I'll Find My Sanity When I Find My Glory

I chopped twenty pages yesterday and wrote about two. I keep telling myself that I'll buckle down the next day, just sit and write for hours and hours and hours. But come the morning, I'm still groggy from the beer still in my system. I make myself some java and end up surfing the web for more hours and hours and hours.

If I didn't live in my own skin, I could tell myself follow the same routine I had when I was a lawyer - wake up at 7:40 a.m., get showered and dressed by 8:10, have my three cups of java, surf the web until 9:00 a.m. and buckle down until 8:00 p.m. But living in my own skin, I find that a lot tougher. When I was working in an office, I knew I had to be in the office or else no check. Now, I don't have to be anywhere. Plus, now that it's nearly three months since I left and I still have twice as much in my checking account than I had when I left the law the first time.

I guess this is a roundabout way of talking about motivation, to be more exact, my lack thereof. I should've been finished with my second novel by now instead of tearing it down and building it back up. I should be writing every single day.

There is a part of me, deep in that dark corner, that place where angels fear to tread, that thinks I'm not a real writer. Writers write everyday supposedly. Their muse is always there, whispering ideas in a neverending stream of creativity.

Then I think about my past. I think about Duke's creative writing program. Over 200 students submitted pieces of fiction each semester, only 15 were chosen. And just because you were chosen one semester didn't guarantee that you were accepted the next. I was chosen both times I applied. I take a look at this blog, and yeah, there's a lot of maudlin crapola in here, but there's some decent stuff in here as well. The Three Visit Barrier and A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Action will make it in some form or another to the novel. And I think, OK, I have the tools. I just have to friggin' use them.

One of things that brings me down on a daily basis is this dip in the dating. I get on match.com and almost every profile reads "I need a man who is financially secure." Totally understandable - no chiqua wants a layabout mooching off her. But here I am, the checking account slowly draining, doing something most folks don't consider real work. I'm no mooch and have never been one, but try telling that to a chiqua as she deletes my e-mail. Now, the rational part of me realizes that I will not be happy with a woman who's bottom line in a relationship is money and work. That part also knows that L.A. is probably the best place to be a creative-type underemployed male (and definitely way better than Silicon Valley). Hell, there was a cute chiqua who e-mailed me while I was dating Bees Knees who thought it was really cool that I left the law to pursue writing. (Stupid me being a monogamous dater, cute chiqua was no longer a match.com member by the time the relationship with Bees Knees imploded.)

So, not all is lost. The sun is shining. I have some tunes on the headphones. Sigh.

Provider (Zero 7 Remix)

"Writers block is the temporary paralysis caused by the conviction, on an unconscious level, that what the writer is attempting is in some way fraudulent, or mistaken, or self-destructive."

--Joyce Carol Oates.

I was going to power through the novel and do the editing afterwards. However, I've been stuck and unmotivated for the last month or so. I've read the Oates quote a while back, but it didn't really hit me until yesterday when I was at Borders. I saw the American copy of my favorite book. Since I made the mistake of lending my treasured original British paperback version to Bee's Knees and the American version is hard to find, I decided to shell out the seven bucks for a book I theoretically already owned. If I were to list inspirations for my style of writing, first and foremost on the list is Michael Marshall Smith (I usually say Nick Hornby to mixed company because he's better known). His writing is funny, violent, sentimental and very very snarky all at once.

Anyway, I was rereading a couple of my favorite passages while waiting in line and I realized how for off course I was with my novel. I realized the inconsistent motivations. I realized I included a character that was only there for my therapeutic reasons, but I couldn't see progressing the story at all. Then I realized I was going to have to trash about two-thirds, if not more, of what I've written. I realized that I was being fraudulent and self-destructive. So, today, that's the goal. Push out the jive, bring in the love as Mr. Burns would say.

Angels Falling Through My Head . . .

She looks like Poppy Montgomery and sounds like Lauren Bacall. Sheesh, what is is with me and bookstore chicks?

you're a hero, you're a freak-oh

Friday night, my buddies the Big Jew, Dubois and I got together at 217 down in Santa Monica. The place has always been hit or miss--either it's a nice place to look at the betties or it's a total sausage-fest. I hadn't been to 217 in a while. The last time I was there, there was some belly dancing function which is much cooler than it sounds. Sure, there were three gyrating scantily clothed-women of dubious morals on stage, but they were the only women in 217. Suffice it to say, I bugged out of there quickly the last time.

