'll give you the Wikipedia summary: "Kowloon Tong is a novel by Paul Theroux about Neville "Bunt" Mullard, an English mummy's boy born and raised in Hong Kong. The story is set in the days leading up to the handover to China of Hong Kong from the British. Bunt is made an offer for his textile factory by the shady Mr. Hung from the People's Republic of China, and has no choice but to accept, when it is made clear that Mr. Hung knows all about the part of Bunt's life that he has kept secret from his mother Betty, namely his frequenting of the 'blue hotels' of Kowloon Tong and furtive sex with one of his workers, Mei-Ping."

Sounds quite tawdry and sinister, don't it? And it is, certainly. But more than that, it does precisely what The Sand Pebbles (published in 1962) managed to do: paint a vivid picture of a time, a place, and a savage cultural clash. I'm halfway through it and I can't put it down. The backdrop of Hong Kong is enticingly exotic (and lewd) and the characters simply sizzle off the page like bacon fat jumping from an overheated skillet: the weak-chinned Bunt, his overbearing mother Betty, the vicious Mr. Hung, the shy and vulnerable Mei-Ping, the slimy lawyer Monty, and the lascivious Filipino prostitute Baby ("Let we make fuppies!"). Here is yet another type of mainstream novel I should like to write: one set in a foreign country (an Asiatic one), concerning a culture utterly foreign to the reader, and yet which manages to faithfully portray the nitty-gritty details of that culture with beautiful, vivid detail—with a pressing social issue as its canvas and inborn human nature its paints. 

So I came up with a timely idea which I could write about: the plight of North Korean girls who decide to escape to China and the promise of work and income, only to be coerced into slavery by unscrupulous Chinese and sold to rural farmers in the northeastern provinces, and there sexually abused and worked like cattle.

Whatever. The idea isn't what's important.

What's important is the undue stress which reading Kowloon Tong caused me. 

I am a weak, insecure, spiteful, and needy man. I put too much pressure on myself. I read something good and I immediately want to emulate it. No, not just emulate it—surpass it. That in itself isn't a bad thing, but I go to extremes. I tell myself that I'm a failure if I don't manage to write something at least as good. I question my own worth and talent. I rail at myself that I'm not as keen an observer of culture and linguistic subtleties as I should be. Moreover, I'm usually in an all-fired hurry to complete the work. Paul Theroux wrote a damn good book, and I need to produce something similar now, NOW, d'you hear me, or my life as a writer is fucking over. This, or something very like it, is the loud, insistent, humbling message which my id splatters all over my craven ego. 

I put way too much pressure on myself. 

I've written three books and am halfway through another. (One of those books—the complete manuscript—is currently under review by the editors at Ace Science Fiction, an imprint of the Penguin Group.) I've penned dozens of short stories. But I remain unpublished. And that, to my mind, is simply not good enough. 

I put way too much pressure on myself. 

Now that one of my books is under review by a major publishing house, I feel an insistent need to edit the sequel into a refined state of readiness, while simultaneously finishing and editing the third installment and even the fourth. And these aren't short books, either: both the first and the second novel manuscripts turned out to be about 110,000-115,000 words each.

I put WAY too much pressure on myself. 

But I've been in a slump lately. I haven't written anything new since my appendectomy last May. I haven't touched my second novel manuscript; the writer's block just won't go away. 

And then I realized that it wasn't writer's block. It was that pressure. It was the background noise. It was me thinking about leaving Korea, moving to Las Vegas, missing Miss H, getting published by Penguin (or worse, not getting published by Penguin), winning the Hugo & Nebula Awards (or worse, not winning the Hugo & Nebula Awards), feeling inferior to Paul Theroux, wondering if I was even capable of writing something as good as Kowloon Tong or The Sand Pebbles, wondering, wishing, waiting, worrying. 

Enough. Enough already. 

I was taking notes on my new idea (about enslaved North Korean women) and I realized something. There was a feeling in my chest like a great big ship's boiler, overheated and ready to burst. My veins felt like cracked valves and my head was constantly pounding. To my shock, I discovered that this wasn't a new sensation: that knot of roiling, boiling pressure had been there for weeks. No matter how many bike rides I took along the Han River or the Yangjae Stream, no matter how many walks through Ttukseom Resort or Seoul Forest, no matter how many of my students wrote perfect descriptive paragraphs because I'm an awesome teacher, I was still stressed out. I was going to bed stressed and waking up stressed, stressing out with every word of every great author's that I read. And I was about to commence writing a fifth book with that lump in my chest. I was about to write it the same way I've been writing every short story and editing every novel manuscript: too quickly, too eagerly, and with too much background noise in my head. 

No more. 

The dam broke this morning. Something snapped inside me. My stress washed away, my head cleared, and I caught myself before I fell. I looked down at my notes and an inarticulate thought trickled into my skull, like sunshine after a rain shower. 

"Even if this isn't as good as anyone else's, it'll still be fun to write, won't it? I should just focus on having fun."

I don't know why it took me so long to remember that. Writing is supposed to be fun, you know. Even when it isn't. Even when it's agonizing and painful, like childbirth, or humdrum and dull, almost like work. It's still cathartic. It's still an escape. It's still a kick in the pants. Somewhere along the line I forgot that. I put too much pressure on myself to write a lot and write it well, better than anyone else. As an egocentric male, and as a human being who wants to leave this world richer than he found it, I stressed myself out trying to succeed on the first try. And predictably, my creativity suffered. I have to remember —and something tells me that I will from now on—that writing is not (just) about the destination. It's about the journey. 

