Decisions, Decisions

I’m beginning to feel as if I’m approaching a crossroads, or that I may already be at one. This would mean more if I didn’t constantly feel this way with irregular severity; you’d be surprised how anxious I get decided between two places to have lunch every day. Still, even though I wake up each morning wondering when I’m going to change what I’m doing with my life into something I enjoy more, lately I’ve been plagued at night  by rack after rack of details. Let me break it down.

1. Professionally (Writing)

I’ve been so terrible at maintaining consistency with my writing lately. I haven’t written more than a couple thousand words on my fourth novel. I’ve been exceptionally lax in updating this blog. I’ve replaced free time and motivation with sleeping too little and drinking and flirting and fucking too much and reading where I can, which is nice, but always pausing before I put pen to paper or hover my thumb over this app.

I haven’t submitted Waypoint to any more agents or publishers, despite the fact that I’m aware it won’t magically manifest itself onto their desks with a kind letter and a gift basket. I feel like it’s a good book that needs to find itself in front of the right reader. I feel like it has a solid, small but positive and vocal following of a few thousand readers, and that it (and its sequels) are things I can be proud of creating.

It still always manages to slip my mind. I just… don’t do it. I forget to look up the next publisher on my list, or if I do, I forget to look up the submission guidelines, or if I do, I forget to put the submission together.

So I’ve got to ask myself: do I still really, really want to be an author as a career? Somewhere inside me, the answer is still a resounding YES. I still carry around heaps of notes and notebooks. I update color-coded files in my phone on a daily basis. I write excerpts for future novels and stash them in those files. I have concepts that I think are ambitious and entertaining and I’m excited to bring them out and share them.

And Jesus, I’ve already written half a million words in three books in four years, so I’ve proven I can and will put in the work.

Do I still want to write the book I’m currently “working on”? I think the answer to that is positive as well, but I’m skittish about it. Earned or not, my I initial trilogy landed me a reputation among my peers that is more favorable than not. They really enjoyed those first books, and though I have no degree or professional experience to draw on, though I feel woefully inadequate, people ask me for writing advice and I feel flattered that they do so.

My newest novel lacks a lot of the grit and maturity of the Convergence trilogy. It’s a lot more straightforward and action-filled and even a bit slapstick here and there, and I’m concerned that even though it’s obviously supposed to be a different genre and style of prose, I feel clumsy trying to put it together on paper and I worry that people will dislike the finished product as it will likely be completely different than what they expected.

I’ve been planning the book for probably ten years. It’s a concept that’s very dear to me with a story that seems pretty fun. I want to get over that mental block, but I’m not entirely sure I know how.

Except to take the time. Sit down. Force myself to stop watching Netflix or jerking off for a few hours and tough through it. That might do it.

Sigh.

Then there’s the other end of the spectrum: I read a quote the other day that was along the lines of, “If you aren’t writing to say something, then what’s the point?” and while I’m an advocate for the importance in writing as a form of escapism (both for the writer and the reader) and the necessity of entertainment to keep the weight of the world’s stresses at bay, there is something equally valid in those that write to illustrate passionate ideas and ideals, those who touch on cultural, social, sexual, mental, emotional, intellectual and religious topics. There is something captivating about those ruminating on life, something that taps into the primal node tucked somewhere behind the rib cage, next to the heart.

Nietzsche. Bukowski. Kerouac. Angelou. Thompson. Hemingway. Oates. Poets and travelers, journalists and philosophers. Men and women who wax poetic on love, life, loss, and the lust for more from each day, from each other, and from themself.

Here’s the thing, I think: it requires a certain type of narcissism to believe one can really pick apart the intricacies of those topics. It takes a confidence to put definitive insights onto a page and push it out into the light for the open eyes of strangers to see. While I have always endeavored to write things as clearly and as detailed as I’ve experienced them and the insights I’ve gleaned personally from my experiences, while I have been and will always be honest about the failures I’ve endured and those I see around me, while I will tell you how I believe certain things can be improved or the frustrations I have in whatever regard, I just don’t think I could be so fantastically sure of anything as to write it with such fervor that people would quote me years down the line as if I ever knew what the fuck I was doing ever, with anything.

Would I write about love? Hahahaha. Hahahaha. I have, at length, and I’m still no better at it. I could give no advice that would feel helpful beyond a “What Not to Do” list, chief entry being “Whatever the fuck I did”.

Social studies? Race relations? I have opinions that I don’t feel qualified to give. I know the struggles of being broke, homeless, in debt, bullied, but the fact remains that I grew up as a middle-class white male and that has always and will always give me inherent advantages over others. While I hope to bring as much light to some of the conflicts tearing (still) our people apart, while I want to share conversations and perspective pieces from those more directly affected, I don’t feel I have the proper insight to contribute in a fruitful way.