Anyway, I hadn't seen my buddy Dubois in a while. He'd been doing some contract work at a major BigLaw putting in long hours of document review, saving up the cashish so he could then follow his bliss--writing screenplays and producing flicks. Oh, plus his live-in has him on a short leash. This was supposed to be a long overdue boys night out.

My goal was just to hang out with the boyz, decompress, maybe (OK, definitely) check out the pretty babies. I've learned the hard way that, at least for me, going out with the stated goal of picking up some digits is a straight path to disappointment. The body language that's either too cocky or too unsure, the overly roving eyes, everything that signals desperation as the 2am last call comes closer and you haven't got the digits, boy does that raise red flags for the chiquas. I know that there are a lot of guys who can pull the rico suave, but different things work for different people. Me, I gotta go for the zen approach--not looking for digits, if it happens it happens. Body language is less tense and I don't feel like too much of a gumba. If there's someone I think I'll click with, then I'll talk to her. If there's no one, oh well. (And to the peanut gallery--yeah, I have approached women at clubs and danced with them, so keep those "yeah, I've never seen you talk to women at clubs" to yourselves).

I get to the 217 on time, which means I'm there fifteen minutes earlier than everyone else (damn Asian punctuality gene). At 10:00 pm, the club isn't too crowded and women outnumber men. So far, good sign. Then about ten minutes in, all these guys start walking in. A lot of guys. My buddies came in around 10:20 pm, and a group of slender model-types also arrived (unfortunately, not with my buddies). Among the slender model types was a lone Asian guy who was talking to this blonde a lot. At first, I thought "Hey, it's possible for one of the yellow bruthas to be pickin' up on the round-eye." As I observed the group further, I noticed he was the only guy among the hotties. I also noted that the hotties' body language toward the yellow bruthah was friendly, casual and not at all I want your hunky Asian bod. Either he was marked as "safe" or he was gay.

So me and the boyz were drinkin' and catchin' up on the haps. I'm the only guy outta the Mira Hershey Hall group who's not coupled (both the Big Jew and Dubois have live in girlfriends), and Dubois gets this idea that I should start mackin' on the pretty babies. I caught the eye of this one stunning woman with raven hair at the bar, but then I caught a gander at the bracelet she was wearing - a diamond studded black band that was worth more than my car. I looked away with a mad quickness. By the time Dubois got this idea in his head, 217 was packed (unfortunately, it was packed with more men then women). There was this one woman who I tried to make eye contact with, but she kept looking away. She was a dark blonde wearing a white beret, and a one-strap white retro-70s top with capri khakis. A friend of the Big Jew who joined us late called her "Britney Spears" in a derogatory way.

Anyway, it was about fifteen before midnight and the original plan was to bug, head over to the Circle Bar or World Cafe to see if the ratio was better. Then Dubois says hold on, and with horror, I watch him pull a high school move. One of the chicks at Britney's table went over to the bar. Dubois walks over to her, starts talking, then points over at me and point over at Britney. Fuck. Learning a lesson from a story the Big Jew told me about his pal a long while back (dull story, but good lesson which is PLAY THE FUCK ALONG), I say hi. The next thing I know, I'm buying the table drinks and having a conversation with Cindy (Britney's real name).

Cindy had an accent, a Guatemalan accent to be exact. How did I know? Because she said she was from Guatemala (that's what you get for asking stupid questions). Dubois loves Latin American accents, but he has a better shot with chicks from Latin America (his mother is black, his dad is Irish which apparently makes him sexy to women of all races but leaves us guys shakin' our heads in disbelief-- he just looks like a goofy guy with slacker fashionwear to us--the man also backs that up with game because he's able to follow the simple rule of listening to what a woman has to say and asking her questions about herself). Me? As soon as I heard that she was from Guatemala, I knew this wasn't going to go anywhere except for conversation. OK, this isn't low self-esteem speaking here. This is the realities of culture. You think some young thang who came to the U.S. with her family is going to be bringin' home a yellow brutha to the devoutly Catholic and traditional parent's dinner table?

