Empathy's Beautiful Sorrow

After a good birthday, my mind turns to Depth Perception. It's strange that I find such beauty, such peace, in something so tumultuous, so dark. But then I recall the story's intent, and I understand. It is a novelization of how I write, of my worldview, of the beautiful reaching out from the black. Solace in the midst of chaos. The dark pierced by a foreign, impossible light. That lone star in the sky at night. The Distant Bright.

And so I find a strange beauty in words I wrote last week:

"The deafening cacophony continues to rage silently around us."

And it's true. It is the eye of the storm. It is an immeasurable peace and incomprehensible strength in the midst of such horror that I could not previously conceive.

She has been wounded, overwhelmingly, inconceivably, irrevocably. I rage, and I weep, and I can only hope I can provide some light to combat all the dark seeking to consume.

This other, she has lost a loved one, and I can do nothing but hurt for her from afar.

Another, lost to her own demons.

It breaks my heart to think of these things, but I wouldn't have it any other way, because I know my heart is in the right place. If I could get by without feeling any of this pain, it would be from a callous I do not ever desire. Empathy is a difficult gift, its strength found in weakness. I ache, but I welcome it, and find my day not reduced in the slightest from such pain. And I praise the Lord that I am capable of loving so much that I would weep for others, when it would be so much easier to turn away. It's strange, this welcomed pain, this desire to endure for another. I can not fully comprehend it, but it is overwhelming, and I can not even begin to deny it.

It comes time to listen, to support, to offer my strength, and I find I have more than I even imagined. I can endure so much, but only when it is for another. A strength not my own. I find myself calmed, my own problems gone, and I can offer so much more than I had prior. A peace overcomes me in those dark moments such that I don't understand. I hold them, and love them, and in the midst of everything being so wrong, it feels right. I hold them. It is just the other and I.

And the deafening cacophony continues to rage silently around us.

And it's eerily beautiful.

Expansion

I don't know if anyone reads this independent of my posting links on other social media, but if you do, then I can easily explain the lack of posts: My new blog! But wait, Joel, this one is relatively new already; why start a new one? Well, the answer is simple, friend! I have become quite focused on this whole Plight of the Introvert idea, and it has inadvertently taken over The Luminous End. So now, I broke it off to be its own thing! That's right, you can now go read Plight of the Introvert as its own ongoing blog. I will still post here sporadically, but it will be more random musings as I originally intended. At least, until some other idea begins to take over...

Plight of the Introvert: Introverted and Inferior(?)

American culture can not handle an introvert. It is far too often I have heard the word “anti-social” flung around when someone would rather stay home than do too much outside the house. I myself have been subject to a number of “concerned” people that have worried about me when I never wanted to go to parties or withdrew after doing too much socially. It was (and to a lesser degree, still is) quite common for me to not want to go out. I lock myself in my room quite frequently, writing, reading, studying, playing video games, working on various projects, doing puzzles, and just generally occupying myself. But this isn't seen as “normal,” or how a person “should” be, and it's clear by the way people treat it that it is misunderstood. I can't tell you how many times I have had someone say, directly to me, some variation of the following:

“You can work on that.”

“You can learn to overcome it.”

“That can be fixed.”

That can be fixed. Like I'm broken. Like being an introvert is being an incomplete human, and I have to work at becoming a “whole” extrovert.

That hurts like hell.

The truth is, this is an integral part of who I am. It's part of my personality, but even deeper, it's part of how I function. Introverts in general process things differently than extroverts. We're wired in such a way that actually requires seclusion in a manner that extroverts often can't grasp. And more than just the way we think, it's actually brain chemistry, so try as we might, it's not something we will ever “learn to overcome.”

The thing of it is, it's not as if extroverts are dominant and introverts make up a small portion of society; from what I have read, introversion is just as common as extroversion. But we worship extroverts, making them an ideal, thus making extroversion ideal. The celebrities, the athletes, the rock stars, the people who are always the center of attention and love it. We admire these people and raise them up as some sort of image of perfection, completely overlooking the positive traits others have that prevent them from the spotlight.

