I am such a failure. Such a wreck. A real train wreck. I didn't pass school. I have no job, no income. I have no apartment, starting August. I have no car. And everyone I'm friends with keep letting me down, they just keep letting me down, I keep helping friends in need, they keep ignoring my problems, they keep not helping me back.
Sometimes it's not what you do, it's what you don't do.
I don't know what to fucking do, I just don't know what to do. I'm so blank and so torn. I'm so sad and so angry. I have no outlet.
I have no creativity.
I have no words.
I have no skills.
I have no talent.
I'm just pestering this Earth with the burden of my existence.
Everything just totally fucking sucks.
POET IN THE JAR
Saturday, June 8
Thursday, May 23
Repairman
I was a castle, made of sand,
Made of millions of grains.
I stood guard, proud and tall,
Until I was washed away.
The grains spread out and separated,
My castle walls torn down.
The rooms that I had decorated,
Sent to sea to drown.
Then, planlessly I drifted,
Undesired and ungifted,
Until the ocean shifted,
And a single grain was found.
Then, you rebuilt my castle walls,
And brought me back from sea.
And you sought out to find them all,
The grains that once were me.
Now every time I feel despair,
When I remember washing away,
I know that I can be repaired,
And time can still be made.
So should your castle ever fall,
I'll fix up your broken walls,
And collect your scattered pieces all.
If I have to search the entire sea,
I'll do it for you,
Like you did it for me:
Unconditionally.
Friday, May 17
A Tiny Sketchbook
So I just wrote a poem. Or rather forced it out of me. I quite dislike it. It's just missing something, that I'm sure my old poems used to have when I was still feeling creative and ached to write. But then again, maybe that depends on how you look at it. Maybe I used to be able to write better poems because I didn't give a fuck about how it turned out. Instead of what I was doing now, weighing words against eachother, changing sentences, rearranging, staring at the page, wondering what it was that I wanted to say.
A couple of weeks ago I bought a sketchbook. A tiny one, the kind of pad that you can shove down your jeans pocket. I thought that if I started writing things down in it when they came to me I wouldn't have to spend so much time posting on Facebook and Twitter. That maybe if I wrote them down by hand they would have to mean something. That I might find my way back to the words that way. I don't know if it's been working yet. I've written a few things down in it in crazy spurts of racing thoughts, but when I look at it, well. It feels like it wants to be more than it is. I guess I should just let go of trying to make it anything else than what it is. And not beat myself up about not filling the pages with masterpieces of poems or profound thoughts and ideas (not to mention excellent drawings and yes, no less than excellent). I think I still have to get used to having a physical book to write things in. I still have to make myself used to the idea that whenever I think about something I should want to grab that little book and jot it down. It seems like I have no particular thoughts to jot down. No particular ideas. I feel rather strangely blank after everything's that's happened for these past couple of days. The good thing about writing in a physical sketchbook is that you don't have to share it with the world. Which means you can write down things that are really personal and private.
Things I couldn't even share here.
I wonder if all my obsessiveness with medias and with my own trainwreck of a mind is making me appear heartless. If maybe people don't really get how my mind works. When I worry sick about something, like now; I just rather preoccupy myself with anything I can think of rather than deal with it. Perhaps a sickness, but then, at least I'm aware of it. At least I could do something about it (if I ever felt like it). I wonder if other people also contemplate how their minds work or if they just sorta go with it.
Can I entitle myself a poet when I hate my own words?
Can I exist when I don't struggle to write?
POET IN THE JAR
A couple of weeks ago I bought a sketchbook. A tiny one, the kind of pad that you can shove down your jeans pocket. I thought that if I started writing things down in it when they came to me I wouldn't have to spend so much time posting on Facebook and Twitter. That maybe if I wrote them down by hand they would have to mean something. That I might find my way back to the words that way. I don't know if it's been working yet. I've written a few things down in it in crazy spurts of racing thoughts, but when I look at it, well. It feels like it wants to be more than it is. I guess I should just let go of trying to make it anything else than what it is. And not beat myself up about not filling the pages with masterpieces of poems or profound thoughts and ideas (not to mention excellent drawings and yes, no less than excellent). I think I still have to get used to having a physical book to write things in. I still have to make myself used to the idea that whenever I think about something I should want to grab that little book and jot it down. It seems like I have no particular thoughts to jot down. No particular ideas. I feel rather strangely blank after everything's that's happened for these past couple of days. The good thing about writing in a physical sketchbook is that you don't have to share it with the world. Which means you can write down things that are really personal and private.
Things I couldn't even share here.
I wonder if all my obsessiveness with medias and with my own trainwreck of a mind is making me appear heartless. If maybe people don't really get how my mind works. When I worry sick about something, like now; I just rather preoccupy myself with anything I can think of rather than deal with it. Perhaps a sickness, but then, at least I'm aware of it. At least I could do something about it (if I ever felt like it). I wonder if other people also contemplate how their minds work or if they just sorta go with it.
Can I entitle myself a poet when I hate my own words?
Can I exist when I don't struggle to write?
POET IN THE JAR
Where Do You Wander?
Where do you wander?
When every second feels like an hour
When every moment is eternal
When you're lost in thoughts,
Lost in contemplation
In concern
When you burn
Where do you wander?
When you've emptied yourself of everything
When you've looked for yourself everywhere
When you can't breathe,
Can't oppose desperation
When you're inconsolable
When you're uncontrollable
I wandered the world, observed it in words
I trusted my eyes, and the whispers I heard
I dismissed what I learned,
I spent what I earned,
I lost myself
Until you returned
Where did you wander?
Sunday, May 12
Incompetence
Seemingly, late night rants is what I'm capable of these days.