Writing is like driving. You have to do it often to stay in practice. If you're only doing it to get paid and eat, it's no fun. It's nice to just take a quiet, pleasurable Sunday drive and see where you wind up. But not too fast: if you keep stomping the accelerator, you'll get frustrated and sloppy. You'll probably burn out your engine, too. Oh, and turn that radio down. It's good to listen to the sounds of the road. Too much background noise and you can't concentrate on what's important. If the engine starts acting up and you slow down, then it's time to take that baby to the repair shop—maybe even trade it in for a newer model. Get the picture?

Long story short, writing is an act of creation. And any act of creation, be it sculpture, oil-on-canvas, sand castles, babies, or fictitious worlds, should be a pleasurable one. 

Revelation over. 

Ace wants to see my full manuscript

We interrupt the tales of my travels through Southeast Asia to bring you a world-shaking update: 

As frequent followers of this blog are aware, I sent an e-mail query to Ace Science Fiction, America's oldest continuously operating sci-fi press (though it has since been acquired by and become an imprint of the Penguin Group, one of the "Big Six" of American publishing houses). I sent them a synopsis of my first novel, Revival, and the first ten pages of the manuscript copied and pasted into the body of the e-mail itself. Ace & Roc's website — which has since disappeared, I've noticed — made it clear that the reporting time for unsolicited, unagented queries was five months. I marked the calendar for June 29, 2014. 

That date came and went and I heard nothing. Undaunted and unsurprised, I sent the manuscript — the whole thing this time, as per instructions — off to Baen Books on June 30. Their reporting time, seeing as they accept manuscripts rather than mere queries, is a whopping 12 months. I settled in for a long wait and buckled down to enjoy my trip through Southeast Asia. 

Then the bombshell came whizzing in on Wednesday, August 27. An e-mail from Ace Science Fiction popped up in my inbox: 

Dear Mr. Post,

Thank you for submitting Revival to Ace/Roc. I apologize for the delayed response; as you may imagine we have many queries to go through and not much time to go through them. I enjoyed your sample and would be delighted to look at the full book. Could you please send me the full manuscript as a word document?

Thank you!

The Editorial Staff

Ace / Roc Science Fiction & Fantasy

I blinked. The world seemed to be falling away from me. The rattling cicadas in the trees in the parking lot thirteen stories below died away into silence. The rattle and bang of trucks on the main road vanished. The screams and shouts of children on the playground turned into popping soap-bubbles. I called Miss H in from the other room so she could read the e-mail and assure me that I wasn't seeing things. Her face lit up like a sunrise in low orbit and she gave me a huge hug, words of love and encouragement dropping from her sweet lips. I just sort of sat there like a buffoon and soaked it all up. You may rest assured that my manuscript in its entirety was sent off within the next few minutes. 

Now it's a waiting game again. I have no idea how long it'll take Ace to read through all 571 pages and 114,500 words of my novel. They haven't accepted it, I know, but I'm still psyched beyond words. Just to have them express this amount of interest rather than issuing me a flat rejection is...tremendous. And Penguin Books, no less! I must have done something right, right? 

I can't help but hope that all those agonizing, soul-rending hours (years, really) that I spent crafting and editing this novel are finally paying off. I wasn't just monkeying around. Honest. 

Lise Gagne/iStockphoto

Wish me luck, folks. You'll be the first to know when I get the news...good or bad. 

fiction vs. science fiction

On Friday I spoke to my mother on the phone for the first time in four months. We're not estranged or anything; far from it. I'm just a horrible son, even when you don't apply the Confucian lens. We talked around Christmastime and...well, the time just slipped away. Life intervened. The trip to Sapporo, the move to Gangnam, and all that jazz. It's hard for me to remember that I have to contact her; she has no way of contacting me (I call my parents via Skype, but they have a land line).

Anyway, Mum said something interesting, as she always does. We were discussing my younger brother, a young actor in Hollywood searching for his big break, and how a big-name studio asked him and his crew to do a short film. You can catch some snippets of it here, if you don't mind strong language. (He's on IMDB, too.) That dark-haired fellow with the Mel Gibson looks and the chip on his shoulder and the what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about expression on his face is who I grew up with, folks. 

Anyway, I finally managed to inform my mum that I've submitted my first novel to Penguin Books, and am awaiting a reply. Among the many pithy observations she made was that my brother and I have both chosen extremely tough and competitive careers, and we are both on the threshold of success (she's great with the encouraging comments). It gave me pause. She was right in more ways than she knew. Not only have I decided to make my name in fiction, but science fiction to boot. The requirements of the genre are a bit more stringent than mainstream fiction. I don't mean to imply that mainstream fiction is a cakewalk or anything like that. Not at all. To be a writer in any genre requires patience, skill, practice, a certain degree of natural talent, patience, confidence, dedication, and hard work (especially the last one). It's not much different from being an actor in that respect. That was my mum's whole point. 