Introverts in general are more inclined toward academic pursuits than extroverts. This isn't because they are smarter (although I have read that the people that have been classified as geniuses have been disproportionately introverts), but because they think differently (something I will go into more in a later post, probably my next one). Many of the greatest writers have been introverts. Einstein was an introvert. So was Mozart. These are people who spent inordinate amounts of time alone, holed up in their work spaces in seclusion, and we hail them as legends, yet shun the practices that made them such.

I think there are two main problems:

First, as I mentioned, we see successful people in the spotlight and idolize them, which inadvertently leads us to shunning that which isn't like them. Our society does not praise authors the way they do other celebrities (why aren't Stephen and Tabitha King known as the power writing couple Stevitha?). America does not laud mathematical and computer programming skills the way they do guitar prowess and singing (imagine how different our society would be if we did!). As long as the extroverted are the ones who get the majority of the attention– and they love the attention the way the introverted often do not, so I fear this will always be the case– then I feel extroversion will always be elevated as superior, or at least somehow preferable.

Second, the extroverts are louder. I do not mean that as an insult, but as a simple matter of fact. While the extrovert is more prone to speaking, the introvert is more inclined to listen, or at the least less inclined to talk as much. So as a whole, the extroverts say more, talk more, and thus are heard more, in a sense leaving the introverts in the dust. The internet has been changing this dynamic in a way nothing else could (for example, see this very blog), but away from technology, in a more direct setting, still the extroverts appear dominant. And why do the introverts get pushed aside? Because we do not interrupt as much, because we are less insistent, because we do not care to contribute to the incessant din that bombards us at every turn. By our very nature, introverts are less seen and less heard, and thus become relegated to some sort of inferior state of being by sheer virtue of being drowned out.

I do not know that any of this will ever be “fixed,” as it were, but I do think there can be significant improvement. At the very least, I think it would go a long way toward better understanding (and less hurt feelings) if everyone was made aware the differences between introverts and extroverts, and it was made known that both are equally natural, neither being in any way superior or preferable to the other.

Plight of the Introvert: Independent? Or weak?

I moved this weekend, hauling my massive library in countless boxes to my new place over several trips. I also brought some furniture and clothes. It was a lot of work, and while it wasn't incredibly difficult, it was time consuming. But doing so made me confront something about myself that I had been vaguely aware of, but had never fully realized.

I hate asking for help. I know that's fairly common, but I take it a step farther; I hate receiving help. I had several people offer to help me (Courtney, Diana/Jack, Uncle Shawn, my family, and more; thank you all), but I insisted on doing it myself. Part of it was knowing where I wanted to put things, sure, but for the most part, I had no good reason to decline help. I got a little assistance with the stuff I absolutely could not do on my own (thanks, Brent and Shane), but for the most part, I did the entire thing completely on my own. And I don't know why.

Usually, if something is possible for me to do alone, I will opt to do so. There are plenty of things that would go so much faster, and so much easier, if I have help (like, say, moving), but for some reason I refuse assistance. It's not even a conscious thing most of the time. I turned down help from everyone instinctually, knowing I could do it on my own; no need to inconvenience anyone else, regardless of the fact that they volunteered (and some virtually insisted). It know it wasn't pride, as I really don't care about accomplishing this on my own or anything like that. In fact, I think I would have enjoyed it more had I had help, not so much because it would have been easier (although it certainly would have), but because I would have had time with people I love. So why do I do it? Why do I refuse help when offered, and why can't I bring myself to ask for help when I need it?

I honestly don't know.

It's been frustrating me ever since I stopped and thought about it when I was nearly finished unloading my last trip. I could have had time with Courtney. I could have had time with Jack and Diana. With Uncle Shawn. Ryan Halverson. Jaemie and Ryan. My family. My church. I could have been connecting with people I love and care about, who mean a lot to me, and sharing an important part of my life with those who are already an important part of my life.

And I am crying writing this. I don't even know why. I didn't realize how hard this is.

