Analog likes my style

I was beginning to despair of my writing career (nearly 40 submissions since I started keeping track in 2013, and not so much as a whiff of interest). Then, one of the editors at Analog Science Fiction & Fact sent me this email on November 23:

Dear Andrew, 

Thank you for letting me see "Mother Knows." I'm sorry it didn't strike me as quite right for our present needs. 

I rather like your style of writing and suggest that you try us again.

Whoa, hold on. Did one of the editors of Analog, one of the most famous, widely-read, and respected sci-fi mags in the world, just tell me he liked my style?

Yes he did.

You'd best believe I whipped something off to him post-haste. I'll let you know how it goes.

back from the UK

Here's the short version, in case you're pressed for time and don't want to read the rest of this post:

     1. Miss H and I went on our trip to the British Isles and Ireland. It was Fun, with a capital "F." 

     2. A couple of days ago I queried Ethan Ellenberg with a 50-page excerpt of New Model Earth, which is the new title I've chosen for Revival, my sci-fi magnum opus.

     3. Miss H and I are moving. We're staying in Henderson, but we're switching apartments.

I told myself I'd write a post for each leg of the trip Miss H and I took to Europe, with oodles of delicious pictures for you to drool over. This is a travel blog, after all. But to be honest, I can't be bothered. There's too much going on right now. We're moving, as I mentioned. And I'm still trying to do three things every day: write, read, and exercise. So far I've been failing miserably, but not for lack of trying. Well, okay, maybe for lack of trying. But not for lack of wanting. So I'll just give you the picks of the litter: 

Black Linn waterfall, near Ossian's Seat in the Scottish Highlands.

I shouldn't have to tell you what this is.

The obligatory Big Ben selfie.

Tower Bridge ain't falling down...

The Titanic's original slipway in Belfast, Northern Ireland. 

Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, County Antrim, Northern Ireland.

Trinity College Library, Dublin. 

The view from Dundrum Castle, County Down, Northern Ireland. 

The Giant's Causeway, County Antrim, Northern Ireland.

All done drooling? Great. The trip was luscious. Heather and I had a long layover in Miami on July 3, and spent a sultry afternoon in South Beach lying on golden sand and swimming in bathwater-warm seas and stuffing our faces with Cuban food and ducking self-professed heroin addicts on Collins Avenue. The bachelor party ("stag do") in Edinburgh was a blast; the boys and I pub-crawled across town, buying cheese from a bona fide cheesemonger and whisky from a bona fide whisky monger and mowing down while we roamed the streets. I ate haggis pizza and got to try a beer that was 44% alcohol. Jeff and Jenn's wedding ceremony was beautiful. They had a double-decker bus with their names on it, and got married in a friggin' castle, and the reception dinner was just amazeballs (game terrine, beef Wellington, and apple and berry cobbler), and a fun time was had by all. Then Miss H and I walked from one end of London to the other, and then flew into Dublin and did a private pub crawl of our own, and then had an 18-hour layover in Boston that left a fine taste in our mouths (as did the fondue and pisco sours at Stoddard's). And that was the trip. 

It was, however, ludicrously expensive. 

So expensive, in fact, that Miss H and I have been living paycheck-to-paycheck since we got home. 

Our lease is up, and Ventana Canyon Apartment Homes will be increasing our rent. They claimed it was because there was "development" going in next door to our apartment complex and that's upping the property value. The "development" they speak of is the construction of another apartment complex. I was no great shakes at economics in school, but doesn't an increase in supply and a corresponding decrease in demand mean a drop in price...?

Anyway, we selected a one-bedroom apartment at a complex just a mile and a half away, around the corner on Gibson. It'll mean a downgrade in living space, but much cheaper rent. Frankly, the complex is much nicer: a five-foot-deep heated pool, an indoor racquetball court, and a host of other amenities Ventana can't offer. I won't tell you the name of our new complex, however, because I expect to become a world-famous author soon and I'm keen on privacy.

Yes, I said "world-famous author." I haven't been bone-idle since I got back from the UK. I busted my hump, and with the help of a few erudite beta readers, I whipped the manuscript for Mugunghwa into shape. I'm publishing it for the Kindle...well, hell. Maybe tonight. Depends on how convoluted the KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) process is. I've already formatted my novel the way they want it and saved it HTML, and now all I have to do is pick a cover design and set a price, as far as I'm aware. Then it'll pop up on Amazon 24-48 hours from when I click the "publish" button. Fame and fortune will follow.

...but just in case it doesn't, I also prepped my manuscript for New Model Earth (which I shall hereafter refer to as NME) and sent a query letter, a synopsis, and an excerpt off to the folks at Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency. These are the same folks who picked up John Scalzi and published his works, so I have high hopes. 

Before 2015 is out I intend to start writing freelance opinion articles for the Pacific Standard, The Awl, and any other online periodical that likes my pitches. Might as well start working as a freelance writer, especially while I'm waiting to hear how my novel ambitions pan out. 

I've also taken proactive steps to get my flying career in order. Rather than lament my persistent lack of funds, I set up a GoFundMe campaign (click here or see the badge at the top right of this page). I need $25,000. That's to get current, get my high-performance rating, rack up 100 hours PIC and 50 hours cross-country flight, do my commercial checkride prep, take my exam, and then become a commercially-licensed pilot. And hopefully get snapped up by Grand Canyon Airlines shortly thereafter. 

I'm taking this campaign seriously. I've shotgunned it out over Twitter, Facebook, and Gmail, and I've even printed out flyers—actual, physical pieces of paper—to post up at the small airports around Las Vegas (North Las Vegas, Henderson, and Boulder City). I'm doing that this weekend, if there's any time after the move. 

If you really love me, you'll save this and send it to everyone you know. Even that hated coworker you have to stand next to in the elevator each day on your way to work. 