Do I write about mental health and disorders? I’ll write about my struggles and hope people can continue to relate and maybe find some peace in that, but seeing as how I’ve historically handled my breakdowns with as much grace and aplomb as a whale tapdancing on glass, maybe I should keep my high horse stabled.

So with all that said, I’m torn. I’m torn between finding my way back to pursuing entertaining and commercial writing as a career, taking the steps to treat it like a career instead of letting my anxiety shuffle it off until I can drink the nightmares away for another evening; and writing something deeper and more impactful for people to take to heart and mind. I want my writing to mean something. I want people to be affected by my words.

2. Professionally (Occupation)

Let’s be honest, though, it’s going to be a long time – if ever – before I can fully support myself and pay all my bills with my writing. That means I’m going to need a day job. I do have one. I’ve been here for two years and one month, but the way things have been going, it looks like I might only be here a few months more. I’m just not very good at it, and to be honest, some days it’s difficult to want to be.

My job pays well, but it’s tedious and stressful and my boss has grown difficult to work for. What was once an excited, competitive atmosphere has turned into an intimidating, bullying spectre sucking any joy out of the air that could be found. I find myself popping xanax on days I’m lucky to see a panic attack coming and escaping to the bathroom to get away long enough to breathe when I don’t. I’ve reached a point where, despite working with salespeople I generally like and even admire, I count the very minutes from the beginning of my shift to lunch, from lunch to end.

I’ve worked varying forms of retail for 13 years. I like people. I do. I get really annoyed with them and I’ve grown increasingly introverted as I grow older, but deep down, I love meeting, talking to and learning about people. And yet at least twice a week it hits me that a common part of my job is processing payments for people too lazy to do it any of the other three ways one could it do on their own. What mediocre, pointless, trivial bullshit.

My job isn’t exciting. It’s the same thing day in and day out, and because of that, I feel drained at the end of each day, and because of that, I’ve been blowing my money on things to try and stimulate any sense of reward from the base of my skull. I’ve been living check to check, but now I know I might not be here for much longer, and I’m going to need to save up. Something has to change. I need to do something different, but I need to make sure I’m in an okay position when that shift happens. I suspect I’m going to be grumpier than normal for the next few months.

3. Romantically

This is far and wide the aspect of my life I’m least worried about. Yeah, I’m heartbroken. I’m lonely. I’m pushing thirty and the last serious relationship I was in was six years ago. The last two that seemed they could turn serious ended so poorly it completely shut me down for months. It’s difficult for me to open up, and even more so to find a connection with people I open up with. When I do, I fall pretty hard and I give my affection fully. I love deeply. It has given me some of the best moments of my life, and it has also historically not often ended well.

I would love to have a connection and to be in a relationship, to share experiences and memories with someone special, but I’m not trying to force anything. I’m gradually learning to just let things happen as they may.

Still, I’ve learned I’m fucking terrible at talking to women I find attractive. New women, I mean. Like, someone I’ve just met. If it’s someone I’ve known a while or at least met a few times, I’m able to relax and it’s a completely different scenario. Crushes are had. Sex isn’t uncommon. For a chubby, nerdy guy who too often lets his hair grow out to an awkward length, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t attention from multiple people at almost any given time.

And I like those women. They’re friends and lovers and there’s a shared trust, comfort and intimacy there. I’m a huge fan of sex, even in a casual regard, because I think there’s a created, emotionally charged release that adds passion and closeness. It’s a beautiful thing, and it’s fun, and it’s nice to feel desired and to make someone else feel that, too. And I’m good at creating those connections, even if sometimes I’m terrible at the act itself. I know for a fact that I’ve conducted myself poorly on occasion, but have remained friends with that person afterwards and become closer for it.

That connection, those bonds, those are easy to me, and I value them. But trusting on an emotional level, on trying to arrange dates, on gauging a woman’s romantic interest in me, on working out compliments and genuine relationship building conversations… in those instances, I am a bumbling, mumbling mess. I think I really suck at dating, and it bothers me because I would like someday to have a family.

Be that as it may, I know I need to get my life together, first.

4. Life

I do not know what I want to fucking do with my life. I live lightly, and I kind of like that. Most of my things are either expendable or able to be stuffed into the storage unit I’ve had for years. My bed is a borrowed air mattress. Anything essential can be narrowed down to two suitcases. Realistically, I could probably make it one. If I had to, I could drop my phone bill down to $30 a month and rely on Wi-Fi for any Internet related things I needed.