As usual I can't sleep and this time it's for... different reasons. I've hit this period of weird insomnia. I'm just not friends with sleeping, from time to time. I don't know. Or well, I do know. My head is just too busy THINKING, that I can't possibly focus on DOING, and making anything actually HAPPEN. Instead I stay awake over every piece of dread I can possibly collect from my own head and heart, and maybe if I ponder them just ENOUGH, it might not just keep me awake for the night; it might just keep me awake for the rest of the WEEK. And yes, this CAPS use is necessary to convey my point.
I don't even know why coming here soothes me. It's just what I do whenever I'm going through a... crisis, or what to call it. I don't know a lot of things, these days. Everything feels unplanned. The future should be shining brightly ahead of me. Instead it's like this massive, poet-eating void of non-knowing. I've lived my whole life with a plan. Even when I thought I didn't have a plan; I definitely had SOME kind of plan; this time, everything is out there, everything is open, everything is closed. Geez, I fucking worry about everything. If I was a friend of mine, instead of being me, I might slap myself in the face and tell me to get off my high horses and stop feeling so goddamn fucking sorry for myself. What can I say? I can't help it. It's my "weak and sensitive nature". No, seriously, I can't relax until I've just SOLVED everything. And if that's your current main goal in life, imagine not being able to solve ANYTHING. Imagine not being able to solve your unemployment; your fear of abandonment, your family issues, what to do with your pets. Not being able to solve school, not being able to solve your writer's block, not being able to solve your insomnia. Not being able to solve the fact that you're considered a bad friend. Not being able to solve your recent passive obsessiveness with TV series that you can't quite explain except that it gives you a temporary moment of RELIEF. Relief from the guilt you feel about your inability to solve your given situation. Relief from all the chores you put off and all the achievements you couldn't accomplish. I'm in the middle of some weird fucking age crisis, or something, bloody hell knows what it is. I feel weak. I feel exposed. I feel disliked. I feel unloved. I feel alone. I feel completely, utterly, fucking INCOMPETENT and POWERLESS.
I guess the only reason I feel soothed by spilling this out into a blank text box online is that the written word doesn't judge me. Doesn't call me cowardly. Doesn't mock me. If, you don't count the fact that I've been dying to write something more CREATIVE without it ever spilling into this blank, empty, text box online. Let's say we don't count that. Let's say those veins of creativity are still flowing and are going to just pop open when they're ready. Because I swear to no particular deity, if those veins don't pop open soon, I'm going to have to resign my calling as a self-appointed world observer a.k.a. verbal describer of personal, subjective emotion and thought.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. Yep, I'm watching LOST. I can't even write a bloody blog post without the comforting background sound of the TV, assuring me that there are voices in the room, presence in the room, that the room isn't empty, that it's not just me, it's not just my voices.
The sun's up. I've got to be in university in... 3 hours. We'll see if I've got it in me to wrestle my own arch nemesis, called Sleep.
POET IN THE CHIPPED GLASS JAR
As usual I can't sleep and this time it's for... different reasons. I've hit this period of weird insomnia. I'm just not friends with sleeping, from time to time. I don't know. Or well, I do know. My head is just too busy THINKING, that I can't possibly focus on DOING, and making anything actually HAPPEN. Instead I stay awake over every piece of dread I can possibly collect from my own head and heart, and maybe if I ponder them just ENOUGH, it might not just keep me awake for the night; it might just keep me awake for the rest of the WEEK. And yes, this CAPS use is necessary to convey my point.
I don't even know why coming here soothes me. It's just what I do whenever I'm going through a... crisis, or what to call it. I don't know a lot of things, these days. Everything feels unplanned. The future should be shining brightly ahead of me. Instead it's like this massive, poet-eating void of non-knowing. I've lived my whole life with a plan. Even when I thought I didn't have a plan; I definitely had SOME kind of plan; this time, everything is out there, everything is open, everything is closed. Geez, I fucking worry about everything. If I was a friend of mine, instead of being me, I might slap myself in the face and tell me to get off my high horses and stop feeling so goddamn fucking sorry for myself. What can I say? I can't help it. It's my "weak and sensitive nature". No, seriously, I can't relax until I've just SOLVED everything. And if that's your current main goal in life, imagine not being able to solve ANYTHING. Imagine not being able to solve your unemployment; your fear of abandonment, your family issues, what to do with your pets. Not being able to solve school, not being able to solve your writer's block, not being able to solve your insomnia. Not being able to solve the fact that you're considered a bad friend. Not being able to solve your recent passive obsessiveness with TV series that you can't quite explain except that it gives you a temporary moment of RELIEF. Relief from the guilt you feel about your inability to solve your given situation. Relief from all the chores you put off and all the achievements you couldn't accomplish. I'm in the middle of some weird fucking age crisis, or something, bloody hell knows what it is. I feel weak. I feel exposed. I feel disliked. I feel unloved. I feel alone. I feel completely, utterly, fucking INCOMPETENT and POWERLESS.
I guess the only reason I feel soothed by spilling this out into a blank text box online is that the written word doesn't judge me. Doesn't call me cowardly. Doesn't mock me. If, you don't count the fact that I've been dying to write something more CREATIVE without it ever spilling into this blank, empty, text box online. Let's say we don't count that. Let's say those veins of creativity are still flowing and are going to just pop open when they're ready. Because I swear to no particular deity, if those veins don't pop open soon, I'm going to have to resign my calling as a self-appointed world observer a.k.a. verbal describer of personal, subjective emotion and thought.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. Yep, I'm watching LOST. I can't even write a bloody blog post without the comforting background sound of the TV, assuring me that there are voices in the room, presence in the room, that the room isn't empty, that it's not just me, it's not just my voices.
