It's the end of the world as we know it...

REM was ahead of their time with this hit. Two perspectives have crossed my path recently. One is the article entitled I am Adam Lanza's Psychiatrist. The other is my father. In the former the author pleads with us to reconsider our view on mental health, and essentially each other. In the latter, my father discusses how his was a generation which lives, and has acted, in fear.

It's true mental health needs a new look. Despite the fact the nation/world has softened it's view on the field to believe it is no longer quack medicine, the concept that this is as essential as medical care is not spreading quickly enough. Cases in point: Newtown, Colorado Springs, and the innumerable amount of daily suicides which go unmentioned on the daily news (It turns out violence against self far outnumbers violence against others, showing we are more considerate of others lives than our own. But save that for another blog. Got to keep you reading). The bottom line is, we have to stop thinking of ourselves as islands. The lines between our mental health and "it's not my problem" is blurred. We should change how think and act accordingly.

The conversation with my father allowed me new understanding. He never hid from me what it was like to grow up in the shadow of the Vietnam War. The enemy, like the above mentioned line, was somewhat blurry. Sure you were told it was oppression and violation of human rights which were the enemy. But the end result seemed different. Any hippie will tell you that. My father also talked about being raised by parents who'd lived through major wars, watching an unthinkable number of the world' population die violently and mercilessly. Fear of this ambiguous violent death must be paralyzing. It floats in your life, everyday, threatening. It's something I've never known. And when I look at my parent's generation, I begin to see why grandparents, politicians, and judges in that age group still seem to make decisions based on fear. Fear of the unknown beast: of manipulation, being made a fool of, or even death.

And I believe this is where the two perspectives cross. Tomorrow is 12/21. The Mayan calendar ends. Some say it will be the end of the world. Others say it is the end of one cosmic cycle so that the new may begin. I'd rather think its the latter, The world has already changed so much in the last 100 years. We can only narrowly point to some nations and say "they are the enemy." It becomes more obvious how the fate of our "enemies" ends up being the fate of us all. The enemy we wall agree on is terrorism (notice the base word terror). It is no longer a war between things, but a war within things. And it seems we learning how to even combat this. The only way a terrorist wins is through fear. The more articles I read, the less I see us demonizing and the more we seem to try and understand. We seem to be looking inside ourselves and conquering the fear to face a strange, changing world bravely. I'm hoping tomorrow is our big arrival as a species and a planet. I have really high hopes for us.

But just in case I'm kissing my wife and daughter extra today.

What are your thoughts? What are some nagging or even paralyzing fears you'd like to let go of tomorrow?

Got to get gut

Look down. No not that far. Look at the thing that uses your belly button as a hood ornament. If you're like me, the hood ornament hangs a little out there. Maybe it just looks like a flat decal. Or maybe you haven't seen your hood ornament in a while. In any form, that thing, your gut, is one of the smartest things on the planet.

 To be honest, I always find this weird. Where along the way did we stop listening to our gut? When I think back to the time warped town I grew up in I remember teachers and authorities telling us to think more. Was it because I was in a time warped town or because I was young?

Either way I find myself reminding myself and other people to listen to our instincts. Aren't we supposed to do that naturally? What's the point of an instinct if you don't follow it? Why does it take a therapist to remind a person this is what we are supposed to do with our instincts? Maybe we've gotten a little too smart for our own good. Maybe we trust our rational brains just a little too much.

Think about it. As a whole, we are getting smarter. Technology has made leaps and bounds in the past 20 years. What the common 8th grader learns I didn't learn until I was well into high school. We communicate on multiple levels. We can multitask. All of this could serve to make us more evolved. But we've left out whole parts of us which understands without using our thinking brains. So undervalued have our guts become that people are often looked down upon to use them.

What's worse, it seems people no longer even know what it's like to listen to their gut. When I look around, people call obsessive thinking, unresolved emotions, and repressed desires (this last one can be tricky) their gut. While all of those could be part of a "gut" none make a whole gut. So here is my lame attempt to define our gut in hopes that someone tells me I'm an idiot and comes up with a better definition: our gut is the directive given to us in situations where action should be taken when our head, heart, and spirit are completely silent yet act as one.