But to be a sci-fi writer you need all that and more, I've realized. First, you have to understand the fundamental ways in which technology, science and progress affect human lives. You have to see the human story behind the inhuman gadgets and gizmos. You must march to the same fife as a mainstream fiction writer by composing a compelling story, a tale of ordinary human (or inhuman) beings in challenging situations, relatable characters with the same age-old problems, seasoning the tale with conflict and drama and triumph and failure and character development, not forgetting correct pacing and florid language and all the other ingredients which fiction is heir to; but that ain't all. Into the fabric of fiction you must weave the scintillating threads of the fantastic. You must wed your human story to the extraordinary technology of the future, the advanced science of impending ages, the limitless world of wonder that lies beyond the borders of imagination. One e-zine I've submitted to won't even consider a manuscript unless it's "a good character-driven story wherein the technology is so vital to the plot that the narrative would be indelibly altered were it absent." 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I consistently fail to do. 

Writing is like herding cats. Staying on top of what every good story needs—plot, pacing, vivid characters, sizzling prose, universal mores—while trying to throw in the novel aspects of science fiction like mind-blowing tech and aliens and starships and whatnot is...challenging. It's rather like trying to cook a four-course dinner. You're boiling the pasta and stirring the sauce and grating the cheese and pounding the breadcrumbs, and just as finish you realize that you've let the mushrooms (which were supposed to be lightly sautéed) burn to ashes in the skillet. Despite your best efforts, the meal leaves a carcinogenic taste in the mouth of anyone who eats it. That, apparently, is what my stories are doing to the editors at Asimov's, Analog, and Daily Science Fiction. I haven't sold a story yet. 

But at least I know what I'm doing wrong. The trick is that happy marriage of the unreal and imaginary to the tried-and-true fictive formula. I haven't had much success combining memorable characters, fantastic settings, incredible technology and a classic plot into one single story, but I'm getting better. Like anything else, all it takes is practice. You have to get a feel for it, and I can feel that I'm getting a feel for it. Enough to realize that some stories need to be aborted before I waste time and energy on them (such as the idea I had while shopping with Miss H last weekend, "Incheon Airport Post-Rapture"—ha!). 

I can write good stories, and I can dream up good sci-fi concepts, but getting the two to merge in my brain and slide all the way down through my arms and fingers to the keyboard is another matter. 

Tomorrow is Wednesday, my day off. I'll see what I can do about it then. Wish me luck. 

a tale of three cities

I have returned from Japan.

I concluded the lovely month of July at home with my family, packed up, said my goodbyes, and hopped on a jet plane for Tokyo on July 31, there to spend eight days touring the country. As of August 8, I'm back in Seoul, wallowing in the heat and humidity and cat hair, reunited with Miss H and loving it. (And the best part is, my vacation's only half over.)

But I need to tell you about the jaunt through Japan, don't I? This is a travel blog, after all. So here goes. First, a few short words to set the scene:

I planned the whole affair out in advance, which is unusual for me. Usually I just go and pants it. When I went to the British Isles in 2010, I had only the vaguest idea of what I'd be doing and seeing, and where I'd be staying. I knew I wanted to hit Newcastle, Edinburgh and Dublin, but that was as specific as it got. My train tickets, flight tickets and hostels were all booked after I got there. It was somewhat slapdash, but it worked out.

Knowing, as I did, that I had only a limited amount of time to see Japan, and not wanting to spend a fortune there, I did some advance planning this time around. I chose to focus my vacation on three cities. Tokyo was an obvious choice, and Kyoto was acknowledged by many to be a must-see; but the third one was a curve ball. I picked Kumamoto. I won't go into details here about why I chose it; I'll let you know that when I get to those specific days. For now, I'm simply going to give you my route and the timing.

This was the plan, and a damn good one: July 31 through August 3, I'd be in Tokyo. Miss H and Miss J (from Bucheon) would meet me there late on the 31st and stay until the 2nd. Then they'd go home and I'd be on my own again for two days. August 4-5, I'd be in Kyoto, and August 6-7 I'd be in Kumamoto.

I've provided a map for your consideration. You can clearly see all three cities on this map (Kumamoto is down on Kyushu, the southernmost of the three big Home Islands):

Now, one of the things on my バケット list ("バケット" is Japanese for "bucket") was to ride the Shinkansen. Literally, that word means "new trunk line." It's synonymous with "Japanese bullet train." What better way to see the country (and get from Point A to Points B and C quickly) than by high-speed rail? With that in mind, I booked a seven-day Japan Rail Pass for $283 before I left the U.S. (Due to some regulation or other, you can't get the pass in Japan; you have to buy it and have it shipped to you outside the country.) This was a costly purchase, yes, but it was worth it. With the route I had imagined, I'd be making three separate rail journeys: Tokyo to Kyoto on August 4; Kyoto to Kumamoto on August 6; and Kumamoto to Fukuoka on August 8. A seven-day pass seemed like a wise decision, and it was, as I'd discover later.

Why was I taking the train to Fukuoka? Well, that's because the international ferry port was there. And not just any ferry port, either: Fukuoka is the jumping-off point for the high-speed ferries, the Boeing 929 Jetfoils. This, I determined, would be my conveyance from Kyushu back to Korea. I didn't want to fly (too expensive), so a ship was the only avenue left to me. Moreover I'd never traveled on an international ferry before, nor a hydrofoil. It seemed too good to pass up for the old baketto list.

I had a lot of difficulties threading my way through the Japanese webpages and phone numbers, but I finally managed to make a reservation with the Miraejet company. That turned out to be unnecessary...but you'll find that out later.