The sun's up. I've got to be in university in... 3 hours. We'll see if I've got it in me to wrestle my own arch nemesis, called Sleep.
POET IN THE CHIPPED GLASS JAR
Tuesday, April 23
I Provided For Myself
Hell, I'm such a wreck. Can't sleep, can't sleep, can't sleep. Funny how stress can make you feel so catatonic. There's a hell of a lot of things I could spend my time doing that would be more productive than how I've spent the last week. Games. Comics. TV shows. They all seem more important than straightening out my own life. How is that? How did this happen? I want to get my old energy back. I wonder where it went.
I was going to do Camp Nano for April, hell, I was looking forward to it. Haven't written a single word and won't write one. I feel so frustrated when I can't write. I have so many ideas, but every time I try to put it in words it's like I've lost my magic. Lost my touch. Words just come out wrong, sound cliché, every line is tired old crap. It's become somewhat... achievement-focused, my writing, and when I feel I can't achieve, I am blank. Out of words. It's like that time I used to spend thinking has gone haywire and I'm instead filling it with fictional universes, fictional characters, delving deep into plots behind make-believe stories. I guess this would be a good thing, if I was actually using it for something; but it's become a replacement for writing. Don't get me wrong... not looking for sympathy or for writing tips. Heck, if I wanted writing tips I could just follow my own. Heck knows I've got a lot of them. Doesn't help. I've fallen into a black hole of creativity. When I want to do something, everything else that I have to do piles up on me, and kills that little joy of creating that once flourished.
I mean, I could do so many things, I don't even need to write. I could draw or animate, whatever. But I just don't DO any of these things. I just feel so emptied. And what bugs me the most is, that I feel like I'm wasting every minute of every day. I have no idea what the future looks like for me. I don't know what the NEAREST future looks like for me. I'm trying to decide whether or not to give up this apartment, and I have to decide before May. It's risky trying to keep it, seeing as I don't even know if I'll be able to provide for myself after I graduate. Everything... not just school... my future... my summer... my life... my family... everything, everything, weighs on me. Maybe I shouldn't trouble myself... but I do.
I've been up all night, my sense of day and night is so fucked up. When I couldn't sleep at like 5.30 because I kept crying; I decided I might as well stay up all morning. Fuck sleep. Who needs to sleep? I'll try to get as much done today as possible and hopefully I'll fall down into bed exhausted tonight. Hopefully. Today I still have to finish my laundry, work on my thesis, clean up the apartment, prepare and host a work session for my extracurricular group and spend a few hours doing that. I need to apply for a couple of jobs and make a couple calls. This is what I plan to do and still I know I won't do them all. I'm always avoiding some chore or task. I've had enough, I don't even feel like an adult the way I'm living my life right now. I feel especially guilty that I haven't been to the office for over a week. But what can you do, right? I had to wait for my grade, so there wasn't much I could do really; but I should still have gone. Without a place to be each day it feels like my life has just been slipping away. And still I'd love to do what I choose with my life. I just want to get a steady income, doesn't have to be much, from a job that I don't hate and that doesn't bore me to death. I just want to feel good about life and enjoy living it. I don't want to be entangled this way. I don't want to be this far away from people I love. I don't want to keep looking back at memories because they make me feel better than the present moment does. I don't want to become frozen every time I even think of straightening out my life.
Funny, huh. Straightening out my life. There are people who would say I've got everything going for me, you know. About to graduate, the whole future ahead. Some kind of talent for some kind of creativity somewhere deep, deep down inside. Able to talk to people. Able to make people listen. Steady boyfriend. All that jazz. They say I'll work things out because I'm ambitious, things will work out. But they won't. I don't mean to be a cynic. They just won't. Things have never just "worked out" for me, at any point, in my life; the times they have worked out it's been because I made them work out. I made it work. It wasn't divine in any way. No one provided for me. I provided for me. And that's where the shoe fits, isn't it. I'm tired of making things work out. I feel bad when my projects and plans fall through; even when I've known from the beginning it'd be impossible to do it all. I feel bad when I don't spend my time doing chores, studying, applying for jobs or working on my portfolio. Thing is school is occupying my mind like HELL. And at the same time I just can't focus on it. It seems so trivial. What does it matter if I get a diploma in my hand in June? It doesn't. It's not gonna get me a job. A portfolio is going to get me a job. It's not gonna pat me on the back saying, Hey, you did GOOD! And it's certainly not going to pay off three years of studying loans. People just don't get that you can be completely broken, under a polished, seemingly alright surface. Why is this? Why don't people get that they're not the only ones who are more complex than a box of cereal?
Oh, I don't know. It felt like the right thing to do to come here, and I've learned so, so much. I thought three years spent at a fun education would be better than five years at an education I hated. I thought that if I spent three years here and then still didn't get a job, I could take any job, I'd still have those three years to remember. This just didn't happen. Now I'm panicking because I can't sort out what's going to happen. I'm unable to look past even a day at a time. I'm going to lose my apartment. My independence. Stuff is going on with friends and family. I worry to BITS. I've told myself to focus on my thesis for now, but I can't even do THAT.
To top it off this may very well be the most disorganized post I've ever made here. I apologize, or rather, I don't. I'm shit tired and I've gotta stay up for the rest of the day too. Yay. Yay!