Wow. That was lamer than I thought. Now I ask you, reader: how would you like a main character to interact with his/her gut? To trust it and always use it? To ignore it? To be oblivious? To actively go against it? I'm curious about the people you want to read about.

Spoiling for a Fight

I've been reading this amazing book called Hellraisers based on the crazy, boozy lives of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O'Toole and Oliver Reed. Their antics awaken in me nostalgia of college and romping through bar and countryside with some of my besties. Like the wild men in the book, the potential for a fight was always right around the corner for me. Except, I never fought. Not once. Well there was that one time, but he doesn't count. He was little.

It's been really hard to decide if I am proud of this or ashamed. When the term "boys will be boys" comes out, isn't fighting at the top of a list of behaviors it's meant to explain? To make me more confused, I love violent action movies (especially martial arts) yet I work against the glorification of violence. Does this make me eclectic, confused, or a coward?

I read a lot of stuff on masculinity. I find it all fascinating since it puts into words all of the mindless behaviors and senseless rules we men have been enacting for so long. But one thing we men are tied to is our violence. The very act seems to verify not only our masculinity but our very existence (think Fight Club). So what is a guy like me supposed to do when I am right in the middle of being a pacifist with a penchant for pugilism. Say that ten times fast.

When I think of the act of fighting, with me in the fight, it seems sort of childish. At the same time I get excited. It's the kind of excited you felt when you were getting dressed to go out to your first New Year's Eve as a 21 year old. I wonder often how I'd do in a fight. I realize, though, the conditions would have to be similar to the four gentleman above. Which also means I would not remember it anyway.

Let's not and pretend I did, then.

10 things at 32

10. Lazy is the new party.
9. I don't act like a 4 year old on my birthday anymore.
8. Instead of wanting a special meal from someone else, I wanted to cook.
7. My daughter's smile makes me happier than the presents.
6. I had to ask my wife how old I was going to be.
5. Grey is the new black.
4. It's really hard to think of 10 significant things on one's 32nd birthday.
3. I can't go out and get drunk because I have responsibilities.
2. I don't want to go out and get drunk, even if I had no responsibilities.
1. I got to do everything I wanted for my birthday! And then some!

Save the Sarcasm

Somewhere in my generation we developed sarcasm as an actual form of language. Like Ebonics or Cockney, I realize that it sometimes takes translation to actually understand what our words mean. Most humor is based in sarcasm lately. And, sadly, it even seems intelligence is measured through sarcasm.

This last fact became apparent to me while watching the presidential election. I noticed how media geared toward my generation acted as if more sarcasm made them more appealing. While being a lover of sarcasm as much as the next guy, flippant snipping does not a trustworthy news source make. Like most things in life there is such a thing as "too much of a good thing." Just as much as rampant f-bomb dropping makes us question the intelligence of the speaker, shouldn't pointless sarcasm make us question a speaker's knowledge? Reading all of the press made me realize each side had numerous witty comments without ever really saying a damn thing.

To be frank, this scares me. As said before, I like sarcasm. It's one of my favorite forms of humor. Nothing can kill a joke like telling it too much. What if we kill a whole form of joke telling? I notice little sarcastic remarks hold no weight (or laughs as it were). One must go well over the top. Could this be the sign of end of sarcasm as we know it? It's depressing to think this is just our faddish sign of the times. Couldn't we have done something cooler and less adolescent like sex, drugs, and rock and roll like our parents?

My main character is sarcastic. He doesn't hide behind his sarcasm but rather uses it for what it is intended. I think he's funny. I worry, when reading him, that his subtle wit and biting comments to his friends may be lost on readers. Will they think he is dumb because he doesn't use more sarcasm? Would I really be increasing his honesty and integrity by making his words mean less? Should I make him sarcastic about this topic, turning this social commentary into an attitude of my character? Can you read my sarcasm in these lines? Can you even tell anymore?