I'm doing NaNoWriMo 2014

In the wake of Ace & Roc's rejection of my first novel, Revival, I've done a lot of soul-searching, self-persecution, and agonizing about the precise reasons why. What I finally hit upon was this:

I've lived my entire life under a cloud of puerile delusions—which were pretty typical of my generation, but that doesn't make having them any better. I grew up with two simple goals: (a) to make my mark on the world, and (b) to have fun and never work hard. I realized a couple of days ago that those goals are mutually exclusive. Up to this point I looked at both my journalism career and my writing as mere games—cheat codes to get me out of doing any heavy lifting in life. I should have seen them for what they truly were: real jobs requiring real effort. If I had just treated my career and my writing with a bit of respect and seriousness, taken some initiative, had an ounce of industriousness, put in a drop of effort...maybe I'd actually have a career right now. I'm due to go back to the United States in early January 2015, never to return to Korea, and I'm going back with no prospects, hardly any job experience, and not a whit of marketability. Who knows what I'll wind up doing, or even if I'll find any meaningful work at all? If I'd just tried harder in my youth, perhaps I'd be published already, and working as a respected magazine columnist or radio talk show host, with a first novel printed and another slated for publication, with savings and investments and mortgages and a 401k...instead of, you know, utterly wasting the first thirty years of my life trying to ensure that said life was as fun as possible.

So I've decided that, from now on, I'm going to put more conscientious effort into my work—both my nonexistent career as a journalist and my writing skills. 

To that end, I decided to do NaNoWriMo this year. The reasons are fourfold: 

Reason #1: I need to get back in the habit of writing every day. Ace & Roc probably rejected me because my writing was almost good, but not quite. It was sterile and clumsy enough to preclude any chance I had of publication. There was too much fixing that would have had to be done before the thing was fit for the press. I haven't been writing every day, not for a year or so now. NaNoWriMo is a great way to jump-start the habit again. I need to sharpen my skills—reforge the swords, so to speak. And NaNo is the furnace. 

Reason #2: It's a good way for me to stretch some new writing muscles as well as the old ones. The novel I decided to write this November involves a female protagonist. I've never written anything from a female's first-person perspective before. I get the feeling that the lady characters in Revival are pretty sterile and flat and weak-chinned, so I'm gonna use this NaNo to train my brain in the subtle art of writing strong, intelligent, and engaging women. 

Reason #3: I did some clicking around over on Robert J. Sawyer's blog (he's none other than the president of freakin' Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America). I discovered something earth-shattering: Revival, my first novel, the first entry in what I had hoped would be an epic science fiction series...is not science fiction. Nope. It's got some elements of the fantastic and the metaphysical, and what science is involved is rather soft stuff, even pseudoscientific. That puts it firmly in the realm of speculative fiction, perhaps even fantasy. Small wonder Ace & Roc rejected the manuscript! All this time, since the age of 19, I thought I was writing science fiction, and it turns out that I wasn't. That made me question what I knew. Do I really know what sci-fi is? Did I ever? 

Obviously I need to get reacquainted with my chosen genre. When I get back home in January, I'm going to buy up as many Hugo- and Nebula-winning novels as I can, read through 'em, and find out what great science fiction is really all about. I'll shelve the Revival series for a while and focus on writing and publishing short science fiction to build up a solid foundation of writing credentials—enough to attract the attention of a literary agent. After I get that agent, then I shall focus on finding Revival a home. I know it'll have a home somewhere, but probably not with a traditional science fiction publisher like Tor, DAW, Ace, or Baen. 

But for now, for the month of November, I'm writing a science fiction novel. A real one. Hard science fiction, where facts are facts, the science is sound, and there's no fluff or fantasy. I want to see if I can do it—if I actually know what sci-fi is, and if I can write it. The best way to learn is to do, right? I'm using NaNoWriMo to relearn the nuances of my craft so I don't make the same genre-busting mistakes I did with Revival.  

Reason #4: Simply put: writing hasn't been fun lately. That's probably why I haven't been doing it on a daily basis, why I let it slide. It's become a chore. Even before I decided to look at it as a job that required real work, it already felt like a toxic bore. I couldn't tell you why. Maybe I felt hemmed in by all the rules and characterizations and plot lines I'd spent years constructing for the Revival series. Maybe that same series was sapping all of my creativity. Maybe I'd gotten so wrapped up in publication fever that I was looking at every writing project as a potentially salable piece, and putting enormous pressure on myself to make it perfect and right and good with the very first draft and psyching myself out. Probably some combination of the three.

I need to pull back, take a breather, and remember why I want to be a writer: because it's fun, dang it. Crafting worlds, playing God, moving pieces around on a chessboard, and all that rot. Oh, and potentially creating something that other people will see and love, and might inspire them to create something themselves. 

And you know what? NaNoWriMo, so far, has been exactly that. FUN. 

It's November 2. Yesterday afternoon, I commenced writing Charlie Ward, Interstellar Soldier-of-Fortune, a space opera. This story has been a blast so far. The thing is practically writing itself. Words are rolling off my fingertips. My brain is a blast furnace. My knuckles are oiled and ready. My mind is teeming with words. On the first day I did 2,500 words in less than an hour. Finished the first chapter. Ka-BOOM!

This is the only image I could find on Wallpaper Abyss that approximated my MC's appearance and demeanor.

So here's to getting back into the daily writing game, sculpting my first female protagonist, reacquainting myself with my one and only literary love (science fiction), and just having a ball with writing again. I'll keep you posted about how it all goes. 

This is the refreshed and rejuvenated Vaunter, signing off. Gotta go do another 2,500 words. 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 21: write your own eulogy

Read the article before you do anything else. It explains how today's challenge isn't really as morbid as it sounds. What better way to understand that your life is finite and that you need to get off your duff and live it than writing your own eulogy? Facing your mortality will give you greater cause to live each day with purpose. 