POET IN THE BREAKING JAR
I was going to do Camp Nano for April, hell, I was looking forward to it. Haven't written a single word and won't write one. I feel so frustrated when I can't write. I have so many ideas, but every time I try to put it in words it's like I've lost my magic. Lost my touch. Words just come out wrong, sound cliché, every line is tired old crap. It's become somewhat... achievement-focused, my writing, and when I feel I can't achieve, I am blank. Out of words. It's like that time I used to spend thinking has gone haywire and I'm instead filling it with fictional universes, fictional characters, delving deep into plots behind make-believe stories. I guess this would be a good thing, if I was actually using it for something; but it's become a replacement for writing. Don't get me wrong... not looking for sympathy or for writing tips. Heck, if I wanted writing tips I could just follow my own. Heck knows I've got a lot of them. Doesn't help. I've fallen into a black hole of creativity. When I want to do something, everything else that I have to do piles up on me, and kills that little joy of creating that once flourished.
I mean, I could do so many things, I don't even need to write. I could draw or animate, whatever. But I just don't DO any of these things. I just feel so emptied. And what bugs me the most is, that I feel like I'm wasting every minute of every day. I have no idea what the future looks like for me. I don't know what the NEAREST future looks like for me. I'm trying to decide whether or not to give up this apartment, and I have to decide before May. It's risky trying to keep it, seeing as I don't even know if I'll be able to provide for myself after I graduate. Everything... not just school... my future... my summer... my life... my family... everything, everything, weighs on me. Maybe I shouldn't trouble myself... but I do.
I've been up all night, my sense of day and night is so fucked up. When I couldn't sleep at like 5.30 because I kept crying; I decided I might as well stay up all morning. Fuck sleep. Who needs to sleep? I'll try to get as much done today as possible and hopefully I'll fall down into bed exhausted tonight. Hopefully. Today I still have to finish my laundry, work on my thesis, clean up the apartment, prepare and host a work session for my extracurricular group and spend a few hours doing that. I need to apply for a couple of jobs and make a couple calls. This is what I plan to do and still I know I won't do them all. I'm always avoiding some chore or task. I've had enough, I don't even feel like an adult the way I'm living my life right now. I feel especially guilty that I haven't been to the office for over a week. But what can you do, right? I had to wait for my grade, so there wasn't much I could do really; but I should still have gone. Without a place to be each day it feels like my life has just been slipping away. And still I'd love to do what I choose with my life. I just want to get a steady income, doesn't have to be much, from a job that I don't hate and that doesn't bore me to death. I just want to feel good about life and enjoy living it. I don't want to be entangled this way. I don't want to be this far away from people I love. I don't want to keep looking back at memories because they make me feel better than the present moment does. I don't want to become frozen every time I even think of straightening out my life.
Funny, huh. Straightening out my life. There are people who would say I've got everything going for me, you know. About to graduate, the whole future ahead. Some kind of talent for some kind of creativity somewhere deep, deep down inside. Able to talk to people. Able to make people listen. Steady boyfriend. All that jazz. They say I'll work things out because I'm ambitious, things will work out. But they won't. I don't mean to be a cynic. They just won't. Things have never just "worked out" for me, at any point, in my life; the times they have worked out it's been because I made them work out. I made it work. It wasn't divine in any way. No one provided for me. I provided for me. And that's where the shoe fits, isn't it. I'm tired of making things work out. I feel bad when my projects and plans fall through; even when I've known from the beginning it'd be impossible to do it all. I feel bad when I don't spend my time doing chores, studying, applying for jobs or working on my portfolio. Thing is school is occupying my mind like HELL. And at the same time I just can't focus on it. It seems so trivial. What does it matter if I get a diploma in my hand in June? It doesn't. It's not gonna get me a job. A portfolio is going to get me a job. It's not gonna pat me on the back saying, Hey, you did GOOD! And it's certainly not going to pay off three years of studying loans. People just don't get that you can be completely broken, under a polished, seemingly alright surface. Why is this? Why don't people get that they're not the only ones who are more complex than a box of cereal?
Oh, I don't know. It felt like the right thing to do to come here, and I've learned so, so much. I thought three years spent at a fun education would be better than five years at an education I hated. I thought that if I spent three years here and then still didn't get a job, I could take any job, I'd still have those three years to remember. This just didn't happen. Now I'm panicking because I can't sort out what's going to happen. I'm unable to look past even a day at a time. I'm going to lose my apartment. My independence. Stuff is going on with friends and family. I worry to BITS. I've told myself to focus on my thesis for now, but I can't even do THAT.
To top it off this may very well be the most disorganized post I've ever made here. I apologize, or rather, I don't. I'm shit tired and I've gotta stay up for the rest of the day too. Yay. Yay!
POET IN THE BREAKING JAR
Wednesday, April 3
Emotion Explosion!
I'm having one of the strangest surges of emotion in my life. I'm bursting with pride, with sadness, with frustration, a glimpse of hope, a pinch of anger, and with an overwhelming topping of happiness and self-confidence. I wonder if other people are like this sometimes, or if it's just me. Seems to me that if a normal person had all these emotions at once they would explode. And I also feel as if I might explode any second - but I'm trying to keep it back, because I don't know if this explosion would take the form of laughter or choking tears. Life stretches out ahead of me, and it beckons with its inviting fingers, beckons me to better times and greener fields; but the road is lined with fear, fear of death, fear of age, fear of worse times, and withered fields. The future is a treacherous term. It should be treated with care and respect. Instead it has been hailed to the skies. "The future" is always something positive, something we should work towards and want for ourselves; but what is it really? Seconds that tick by counting down to the day we leave our bodies and this existence; seconds that fly by the older you get, seconds that are grains in the hourglass of human life and not even worthy of mention in the greater perspective of the universe.