It all leaves me with a thought: If I can't even understand myself, how can I ever claim to really know someone else? I don't mean that in a defeatist manner; I mean it to inspire, to motivate. Never make assumptions. Always seek to understand deeper. If I have such difficulty knowing even my own motivations, it is foolish to ever assume I know the motivations of another. Give the benefit of the doubt. Let my weakness inspire and inform how I treat others; make it a strength.

I feel like I am aware of a lot of my weaknesses, but don't have answers to most of them; causes, solutions, anything. But I know I am in a great place in that regard, because even if I don't have any answers, I could be far worse; I could be ignorant entirely.

Plight of the Introvert: Overgiving

I have a tendency, in certain situations, to give too much, to the point that I neglect myself. Inevitably I wind up overcompensating and pulling into myself.

I did this when I was a leader at the youth group. I agreed, even volunteered, to do more and more. I wound up being the first person there and the last person to leave quite often, and I was only the help. I agreed to do lock-ins with the kids when I really didn't want to (meaning pulling an all-nighter after working all day and then having to go to work on no sleep), but I never said a word about my preference. Eventually, I got burnt out, and had to quit in order to take care of myself. I went full bore, then suddenly did nothing.

I learned what it means to really love someone and committed myself fully to my relationship, to the point that I was sacrificing sleep, personal interests, and pretty much always put her needs and wants before my own. I didn't change who I was, but I neglected my own desires, as well as my own physical needs. I think my outlook was healthy (sacrificing something as minor as video games is nothing in comparison to the one you love), but I went overboard with it. And when that relationship ended, I found myself not wanting to do anything for anyone else; I just wanted to be selfish.

Fortunately, I was aware of what I was doing the second time. I was able to keep myself from indulging in the selfishness, and I only withdrew a fraction of what I might have. I am aware of this tendency, so I am learning to cope with it. I am also learning when and where I need to hold back from giving myself entirely to something. It is still difficult, as my natural inclination is to neglect myself, but I am taking steps to be better all around. I have people I can talk to, I am removing myself from certain scenarios where this is an issue, and I am trying to maintain a more level head on both sides of the equation (and doing well so far).

I have an idea where a lot of this comes from. It isn't so much a people-pleaser problem, but that does factor in to a small degree. It's an issue of learning a subtle truth: Selflessness does NOT mean a complete disregard for self. I know this intellectually; the trick is learning to live it.

Depth Perception: The Argument

The argument drifts away, as though my consciousness has split into two different realities. I continue to argue, to scream and yell, and that is most definitely me, but then I am also here, inconceivably calm, looking in with the curious interest of a child trying to make sense of a face he has never seen yet acts as familiar and affectionate as those he sees regularly. It is as though I suddenly possess two consciousnesses functioning in tandem, united but distinct, conplimentaey but in opposition, two different perspectives coexisting simultaneously yet both distinctly me.

The glowing crimson thread pulsates from my chest with every venomous utterance, a twisting, constricting glow that emanates with an intensity which ought to be blinding. And with every burst of light, her end of the thread shifts from a dull blue to ever increasingly tainted with its own crimson, laced with the deepest, bleakest, brightest blends of black.

And then I hate myself with every fiber of my being. Even as that angry-me continues yelling, the calm-me becomes consumed with disgust and begins raging at the other. Yet here I think about both rationally, as if I were some third self looking on objectively. It's completely nonsensical, and yet a deep, intuitive comprehension nullifies all uncertainty. It's absurd, and it's insane, and it brings a sad realization:

It was getting pissed off at my ex-wife and losing my shit that saved me.

Writing 4: Making Weaknesses Into Strengths (Part 1?)

I have too many ideas, but I am starting to see that as a good thing.

In the past, constantly having new ideas meant either ignoring the new ideas in order to stick with what I was already writing, or else constantly shifting to new stories and never finishing anything. Neither is even remotely ideal.

Everything is about to change.

I met an artist with a strong desire to work in the comics industry, someone whose interests appear to align quite well with my own. We are working towards a project together, and in figuring out what we are going to do, the idea floodgates burst open wide.