In fact, writing my own eulogy gave me almost too much perspective. Knowing that life is fleeting and temporary made me wonder about all those hours I've been spending at the gym. Surely I could be out in the fresh air or sampling the finest wines and foods instead of breathing recirculated air, grunting and sweating. One of the reasons I've never managed to stick with any exercise regimen is that I always get the creeping sense that I'm wasting my time. The two hours I spend lifting weights and jogging on a treadmill could be used in so many more constructive ways: writing short stories, planning novel plot lines, researching historical epochs, learning Korean, exploring Seoul, etc, etc. I always get the feeling that I'm using up an insane amount of my precious lifespan doing something that's of no material benefit. 

Not true, of course. Working out is healthy. And I don't mean to insinuate that I actually would use those extra two hours constructively if I stopped going to the gym. But hey, I never said my mind was logical. I just said that I found it hard to stick with exercise plans because my mind started working against me.

Anyway. Here's my eulogy: 

Andrew Post was a wanderer from the beginning. He was born in 1986 in Auburn, California, but didn't stay there very long. He called many places home during his youth: southern Ohio, rural Tennessee, urban Virginia, the California desert, the plains of Wyoming. As a small boy he kept his nose glued to the airplane windows, looking at the big world going by beneath him and vowing that he would see it all someday. 

It was this same intrepidity which drew him to North Dakota State University, far from his home in Southern California. (That, and the lack of an admission deadline.) He felt that a career in zoology was his ticket to travel and adventure. After a bad run-in with advanced chemistry, however, he switched his major to communication, graduating in 2007 with a degree in journalism and broadcasting and an English minor. If he couldn't study the big wide world of mountains, trees, animals and people, he figured he would write about it instead. 

A nationwide job market slump forced Andrew to seek his fortunes abroad. He spent four nonconsecutive years as an expatriate English teacher in South Korea, two as a professor at Sejong University in Seoul. During this time, he became an avid blogger, sold travel articles to online magazines and wrote several historical and science fiction novels. Despite his journalistic pursuits, it had always been Andrew's intention to be a writer. His debut novel Revival won him fame and fortune when it was published in 2016. He'd sent one of the first drafts to me a few months earlier. I remember critiquing it harshly and telling him flat-out that it was crap. "Thanks," he said. "Now I know I need to do better." And he did. He told me afterward that the greatest accomplishment of his life, besides finding a woman who was willing to reproduce with him, was winning the Nebula Award for Best Novel that same year. 

In August of 2013, Andrew proposed to his long-time girlfriend at Tokyo Disneyland. He would always say, "It was the smartest thing I ever did, asking that woman to marry me." The two wed upon their return from South Korea in 2015 and had three beautiful children, Zebulon, Aurora and Gilbert. Though Andrew was often far from home on one globetrotting adventure or another, he always made sure to be there for his children, for birthdays and Christmases, triumphs and tragedies. He raised his kids to be independent, forthright and principled people who pursued their dreams without fear or compunction. 

Anyone who met Andrew knew that his list of hobbies and interests was a long one. He was an energetic auto-didact and read whatever he could find about history, astronomy, technology, and the natural sciences. On the fiction front, he adored adventure tales, notably science fiction but occasionally dipping into fantasy and mainstream fiction as well. He loved aviation, becoming a pilot at the age of 24 and flying throughout his life. He took a great interest in classic and vintage cocktails, mixing and sampling as many as he could and even inventing a few of his own. The cocktail bar he ran out of his first apartment in South Korea was legendary among the expatriate community. Shooting was another hobby of his, and whenever he was able he'd get a group of friends together and head to the range. He was happiest after a long day of trapshooting, off-roading, flying, or hiking, sitting in a comfortable chair within view of a good sunset, a glass of Scotch in his hand and a lit pipe between his teeth. His greatest love, however, was travel. There were very few countries that Andrew didn't want to see, and he spent a lifetime traveling all over the world and writing about it in his journals. He sent me many postcards and pictures from the road. The best of these was the one I got in the winter of 2023. It was a photo of Andy standing in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary on San Cristóbal Hill in Santiago, Chile. He'd scrawled a message to me on the back: "This town is great! I might just retire here." In his lifetime he set foot on all seven continents and explored over sixty countries. He told me once that if there was a single place on his bucket list that he missed, he'd die a regretful man. I think he managed to avoid that unpleasant scenario. He and his wife retired to Santiago in 2046, just before Andy's 60th birthday. He opened a bar and spent the last two decades of his life plying thirsty Chileans and expatriates with delicious drinks and regaling them with tales of his life.

Andrew, or Andy as his friends called him, was a rare soul: a fellow who went against the grain, but didn't hold it against you if you didn't follow. He thrived in adversity, worked hard under pressure and always put a cheerful face on things. He could lighten any awkward situation with a lame but well-timed pun. He was intensely loyal to his friends and would never speak ill about one of them behind their backs. He did his level best at work and maintained a professional and industrious demeanor while on the job. His employers and friends alike could rely on him to go the extra mile. He always had an interesting tidbit to share about any given topic, and had away of explaining things that made them interesting and worthwhile. He would never pass a bum on the street without flipping him a quarter. He often failed to live up to his own standards, but he never quit trying.

I will miss Andy's intolerable puns. I'll miss his goofy grin. I'll miss his impeccable taste in movies, whiskey, and cigars. I'll miss flying with him over the Mojave Desert and the Alaskan wilderness. I'll miss his mouth-watering vegetarian lasagna. I'll miss his kindness, his optimism and his endless cheer. I'll miss the Santa Claus beard he grew in his old age, and the free gin and pipe tobacco he'd ply me with whenever I visited him in Chile. I'll miss the roaring adventures he wrote about in his novels, and the adventures the two of us had together. I'll miss the sight of him climbing, grinning, out of his trusty Jeep after a particularly challenging hill or patch of mud. But most of all I'll miss his imagination. Nothing was impossible for Andy; he dreamed big and he never lost sight of his goals. He'd always see the funny or wacky side to any situation. With his passing, the world has become a bit darker. But I know that we've all learned a little something from his novelist's mind, his punster's mouth and his go-getter style. Wherever he wanders now, I wish him all the best. 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 8: start a journal

This sure was an easy day! As it happens, I already keep three journals. One of them is this very blog. It's not updated daily, but it's at least semi-regular; if ye doubt, take a look at the blog URL up there. I also keep a food diary in a little blue notebook, keeping track of my meals and occasionally my workout schedule, and a regular daily journal in a larger black ring-bound notebook.