Recently I applied for an animator's position at a local, rather successful, game development studio. I passed the first round, and got asked to do a work sample. Passing the first round was an achievement for me, seeing as it proved somebody had seen potential in my showreel, even though the reel had older material and wasn't optimally or professionally presented. With full time in school, I spent as much time on the work sample as I could, yet I told myself I wouldn't put any more time into it than I felt that I could afford. A decision thereby followed by an all-nighter before the deadline, creating animations in as little as four hours per animation. When I handed in a quarter before the deadline and stumbled exhaustedly into bed, I didn't feel achieved. What I did feel was a hunch that handing in despite the quality of the material, didn't mean I had wasted my time. And it turns out I hadn't. I didn't get the position, but I didn't expect to. What I did get, and what I didn't expect; was a written feedback on what was good in my material, and what I could have improved. Somewhere among the lines there was one line that seemed to stand out to me. The line was something like this: "It's clear that you have a good sense for animation". And this is when this email becomes good news - despite the fact that I didn't pass the second round.
Here's why.
A simple "You didn't make it" would have been convenient for the studio, but useless to me. I would know I wasn't good enough for their standards, but I would have no idea of what to improve or what to learn. A written feedback proving they have evaluated my content is generous for the studio, and useful for me. Now I know what I need to work on, and which my strengths are. Hearing this outside of a study environment, is extremely educational for me.
So I'm quite relieved my work wasn't hated, proud that they gave me positive feedback among the negative, happy that I took the chance to hand in and learning something, frustrated that I didn't put more time and effort into the sample, and finally I'm hopeful, because I know that I'll eventually learn these things, and eventually work with what I dream of working with - when I'm ready, and when I'll be needed.
I bet you couldn't guess this simple email was what caused my introductory philosophical stanza about life and the universe, now could you?
POET IN THE JAR
Recently I applied for an animator's position at a local, rather successful, game development studio. I passed the first round, and got asked to do a work sample. Passing the first round was an achievement for me, seeing as it proved somebody had seen potential in my showreel, even though the reel had older material and wasn't optimally or professionally presented. With full time in school, I spent as much time on the work sample as I could, yet I told myself I wouldn't put any more time into it than I felt that I could afford. A decision thereby followed by an all-nighter before the deadline, creating animations in as little as four hours per animation. When I handed in a quarter before the deadline and stumbled exhaustedly into bed, I didn't feel achieved. What I did feel was a hunch that handing in despite the quality of the material, didn't mean I had wasted my time. And it turns out I hadn't. I didn't get the position, but I didn't expect to. What I did get, and what I didn't expect; was a written feedback on what was good in my material, and what I could have improved. Somewhere among the lines there was one line that seemed to stand out to me. The line was something like this: "It's clear that you have a good sense for animation". And this is when this email becomes good news - despite the fact that I didn't pass the second round.
Here's why.
A simple "You didn't make it" would have been convenient for the studio, but useless to me. I would know I wasn't good enough for their standards, but I would have no idea of what to improve or what to learn. A written feedback proving they have evaluated my content is generous for the studio, and useful for me. Now I know what I need to work on, and which my strengths are. Hearing this outside of a study environment, is extremely educational for me.
So I'm quite relieved my work wasn't hated, proud that they gave me positive feedback among the negative, happy that I took the chance to hand in and learning something, frustrated that I didn't put more time and effort into the sample, and finally I'm hopeful, because I know that I'll eventually learn these things, and eventually work with what I dream of working with - when I'm ready, and when I'll be needed.
I bet you couldn't guess this simple email was what caused my introductory philosophical stanza about life and the universe, now could you?
POET IN THE JAR
Saturday, March 9
Do I Write Because I'm A Wreck Or Am I A Wreck Because I Write?
What could be said that hasn't already been said? What could be done that hasn't already been done? Welcome inside my head, it's a pinball machine, it's a storm of chaos and rage. I can't stop to think or I'll break. I can't stop to feel or I'll break.
There's a million things I should be doing right this moment, rather than typing this. A million things all weighing on my heart together with questions asked, questions unanswered, questions with answers I never wanted. Everything blurs together, races, is limitless. It's like my head is a ticking time bomb and sooner or later it's going to explode.
I can't stop to think.
I can't stop to feel.
The only thing I feel like doing creatively is writing and yet I haven't touched any of the stories I've been dying to write. There's so many options as to what I could spend my time doing, so many areas in which I need improving, so many things to practice, so many things to learn. It's all too much, too heavy. It's fucking with my head. I don't know what to think anymore, don't know what to do.
Today I read a passage from Stephen King's masterpiece handbook of how to write fiction. It said remember your character's back story. It felt like a whole world opened up to me. It felt like I could see all the lives of the characters I've created, each life as jagged as mine, each life so unruly, spreading out in multiple branches. It felt like I could just reach out and touch their darkness. Touch my own darkness.
I recognize these feelings, recognize the dark well of potential they are opening. It's like I'm being revisited by my muse. The one that used to burn so bright. The one that spread throughout my mind as if it was cancer but instead seemed to grant me an unlimited supply of words.
This is what I do when that happens. This is where I turn. The only craft I ever felt like I was close to mastering. The only craft so subjective, so persuasive, so tempting. The only craft that was ever fully mine. That felt like the area where I belonged.
Writing is an addiction to me. I've abandoned it and returned to it more times than I could possibly account for. When I'm not writing, my fingers are itching, my mind is racing. I feel like a traitor for not maintaining the only thing in the world that ever made me feel like I was immortal. I fight writer's block. I fight my own hubris. Most of all I fight life. With the attitude I've seemingly been gaining lately - the idea that life sucks, and is always going to work against you.