I’m at that age where I kind of really need to figure out what I want to do and make a plan to do it (and then stick to the plan, obviously). I considered Greyhounding and hitchhiking and couch-hopping around the states. I have  friends everywhere, and it would give me a golden opportunity to see amazing – and probably awful – things all over the country. But how much money would that cost? Bus fare, hostel rooms. I can eat on a budget, I’m no stranger to the Dollar Store Diet. Emergency funds? Laundromat costs? How long could I last?

I’ve considered moving back to Los Angeles, as I have every day since I left. I’ve considered moving to New York. I think I’d like it there. I’ve even considered Pittsburgh because for as much as I hate the Steelers, I really liked the atmosphere there, the food, and the fact one of my best friends lives nearby.

Hell, I’ve even considered trying to find some kind of visa to move abroad and work a while. I love to travel, and I especially love other cultures.

All I know is things need to change. I need to change. I’m just flustered by all the choices, because I’m really, really good at making the wrong ones. I’m just starting to hit an age where the right one once in a while would be a welcome change.

No Place Like Home

I’m a fan of a good homecoming story, the idea, of course, being someone who has left home for a while, years, only to find there way back for whatever reason, to the place they grew up in. There are a lot of options in how to tell them, for one: they can be heartwarming or sad, they can be a return to the past or a displacement story about someone returning to a place that has moved on without them. They can be comedies, dramas or romances. The best are some combination of these things.

Now, there are a couple things that have to be there for it to work. First off, it’s got to be a long period of time. This isn’t a case of someone moving away for a semester at college and then coming home and meeting up with their high school buddies. This isn’t someone showing up to visit family once or twice a year. I’m talking eyes-forward, home in the exhaust, build a life away from past-me until a death or an unemployment or something drags me back to my roots.

There has to be little to no contact with the people back home. A good homecoming story needs surprises on both sides. Who got married? Who had kids? Who has died, and how? Are you divorced? What do you do? Oh, she inherited her dad’s bakery. Oh, he opened a little bookstore. There needs to be high school loves that have moved on, though there will always be a little spark. There needs to be a resentment that either stays as fresh as if it were yesterday, or one that has softened over time so that now all that’s wanted is an explanation over a beer. Was it because I was fat? Did I offend you so much? You know, it was always you she loved, deep down I knew that.

The other thing about a solid homecoming story is it’s almost always a small town. There are exceptions, of course. There is a film called A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints that I love and recommend all the time because it seems nobody I know has seen it. It’s set in New York, sure, but focuses exclusively in a neighborhood in Astoria. The film alternates between the past (with stellar performances by both Shia LaBeouf and Channing Tatum, and I don’t say that lightly) and the future,  when Robert Downey Jr. returns home to see his ailing father. Rosario Dawson is also in it.

There’s another film that plays on a different homecoming trope: that of a reunion. You’ve seen reunion films before (10 Years, which is sad, beautiful in parts, and a little funny; American Reunion; Grown Ups; The Judge – RDJ again – which I want to see), but indie flick Beside Still Waters might be one of the best. I don’t know, I haven’t seen it yet, but I helped fund the Kickstarter and it got so much buzz that it went from a small independent venture to an upcoming theatrical release. You can find out more about it here, as well as see the trailer.

Why do I like that so much? It just seems so earnest and so honest. The chemistry feels natural, the relationships awkward and complex. It focuses on the simple things and the inside jokes and the layered relationships and past hurts and lingering loves. It looks like a goddamn beautiful film.

There is an inherent humanity in a homecoming story, whether it’s happy or sad or dramatic or hilarious. That’s because it’s about a person’s relationships with others and all of the history therein. These stories echo our feelings. Our fears, our dreams, our hopes, our loves and our failures. We relate because we, too, said the wrong thing once, or we didn’t say anything at all. We relate because we’ve wanted to escape, because we’ve had to watch people we love love someone else,  because we have had some action that we’ve taken torment us on long, rainy nights.

These are things we’ve experienced even if we’ve never had a homecoming. Many of us grew up in large cities or with a big group of friends, with a close family or no family. We haven’t necessarily needed to move out of state or to a “bigger” place to escape. All the same, those relationships that have been strained or forgotten or pushed aside in the name of a career, those mistakes made and loves lost, those are all things that happen anyway, because we’re human.

Setting it in a small town strips away the busyness, pares down the clutter of a cityscape and focuses on intimacy. It takes the time to explore all the thoughts and feelings that we don’t give ourselves time and energy to do the same with in our own lives. That’s why, no pun intended, those kinds of stories hit home so clearly.