I've tried keeping journals before and always failed, because I wound up writing novels: describing my feelings at length, opining on various topics, recapping each happenstance in excruciating detail. Inevitably my creativity would burn out, my hand would cramp up and I'd abandon the exercise.

This time, though, I've been a lot more successful. I started a simpler daily journal about halfway through October, with bullet points denoting the things I did and saw that day, and who I did and saw them with. It was intended to document the useful things I accomplished during the Facebook hiatus, actually. But when mid-December rolled around, I didn't stop. I found that keeping a journal inspired me to accomplish more. (It sure beat writing "loafed around and played Steam games" every day.) I was remembering things more clearly, too. Not to mention that I am, you know, a journalist. I should be keeping a journal, particularly if I live in a foreign country, and a country at war with its neighbor to boot.

So there y'are. It's nice to find out that I've got a leg up over the average man already. Now excuse me, I have to go update my journals.

Watch out for Day 9... 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 6: update your résumé

Years ago I went to see a professional résumé-polisher in Boulder, Colorado. He lived in a spacious bungalow with an attached greenhouse, which my mother and I had to navigate to reach his desk, tucked away in a corner beside two huge windows looking out at the pine- and rock-strewn hillsides. He was a scholarly sort of man, tall, thin, white-haired, with spectacles and nimble fingers. He reminded me of one of my old English professors, but wasn't brain-burnt by decades of hallucinogens. He checked my puny résumé over, asked a few questions, cleaned up the formatting, added some strategic lines and font changes, eliminated the weak links, and handed it back to me. It was like alchemy. A few ingredients here, a few waves of the ol' wand there, a scatter of signs and symbols, and whammo — solid gold.

It's a bit of a jolt when you figure out that your résumé is two years out of date. I've switched jobs and done some volunteer work since 2012, all of which would be juicy additions to the old CV. There's my stint at Sejong University and the volunteer work I did up in Paju sending weather balloons laden with socks to North Korea. (I'd love to see what future prospective employers make of that.) 

But there's a problem. My résumé is too full.

Now, I know what you're going to say. "Oh, if there's not enough room, then you need to get rid of the old, weak stuff and add in the fresh stuff at the top." Fine and dandy. I'd do that if I was interested in being a teacher for the rest of my life. But I ain't. I'm a journalist, dang it. I want to work in radio. And the oldest thing on my résumé happens to be the year that I worked for Thunder Radio at North Dakota State University (2005, if you're curious). I don't want to ditch that. It's all I've got going for me if I want to get a journalism job.

I can't ditch any of the other stuff either: my job as an unpaid intern at the Victorville Daily Press in 2006; writing for the NDSU Spectrum as an opinion columnist between 2006-2007;  or working as a technical writer for the university's IT Help Desk in 2007. And I can't leave out the two hagwon jobs I've had in Korea: Reading Town in 2008-2009 or Avalon English in 2012-2013. Otherwise there'll be big, ugly gaps in my work history and my CV will look like a mouthful of rotten teeth.

And before you ask, I can't make the font any smaller. It's already sitting at 10 points. Any tinier and the interviewer will need a magnifying glass to read it.

Oh well. I'll figure it out. I have two hours and 13 minutes before midnight hits and it's on to Day 7. 

Wish me luck...

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 1: define your core values

A natural consequence of my life as an autodidact was the realization that, in addition to improving my mental capacity, I could stand to improve other aspects myself as well. Man does not eat of the Tree of Knowledge alone. There's a lot about me that could use some work. I'm in horrible shape, for one thing. And the term "emotional health" makes me, a red-blooded American man, think "Ewww, cooties." I could definitely use a shot of confidence, too. I've written hundreds of thousands of words and haven't gotten a single novelette published.

So! To that end, I hit upon the idea of doing Art of Manliness's Be a Better Man in 30 Days challenge. Why not? It can only help, right? Another year has gone by. It's January 1, 2014. I have once again realized how much of a lazy slob I can be, and how lacking in the most basic manly competencies I am. It's time to take matters in hand, and this challenge is just what the doctor ordered. I'm twiddling my thumbs at home for the entire month of January, and this will dovetail nicely with my writing-and-exercise regimen. The benefits are twofold: I'll be shouldering a new challenge (which has become a hobby of mine recently) and I'll take a delightful romp through the well-trod but classy Garden of Manliness. Classical manliness, none of this Billie Joe Armstrong skinny-jeans-and-eyeliner emo crap.

I understand, of course, that no Internet article can tell you how to be a man. But it can give you some handy tips on how to run your life, which if followed can improve the average man's mental, physical, financial and emotional well-being. If I take some of these lessons to heart, this challenge will make me more independent and confident in my doings, give me a more versatile skill set, impart clarity and certainty to my beliefs, and make my life just plain simpler.

This, then, is Day 1: Define Your Core Values.

I've been messing around on AoM for some time and they have a plethora of useful, timely, relevant, well-written and pithy articles. I agree with their judgment that manliness is a lost art, and much effort should be put into bringing it back. I've actually attempted a few of the items on this list already (and some of them I've already done), but not this one.

The main idea behind this challenge, as AoM states, is simple:

When I look at photos of men from my grandfather’s and even my dad’s generation, I can see a sense of purpose in the eyes of those men. Yet when I look at men today, I often don’t sense that kind of steely focus. Instead, I see dudes who are just sort of drifting along whichever way life pulls them. 

I’ve heard a lot of men my age complain of a sense of shiftlessness. They don’t have the drive, purpose, and ambition that our forebears had, and they feel adrift.