Why is it that when the world seems the most pointless, the words appear; why is it so easy to fall into the fantasy of my own head when life doesn't play out like I expected? Can you call it a muse, can you call it a craft? Can you call it the downside of any creative work? Are all writers like me? Is everyone who appreciates the work of written words a self-doubting wreck? Or do I write, BECAUSE I'm a self-doubting wreck?
I think I turn to art when I feel lost in the world. When the way of things seem meaningless. When there are things going on out there that I don't understand. When the world saddens me. When I feel like I'm miles behind everyone else. When my life makes no sense.
I feel like I'm not in control of my own life. I feel like it's spinning ahead without my consent. Like I couldn't affect it even if I wanted to or if I tried. I have to rewrite parts of my report for my thesis in order to get a passing grade. My practical work is fun and teaches me so much, but what I create is hardly state of the art. I've defined to myself the kind of artist I would want to be, but how does that help, when I've realized there's no way I'll ever become that artist?
Good news pour in with the bad news. If I go into any detail about the bad news I'll break. I feel so confused, so split in half. I'm doing great at the same time as I'm doing terrible. I feel more and more distanced from the world at the same time as I feel more and more connected to it. I think this might just drive me crazy. The only way I know how to deal with it is this. Writing. Again. Maybe if I pour my racing thoughts onto paper they'll stop haunting me inside my head. Maybe if I leave the real world long enough to enter a fantasy world... things will stop sucking. Or at least provide me with some kind of concrete escape. Something more tangible, something more respected, something more valuable, than escaping into a game world for hours on end. I have to do something with my time. I have to create.
I have to create or I'm going to burst.
See you at Camp Nanowrimo.
POET IN THE JAR
There's a million things I should be doing right this moment, rather than typing this. A million things all weighing on my heart together with questions asked, questions unanswered, questions with answers I never wanted. Everything blurs together, races, is limitless. It's like my head is a ticking time bomb and sooner or later it's going to explode.
I can't stop to think.
I can't stop to feel.
The only thing I feel like doing creatively is writing and yet I haven't touched any of the stories I've been dying to write. There's so many options as to what I could spend my time doing, so many areas in which I need improving, so many things to practice, so many things to learn. It's all too much, too heavy. It's fucking with my head. I don't know what to think anymore, don't know what to do.
Today I read a passage from Stephen King's masterpiece handbook of how to write fiction. It said remember your character's back story. It felt like a whole world opened up to me. It felt like I could see all the lives of the characters I've created, each life as jagged as mine, each life so unruly, spreading out in multiple branches. It felt like I could just reach out and touch their darkness. Touch my own darkness.
I recognize these feelings, recognize the dark well of potential they are opening. It's like I'm being revisited by my muse. The one that used to burn so bright. The one that spread throughout my mind as if it was cancer but instead seemed to grant me an unlimited supply of words.
This is what I do when that happens. This is where I turn. The only craft I ever felt like I was close to mastering. The only craft so subjective, so persuasive, so tempting. The only craft that was ever fully mine. That felt like the area where I belonged.
Writing is an addiction to me. I've abandoned it and returned to it more times than I could possibly account for. When I'm not writing, my fingers are itching, my mind is racing. I feel like a traitor for not maintaining the only thing in the world that ever made me feel like I was immortal. I fight writer's block. I fight my own hubris. Most of all I fight life. With the attitude I've seemingly been gaining lately - the idea that life sucks, and is always going to work against you.
Why is it that when the world seems the most pointless, the words appear; why is it so easy to fall into the fantasy of my own head when life doesn't play out like I expected? Can you call it a muse, can you call it a craft? Can you call it the downside of any creative work? Are all writers like me? Is everyone who appreciates the work of written words a self-doubting wreck? Or do I write, BECAUSE I'm a self-doubting wreck?
I think I turn to art when I feel lost in the world. When the way of things seem meaningless. When there are things going on out there that I don't understand. When the world saddens me. When I feel like I'm miles behind everyone else. When my life makes no sense.
I feel like I'm not in control of my own life. I feel like it's spinning ahead without my consent. Like I couldn't affect it even if I wanted to or if I tried. I have to rewrite parts of my report for my thesis in order to get a passing grade. My practical work is fun and teaches me so much, but what I create is hardly state of the art. I've defined to myself the kind of artist I would want to be, but how does that help, when I've realized there's no way I'll ever become that artist?
Good news pour in with the bad news. If I go into any detail about the bad news I'll break. I feel so confused, so split in half. I'm doing great at the same time as I'm doing terrible. I feel more and more distanced from the world at the same time as I feel more and more connected to it. I think this might just drive me crazy. The only way I know how to deal with it is this. Writing. Again. Maybe if I pour my racing thoughts onto paper they'll stop haunting me inside my head. Maybe if I leave the real world long enough to enter a fantasy world... things will stop sucking. Or at least provide me with some kind of concrete escape. Something more tangible, something more respected, something more valuable, than escaping into a game world for hours on end. I have to do something with my time. I have to create.
I have to create or I'm going to burst.
See you at Camp Nanowrimo.
POET IN THE JAR
Thursday, January 31
Everything Starts Out Chaotic And Fumbling
Honestly I'm more than exhausted. Everything I see on the screen in front of me is literally blurring and skewing my eyes. But I promised myself I'd be back behind the wheel again soon, and frankly I have missed writing. Even spontaneous thoughts like now. I have missed being able to spill everything out onto pages, into words. Maybe it's just easier to write everything down instead of locking it up in your head, or tiring all your friends with the same old stories and same old problems. Maybe. Or, maybe I just missed the craft.