Please, people. Save the sarcasm before English come to our country and don't know what the hell we're talking about. Protect this time honored form of humor from extinction.

The Parent Factor

I really wanted to post something about Thanksgiving. Like, I REALLY wanted to. These past few weeks have taught me what thankful really means. My mom told me a grateful heart is rarely unhappy. I was going to make momma proud. But I think I'm out of the Thanksgiving window now. According to the Christmas commercials I was out of the window before Thanksgiving even got here.

But this post is not about thankfulness or a rant on commercialism. It's about writing. And how I think I might be getting better.

Before the kiddo I think I was a decent writer. According to my wife I could be too wordy, but I really like words. I tended to gravitate toward darker things. I created intricate characters who had deep troubles which swam in secret thoughts (see! words). But as I pull up the novel I finished over the summer, Running out of Road, I realize I there is so much missing from my main character. I worked hard to give him quirks, but you could tell in my writing I didn't even believe they were real. Saying his flawed is an understatement, but I'm realizing it may be overstated. He is completely unaware of himself. I know we all struggle with becoming self aware, but I'm surprised at times my character knows when he's hungry. I'm also noticing he takes himself way too seriously. I'm having my hard time wrapping my mind around this given it's a quality I dislike in other people and in myself. No wonder I've had a hard time connecting with this guy. There was no levity to him. How are you going to want to read about a character if I don't like writing about him?

I believe this is where the parenting factor kicks in. All the things I just wrote about are problems with my book I'd been aware of when reviewing and revising, but could never recognize consciously. I just knew something is wrong. It's like I was hiding all this from myself to prevent having to do more work. Is that the reason all authors hate rewrites, or am I just lazy? Either way, I can't/won't hide from those things anymore. Not with the kiddo. She doesn't let me hide. My mistakes are my mistakes. I can't glaze them over with a bunch of pretty words. Words don't work on her. I can't pretend that my intentions aren't selfish at times. I also can't act like I'm totally cool and not goofy in love with this little creature. I care less what I look like to others and care more how she sees me. In other words I see myself more clearly, flaws and all. Sometimes it's good and I like myself, sometimes it's bad and I hate myself. But that's honesty. And that's honestly how we all feel as I talk to friends, clients, etc. This is the solution to my flat character. Now to go back and rewrite again.

Damn it.

And when you show comment love...

When you comment, I take it to heart. I have rewritten the scene where my main character's producer tells him why she continues to film him. I've tried to include some of the ideas you've given me to give meaning to her artistic obsession with him.

“Ok, Jeff. You can think whatever you want about me.”

            “It’s not just what I think.”

            “Well I don’t care what the crew thinks either. I know my reasons.”

            “And what benignly artistic reasons are those?” Jeff asked sarcastically with a laugh. He got up and walked to the bathroom.

            “Don’t act like you’re better than me. I’m doing this for the same reasons you are. And maybe a few more,” Salem said slightly louder so her voice would carry into bathroom. She could hear him pissing loud and clear. After the toilet flushed Jeff walked back to the bed, passing up washing his hands.

            “You can spare me the pep talk bullshit. I run whether or not you film it. I’d do this without the cameras. I’d do it without the fame.”

            “I know. That’s why I’m doing this.”

            Jeff sat back against the headboard of the other bed and began flipping channels on the TV.

            “You can stop acting so hard Jeff. I took one look at you and knew you weren’t some driven husband focused on justice and love. You’re scared shitless and you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. This whole annoyed-with-this-show-and-this-running is just your little way of dealing with the fact you’ve been lost from the beginning.”

            Jeff turned her. His expression was hard to read.

            “I worked on the documentary about the Chilean miners who were stuck. You aren’t much different than them. You all were separated from those you loved by some sort of ‘suspended death’ or whatever your writer’s mind would like to describe it as. You all did something superhuman. And you are all incredibly flawed. Those men had mistresses. I won’t even go into everything else that went on. But you’re flawed too. I’m glad you know it. But that’s what makes me film you. You are so flawed…like them…like me. We’re alike in that we’re greedy. I had some time to research you before we met. By the way you write I can tell you want the awards and the money. But the artist in you wants none of it. We’re no better than selfish little adolescents, angst ridden and starry-eyed.” Salem waved her tattooed stump in the air for emphasis.