And this isn’t some sort of cranky old man observation about “kids these days.” Several books and articles by sociologists back up these observations.

There are numerous factors why men are just sort of drifting by today. Changes in the economy and societal shifts in regards to gender are definitely two major factors. But, let’s be honest. There’s not much a man, let alone a man stuck in neutral, can do about these things. So, today we’re going to focus on something that we all have the power to control: our core values.

I used to be a drifter. I was indecisive, dissolute, hedonistic, and lazy. I was just sort of coasting along all through my early twenties. I wanted to travel, I wanted to write, I wanted to fly, but I didn't have the drive to accomplish these things, or even a clear idea of how or when I would do it.

Today, I've learned better. I'm still indecisive, dissolute, hedonistic, and lazy, but now I actually care enough to do something about it.

I followed the directions outlined in the article and I came up with some ideas for core values, scribbling them down in one of the trusty notebooks scattered about my apartment. I'm putting them up here because I need to have accountability. I would like you, dear readers, to call me on anything I've put down which is weak or vague or unworthy. Censor me, if you will. Cherish the opportunity, for it shan't come again.

Without further ado, reproduced here for your consideration, are my core values: 

     1. CONFIDENCE. The lack of this has plagued me my whole life. It's kept me from leaping at opportunities that I would have cherished: submitting short stories and travel articles for publication, dancing with pretty girls, shouldering new responsibilities at work, acting in school plays, volunteering at magic shows and carnivals, and taking helicopter rides, to name a few. (That is correct: at the age of six I chickened out on riding in a helicopter. Me, the future pilot.) Confidence is hard work, but it's infinitely rewarding. I learned that when I got my pilot's license. When I first started flying, I was deathly afraid of screwing up and crashing. Overcoming that fear and becoming a more proficient flier made me more confident man. I'll never forget that feeling of triumph. Nowadays, even if I'm not sure I can do something, I give it a shot anyway. When I'm afraid of something, I have to challenge it. I have the confidence to pursue my goals, voice my opinions, and stand against the liars and fools. 

     2. HUMOR. An odd one, perhaps, but this has been a core value of mine ever since I was a kid. It's how I got through high school. Making people laugh was the only way I knew to get noticed, to be remembered, to be somebody. Subsequently I discovered just how genuinely good it felt to make people laugh or just crack a smile. Humor puts people at ease, smooths over conflicts, breaks the ice, and brightens a dark day. It's been my constant companion, even if I don't do it right all the time. 

     3. INTEGRITY. This is where I'm the most deficient. I am the most dissolute bugger ever. For the past five years I've promised myself that this year, I'll get in shape. Every year I continue to sit around on my duff and eat horrendous food. My natural inclination toward hedonism and Epicureanism have undermined my attempts to be healthy and get in shape. It's not just the physical arena that needs improvement, though. I often promise people (or myself) that I'll be more assiduous in my habits or more careful about my words, and then I'll turn around and commit the same old sins. I can be ill-tempered, impatient, selfish, hypocritical, immoderate, lazy, excoriating, insulting or just downright cruel at times. No more. A true man, in my opinion, does what he says he's going to do. And he only says he's going to do it once: he doesn't keep making the same promises over and over. Less talk, more action — consistent action. That shall be a clearly-defined value of mine from hereon out. There's nothing more satisfying than saying something and meaning it — and then living by it.

   

     4. GROWTH. Perhaps the most general of my values. There's a lot that falls under the label of "growth." It encapsulates all of the above values, for starters. I want to become more confident, more humorous and more consistent. Beyond that, though, I want to be smarter. I want to learn about the stuff I don't know about, fill in the gaps in my brain, continue by never-ending quest for knowledge. More importantly, I want to be wiser. At 27, I've experienced a few of life's lessons and learned them well; some of them I'm only just coming to know. Others surely await in the dim and unknown future. I want to be the kind of man that laughs at hardship and strives harder in adversity. I must learn to be kind to the unkind, forgiving to the unworthy, and temperate in all things. I want to be stronger (mentally and physically), funnier, kinder, and more discreet. I want to sharpen my skills, hone my mind, sculpt my personality, reflect upon life itself. I believe in being true to myself, my home, my relatives, my friends, my loved ones and my upbringing — to have that integrity I mentioned above. But I believe in the journey also. I hope I never stop learning to write, to fly, to be a human being.  

 

     5. LEGACY. Values are not goals. They are not something you strive for, nor boxes to be filled in, nor items to be scratched off a list. They are values: adamantine beliefs which I hold and cleave to. And I believe, firmly, that I have a job to do here. There's some karma that controls my destiny. I have a purpose to fulfill (and fulfilling it will be very fulfilling). That purpose, dear reader, is not my personal contentment. I used to believe it was, but I've come to know better. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said (emphasis mine), "The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well." There you are: my job is not to be happy, but to be a useful man, not a waste of space. I hold Emerson's words in my mind every day. The purpose of my life is to live well and make a difference. What difference? Will I reinvent the wheel? Cure cancer? Bring world peace? Champion a new age? Well, no. Probably not. I don't want to, either. I'll leave that to the dreamers and the eggheads. I'm just a humble geek and inveterate hack writer. All I want to do is write a bunch of books that make people laugh, cry, smile, scratch their heads, and wonder about the true nature of humanity and the Universe we live in. That's all. If some post-human race from the year 10,000,000 A.D. finds one of my sci-fi novels in a time capsule, translates the barbaric chicken scratch on its wood-pulp pages, and is somewhat amused by the comradeship and high adventure within...then my time on Earth wasn't wasted. 

That's it. Five core values. They have been defined for your reading pleasure. AoM says you're not supposed to have more than five, and I concur. Five's a goodly amount. Any more and you start to forget what you stand for, and making correct choices becomes more difficult. It wasn't hard to think of these. I've been mulling them over for quite some time. Perhaps I've known them all along, and had to put words to them to understand them completely. I'm glad I did.