So there you go. From my old bedroom in my parents' house in the California desert, thanks to Google, Hotels.com, and Korea's English tourism website, I was able to book my entire Japan trip: the plane to Narita Airport, the capsule hotel in Tokyo, my standard hotels in Kyoto and Kumamoto, my bullet train pass and my Jetfoil ferry ticket. Too regimented a plan? Some might say so, but this was good for me: it meant I would have a schedule to keep and a goal to shoot for, and I wouldn't get waylaid in some city or other and spend all my hard-earned cash. And it would induce me to get off my duff and go out and see stuff despite the inevitable heat and humidity. So there you go: this plan was as much incentive as insurance.

Everything was set. Tokyo to Kyoto to Kumamoto by way of the bullet train, and then home on the international ferry. Eight days. The capital and the entire western half of Japan. A pilgrimage.

And...there was something else I intended to do in Japan. Something that could only take place once Miss H and our friend Miss J from Bucheon had met me in Tokyo. But you'll find out about that in due time.

It all began on July 31. And this is how it all fell out...

(Hey kids! Check back on Saturday for the first installment of the Vaunter's stay in Tokyo: THE SUMIDA RIVER CRUISE. He brought photos!)

sweet vindication!

vindicate [vin-di-keyt]

verb (used with object), vin·di·cat·ed, vin·di·cat·ing.

1. to clear, as from an accusation, imputation, suspicion, or the like: to vindicate someone's honor.
2. to afford justification for; justify: Subsequent events vindicated his policy.
3. to uphold or justify by argument or evidence: to vindicate a claim.
4. to assert, maintain, or defend (a right, cause, etc.) against opposition.

Vindicate. I've always liked that word. The moment I first saw it (in a Calvin & Hobbes cartoon; Bill Watterson does wonders for the vocabulary), I added it to my lexicon. Over the years I've tried to use it as much as possible. Vindicate. It's got a nice ring to it. It sounds exactly like what it means. There's nothing more satisfying than shouting the two words in the title of this blog post whenever the justness of your cause and the righteousness of your position has been confirmed. Sweet vindication!

And believe me, I've been vindicated.

For years I labored in hopeless drudgery, praying that one day I'd get to where I wanted to be. Maybe I'd have to put up with some unpleasantness on the way. I'd feel like I was in limbo sometimes. But one day, I told myself, things would be different. And now they are.

Nearly eighteen months ago, in February of 2012, I left the California desert and boarded a plane for South Korea (for the second time). The circumstances of my going were dire indeed. I had lived in my parents' house for the last two-and-a-half years, and no matter the state of the economy or the kindness and warmth with which my folks took me in, I was at my wits' end. My ego was crushed. My soul was in shambles. I felt rather emasculated. I hadn't been able to find a decent job, and even though I'd gotten my private pilot's license and put myself through bartender's school, I was still without prospects. It was the same situation as mid-2008, when I'd first gone to Korea. I'd been living for six fruitless, jobless months in my parents' basement in Wyoming. It was a nightmare.

And here I am, now, in July of 2013, ready to depart once more for Korea. This is the final week. My parents have been their usual lovely selves, and have seen to my every need (material and emotional). On the 29th I shall board a jet plane at...um...either LAX or Ontario (that's Ontario, California, just so you know) and fly to Tokyo, there to spend eight days touring the central and southern regions of the country by bullet train, and then a high-speed ferry to Busan. (I'll talk more about this trip later.)

Things are different now, don't you see? I'm not leaving out of desperation. I'm not sick at heart. Hopelessness and despair and jealousy no longer hold me in thrall. I've forgotten what despair feels like, in fact. It's just as well I didn't put too many maudlin posts up on this here blog, 'cause they'd ring hollow and puerile to me (and you) now.

On the contrary, my return is triumphant. Everything seems to be looking up. I'm not going back just to work, I'm going to have fun. I have an awesome job waiting for me, plus my special girl and our troublemakin' cat. Thanks to my stateside sojourn, I have a new Lensatic compass, an attaché case, a wine-bottle opener, new clothes, and adjusted vertebrae. (I dug into my closet and found my duster coat, my binoculars, and my army-surplus goggles, too.) Plus, I have another month of vacation left. After this jaunt through Japan, I'm spending the rest of my time kicking around Seoul and the northern provinces, checking out all the stuff I haven't had time to see yet. I'm also packaging my second novel (the one about the General Sherman incident) for publication before the end of the year, and finally sitting down and learning Korean. Things are going to be great. Heck, they already are.

And in the coming 18 months, I have all sorts of trips planned. That's right: I'm finally getting to travel like I've always wanted...and like I've always promised you, dear readers. For the Chuseok holiday this year (in September, I believe), Miss H and our friend J from Bucheon will venture into China; in January 2014 there's a road-trip across Australia, plus a beach holiday with Miss H in Malaysia; in the summer of 2014 there will be some kind of jaunt along the Pan-American Highway, possibly on a motorcycle; and in the winter of 2015, for my final hurrah and last departure from South Korea, there will be a grand trip from Beijing to Moscow aboard the Trans-Mongolian/Trans-Siberian Railways.

You'll get to hear about all this on the blog. Of course.