Cindy invited me to sit with her. We talked for about fifteen or so minutes. We both kept up our ends of the conversation, so it was very easy and casual. Neither of us had to pull too hard to get the other to speak. I found out she was planning on becoming an American citizen in the next couple of months (another big yikes in my book), that she left school early, that she did billing for some doctor's office that had a lot of creative type patients. She wanted to go back to school to become a fully certified RN. She learned I was a lawyer taking some time off to write. When she went off with one of her friends to the bathroom, Dubois said, "OK Marty, tell her we have to leave and get her digits when she gets back." Well, he said that after saying, "OK, how cool am I, Marty? How cool am I?" So she comes back, and I make a couple of minutes more of small talk. Then I told her I have to go, and asked her if I could call her sometime.

She smiled and said, "Um, I'm married and I have three kids," putting up three fingers. I smiled back knowingly, and said, "You're a sweet kid. Nice talkin' to ya."

Yeah, she could be married and have three kids, and I could be the King of Siam.

Oh well. She really was sweet when we were talking, she was nice enough to invite me to sit. But c'mon, she could've thought of a better blowoff line.

Things I've Thought About In The Last Hour

I really need to figure out how to add links to the side of my blog without it going kablooie and being replaced by a Portuguese web page.

Sad fact that I will never admit on a first date: I was on my high school math team.

Sadder fact that I will never admit on a first date: I joined my high school math team out of peer pressure.

I didn't drink enough coffee today. On the other hand, I did drink enough Diet Coke to give cancer to five generations of lab rats.

The random match.com chick who "winked" at me today is a hottie. She reminds me of the first girl in college I had a crush on -- blonde, slender, hazel eyes. So why do I feel like this is some sort of scam that will end up with my body in someone's trunk as a modern day Bonnie and Clyde make of with my checking account? And why did I just "wink" back at her despite my whole rant against winks a couple of entries ago?

When I see Natalie Morales on TV, my first thought is generally "What a hottie." Then I realize she's thirty, like me. Then I realize she's on a national cable news channel whereas I'm at the dining room table in front of a blank laptop screen. I hate TV sometimes.

Sometimes, when you're feeling craptastic, when you're wondering if you have any talent at all or if you're just deluding yourself like that guy on the corner of Wilshire and Veteran who really does think that the CIA wants to steal his brain waves and secret string, you get signs. You get support from unexpected places. Go give a nice shout out to Kim, a fellow blogger and genuinely nice human being.

Stutter

Throw in two parts writer's block, one part laziness, a spinkling of self-doubt and a garnish of mind-numbing apathy, and you get the wilted house salad of sit-on-your-ass-ism that I've been suffering for the last two weeks. Well, that and really bad metaphors. I have some of the major points of the novel plotted out, but the last time I went to that special word document that is my manuscript, the words poured out with nary a trickle. Hell, that's crap imagery too because "poured out" implies that there was more than a trickle. Sigh. Maybe I need to up my caffeine intake.

I'm trying to finish the paperback edition of Dave Egger's novel, You Shall Know Our Velocity!. I have to admit, the guy can write. His phrases are crisp and simple, yet descriptive. But after I put the book down, I have to wonder why I think the writing is good -- yeah the writing is crisp and simple, but also rambling and random. There are several times I think, "Yeah, so what" when I'm reading this. But I keep reading and reading.

Anyway, for shits and giggles, here's Marty Stark imitating Dave Eggers:

I was sitting upstairs in the loft. The fan was on the floor pushing hot air around my calves. I was thinking about writing. Actually, I was thinking less about writing, and more about the lack of writing. I haven't been able to write in the last two weeks. I sit in front of the computer with my coffee and feel guilty about not writing. I sit and sweat drinking coffee in the summer heat with no air conditioning. I sit and let my cat crawl onto my lap, hear her sigh as she falls asleep. She doesn't move because I don't move. I don't move because I'm not writing. I just sit and sweat with a distant cousin of a panther dozing on my lap. Sometimes, I hear the chainsaw roar of lawnmowers as immigrant gardeners do their weekly trimming. I know lawnmowers aren't chainsaws, but that's what they sound like.

Because I'm not writing, I'm just sitting and sweating in front of a blank screen, I let my mind wander. I think about what those gardeners would think if about that gringo two floors above them that has it easy, that just sits there up in his loft, sitting there and sweating and not having to work in long sleeves under the sun. (If I could do footnotes in Blogger, there'd be a footnote next to gringo. The footnote would read "Well, I'm not a gringo, but I don't know the derogatory Mexican term for Asian. Chinquo maybe?").

-Yo Chinquo, why aren't you doing real work?