Jeff forced a scoff before saying, “You are so wrong.”

            “I think you may have just proven me right.”

            His only response was to pretend being interested in the last soap opera still being aired.

            “So, rest assured, I’m capturing you quite honestly. I’m not deluded enough to think you’re a superhero. But you are a hero, whether you like it or not. And it’s your flaws that make you that way. Anyone can be courageous when they have no fear. Anyone can have clarity of vision if they aren’t confused. When you run, when you love her, it makes me believe my own flaws won’t destroy me. And if you can make me lose my cynical objectivity about this human race for even just one episode, then you are a hero. It’s you who isn’t being honest. The sooner you accept who you are and what you’ve done, the better we’ll all be. Including Shauna.”

            He looked away from the TV out the window.

            “Ok,” Salem said before seeing herself out.

 

The measure of a man

Shame on you if you thought something Freudian.

The main character of my most recent novel (and all of my novels come to think of it...I need to branch out) is a man. I have a special interest in "issues of masculinity" in my therapy practice because there are many things about being male in this culture which I believe we have never taken a long, unbiased, honest look at. I loved learning about Man Policing: the act of checking a man when he says something which is considered effeminate. It cracks me up that certain companies have made whole advertising campaigns based on this concept. It seems what you drink is the thing which needs to be policed for masculinity the most. But it doesn't stop there. What we wear, what we are interested in, what we drive, how we pass our time...all are apparently part of the male expression.

But does hunting gear really validate my masculinity or just fill a market? And why is that labeled as masculine whereas something like...I don't know...fine motor skills is just neutral and either gender can use it without it having to fit in a column (i.e. a mechanic vs. a seamstress; both use fine motor skills).

I catch myself when writing my main character hearing the judgements of man policing. He's not a "manly man." He's not a wimp either.As William Pollack pointed out in Real Boys, men are often defined by what they're not rather than what they are (paraphrased). But to look at the whole wimp thing, the whole effeminate thing, I think it's pretty telling of the only thing men can point at and say "that's what makes me a man."

Being strong.

The most horrifying times of my life, times when I felt like less of a man, was when I was powerless...weak. It gave me only one choice: stuff it and soldier on. To be strong is a black and white subject. You can't be "kinda strong" and be "kinda a man." That's flimsy. Corruptible. Weak. One are the other. Choose. And in choosing strength you become strong. Resolute. Unbending. A man. Nevermind everything else you are experiencing. No wonder no man ever admits having trepidation, even if it's just a little.

So I've decided to bring a new definition of strength in my main character, Jeff. I want him to transcend the black and white of "I'm a strong man" vs. "I'm weak and no longer a man." I want Jeff to be measured by a bigger, longer ruler (shame on you again, Freudian). I want his strength and manhood to be measured by how much he can change. I want Jeff to be strong enough to adapt and overcome through weakness without running from it. I want him to rise to the occasion (shame). I want Jeff to measured by how much he can evolve because I have to believe we all can.

Now...you have any ideas on how I can write that?

Real vs. Idealistic

What would motivate a driven career minded woman, focused on her craft and the honesty of it, to become an idealistic believer in someone?

I'm trying to figure this out about one of the most important and colorful characters in my novel. When I search my own experience I realize I have flip-flopped between the two most of my life. I can't tell if it's because of the different situations I've faced or the different versions of myself I have been at the time of facing them. One thing I've noticed is that idealism is seldom taken seriously.
This was well displayed in the movie The Ides of March (which I watched last night). The main character had "drank the Kool-aid" of the candidate he was backing for president. Idealism is something the other characters in the movie seemed to think was cute. Some thought it was down right dumb. This is quite true to life. The end result is the character learns to manipulate and cheat, becoming cold and somewhat inhuman. You could actually watch him take on the jaded attitude toward his own idealistic integrity as his "realistic" cohort

So I amend my question from above:
How could a realistic, career driven woman, begin to be an idealistic believer in someone and still take herself seriously? Could others still take her seriously?