Only now, it's a good thing. A great thing, even!

While I still have significant limitations (not the least of which that we haven't actually started work on our project yet), the story and world we will be working with grants me the freedom to so whatever I want. I have enough ideas to sustain this project for 50+ issues, and that is only with stuff I have in my mind at this moment; who knows where we will be a year from now.

I don't want to get too ambitious before leaving the gate, but the very things that have made writing difficult for me could prove to be great strengths in this medium.

This constant influx of ideas can keep this going indefinitely.

My inability to limit myself to small stories (a single idea can easily turn into a trilogy of novels and more if I don't actively battle to keep it small) can only be a good thing when creating an entire universe in which to play.

My frequently shifting focus can help keep the stories fresh, pushing the narrative in different directions and making for a diverse world.

To say I am excited and eager to get started is an understatement; I just need to not get ahead of myself in my enthusiasm.

Love Kills

(Disclaimer: Please do not take this- particularly the end- too literally and needlessly worry about me. This is partly how I process difficult emotions. I wrote what I wrote in keeping with the metaphor, and because the strength of the words conveys the difficulty of what I am wrestling with. I am okay, and will be)

They see it as some sort of dream; fairytale, fantastic, unforgettable. Every moment can defy the laws of physics, every problem miraculously surmountable. This ridiculous delusion only serves to heighten the terror of the truth...
Love kills.
It has been said that love is a hell of a drug, and they are sure as hell right about that. It will leave you strung out in desperation, a sad shell of your former self.
And you will love it.
For as much as love tears you apart, it strengthens you in that very same instant.
"I am nothing without her," but "I am everything with her."
"I would do anything for her," and then, "I will do anything for her."
It is the epitome of strength, and the totality of weakness. It is man at his greatest and at his worst.
Love forever fulfilled, and love unrequited.
"'tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all," but oh, "ignorance is bliss."
True love never ends, even if unreciprocated. What torment, what agony, to ever be thrust headlong into the heart of willing sacrifice and forge your all into anything-but-self only to be bound by the harshest of limitations: complete and utter absence of receipt.
True love can not be revoked, for that is the nature of love; it gives no thought to self even in the face of unbearable pain. Even if that love ever returns void, still it will persist, on into perpetuity.
Love is pain, willingly.
Love is agony, gladly.
Love kills, and I am not afraid to die. But sometimes... I am afraid to live.

Writing Styles 3: A Picture Replaces a Thousand Words

Old comics suck.

Well, okay, they don't suck, but they can be very difficult to read and enjoy.

The early days of comics- from the original Golden Age through to the renaissance of the Silver Age- introduced a wealth of new ideas (see: superheroes) and allowed imaginations to run wild in a manner which I believe they were never permitted before. But for all the originality and creativity, these were the early days of the medium, incorporating many limitations and unnecessary  stylistic methods that both show their age now, as well as create difficulties for the average reader to simply enjoy.

Comics have grown drastically in the 100-odd years they have been around, and unexpectedly so. But even more than printing methods and artistic improvements, I find myself affected by the growth of the writing. I have tried to read some older comics- usually books that are considered classic storylines- and could not get through them due to the writing presentation.

Just as I have difficulty with novels being overly descriptive (I'm looking at you, Tolkien!), so too can comics provide far too many words to describe something. This was far more common in the old days (though it can still happen in some modern books), but the difference between my frustration with this in prose and my disdain for it comics is that it is completely unnecessary in a visual medium.

I was reading an old Superman comic, and it felt like the author was writing a novel and simply put pictures to his words. Superman punched the bad guy, and a caption read, "Superman let loose with a strong right hook!" This is completely unnecessary, redundant at best, as you can already see it happening. A comic should rely on the images to tell as much of the story as the words. Actually, the artwork should do more of the telling, as you can tell a compelling story in visual formats without ever utilizing narration or dialogue.

The wrong way to have Superman use heat vision...

... and the right way.

Likewise, the wrong way to smash through a wall...