After that will come my glorious return to the U.S. of A, wherein will resume my flying career (also blogged about) and a rewarding foray into radio journalism and punditry. And the novels (the big ones, the sci-fi series I'm always rattling about) will get published somewhere in there, too.

See the difference? I have prospects now. I'm not just going to Korea to keep my head above water and pay off my loans. (Those are almost all gone, by the way.) All my waiting and hard work, years of it, are finally paying off. I can now settle back and enjoy myself some. At last there's the promise of a wondrous future and fulfilling life ahead. It was always there—it never really went away—but it was mighty invisible for a time.

Water under the bridge. I no longer feel like I'm pedaling toward my goals on a rusty unicycle with a bent rim and a flat tire. Now I've got me one of these:

And, though the road be hard and long, Miss H and I shall persevere.

Let the games begin.

the Great Epiphany

Winter is a great time for self-realization.

January has been miserable. We've had only a few sunny days which were of course bitterly cold. The rest of the time it's been cloudy, or raining, or both. Yes, raining. It hasn't been quite cold enough to snow. It's just been wet, cold, and cloudy, week in and week out. How cheerful. I'm ready for spring. I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I'm ready for spring.

Being inside all the time has let me do a lot of thinking, though. And I've made a lot of discoveries about myself and my situation, revelations which are rocking my world.

The first one came early yesterday. It had been creeping up on me steadily for months, perhaps years. I had the sense that something was wrong with my world. There was a glitch in the Matrix, but I didn't know what. Then, yesterday, it hit me. I had spent the previous evening screwing around on the Web instead of doing anything constructive. And I'd spent hundreds, perhaps thousands of previous evenings doing the exact same thing. Since the day I'd gotten my first computer game, I'd spent a heck of a lot of time wasting time: playing Angry Birds, Halo, Dark Forces II and Serious Sam, or watching YouTube videos, anime, and movies I'd seen 30 times.

Yesterday I realized, at long last, that all that time could have been spent elsewhere. Furthering my writing career, for instance.

I was on the verge of remonstrating with myself about the weeks of wasted time in my ledger when another revelation popped into my head. This one was brought on by an excellent article I'd read on The Art of Manliness. The article stated that the secret to getting the most out of life was devoting all of your mind and body to the task at hand. If you regret the mistakes of your past or worry about the future, you're only devoting half of yourself to your work. Don't do that. Whatever you do, do it with all your might. Focus and you will be fulfilled.

That hit home. My shoulders relaxed. A grateful, relieved sigh escaped my bosom. And right then, the greatest epiphany of all sprang from nowhere and pounced upon my ready mind.

For many years, I have been a colossal worrywart. I've been hounding myself to do better, to pick up my life somehow, to get it all together. I thought I was lazy and shiftless. I thought my life was passing me by. I knew I had to do something, but I didn't know what. If I could just get going with my life, everything would sort itself out. I thought I had to hurry up and do things to be successful and stop fretting.

But yesterday, I could finally see that I've placed a lot of undue pressure on myself. This is a big honkin' deal. The first step to fixing a problem is realizing you have one, or so they say. Up until now I didn't even realize any of this. Now I can see clearly. All this time I was stressing out about things which were beyond my control. Ever since I graduated college and got stuck in my parents' basement for six months, searching for a job that wasn't there, I've been living under a cloud of self-doubt, frustration, impatience, and despair. I felt ashamed that I couldn't find a job. I kicked myself for majoring in a competitive field like journalism instead of something like zoology, which could have netted me a job much sooner. A million times, I regretted returning from Korea and blowing all my money on a pilot's license and bartender's school. If I'd just held onto my savings, relocated to Alaska, and focused on starting a career, where might I be now?

I'd been extremely hard on myself. For no reason. What's worse, though, are the uncertainties and regrets which have tormented me all these years. The "what-ifs" wouldn't leave me alone. I felt like my life was passing me by. This feeling hit me the hardest this January: It's 2013. I'll be 27 in eight months. My career hasn't started. My résumé is pathetic. I haven't accomplished anything. My dreams are slipping farther and farther away. Do I still have time to live a full life? 

Yesterday, I scribbled something on Facebook about my self-discoveries. In response, a friend of mine (who used to work for a Korean newspaper) linked me to an Internet forum. In that forum, a young man asked the world: "I'm 27. Is it too late to have a full life?"

I was stunned. It was suddenly apparent that this was exactly the question I had been unable to articulate, yet was stressing about.

The answer to the young man's question was even more mind-blowing:

Too late for what?

If you slept through your 26th birthday, it's too late for you to experience it. It's too late for you to watch "LOST" in its premiere broadcast. (Though, honestly, you didn't miss much.) It's too late for you to fight in the Vietnam War. It's too late for you to go through puberty or attend nursery school. It's too late for you to learn a second language as proficiently as a native speaker. It's probably too late for you to be breastfed.

It's not too late for you to fall in love.

It's not too late for you to have kids.

It's not too late for you to embark on an exciting career or series of careers.

It's not too late for you to read the complete works of Shakespeare; learn how to program computers; learn to dance; travel around the world; go to therapy; become an accomplished cook; sky dive; develop an appreciation for jazz; write a novel; get an advanced degree; save for your old age; read "In Search of Lost Time"; become a Christian, then an atheist, then a Scientologist; break a few bones; learn how to fix a toilet; develop a six-pack ...