So there you have it, readers! The things I stand for. Are they satisfactory to you? Suitably explained and outlined? If so, then the ball is in your court. Don't accept any more of my pathetic excuses. If I say I can't do something, or make a poor choice, call me on it. Use my own values against me. Delineating them is only half the battle; living up to them is the other. I'm going to try to do that for the rest of this month...and beyond. Tune in tomorrow for Day 2.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

off to Japan!

You know, a measly month doesn't seem like adequate recompense for 18 long months overseas. I mean, Korea ain't the gulag. Far from it. (It's the lime, turkey, bourbon and Mexican food gulag, but that's it.) But I forgot how easy and comfortable it is to live in one's own country, and how much I missed my folks. Now I'm staring down another 18 months in the LTBMF gulag before I can get back to it all.

That being said...I accomplished a lot this month.

Reunion with my extended family at a lake resort in Iowa? Check.

Eating the hell out of my favorite foods, including fleisch salad sandwiches (my favorite food in the whole Universe)? Check.

Reminding my mum and dad what I look like? Check.

Visiting my old haunts, like Victoria Gardens and Barnes & Noble and Total Wine & More (where I picked up a nice bottle of Hendrick's gin, lovely stuff)? Check.

Driving a convertible under a gorgeous California sunset while wearing a Hawaiian shirt and listening to Led Zeppelin on the radio? Check.

Shooting every gun I own? Check. (Dad and I are going trapshooting tomorrow, so we'll get the shotgun knocked off the list. Leave no gun unfired, that's my motto.)

Flying? Well, no. I'm out of currency. But I did stop by the dinky little Apple Valley Airport and see how everybody was doing. Not much has changed. The same old planes are parked out on the flight line, the same grey heads are chatting in the flight school, and so forth. Somebody's 18-year-old son is a flight instructor now. Jeez.

The only things I haven't done, in fact, would be eating at my favorite burger joint (that's also happening tomorrow) and finding my novel notes. I located my Bowie knife, my binoculars and my violin, but I'll be danged if I can find my piles of notes. I must have hid them so well that even I can't find 'em. Oh well. The outlines and prewriting are easy to forsake—as Stephen King would say, they probably aren't worth a tin shit anyway—but there were some lyrical snippets of dialogue in there, plus a few meritorious vignettes. I guess I'll just have to wing it until I come back to the States for good and unpack all those boxes.

Well, this is it. We're down to the wire. I leave on Monday. I'll lose a day traveling west (go jump in a lake, Phileas Fogg) and arrive in Tokyo on the 30th. I'll kick around town on the 31st—the Sumida River cruise, the Imperial Gardens—until Miss H and Miss J get in from Seoul in the afternoon. Then it's DISNEYLAND on the first of August. After H & J go home on the 2nd, I'll journey down through central and southern Japan in the shinkansen (bullet train), taking in Mount Fuji and Lake Biwa. I'll tour Kyoto for two days, petting monkeys and drooling over gold-plated buildings, then hop the train again for Kumamoto on the isle of Kyushu, spending the next 48 hours meditating in Reigando Cave and finding out who's buried in Miyamoto Musashi's tomb. Then it's to Fukuoka and the high-speed ferry to Busan, South Korea.

One of the other cool things about Kumamoto is that it's where Eiichiro Oda lives. He's the guy who writes and illustrates One Piece, my favorite manga/anime. It rather heavily influenced my magnum opus...

After that? For the month of August (school doesn't start up again until September), I was planning on finishing Novel #3, e-publishing Novel #2, and polishing Novel #1. Not to mention learning functional Korean. I really ought to be able to have a decent conversation by now instead of fumbling along like some chuckle-headed tourist.

There's also a humor site I'm writing regularly for now: Rabble Rouse the World. Check it out if you have the time. Ribald jests and laugh-tastic memes abound upon that literary pirate ship. Come aboard, mateys. Arrrrrrr.

I also intend to spend some of August finding all those charming Korean nooks and crannies that I haven't explored yet: Gangwon-do, for example, where the mountains and lakes and rocky beaches are. I just acquired a Canon EOS Rebel T3i, and after a bit of fiddling I'm sure I'll be a master photographer with it. So there ought to be gorgeous pictures of Japan, Korea, and environs pouring into this here blog come mid-August.

Stay tuned. You're in the front-row seat. You can't leave just when it's getting good!

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.

Yeouido Island in winter

I went for a walk today. Not my usual stroll around Jungang Park, oh no. This time I felt so swept up in the winter chill and the muted sunshine and the wiles of my current conquest (the first book of the Airborn series by Kenneth Oppel) that I just had to go all-out. I rode three subway trains and seventeen stops to Yeouido Island and the Han River Park.

This was swiped from The Trail of the Lion King, another Korean blog. I hope they don't mind.

Beautiful, ain't it? It's spectacular in summer, with its gurgling watercourses, green grass, and hordes of colorfully dressed and attractive citizens strolling up and down the sinuous paths.

But somehow it's most beautiful in winter. The grass is brown and the trees are leafless, but the Han River is its same trusty shade of blue-green, the orange sun hangs low in the southern sky, and the icy pink haze in the air makes everything look softer and more mellow.