... and the right way to smash through a wall.
(Although I bet you didn't know that was what he was doing until you read this caption)

Older comics were notorious for over-explaining. It is forgivable, as the medium was new and developing, but just because I can forgive it does not mean I can easily enjoy it.

Plight of the Introvert 3: The Bottled Life

[A companion piece to Plight of the Introvert 2 (PotI 2)]

I have always had a tendency to bottle my emotions. I am quite sensitive, so many things can move me to tears, but stress and overwhelming difficulties tend to get shut out rather than processed or dealt with properly.

My natural tendency with darker emotions is to ignore them; if I don't let myself feel them, then I don't really have those feelings, right? How can you feel something you don't let yourself feel? The obvious answer is that you can't.

Growing up, I had a misconstrued perspective of being a Christian that suggested a good Christian has no problems, has everything together, has all the answers. So what was I to do when I felt depressed or had some strong negative feelings? Push them down, ignore them, of course!

Everything would build and build until I had a breakdown, crying uncontrollably and feeling miserable and not even knowing why. My bottle could only hold so much, and when I couldn't take it anymore, I would burst. But with everything that caused the pain in the past, it was harder to deal with, and generally almost impossible to identify.

I have since learned how ridiculous this is, especially as a Christian. I now see it for what it is; it's like stepping on a nail, and instead of removing it, you put a bandaid over it. It may stop the immediate bleeding, the immediate problem, but it is going to get infected and be far worse than it ever was to begin with. It is going to haunt you later on.

This was a significant struggle until only a couple years ago. I figured out how to deal with this the majority of the time, and that was by talking to Terra about stuff when it first arose, and going in depth with her whenever I was able.

Then our relationship ended. A couple months passed, and suddenly I found myself overwhelmed and not knowing why. I was about to break. I suddenly realized that I had been bottling and wasn't even aware of it; my solution to bottling was no longer a part of my life, so I returned to old habits without realizing I was doing so.

As I mentioned in PotI 2, there are only a few people with whom I am truly able to be vulnerable. Fortunately, in this instance I was able to take a trip with a trusted friend to the beach and clear my head, let everything out, and empty my bottle. I honestly don't know how I would have proceeded without her, if I could have done so in a healthy manner. Talking with her let me let it go, but most importantly, it reminded me I didn't have to do it alone. I am grateful to have a friend with whom I can be vulnerable and who will endure my disjointed blubbering.

Still, that inner circle isn't always available (as if they actually had their own lives or something), and I often am not aware I am bottling. It is something I will probably have to deal with the rest of my life to one degree or another. Just because I am unafraid to cry openly does not mean I wear my heart on my sleeve; in fact, I (inadvertently) hide far more than I show. I often struggle with making myself talk; that day I went to the beach, I had something I needed to get out and it took me over half an hour to finally say, and I don't even know why (I had already talked about more personal things).

I am trying to figure out how to deal with this in a healthy manner, particularly in the context of being single. Some things I have tried haven't worked. Some are helping. It'll probably be a while before I have a good idea of what really works for me, but for now, just being aware of it has helped tremendously. Having people that love me and with whom I can be vulnerable doesn't hurt much either.

Plight of the Introvert 2: Can't Trust Myself to Trust

It isn't easy for me to trust people, not in a deep, meaningful manner. It is always difficult for me to really open up. For good or ill, this isn't necessarily obvious to most people, as I am also fairly open and sensitive, unafraid of crying or being emotional in front of others. That might seem like I am just confused - and believe me, it can be confusing- but it is a situation with deep roots and is anything but simple.

I don't want to have anything to hide. I am not afraid of being known; my fears, my failures, my doubts. If it were simply an issue of sharing my struggles, then there would be no issue.

I have been hurt, had my trust betrayed, in significant ways by some of the people I trusted the most. I am naturally slow in trusting people, but after experiencing so much hurt, it often feels impossible to feel comfortable opening up with almost anyone.

Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of people I know I can trust. But there is a significant difference between intellectual trust and emotional trust; I can know fully that I can trust someone and still be unable to truly open up. And try as I might, it's just not something I can force, and I often can't identify why I can't open up with certain people.