Though Anchorage, Alaska isn’t exactly a small town with its 300,000 residents, it feels that way sometimes. Having been born, raised and lived here for over 20 years, I can find someone I know at just about any given time in any particular place. It’s not difficult to get around the city, either. It’s small, but not too small. It’s big enough to lose yourself in if you want to. But man, it’s easy to fall into a routine. The familiarity of the city is a comfort, but if you make yourself known enough, it’s easy to develop a rep. The funny thing about a reputation is that, for most people, twenty percent truth is enough. Whichever version is the most exciting can fill in the other eighty.

I had aspirations of being an actor rooted in a brief stint on theater during which I performed adequately and no better. I moved to Los Angeles in 2009 and lived there for eight months before having a mental breakdown. I moved back to Alaska for four months almost to the day, then back to L.A. for three more months. After I lost my job, I moved to Washington and lived there for nine months.

20 months gone away from home with a brief break in the middle. I lost a lot of friends for a lot of reasons during that time, and I grew distant from several more. While it’s not really like the pattern I described for the stories I like so much, it felt as such to me. By the end of my time in Washington, I missed those people. I missed hanging out with them and partying with them. I had just finished my first novel and I wasn’t really sure what to do with my life or where I was going, so I decided to move home for six months or so.

That six months turned into three years and counting. At the start, though, it felt weird to be back. I had that homecoming feeling. The four months I had spent trying to get my head in gear was largely spent drinking, reading and sleeping around Anchorage. I didn’t really pay attention to much else. When I came back for good (for now), I opened my eyes up a bit more. I wasn’t going anywhere for a while, might as well see what’s up.

A lot of construction had gone on in two years. There were some marriages,  some babies, a divorce or two. Some people were in jail. I didn’t let people know I was back for a while;  I just kind of wandered around being introspective and mysterious and shit. It was nice, honestly.

I have mixed feelings about this city. I don’t think it’s healthy for me in long stints, especially during the winter. I think other places might afford me better opportunities concerning my writing, and I like the busyness of a place like Los Angeles, and the weather,  and the sounds the waves make crashing against the sand while I write on the pier. I don’t like seeing the people I graduate with pity me, because I already feel disappointed in myself.

But I also love this city. I’m proud to be Alaskan. I like knowing my way around town and the best places to eat and having a bar I can walk into where everyone knows my name and my drink is ready for me. I get to have my best friend drop by with my little nephew out of nowhere and have the kid give me a big hug.

Long term goal? To have a place in a city better suited for my personality and my craft, where I can go as long as I want without seeing someone who knows my history. I’d live there for 8-9 months out of the year. The other 3-4 months of spring/summer, I want a place in Alaska to come back to. As much as this place drains me, I do have a fond spot for it somewhere in me.

That doesn’t fit the homecoming narrative, but it works for me. After all, that’s what stories are for.

I Fell In Love

I fell in love when I was 15. She was my best friend’s sister and I had his blessing. I worked at a comic shop then and she would call for him from California, where she was living at the time. We would chat, five to fifteen minutes at a time, before I finally handed the phone over. She was the beautiful mystery, I was her brother’s confidante.

When she moved back to Alaska, she came in to see my friend. I had never seen her before, with her auburn hair and wide smile, and when she asked for my friend, I felt a pang of disappointment. He brought her back to the counter a minute later and formally introduced us. That love was instant.

She asked if I was going to a mutual friend’s birthday party.

“Are you going to be there?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then I’m going to be there.”

The birthday party was filled with liquor and poker and I was decent at partaking in both, even as young as I was. She asked if I wanted to check out her car. My friend looked at me and walked away.

She was 19 and the second person I ever had sex with. The backseat of the car was tight and messy and I didn’t give a shit because I was fully invested in this older woman, this manifestation of whatever fantasy I had concocted from her voice alone.

She didn’t believe me at first when I told her how old I was. She was appalled for precisely thirty seconds the next day when she called her brother to confirm it, then asked what I was doing that night. This went on, on and off, for several years. I forwent Thanksgiving dinner with my family to spend it with her and hers. We were very close.

I’m not sure what happened.

She got married, had a little girl, got divorced. We fell out of touch. It’s been a year or two since we’ve spoken, but every time we see each other, that spark is still there. That warmth. I will always love her.

I fell in love when I was 18. I had just, inexplicably, won prom king. I escaped from the dance and ended up at a house party with the valedictorian and several other academics and theater-types. I had become immersed in the drama world, but that party scene was a lot different than I was used to. Where I just grabbed whatever liquor was available and slammed it, these cats were practicing advanced mixology via printed instructions. I dug it. It was different.