-I did real work. I was a lawyer. I hated it.

-Ah, lawyer, accidente, that is bad work. But it is work. Look at me. I work in long sleeves on this hot day, and the pollen and the grass, they make my eye water. Yet I still work. It is the way of the world. You must work too.

-But I'm trying to work. I'm trying to write a book.

-Book? That is not real work. And anyway, it looks like you're not writing at all. It looks like you're just sitting there sweating, drinking coffee with a sleeping gato on your lap.

-Don't you think I wish a torrent of words would come to me? Don't you think I wish words like spawning salmon would rush through me onto paper? Anyway, leave me alone. I feel bad enough already about sitting and sweating and not writing.

-Alright, amigo, I will continue back to my mowing and getting grass in my eyes and leave you to your sitting and sweating. Just think about what I said about real work. It is the way of the world.

Eventually, the chainsaw sound stops. My coffee turns cold. And I haven't done any writing again for yet another afternoon.

Chili cheese burritos are good.

United States of Whatever

I'm taking a quick break from writing novel to update the blog. Unfortunately, I have to admit the reason for the blog silence over the last several days was because of me geeking out. Damn you LucasArts! I have to write at least 5 pages a day straight until the 31st if I want to hit my self-imposed goal of one-hundred pages written by the end of the month.

So, in no particular order or relevance, some random points:

1. Not only has it been a hot July in Lalaland, it has also been humid with a capital hugh. I can't remember a cloudy day being so damn hot since college where August was like walking into a dryer overstuffed with soggy clothes. The weather also reminds me when I visited my cousins during the summer in South Carolina as a kid. Maybe it was the oppressive feel of the heat, the type of heat that made you sweat with the first breath of the morning, that made me want to kick my cousin's ass on a daily basis. Or maybe it was because my cousin was an annoying dull yokel of a snot as a kid.

2. Damn you LucasArts! OK, I know I already said that, but it bears repeating. I logged in over 25 hours of gameplay in less than two days. I'm as bad as a smackhead in my addiction. What's the geek version of methadone?

3. Match.com has this new feature called "Winks" whereby you can let a person know that you're interested by sending an electronic "Wink," an electronic version of a note stuffed in your locker saying Jimmy from Algebra likes you. Where this may be OK in Happyland Junior High, this is not OK in Adult Singledom, USA. Maybe chicks can get away with this, a coy wink across the ether, but a guy doing this? C'mon, it shows that you lack enough chutzpa to start a frigging conversation. If you can't do that by e-mail where the stress of conversation is taken out, then you might as well just spend the money you funnel into match.com on porn.

Fireworks Red and Green

Whoo hoo! Curve will be releasing a compilation from its Anxious years!

Whatever Happened To You . . .

I know this shouldn't make me feel happy. I really do. But I gots the endorphins going and the serotonin levels are probably off the charts.

Last night I was drinking and googling (kids, drinking and googling don't mix! OK, there's my public service announcement), and I came across a very recent photo of the first chiqua I ever dated. We met the summer before my sophomore year of high school, and I ended up moving (thanks dad, ppppphhht) about two months later. Anyway, from what I remember, she was petite, had a cute button nose, beautiful green eyes, dirty blonde hair and a well-toned body (she was on her high school swimming team and field hockey team).

Now, either my memory is viewing things through rose-colored glasses or time really changed her.

She's now a resident at one of the UC med schools, and there was a photo of her in an article about cutting down on the number of hours residents can put in during a week. What does she look like now? You can tell there used to be a cute girl, but now, well, her face has fleshed out and her hair has turned from dirty blonde to mousy brunette. She looks like the type who'd wear orthopedic shoes as casual wear. If you saw her walking down the street, you'd immediately forget what she looked like as she turned the corner.

Meanwhile, I look much better than I did in high school. My face has lost some of its fullness so it's not so moon-shaped. The cow-like placidity in those high school photos have now been replaced (hopefully) by some confidence and intelligence.

Yeah, I know I shouldn't feel better because of this. In her defense, I think she's getting married soon so she's one up on me in the social thing. But still, it's nice to be reminded that I'm not the same person I was in high school.

Birth, School, Work, Death

Happy Deathday!
Your name:	Marty Stark
You will die on:	Friday, July 18, 2031
You will die of:	Electrocution
Username:
Created by Quill

Crap. I knew I shouldn't have crossed the Heisenberg Compensators with the Schroedinger Router while trying to hack my Quantum Tivo for some parallel universe porn.