In some cases, I can be completely honest, baring everything, and have it be unfruitful. I could pour my heart out and tell you everything on my mind, but my emotional walls will remain up and I won't feel like I really got anything off my chest. And again, I can't identify what makes those few that I can trust different from everyone else.

I am not sure how to break through these walls. I try to be honest and open, and that does help to a degree, but it doesn't break past that invisible barrier. For now, I have to stick to those select few and hope they are available when I need them, because I am honestly at a loss what to do when they aren't. 

For those that think you might not be one of that small group, don't feel bad; it is more about me than anything else. There are plenty I should be able to trust, but for whatever reason I remain closed off even when baring my soul to them.

For those I can trust (you should know who you are)... Or more accurately, for those with whom I can be truly vulnerable... Thank you. Thank you.

Writing Styles and How They Plague Me, Part 2 –Am I Reading a Story, or Blueprints?

Writing style seem to reflect how the writer views the world about as much as the content itself. I tend to focus on characters and do very little describing of how things appear, and when I do offer descriptions, I tend to more focus on how it feels (ie, adjectives like wispy, dark, suspicious, tall, agitated, demure) than on more concrete details (blond, rectangular, steel, 6 feet). I tend to only include concrete details when I feel it is important or pertinent to what I am attempting to convey. For me, atmosphere matters far more than the specifics; angry and intimidating matters to me when describing someone, not what kind of haircut they have or what color eyes. I don't think about the world in a visual sense, and when I am captured by something enough to want to take a picture of it or describe it, it's always about how it feels.

Then you have writers that are the opposite of my own style, authors like J.R.R. Tolkien and Neal Stephenson. These authors are so descriptive you can practically see what they are visualizing, and everyone should have the same basic image because they provide so much detail. These writers are clearly visual, and pay close attention to detail. They can tell you about a place and when you see it, you know it is what they were describing because everything is exactly as they said it was.

I wouldn't begin to question the talent of these more detail-oriented authors, as they are clearly masters of their craft. I respect them immensely. Yet I take issue with the way they write, not because it is particularly problematic, but because it is difficult to read. Yes, Lord of the Rings is difficult to read, specifically because there is so much detail.

Nothing takes me out of a story more than having to stop and see a building described in excruciating detail. I don't want to know every aspect of a building; I want to understand its significance and then continue with the story. Too often I read books where the author provides so much detail that I lose interest, virtually forgetting what was happening in the story. I can be extremely interested in the story, but give up on the book for this very reason. Neal Stephenson is a prime example of this; I want to read his novel Anathem, but I have difficulty getting through it due to his incessant need to get way too specific. Here is an example, one short paragraph taken from early in Anathem:

The Praesidium stood on four pillars and for most of its height was square in cross-section. Not far above the dials, however, the corners of the square floor-plan were cleaved off, making it into an octagon, and not far above that, the octagon became a sixteen-sided polygon, and above that it became round. The roof of the Praesidium was a disk, or rather a lens, as it bulged up slightly in the middle to shed rainwater. It supported the megaliths, domes, penthouses, and turrets of the starhenge, which drove, and was driven by, the same clock-works that ran the dials.

That was only the shortest paragraph in two pages of describing this one building. I don't care about how this structure appears anywhere near enough to read so much about it. Does this much detail matter to the story? Doubtful. Certainly there are people who appreciate this amount of detail, and I don't want to discredit this, but putting personal taste aside, I feel this breaks up the flow of the story far too much.

The way the building looks is not the story. The story is the character and the events, while the building is the setting. Sure, apply some description to the setting, but keep it limited so that it doesn't interrupt and overtake the narrative. Both Tolkien and Stephenson get caught up in the descriptions such that it derails the narrative, making it difficult to get through the book for many people.

I know I personally will likely never read Lord of the Rings again, if only because the descriptions can be so tedious. I am not alone in this. I hardly think I am better than these authors (or can even compare at this point), but I do feel I am more aware of what the average reader is interested in and can tolerate when it comes to narrative pacing in this regard. Hopefully that comes across in my writing, although I have to say, I am curious to find out what people will complain about after reading my work.