This question feels better to me, but the answer seems further away. And to be honest, that's really, sickeningly sad. What does it say about us that looking for the best is foolish? And I think that answers my question. Instead of my character struggling with cynicism to validate her ideas into reality, she can turn her cynicism on people's lack of dreams...of hope...of striving for the best even when it's unlikely and naive. Maybe that's all idealism really is when you're an adult. It's a driven and serious protest against cynicism and impossibility. 

It begins

It took a baby to make me do this. My baby. My Lena.

I've read enough books and enough online advice blogs and postings (which serves as a great source of procrastination given you can mentally write it off as "research") to tell me blogging is the way if you want to establish yourself as a writer. Even though this is going to callous my fingers and sting your eyes, I find it appeals to my thrifty side as being a cost-effective way to break into the biz as opposed to getting an MFA. Besides, nothing like a doing something yourself to boost your pride.

So here goes...

...

...I got nothing. Or rather, I have nothing which I believe would be of interest to you. My life at the moment is full of poop, breast milk, forgetfulness, dreams, smiles, and naps. My writing vein feels collapsed. What is flowing through it seems unorganized and, at times, foreign. Already I can tell this little beignet is altering my sensibilities and sense of humor. I guess we'll have have to wait and see what is on the other side of no sleep. Who knows, you may be reading a very different writer next year.

In the meantime, let me leave you with a little something. It's the first three paragraphs of the book I finished over the summer. It is so very rough. But any and all comments are appreciated. Yes, that definitely includes criticisms, but the most helpful ones tell me why you don't like it or what you would prefer. I may find time during the 3 AM feeding to pull my laptop out and work on this a bit if you, my reader, tell me your thoughts. I need them. Mine are so scarce nowadays.

Excerpt from Running Out of Road by Toby LeBlanc:

"His voice, carrying her name, echoes around him every few footfalls. Jeff tries her full name, then the abbreviated version she hates, as if its public utterance bouncing off the houses on the suburban street might make her reappear. The calls become louder, more frantic as he gets to the end of his block on 45^th SW. His gut juts way out in front of him and his legs, which currently feel as if they are made of lead, seem to be trying to catch his belly button. Despite their heaviness, his feet struggle to stay connected to the Seattle street. He struggles to stay connected to reality.

His mind thinks about how this probably one of her jokes and this one just isn’t funny. Maybe she’s trying to snap him out of his grumpy writer’s block. He wonders if he locked the door behind him. Maybe she just slipped past him and he didn’t notice. Maybe the dog just made it home without her because he slipped his collar. But that old basset hound is way to fat to slip his collar. Jeff sees an image in his mind of his wife scolding the dog, Winston, with feigned irritation for running off like that. The thought made him want to kill the dog for ruining his night and causing this panic. But then Shauna would kill him if he killed the dog, and that’s more trouble than it’s worth. He realizes how silly it all sounds and just looks for his wife.

Still calling her name he sped around the corner and almost tripped over a pair of legs belonging to a very unconscious human, half shoved underneath a Douglas fir. Hope made one last push as Jeff attempted to reassure himself that the faux velour jogging pants looked nothing like the pair she was wearing tonight. He struggled with the idea of trying to check on this obviously hurt person, or to go home where his wife probably was. He had to look. The zippered top looks as if the attackers had tried to turn it around without her getting out of it. The left pocket in front is torn. The victim’s arms are strewn about her in the unnatural way which is congruent with new and unreal universe Jeff now exists in. One hand lay over the eyes and on the forehead as if even in her deep sleep she displays the emotion of woe. He wants to know who the victim is. Despite her obvious lack of consciousness, he is worried about harming this creature by scratching its face or the trunk or hyper-extending a limb. With a strength not known to him, he pulls the body upright to look upon a familiar face which strikes the chords of hell."