Anthologies of Awesome

There is some possibility I may finish a semi-crappy short story before May for submission. It has been consuming a lot of my time. In thought, mostly.

I have been thinking quite a bit lately about the nature of people. I can think of my own arc from new car owning, social climbing suburbanite (though in a thoroughly unconventional vector) with Passionately Held Beliefs to a bike riding, cheap ass, don’t give a shit hippie. Not hippie as far as drum circles or bullshit karmic beliefs, just a hippie in an economic sense.

My transition was a strange one, fueled by rage, really. How rage can thrust someone into a state of Zen detachment  would be an interesting premise for another story. I think rage is exhausting, but like any other strenuous activity, it eventually builds up your ability to maintain that level of exertion. If you get used to anger, it’s easy to maintain. And the more aggressively angry you are, barring some sort of impeding change in condition, it probably works like wind sprints. Or Something. Not for me anymore. Maybe I blew out an angry ACL or something. That metaphor is getting shaky.

I remember I used to be funny. Like, holy shit funny. I don’t know what happened. I think the rage would manifest in rants that people thought were hilarious. Now I can barely make a joke. It’s a restful pause in which I find myself. A pool of calm and happiness on some trail of a thousand tears. Or something. I wish some Apaches would attack my lazy, languid ass to shake me out of this stasis. And another metaphor is weakened and killed.

I never try to write with metaphor, at least for serious writerly sort of crap. I think it’s a waste, really. And then I have people tell me how amazing all the metaphor was in something I wrote and I have not the heart to tell them I have no earthly clue what the fuck they’re talking about. So I just sort of take it. Then sometimes people get it.

My sister’s drunk ass redneck boyfriend (who I obviously like) tried to tell me once about the depth he found in that Dirt Rag story. He sort of nailed it by not knowing to look any deeper. “You know,” he glassily imparted, “the story was about bike rides and toads and shit, but I got more than that, man.”

Ok, I said.

“I got a…woman.”

Well, I said, one third of the story was centered around a female character.

And he got it. He got the whole thing, really. Enough of the whole thing, anyway. He got the majority of the whole thing, or at least a third. That’s better than most.

I noticed today on my statcounter that this neglected piece of shit blog is down in the teens, visitor-wise. And it’s my own fault.

This laziness is a motherfucker.