My Dichotomy

Let us sing. Let us sing!

I open my mouth but what comes out is not the prettiest thing
After all who am I to think that both salt water and fresh could come from this spring

I am the descendant of two sinners in love

I have seen both the profound and profane running through my veins
And it's no wonder I can't help but sing

I find my shame in the cheek that I kissed

The dead I buried, the wealth that I miss
I find my shame in the still abounding old man
In the water upon which I just can not seem to stand
I find my shame in every selfish thing I do

Lower us down. Lower us down!

In our beds through the roof to the ground
I tried to run the race but ran out of space and tripped over my own legs as I attempted it in my own strength

So lower us down. Lower us down!

From my high-top soapbox atop which I sit down here in the depths of this bottomless pit
And even in my pride behind which I hide I have to admit before all is said and done
I've got two spirits in the heart of one

I find my hope in a hole in the roof

In a Sycamore tree, in the hem of the Truth
I find my hope in words written in the sand
In Your wounded side and the holes in Your hands
Even in my shame, I find my hope in You!

Plight of the Introvert Part 1: To Talk or Not to Talk?

I don't think I have to tell anyone that I am a quiet person. It is only in small groups, or one-on-one, that I really talk much at all, and I think only a few could say that I am in any way talkative in their company with any frequency. Yet even though I prefer to listen, to allow others to drive the conversation, I find myself growing discontent when not provided ample opportunity to talk with someone on a consistent basis.

I have a friend with whom I have gone hiking on a consistent basis for a time, a kindred spirit with similar upbringing and outlook on many things. Various circumstances have kept us from hiking or spending any time together for a couple weeks, and I am realizing I miss it.

My writing partner, with whom I discuss writing and share my work, has been busy preparing for her wedding, thus preventing us from being able to meet up and write/nerd out/catch up. I miss it.

One of my closest friends, with whom I discuss music and literature and *gasp* actually enjoy talking politics with, lives too far away for easy or frequent visits. I always look forward to our time together, however far between it might be.

My sister and brother-in-law have a 10-month-old baby girl who has completely restructured their lives, as children usually do. I still get to see them, but baby schedules (among other things) have complicated and limited that possibility to a noticeable degree. (PS: I adore my niece, so no complaints there!)

I miss all of these, and I miss the conversations. Certainly a significant portion of this is missing the connections, the people themselves, but I recognize that readily and require no introspection to come to such a conclusion.

What I am noticing though is a desire to speak, to converse, that has always felt a bit contrary to my introverted nature (or else has not been a significant need I was aware of because the need was being met). Though when I think about it, it shouldn't seem as foreign as it seems.

These are all people I am comfortable with (though these are not all of the people I am comfortable with). I can talk freely with them. I can be open with them. Ultimately- and this is what I have recently been realizing- I can easily get out of my own head with them. They are an escape from the confines of my own mind. This is achieved primarily by talking with them (though sometimes just by being with them), and I get comfortable coming out of my shell enough to actually desire voicing my thoughts.

So for the loved ones I mentioned, as well as those I did not, thank you for the conversation. In the future, please encourage me to talk even more, if only by asking me questions or providing a topic to discuss (my greatest weakness in conversation). I may prefer to listen, but I am better recognizing that I need to be a part of the conversation as well.

The Light Between Excerpt

[This child frightens me. I do not know what to do. I can not bear the thought of giving birth, yet every time I have sought... other solutions... something has prevented me. I know now, I will have it. I have no choice. But that doesn't mean I have to keep it.]

[... does it?]

[The doctors say there is nothing wrong; no sign of injury of any kind, no damage whatsoever. The baby is healthy as can be, and so am I. But then why do I wake up feeling as though my womb is on fire, like flames will eat through my stomach at any moment? Why must I spend a portion of every day in such AGONY that I break, contemplating suicide when I never thought I would? I know this is not normal. I know he is not normal.]