Honestly, I'm 47, and I'll say this to you, whippersnapper: you're a fucking kid, so get over yourself. I'm a fucking kid, too. I'm almost twice your age, and I'm just getting started! My dad is in his 80s, and he wrote two books last year.

You don't get to use age as an excuse. Get off your ass!

Also, learn about what economists call "sunk costs." If I give someone $100 on Monday, and he spends $50 on candy, he'll probably regret that purchase on Tuesday. In a way, he'll still think of himself as a guy with $100 -- half of which is wasted.

What he really is is a guy with $50, just as he would be if I'd handed him a fifty-dollar bill. A sunk cost from yesterday should not be part of today's equation. What he should be thinking is this: "What should I do with my $50?"

What you are isn't a person who has wasted 27 years. You are a person who has X number of years ahead of you. What are you going to do with them?

Zounds. I can't believe I didn't see this before. It's so simple. I haven't wasted 27 years. They just turned out differently than I thought they would. More importantly, I've got about 60 good years left.

I sat back in my chair after reading the older man's reply, utterly gobstoppered. I felt somewhat chagrined, too. This was precisely what my mother had tried to tell me. I had often confessed my worries, doubts, and insecurities to her. These always revolved around one thing: the irrational fear that I simply hadn't done enough in my first quarter-century of existence. And always, like the divine being she is, my mother would soothe my soul. She would tell me that I had plenty of time left, and that I hadn't wasted the time I had already spent. She told me not to worry so much. She told me to enjoy the journey. She told me to quit stressing and just see where the road took me. She knew, all along, that I would achieve my goals someday, and she told me as much.

I can't express to you what the older man's words—and their similarity to my mother's—did to me. They completely rearranged the furniture of my mind. They set out cool drinks and tasty snacks on all the tables. And they livened up the decor, too. Finally, they tore a huge hole in the roof and let the sun and stars shine in.

At a single stroke, I saw that my mother had been right all along. I saw that I had been fooling myself: I had always believed that I was a sanguine, easygoing guy. Now I saw myself for the insecure, self-obsessed, pettifogging worrywart that I was. And I saw how pointless it all had been. All those worries, all those regrets, all that stress about my life's direction past and present—it was all for naught. All the negativity I had unleashed upon my friends and family (and Miss H) was pointless. All this time I'd had nothing to prove, nothing to worry about, nothing to gain by burdening myself with that mental baggage.

Well, that's it. No more. Now I know better. It's time for a change around here, yes siree. I think I'll keep that hole in the roof. Then I'll never forget the sun and stars again. I'll let the warm, sunny breezes blow in and warm me; the winter winds will cool my fevered mind. From now on I'm going to actually do what I thought I was doing all along: work toward my goals with all my might, but not obsess over where I am, where I was, and where I could be. So what if I haven't achieved many of my goals yet? I'll get there eventually. From here on out, my main focus is enjoying the journey. Even if I have many years left, each moment is precious. I won't forsake the present for the promise of the future anymore. I'll take a slow boat to China instead of a rocket-ship.

So shall it be written, so shall it be done. Today heralds the triumphant return of the cheerful, stress-free Mr. Post, and the long-awaited rise of a hardworking, industrious, and dedicated man. I will neither regret my past, nor give myself cause to regret the future. No more dilettantism for me: I'm going to throw myself toward my goals, but remember to sniff the flowers on the way. I've chosen a road, and I'm going to saunter boldly along it, sinuous and misty though it may be. The sunny weather's on its way.

Wish us luck...

writing high

My muse has been holding out on me. For weeks I've suffered from ennui, a lack of enthusiasm, a debilitating absence of inspiration, courage, and wherewithal.

But man oh man, am I ever in the writing mood today!

I felt it coming on in the afternoon: a sudden, mastering urge to get back on my computer and write, dammit, finish rewriting this damn novel, because the whole thing is just too awesome to describe and it needs to be done and published and sent out there so other people can enjoy it.

And boy, was I right. As soon as I got home and sat down, the effluence started pouring off my fingers like it'd been stored up for months, which, in retrospect, it probably was. I've been so scared, so reluctant, so uninspired lately...my shortcomings staring me in the face, my lack of ambition gnawing on my backside, my intimidation from the professionals riding high.

But all that went out the window today. I started fixing my stilted, drab and puerile first chapter, and

SHAZAM!!!

It was like I actually knew what I was doing! Characterization? Easy as pie! Pacing? Think nothing of it, my man! Tone? Precisely, PRECISELY the way I wanted it. I was channeling Arthur C. Clarke's wondrously descriptive, refreshingly approachable, and wryly humorous style. And it was almost better than sex, for Pete's sake. I'm sure you know the feeling, fellow writers. That burst of inspiration comes (a cloudburst, more like it) and down come the words like rain, flowing together into delightful puddles and tributaries and streams. Feels grand, doesn't it? Like a literary version of the Midas touch: everything I turn my mind to turns to gold. Characters sizzle and pop, the pace advances with intoxicating fervor, plot and premise transform themselves from ragged threads into a majestic double helix, the DNA of a completely new and fantastic organism.