Side note: I own a picture of the valedictorian from the 2006 graduating class of my high school on bended knee presenting me, crown on head, with a bottle of Goldschläger. It’s glorious. You’ll have to take my word for it.

I connected with her, the girl, the woman. We had known each other for six years at that point but had never had any sort of romantic undercurrent to our relationship. That night was different.

We talked for hours. I gave her a back massage. The party persisted around us but we kept attention on each other. We never kissed. We didn’t have sex. We fell asleep together on the couch. When I woke, she was gone.

There wasn’t much school left but I resolved to ask her out. She got super busy with college applications and end-of-the-year testing. It came off to me as avoidance, which I confessed to a mutual friend. At a party a year or so after graduation, that friend brought it up to her. She reached out to me to let me know that, had I asked, she would have said yes.

We became very close in the years following graduation. She moved overseas, sang opera in Italian theaters, dated a girl who did mission work in Africa, made me a mixed CD with music to get me through tough times, complete with a couple tracks she sang herself.

She called me one night and asked for my advice. She had been seeing a guy and it became serious. She thought she might be in love and she was terrified at the prospect of deep commitment. What if it wasn’t real? What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if it didn’t work out? She wanted to run.

As much as I hated doing it, I convinced her that trying and (maybe) failing was better than never knowing. I think they may still be together. Maybe even engaged.

We saw Hitchcock in theaters together a couple years ago. Got dinner. She held my hand and told me she just wanted me to be happy. I almost cried. I will always love her.

I fell in love when I was 19. She worked at a burger joint in the same mall I worked in. “Jered with an e” is how she remembered me and daily lunches turned into the occasional party on the sly and late night texts. I moved from the comic shop to a bank job for a while. She came in, kissed me over the counter and texted me, “We should have sex soon.”

Well, alright.

After a failed, fumbling fool-around in the parking lot of a lake-centric park during which no less than the police politely asked me to get the fuck out, she wound up at my house. We fucked and later we made love. We slept deep and we slept late and then I bitched out later and became super distant. I loved her then as I love her now, but I was worried about what my friends would think about me dating a younger girl. So I…didn’t.

We kept in touch occasionally over the years. A month or so after my grandmother passed away, we had sushi and caught up. She spent the night at my place a week or so after and everything fell into place. For a few months, we had passion, we had love, we had laughter.

It was perfect, until it wasn’t. She grew distant. She got into an emotionally abusive relationship with a kid I went to school with who I hate unfathomably. Then my grandfather got sick. Love and romance aside, I needed someone to be there for me as a friend and she promised me she would be. She abandoned me completely.

It took me a long time to forgive her. We’ve spoken a few times since and briefly tried to be friends before I decided maybe it would be healthier just to remove her from my life completely. She’s dating someone now who makes her feel happier and complete in ways I never could. They do pottery and shit.

I will always love her.

I fell in love when I was 21. I had just moved to Los Angeles from Anchorage and I was broke and stressed. I got a job working at an electronic retailer, one of the big ones, and I was stationed in the front lanes (the checkout aisle). I met her there, a pretty girl with an infectious laugh. She looked exotic to me and we got along well. She invited me to Thanksgiving dinner with her family because she knew I was all alone in L.A.

I went and we had a grand time. She was Puerto Rican-Jewish and her mom, who spoke little English, called me Geraldo and invited me to temple with them. I went. I felt much more welcomed there than any other religious experience.

She and I dated a while. We were good for each other except when we were terrible for each other. She cheated on me early. I never trusted her fully afterwards. I was short-tempered and paranoid, worried about money and I drank too much. The sex was good, the long evenings where we held each other almost better. But man, we sniped at each other all the time. She kept things professional at work. In my youthful naivete, I took it as her not caring.

I decided to move to Alaska again for the summer to get my shit together. Lose weight, save money. We talked for a while. Things were good again. Three months in, she told me that she had decided we wouldn’t be getting back together. It was for the best. We weren’t meant to be. We were a toxic relationship.

It broke my heart. I will always love her.

I am no stranger to love. I’m not very good at it, though. I love love, but I’m scared of it. I’m scared of getting burned by it or worse, fucking it up myself. But I also miss that feeling and that companionship. I miss those memories, and the fingers interlocking and the hair that gets stuck in my mouth when I’m trying to kiss the back of her neck and the steady rise and fall as she’s sleeping and the way her feet are way too fucking cold, get them away.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in love and the last one didn’t end so well for me. But I miss it. And I love it. I love even the memories.