I have been writing all day, in fact, but on a considerably duller text - my thesis. Things are going rather well at the studio, I really like it there. Everyone's cool, talented and hard-working, and still there always seems to be small talk and break time going on everywhere. People dart between eachothers' offices asking for files and delegating work and fetching fresh coffee. I'm essentially getting an exclusive sneak peek into the daily life of real game developers. Wow, sounds so amazing when I put it like that. Me and Lotta are the lowlives of the food chain, currently. The closest verbal description to what we're doing would be that we're "interns", but we're not really interns. The actual interns are there pitching in to the workload wherever possible. We're just there to get an insight into the worklife, and to write our thesis in cooperation with the company. As soon as the first, theoretical report has been written, though, we'll begin our practical work; and I'm hoping that'll make us feel like we're not taking up all their space. (I don't feel like that now either, but it's going to be nice to actually be helpful.) My thesis investigates the possibility of applying typical human movement patterns to non-human creatures, and how this affects player perception of character personality. It's a really interesting starting point, and I'm slowly getting somewhere with my report, but there's still a long way to go. Either way I'll just keep on pushing throughout the week. The first draft is due to my tutor on Tuesday. Hopefully he can tell me whether or not I'm going in the right direction with this whole thing. I thought writing academically would be easy, or well, usually it is. It's just that the whole essay is looming up over me like the exaggerated shadow cast by a comic book villain in a dark back alley. Whenever I start writing and referencing, I tangle myself up in my own arguments that I completely lose myself among all the words. But hey, that's okay. I just read today in a book on research methodology that a finished report may look very polished and perfect, but that it started out chaotic and fumbling; which made me feel a lot better.
I've heard our grades from our individual projects are going to be announced next week, by the way. I'm nervous to get the results. I think I did a huge job on both the practical and the theoretical level, but it all depends on what grade I get on my final report. So let's, let's just drop that for now.
Here's another thing that may look polished and perfect but started out chaotic and fumbling: my life. Nah, except for the perfect part. And the polished part. My point is, my life has been messy from time to time, messy as hell. There have been so many times when I've just seen no way out, and I've been convinced that I'm never going to be happy or be able to fulfil any of my dreams. On paper, things are looking up for me right now. But mentally, I am a shipwreck, an utter and complete shipwreck. The only time I don't feel like that is when Dear One is near. Or here.
This is depressing me. Signing off,
POET IN THE JAR
I have been writing all day, in fact, but on a considerably duller text - my thesis. Things are going rather well at the studio, I really like it there. Everyone's cool, talented and hard-working, and still there always seems to be small talk and break time going on everywhere. People dart between eachothers' offices asking for files and delegating work and fetching fresh coffee. I'm essentially getting an exclusive sneak peek into the daily life of real game developers. Wow, sounds so amazing when I put it like that. Me and Lotta are the lowlives of the food chain, currently. The closest verbal description to what we're doing would be that we're "interns", but we're not really interns. The actual interns are there pitching in to the workload wherever possible. We're just there to get an insight into the worklife, and to write our thesis in cooperation with the company. As soon as the first, theoretical report has been written, though, we'll begin our practical work; and I'm hoping that'll make us feel like we're not taking up all their space. (I don't feel like that now either, but it's going to be nice to actually be helpful.) My thesis investigates the possibility of applying typical human movement patterns to non-human creatures, and how this affects player perception of character personality. It's a really interesting starting point, and I'm slowly getting somewhere with my report, but there's still a long way to go. Either way I'll just keep on pushing throughout the week. The first draft is due to my tutor on Tuesday. Hopefully he can tell me whether or not I'm going in the right direction with this whole thing. I thought writing academically would be easy, or well, usually it is. It's just that the whole essay is looming up over me like the exaggerated shadow cast by a comic book villain in a dark back alley. Whenever I start writing and referencing, I tangle myself up in my own arguments that I completely lose myself among all the words. But hey, that's okay. I just read today in a book on research methodology that a finished report may look very polished and perfect, but that it started out chaotic and fumbling; which made me feel a lot better.
I've heard our grades from our individual projects are going to be announced next week, by the way. I'm nervous to get the results. I think I did a huge job on both the practical and the theoretical level, but it all depends on what grade I get on my final report. So let's, let's just drop that for now.
Here's another thing that may look polished and perfect but started out chaotic and fumbling: my life. Nah, except for the perfect part. And the polished part. My point is, my life has been messy from time to time, messy as hell. There have been so many times when I've just seen no way out, and I've been convinced that I'm never going to be happy or be able to fulfil any of my dreams. On paper, things are looking up for me right now. But mentally, I am a shipwreck, an utter and complete shipwreck. The only time I don't feel like that is when Dear One is near. Or here.
This is depressing me. Signing off,
POET IN THE JAR
Tuesday, January 29
I'm Good At Giving Myself Advice
Writing used to be so easy to me. I mean, at times it was hard; really hard. There were times when I stared at a blank page for hours on end and times I got entangled in impossible plot holes. There were times I dropped a novel because it just got out of hand. Times I didn't write at all. But even in those times, keeping a journal, or whatever you might call this place, has been easy. It's been easy to write about my everyday problems, my thoughts on the universe, and anything that might stray into my mind while I was typing. Poetry and spontaneous blog posts have been easy. Everything used to be so easy to write about, because I clung on to writing. Clung on to the words I could create. They were my lifeboat, and the way I handled everything.
And now I don't write. I don't plan writing sessions. I don't write spontaneously. Every line of every poem I've tried to write in the past few months has felt out of place, stereotypical or plain terrible. My main outlet of creativity has become to obsessively research obscure TV series trivia while I watch said series on TV. This is not good. Not good at all.
I've hit rock bottom of the valley named writer's block, and I've hit rock bottom hard this time.