So here I am, rattling along. I've smashed through two (out of twelve) chapters, where before I could hardly be bothered to correct a paragraph or two. This feels wonderful. I'm wondering what's different today that wasn't there all the other days I tried to revise. Maybe the perspective I've been slowly garnering via meditation (and tactical amounts of whiskey) has finally sunk into my subconscious. Maybe I've encapsulated all the hard-won wisdom I've shared with you over the past few weeks. Whatever the reason, it's working. And it's danged effective. This is the first time since my novel's completion two years ago that I've looked at it without disgust. Hell, this is the first time I've ever looked at it with raw excitement. I see potential now. I see effervescence. I see mellifluousness. I see marvelousness (that's a word, isn't it?). I SEE. All the possibilities and angles and contingencies (and more importantly, what I need to do to attain them) have all become nakedly visible. My muse zapped me in the eyes with some literary LASIK surgery, and abruptly the world has become limitless. I can see for miles.

This is the first time I've experienced anything like this, so I'm going to take advantage of it while it lasts. Goodness knows when it'll ever come again. I just took a quick break from revising to tell you about it; if you'll excuse me, I'd like to dive back in now. Ten more chapters are calling my name. I might just bust through all 51,000 words tonight, so help me. It'd be worth it. Then maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and start the publishing process without reservations or misgivings.

I'll let you know, either way.

And now, let's have a song!

#250

Wanna hear something depressing? This is what you have to do to get paid to fly:


If you are applying for a commercial pilot certificate with an airplane category and single engine class rating, you must log at least 250 hours of flight time as a pilot (of which 50 hours, or in accordance with FAA Part 142, a maximum of 100 hours may have been accomplished in an approved flight simulator or approved flight training device that represents a single engine airplane) that consists of at least:

1. 100 hours in powered aircraft, of which 50 hours must be in airplanes.
2. 100 hours of pilot in command flight time, which includes at least 50 hours in airplanes and 50 hours in cross-country flight in airplanes.
3. 20 hours of training on the areas of operation as listed for this rating, that includes at least 10 hours of instrument training, of which at least 5 hours must be in a single engine airplane, 10 hours of training in an airplane that has a retractable landing gear, flaps, and a controllable pitch propeller, or is turbine-powered, one cross-country flight of at least 2 hours in a single engine airplane in day VFR conditions, consisting of a total straight-line distance of more than 100 nautical miles from the original point of departure, one cross-country flight of at least 2 hours in a single engine airplane in night VFR conditions, consisting of a total straight-line distance of more than 100 nautical miles from the original point of departure.
4. 10 hours of solo flight in a single engine airplane, including one cross-country flight of not less than 300 nautical miles total distance and as specified, and 5 hours in night VFR conditions with 10 takeoffs and 10 landings (with each landing involving a flight in the traffic pattern) at an airport with an operating control tower. (Source: http://www.gg-pilot.com/commercialpilot.htm.)

I've got some good news for you folks in the audience who have been anxiously following my every pilot-related move: I have surpassed 250 flight-hours.

Thanks to my private pilot's license, I've also got most of the rest of this rigmarole done. I've done two-hour cross-countries of 100 nautical miles; I've got ten hours of instrument time, and five hours of night-flight; even the requisite ten takeoffs and ten landings. (Actually, scratch that; I didn't do them at an airport with an operating control tower, so I'm going to have to fly over to Victorville some evening and get that done.)

In fact, I think all I have left is that long cross-country flight of 300 nautical miles. Zowie. I've never flown that far before. That'll get me from here to Las Vegas, easy. Some people even fly to Arizona (from here) for their long cross-countries. It'll be a bit scary (not to mention expensive) but fun.

This is big, people. I'm this close ("this" being equal to the distance between my forefinger and thumb, held very close together) to being a commercial pilot. All I need is moolah. I must save up for a three-hour flight. Plus JM-1 needs to teach me the commercial maneuvers and give me my official checkride prep. I estimate all this will cost me about $500-$600 dollars. I don't really have that right now, seeing as I just dropped $325 on new transmission lines for my Jeep because I was going 45 on a dirt road and didn't really see that huge bump until it was too late. Darn.

You get the idea. It'll be a while. But it won't be long. I'm almost there. I can't express to you how excited I am. A few more hoops to hurdle and I'll be a card-carrying single-engine commercial pilot.

Thought you'd like to know...