[He. I know it is a he. I have not had a sonogram to learn the gender, but I don't have to; this baby is a he. And it isn't like so many parents who are convinced of the gender prior to testing; in this case, I know, as sure as I am that I am not going to live through this. I will die in childbirth, and I will never have a chance to warn anyone about him, and it is a boy. I know. I know.]

Writing Styles and How They Plague Me, Part 1

As a writer, I have paid close attention to the writing styles of each book I have read. I particularly noted the books I have enjoyed the most, as well as the books I have disliked the most, trying to learn from both. This has taught me a great deal, and in most cases I can readily identify a lot about a book just by reading a few paragraphs chosen at random.

While I believe this is a great strength in many ways (not least of which that I can apply it to my own writing), I am seeing a significant detriment as well. Namely, that I am growing to crave certain writing styles at various times.

I frequently have difficulty sticking with any one book for very long, no matter how good it is, just because I want something different. I can be deep into a fantasy novel and all of a sudden want something more sci-fi, completely destroying all will I had to read anything fantasy. And then when I get a little bit into a sci-fi book, BAM! I want a mystery novel. It's a perpetually shifting mood that can never seem to be satisfied and I can never get under control.

Now, though, I am realizing more and more that I not only have to contend with genre/type of story, but also writing style. I may want a fantasy novel, but do I want something more weighty like Game of Thrones? Lighter fare ala the Shannara series? Perhaps something with a more detailed bent like Lord of the Rings (okay, I never want THAT style, but it's good for an example)? Do I want Stephen King prose or Orson Scott Card? Those two are similar in styles in some ways, but quite different in others, giving me subtle distinctions that make all the difference in the world. My ever-shifting mood knows how I feel about each of these (and more), creating a constant need to find just the right book that fits not only genre, but writing style as well.

Tonight I found myself craving a weightier science fiction novel, like a Game of Thrones in space, or something along those lines. I don't really have any books (that I know of) that are like that. I could continue my journey through the Dune novels (so, so good!), but those are far deeper than I am wanting to go right now. Maybe weightier isn't even the right word. I think I want something that takes itself quite seriously while exploring these intricate worlds with an air of authority the way Martin seems to know his lands as if he has lived there his whole life. Where do I find this? There are certainly plenty of boos like that out there, but do I have anything like that in my collection?

I have settled for finally delving into Robert Heinlein's "Stranger in a Strange Land, which I have owned for years but never got around to trying. Maybe it will be what I am in the mood for, maybe not. Ultimately, it doesn't really matter, as I own't be able to get too far into it before having to go to sleep. And tomorrow night, my mood will almost certainly be entirely different...

Humble Beginnings

Though most blogs have specific purposes (theological discussion, fashion, warthog bathing), at this point I do not have any specific target in mind. In the past I have written theology in one blog, random thoughts in another, and made an attempt to make my life seem interesting in yet another.

I do not think I will pursue theological/philosophical thoughts here for the most part, as I have mostly received either vocal agreement or hostile criticism, with no real discourse; though I may on occasion posit certain timely thoughts and reflections, I will not be exploring such ideas here for want of avoiding unnecessary conflict.

Since I do not find my life in general particularly interesting (at least not enough to warrant anyone bothering to read about it on a consistent basis), and I do not have any particular topic on which to write, this leaves me with random thoughts. Certainly this is not enough to support a blog (or any real reader base), but it is good for my primary purpose in writing one, namely, consistent practice writing.

Stephen King writes at least 3 pages a day, regardless of whether it is good or not. I know I can not reach a pace like that while maintaining both a full-time job and a social life, but I can make a point of writing consistently. I may post tidbits of stories I am working on, or random thoughts when I can not focus enough on my fiction work.

So really it does not matter if anyone reads this at all. But should you have stumbled upon this somehow, I hope you can find something worthwhile here, be it entertainment, inspiration, or something to mock when you have nothing better to do with your time. And maybe, just maybe, I will do better than past blogs and post more than three or four times, and do so more than once a month.