If you google "how to overcome writer's block", you get 2,580,000 hits. That's right. Two million five-hundred eighty-thousand hits. I could pick up on any one of these 2,5 million hits and magically start my journey out of writer's block valley. Easy as that.
But it wouldn't be as easy as that. Time after time, in this very specific and intuitive field of writing, I've found that writing can't be taught to you. Sure, you can learn the language better. Expand your vocabulary and improve your grammar. You can learn how to analyze litterature. You can pick up tools from your writing teacher at your expensive but most likely fruitless writer's school that have names like protagonist development and the dramaturgical curve. And you can follow the tips on how to overcome writer's block that you find on Google. The thing is, no one can pick you up and lift you out of that valley but you. And if you're not going to work for it, there are no handy tips in the world that is going to help you. There are no quick fixes in writing or in writer's block. There's only you, and the words you put on that page. I have a very simple definition of my own of what teaches someone to write, and to constantly develop as a writer. Since I'm so incredibly adaptive, I shall commit to the popular "bullet list" format for this cause of noble wisdom-sharing.
Here's how to become a better writer in
3 easy steps!
1. Write, write, write.
2. Read, read, read.
3. Experience, experience, experience.
Repeat.
There you have it. It's all very admirable to consciously study the art of writing and the written word itself. I used to study litterature myself. But in essence, I see writing as something more intuitive, more artistic, than technical. All of the writing tools available are great to have at your disposal. Somewhere in the back of your mind, stashed away in your subconscious toolshed, where it can secretly influence your skills without drawing attention to itself. See, whenever I start to analyze my own writing TOO consciously; I'm sent down writer's block valley.
I only know one way to battle writer's block, and I don't need to browse any of Google's 2,5 million suggestions for it to work. It's like writing was car driving, and writer's block was an unexpected car crash in which you were slightly wounded, but you'll live; and the metallic sound of the crash was the heaviest burden you took with you from the accident. If you don't drive again soon after the accident, you're going to start to fear driving that car, fear causing another crash, fear not knowing where the road might take you. If you don't get back in the car right away and drive it off to somewhere things might be better, you're never going to get back in that car. Now imagine there were no buses or trains or other vehicles at all that would get you to that destination you used to go or to take those rocky terrain roads that you used to take. You're going to have to be driven around to your every errand by your off-the-bat uncle.
Beat the hell out of your own fear. Beat the hell out of writer's block. Start writing again. Force yourself to. Because the only thing keeping you from doing it, is you.
So that's what I'm doing here. I'm forcing myself to put myself behind the wheel again and steer out on unknown roads. Forcing myself to write.
Funny how the first thing I write is a guide for writing, when I have been out of business for months.
POET IN THE JAR
And now I don't write. I don't plan writing sessions. I don't write spontaneously. Every line of every poem I've tried to write in the past few months has felt out of place, stereotypical or plain terrible. My main outlet of creativity has become to obsessively research obscure TV series trivia while I watch said series on TV. This is not good. Not good at all.
I've hit rock bottom of the valley named writer's block, and I've hit rock bottom hard this time.
If you google "how to overcome writer's block", you get 2,580,000 hits. That's right. Two million five-hundred eighty-thousand hits. I could pick up on any one of these 2,5 million hits and magically start my journey out of writer's block valley. Easy as that.
But it wouldn't be as easy as that. Time after time, in this very specific and intuitive field of writing, I've found that writing can't be taught to you. Sure, you can learn the language better. Expand your vocabulary and improve your grammar. You can learn how to analyze litterature. You can pick up tools from your writing teacher at your expensive but most likely fruitless writer's school that have names like protagonist development and the dramaturgical curve. And you can follow the tips on how to overcome writer's block that you find on Google. The thing is, no one can pick you up and lift you out of that valley but you. And if you're not going to work for it, there are no handy tips in the world that is going to help you. There are no quick fixes in writing or in writer's block. There's only you, and the words you put on that page. I have a very simple definition of my own of what teaches someone to write, and to constantly develop as a writer. Since I'm so incredibly adaptive, I shall commit to the popular "bullet list" format for this cause of noble wisdom-sharing.
Here's how to become a better writer in
3 easy steps!
1. Write, write, write.
2. Read, read, read.
3. Experience, experience, experience.
Repeat.
There you have it. It's all very admirable to consciously study the art of writing and the written word itself. I used to study litterature myself. But in essence, I see writing as something more intuitive, more artistic, than technical. All of the writing tools available are great to have at your disposal. Somewhere in the back of your mind, stashed away in your subconscious toolshed, where it can secretly influence your skills without drawing attention to itself. See, whenever I start to analyze my own writing TOO consciously; I'm sent down writer's block valley.
I only know one way to battle writer's block, and I don't need to browse any of Google's 2,5 million suggestions for it to work. It's like writing was car driving, and writer's block was an unexpected car crash in which you were slightly wounded, but you'll live; and the metallic sound of the crash was the heaviest burden you took with you from the accident. If you don't drive again soon after the accident, you're going to start to fear driving that car, fear causing another crash, fear not knowing where the road might take you. If you don't get back in the car right away and drive it off to somewhere things might be better, you're never going to get back in that car. Now imagine there were no buses or trains or other vehicles at all that would get you to that destination you used to go or to take those rocky terrain roads that you used to take. You're going to have to be driven around to your every errand by your off-the-bat uncle.
Beat the hell out of your own fear. Beat the hell out of writer's block. Start writing again. Force yourself to. Because the only thing keeping you from doing it, is you.
So that's what I'm doing here. I'm forcing myself to put myself behind the wheel again and steer out on unknown roads. Forcing myself to write.
Funny how the first thing I write is a guide for writing, when I have been out of business for months.
POET IN THE JAR
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