anticipation

I have a friend, Allison—who coincidentally happens to be a lovely, charming, genuine, classy and forthright lady—living in North Dakota. One day in mid-November she sent me a message out of left field: "So...if I were to come visit where should I fly into?" You may imagine that I was somewhat...enthused to receive this message. I hadn't seen Alli in two years. She was a very dear friend...and, as I've mentioned, a lovely, charming, genuine, classy and forthright lady. Man, I was pumped. In a few days, Allison had secured permission from her employers (she works at a camp, hiring new counselors, writing up new literature, creating presentational materials, and, most importantly, doing fun stuff with kids; she also subs in school classes). She bought a ticket for McCarran International on the 13th of December, and the countdown began. I was on tenterhooks. You'd best believe it. It's disgraceful—I'm a 23-year-old man, for Pete's sake—but one thing the history of the world has amply demonstrated is that grown men do not necessarily act as such. As Douglas Adams wrote, "Grown men, he told himself, in contradiction of centuries of accumulated evidence about the way grown men behave, did not behave like this." I couldn't wait. I was finally receiving an extended visit after months of relative isolation. And, furthermore, my visitor was lovely, charming, genuine...well, you know the rest. The days dragged by. Thanksgiving came and went, and finally December rolled around. I busied myself with bartender's school and flying (knocking off cream drinks and instrument flight, respectively), all the while trying not to explode with impatience. And then...the big day arrived. December 13, 2009. I rose semi-early, made sure I had a jacket and my accoutrements about me, got in the Jeep and headed off. I stopped to get some gas in Lucerne Valley first. Big mistake. Being such a tiny town, gas is insanely expensive. Then I went up the 247, finished gassing up in Barstow where it's a lot friggin' cheaper, got on the 15, and had an uneventful trip to Las Vegas and McCarran International Airport. My heart didn't really start to pound until I got out of the car. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I didn't have change for the parking meter, and couldn't find the change machines. So I exchanged three bucks with a couple of old guys who were on their way out, pumped in two hours' worth of quarters, then moseyed toward the terminal entrance. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I'd taken the time to familiarize myself with the layout of the terminal beforehand. I knew the orientation of each baggage carousel. At a glance, I was able to determine the one Allison's flight would be employing: Carousel 10, on the west side. There was nothing left but to wait. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I was early. That's how I am. I equate being "on time" with being "late." If you have an appointment at 11:00, and you show up at 11:01, you're late. If you show up at 11:00, you're late. If you show up at 10:59, you're late. It's unacceptable to be anything less than 5-10 minutes early. Preferably more. Allison's flight didn't get in until 12:30 p.m.; I had arrived at 11:45 a.m. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I went upstairs, in the direction of the security checkpoint, to ascertain which direction Allison would approach from when she debarked. I then went back down to baggage claim, placed myself squarely between Carousel 10 and the escalators descending from Level 2, and settled in. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] It was loud. It was Sunday, sure, and the crowd could not rightly be labeled massive. But in addition to the never-ending murmur of voices, there was the incessant blare of advertising. The Venetian, already playing host to Blue Man Group (for which Allison and I had reserved tickets on the 17th), was advertising its smash-hit show Phantom, based on the well-known Phantom of the Opera. And they were advertising it stridently. Same thing with Planet Hollywood's Peepshow, Cirque du Soleil's Mystère (at the Bellagio), and so forth. These ads were playing on giant screens hung over the baggage claim area, and echoing up and down the lengthy chamber in chorus. Then...it was time. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I wasn't merely nervous about meeting a girl in an airport. That was a whole 'nuther kettle of fish. I was just nervous about meeting somebody, period. I always am, for reasons similar to the ones surrounding my über-punctuality: the what-ifs. What-ifs come swarming over the walls and attack, and I inexorably panic. What if we don't meet up? What if we can't find each other? What if we miss each other in the crowd? What if every cell phone tower within a hundred miles goes out simultaneously? What'll we DO??? [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] As people began to drift into the area, I stood up and faced east, from whence they came. I searched every face, my hands fiddling about behind my back. I attempted to maintain a confident, masculine sort of posture, with all these worries wandering through my head and my heart pounding away ever faster in my chest. [THUD-THUD, THUD-THUD.] After a time, I figured she must've been near the back of the plane. People from Flight 415 had been streaming by for twenty minutes already. That unreasoning, irrational panic began to well up. The what-ifs raised their banners and charged. What if I screwed up her flight information? What if this really isn't her flight at all? What if I'm at the wrong carousel? What if I'm at the WRONG AIRPORT?! And suddenly, there she was. [Ka-POW!!!] And suddenly everything was all golden sunshine. Whew, I wasn't at the wrong airport. Our faces lit up as our eyes met. I opened my mouth and said, "You know, up until this point, I wasn't even aware that Bismarck had an airport." Alli and I exchanged greetings, hugged, retrieved her luggage, and walked out to the car. My heart had slowed down a little, going from a high boil to a slow simmer. I had a visitor. The meter still said 56:00 as we clambered into my Cherokee and pulled out of the parking lot. I managed to avoid doing anything too undignified. I messed up a little getting back to I-15 from McCarran, but that could've happened to anybody. (Later, you'll read about a real automotive mishap, a red-face special.) And then we were on the road, whirring down the wide highway in the warm sunshine, Allison's flowery scent filling the car, meeting accomplished and visitation commenced. We caught up during the three-hour drive back, getting reacquainted and reminding each other what we were like. It had been two years, and the two of us had been around a bit since then. Alli was even nicer and prettier than I'd remembered. The rest of this trip was shaping up fine. As we drove, I pointed out the sights and scenery that I knew anything about, all the while asking Allison how her job was going and her life in general. She filled me in on how things were going, made small talk, laughed, and was generally scintillating. It was delightful. Just hearing her voice, being in the same car with her, talking to her face-to-face was magical. I began to realize just how long it had been since we'd seen each other. Too long. We got home safely, without delay. After the introductions were made, I helped Allison get settled in my room. Pop cooked some Brunswick stew for dinner and we had a lovely meal for five in the dining room. I was amazed and pleased by how free and easy Allison behaved: here she was, in a strange house with a strange family in a state she'd only visited once, and she was fitting right in. Such a situation would and routinely does terrify me. Alli, however, wasn't shy or withdrawn at all. Au contraire, she was witty, conversational, and outgoing. Things couldn't have gone better. I went to bed that night (on a cot in the living room) with the keenest sense of anticipation. For on the morrow, the grand vacation would begin. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.]