It couldn't have been a nicer evening. The sun took ages to set. I sat on a bench, the bitter wind penetrating my hood, collar and scarf. I read until it was too cold to sit still, and then I got up and headed west down the southern bank. Even despite the weather, a plethora of people were still out and about. Tiny children swathed in puffy parkas, shepherded by indulgent mothers; teenage girls and their younger siblings on tandem bicycles; grinning, laughing young men on mountain bikes; and scores of young couples walking arm-in-arm. The watercourses were cold and dry in deference to the weather, but the coffeehouses were in full operation. Dozens of young Koreans sipped mochas and cappuccinos and watched the world go by outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Most astounding, however, were the kites. As I passed under the Mapo Bridge and emerged into the fading sunshine on the other side, I spotted several kites in the distance, on a flat grassy area about the size of a junior-league soccer pitch. There were four kites, each of them sickle-shaped like a B-2 Spirit. They moved with such precise coordination that at first I thought they must all be connected by a running line, and controlled by a single person. I was quite wrong. As I approached nearer, the formation of kites abruptly broke up. They wheeled and dove and mingled and looped like courting birds of prey. I was utterly mesmerized. I could not tear my eyes away from the spectacle, which was as riveting as the most thrilling airshow. I stumbled over uneven paving-stones, unmindful of where I placed my feet. As I finally drew within visual range, I discerned four middle-aged Korean men standing on the grassy sward, each of them with a sophisticated set of rings and control lines in their hands. These they were twisting and hurling about as though they were playing a game of Wii tennis. I wondered how many hours of practice it had taken this four-man team to achieve such a degree of surgical preciseness in their maneuvers. They were so skillful that they could manipulate their foils into perfect nose-up landings.

For some minutes I remained rooted to the spot, watching the aerial display. This area, between the Mapo and Seogang Bridges, must have been popular with kite-flyers, for the turf was cheekily populated with bona fide airport signage, delineating runways and taxiways and turn-outs. Grinning within and without, and thinking that the Owl City tunes playing on my iPod were a perfect complement to this idyllic scene, I strode back to Mapo Bridge and walked out upon it. My purpose in visiting Yeouido Island was twofold. I intended to read a book on a bench overlooking the river, and to locate Bamseom Island. This island, or rather the pair of them, were uninhabited piles of tree-lined sand in the middle of the Han River between Mapo and Yeouido. They played an integral part in my NaNoWriMo project. They were plainly visible from shore, but I got a much better view from the top of the bridge. Not only that, but there was quite clearly a sizable sandbar in the lee of the easternmost island: the very spot where, in my book, the steamship strands herself during the climax of the action. I rejoiced at the natural counterpart to my literary imagining. Grinning like a maniac, making the young Korean couples give me a second nervous glance, I strode back across the bridge and back down to the waiting subway, having accomplished both my objectives.

But there was more. Inadvertently I had accomplished a third objective. Lately I've been feeling dissatisfied with my lot. Even though I'm living in a foreign country, I've been feeling bored and left behind. It seems my friends are all off gallivanting around the world or completing their secondary education and acquiring titles and careers. As usual, I can't help comparing myself to my peers, and inevitably viewing myself in a negative light. This little trip to Han River Park changed all that. As I stood at the rail, hearing the water slop over the jagged rocks below, watching the buses chug back and forth across Mapo Bridge and feeling the icy wind brush my unprotected ears, I realized that I have a lot to be grateful for. I have a good apartment, a steady girl, a couple of completed manuscripts on my hard drive, a stable career, a decent paycheck, a half-full bottle of Cutty Sark...and most importantly, an endlessly intriguing and entertaining bailiwick. I found myself giving thanks that I was an expatriate, and that my country of residence was South Korea. However much I badmouth this place in public and private, I am truly glad to be here in East Asia, and especially the Korean peninsula. The food's great, the people are curious and open, and the scenery might seem bland but hides a million surprises.

Thanksgiving may be over, but hey...it's never too late to be grateful.

'Cause what I've got is just enough.

                                                                                                        courtesy of Wikipedia Commons

keeping it tight

Maybe I'm not cut out to be a travel writer. A 21st-century travel writer, anyway.

I've been doing some thinking, and I believe I've figured out why I don't have a career yet.

It's not that I can't write. I'm a first-rate wordsmith.

It's not that I can't find anything to write about. There's boatloads of material out there. I'm sitting right in the middle of some of the best travel material (especially budget travel material) an aspiring travel writer could ask for.

It's not that I can't get published. I've done that three or four times already. My work's graced the pages of Real Travel Adventures, In the Know Traveler, and The Expeditioner. I've even been featured in one of the latter's printed compilations.

But therein lies the problem. I've been calling myself a travel writer for a few years now, and I've only been published a couple of times. That means one thing, and one thing only: I'm lazy. Apparently, writing is a full-time job. You must constantly send out proposals and pitches. Keep lines in the water and irons in the fire. (Actually writing every day is another plus.) Try as I might, I just can't seem to keep those kind of habits up for very long.

Here, check out this questionnaire I found on the Travel Writer's Exchange. This says it all, really. I'm not so bad off...I did answer mostly C's. Long story short, though there's only a few things I'm lacking, they're enough to impede my nascent career something righteous.

Being a lazy bastard isn't even my main problem, though. There's something else. It only recently made itself apparent, and it took me a while to understand it.

I'm long-winded.

Yep, since the future of travel writing lies online, the new line of thinking is that travel writing must be short, sweet and to-the-point. Actually, that's the way it's always been. You shouldn't go off on digressions, or give in to the temptation to fill your writing with florid prose. You should stick to the task at hand, which is to tell your reader about your subject and back it up with a few lurid details. But lately, it seems, there's been added emphasis on the whole brevity thing.

Brevity is, and shall remain, a difficult challenge for me. I'm a wordy bugger. Maybe that's the reason I started this blog in the first place. And why the posts are so freaking long, when all the best blogging advice says you should keep 'em tight. This is the only place I can get my meandering, garrulous, poetical, literary jollies out. And you know what's even funnier than that? Somehow I've gotten away with being long-winded even in my published works—you'll notice that all those articles I've linked to are rather lengthy.

But no more, I'm sensing: I'm going to have to toe the line from here on out. Write well, write briefly, and start shotgunning those proposals and pitches all over the place.

Well, no time like the present. I've been in Korea for almost a month now and I'm settled into my apartment, even if I don't have my green card or my first paycheck in hand yet. Time to start my career. First thing to do, I reckon, is survey the list of newspapers that the TWE recommends and send out some pitches. I bet they'd be interested in the balloon launch I participated in last weekend. Or the kind of fun you can have in Hongdae on a Saturday night. I just have to remember to keep it tight, short, sweet and simple. I shall adjust to this new future the way I've adjusted to everything else: maybe a tad reluctantly, but with aplomb, dignity and competence.

Wish me luck.

trumpeting from the rooftops

I am pleased to announce that I have been accepted for an English teaching position at the reputable Avalon hagwon in Bucheon, Seoul area, South Korea. I leave for East Asia on February 10. My prayers have been answered. Further bulletins as events warrant.

Bradbury's revenge

Miss H gave me a newspaper clipping a couple of days ago. It contained an Associated Press feature on Ray Bradbury, the famed science fiction author (now a nonagenarian), and his seminal work, Fahrenheit 451. Bradbury, an outspoken foe of e-books, e-readers and the like, has finally consented to allow his magnum opus to be made available to readers in electronic form. It went on sale last week for $9.99, and has sold a great many copies.

The sweet irony of the situation is that Bradbury predicted the existence of the e-reader, or at least the technological trends which gave birth to it. In Fahrenheit 451, humans have become so distracted with newfangled mass media that books have declined sharply in popularity, to the point of being outlawed. The first part of his prediction, at least, has come true. Thanks to the Internet, music sharing, live-streaming video, and all the other myriad forms of media, humans are subject to a constant stream of information and entertainment every waking hour.

Some might consider Bradbury's surrender to the technological tidal wave a form of betrayal. There was a time when I would have reviled the man for his decision. I once loathed technology. I staunchly disavowed Facebook, iTunes, YouTube, Wikipedia, Skype, and cellular phones. Now, I use all of these digital creations on a regular or semi-regular basis. (E-readers are still right out, however.)

I resisted the urge to call myself a traitor—at first. I needed a cell phone. I got my first cellular device in college, when I had to drive for three days to get to school. What if I broke down in the middle of Nowhere, North Dakota?

Then the computer came, and that was good: with it, I could satisfy my epistemological quests on Wikipedia, get my schoolwork done, and pen short stories on the side.

Facebook was next. Bah, humbug, I snorted. I have a cell phone. Why should I get a Facebook account? Just call me, peeps. No such luck. After some persuasive rhetoric from my friends and a 30-day free trial, I was a die-hard Facebooker.

Then came iTunes. It was insidious. It sidled into my life as though it had been invited...which, in a way, it had. I was sick of trying to stuff a Walkman and two or three CDs into my coat pockets. My folks got me an iPod Nano for Christmas one year, and I downloaded iTunes the very same day...never once looked back. Me, an iTunes user! And me, the inveterate Beatles fan, the Led Zeppelin lover, Pink Floyd's top admirer! Do you know that Flo Rida is on my iTunes  playlist? FLO RIDA!

I upgraded from a regular run-of-the-mill cell phone to a smart phone earlier this fall (a 'Droid 3), and it promptly ate my life. Between texting, Facebook, Words With Friends, Fruit Ninja, and Angry Birds (damn you to Hell, Angry Birds!), hardly five minutes go by when I don't pull my phone out of my pocket on some pretense and start fiddling with it.

So it goes. Matters have worsened exponentially over the years, but at such a gradual pace that I hardly realized what was happening. Perhaps I didn't want to realize it. I was entranced by the Digital Seductress, her guile, her temptations, her tender charms. I failed to see the Electronic Dragon chained by her side, whose icy breath froze my ambitions, hobbies, and habits. I hardly ever find time for those long, introspective walks anymore (and when I do, the iPod comes with me). I used to check Facebook once every day or two; now I log on at least twice an hour. That huge stack of books in the corner hasn't gotten much shorter in the last few months; but around 300 Wikipedia pages have mysteriously shown up in my browsing history. My novel, going on three years old, still hasn't been edited fully. And here I sit, a twenty-something with the world at his fingertips, flat broke, living in his parents' house, all ambition and no salt.

Man, thank goodness for last-minute revelations.

I finally caught myself. I've realized what a hole I've sunk into. The digital age...what a honeypot! And I fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Well, no more. Tomorrow begins the new era. You are my witness. As I live and breathe, I am taking an e-hiatus. Thirty days, no more, no less. My Android is going on the nightstand; I shall not answer a text, play a game, check Facebook or read the news on it for thirty days. I shall answer phone calls and plug it into the charger, but otherwise I shall not touch it. The television (also neglected now that I have Mr. Internet) is getting switched off. I shall indulge myself in one hour's pleasure every Monday night when Terra Nova comes on. The computer shall be used for researching factual information for my novel, editing said novel, job-hunting and checking e-mail, nothing more. Facebook is officially forsaken. Video and computer games are verboten. Music shall be severely restricted; I've been overdosing on it lately and can feel a full-scale burnout coming on. I won't sit there for hours on my laptop, with my ears beneath my headphones and my glazed eyes on the screen. Those days are over. The ship has sailed. It's time to get back to basics.

I shall use this blissful respite from the e-demons to get some constructive work done: namely, finding a job, revising my manuscript (and other works-in-progress), devoting time to my relationship with Miss H, and ultimately figuring out what I want to do with my life. I hope that the perspective I gain during this hiatus will lend clarity and illumination to my next steps in life, and break the destructive cycle of stagnation and wastefulness which my headlong absorption in electronic media has begotten me.

One important exception to the rule will be, obviously, this blog.

I'm going to tell you, day-by-day, how this e-hiatus (as I shall hereafter refer to it) is going. It's been a long time coming, and I sense the chains will be hard to break. Hell, I know they will be. Earlier this evening I caught myself compulsively taking my phone out of my pocket for no reason at all, even after I'd promised to give up Angry Birds. I have it bad, folks. This upcoming interlude will likely resemble withdrawal rather than vacation time. Nonetheless, as always, I will bring you the unvarnished truth, as ugly as it may be. Stay tight, be true, and hang in there.

And for Pete's sake, wish me luck.

Day One begins tomorrow.

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!