Tickin' Away The Moments That Make Up A Dull Day . . .

Heh heh. So I'm getting bored of the whole "Stark Thoughts" thing, and maybe I'll just keep changing the title until I come up with something I like. Or maybe not.

Anyway, I was thinking about this whole on-line persona. A couple of years ago, random chiquas on AOL used to IM me on an irregular basis, mainly due to AOL profile which included music I listened to. A couple of IM sessions in, the ones who were interested in more than music asked me how old I was and what I looked like. Inevitably, they would all freak out and go radio silent when I mentioned I was Asian. (I guess they figured I was Italian with my AOL name, which is weird because it's just a bad latin / legal reference.)

At a casual glance, except for the few entries that explicitly state that "Marty Stark" is a pen name and that I'm actually Taiwanese, this blog appears to be written by some white dude who listens to music, hates the law and tries (usually unsuccessfully) to sound like an American Nick Hornby.

What's the point of this entry? Dunno. Maybe I'm bored. Maybe I'm pissed because the chicks who say they're looking for "Any" ethnicity on match.com really mean White/Caucasian. Maybe I need a burrito and a prozac.

"Burn Baby Burn" by Ash

I first heard "Burn Baby Burn" on MTV2's 120 Minutes about 3 weeks into my stint at Phuqued Firm. The video for the single had cheerleaders, which kept me from switching the channel. Then the the sharp guitar hooks wormed its way into my subconscious and I found myself hitting the rewind on TiVo just to hear that melody and that energy. I hadn't been that addicted to a guitar hook since The Foo Fighters' "Learning to Fly."

Two guitars, one bass, one drummer, the sorta average male vocals propelled by simple power chords and an obligatory guitar riff - it was the archtypal pop rock formula. But despite its simplicity, so many bands seem to fuck it up. Sum 41, Blink 182, Good Charlotte - everytime I begin to hear one of their songs on the radio, I end up switching the station because they either smack of effort or they try to hit you over the head with a brick. It seems like these groups equate energy with stupidity - "How many people wanna kick some ass"? Well, I do, and it's yours after hearing that lyric.

So why have I decided on "Burn Baby Burn" as a song entry? I mean, I can mention it's the type of song that makes you wanna move out to Los Angeles, roll down all the car windows to let the California sun in while you whip down the Pacific Highway, the blue ocean next to you, the blood in your veins making you feel giddy and dangerous as you hit 80 miles per hours on those curves. The melody with the guitars sounds like the Sex Pistols doing a Beach Boys song (which Ash no doubt knows as they give a shout out to Brian Wilson in "Pacific Palisades" off the same album, Free All Angels).

When you first listen to "Burn Baby Burn", it's no surprise that you'll probably think it's just a catchy piece of punk-pop. "Oh, it's probably about summer love or rock'n' roll" you'll probably think. Then, as you try to sing to it, and you will because the melody is so damn catchy (they don't call it a hook for nuthin'), you'll surprise yourself midway through the chorus (which is accompanied with a female harmony) by singing "Oh this is slow suicide". Then you start going hmmm as you sing "something inside had died."

When you actually listen to the lyrics, "Burn Baby Burn" is the most melodically upbeat song about a destructive dead-end relationship from which you can't escap that you've ever heard. "Vicious bitter words / Becoming more and more cruel / But you always take me back / And let me lick your wounds" are lyrics that sound more comfortably in a NIN song. And yet the lyrics work perfectly with the melody. Even stranger, the chorus is, dare I say, poetic. "Tumbling like the leaves / Yeah we are spiraling on the breeze" - most aspiring writers would chop off a finger to create a verse with so much imagery packed in two lines, and maybe a hand to have the imagery fit with so well with the rest of the work.

If there were some sort of music lesson to be learned here, I guess it would be something to the effect of simplicity does not mean stupidity. One can craft a layered intelligent work that is also simple. But that's not why I've written an entry about this.

Sometimes, you hit a synchronicity between a song and a moment of your life. I heard this song just as I was beginning to realize I hated my chosen career. "Burn Baby Burn" nailed this sentiment to a tee. Yeah, even the "golden hair and pale blue eyes" part - the law was just a proxy for that, the promise of a big income and huge respect was the career equivalent of the hot blonde chick. And the more I practiced the law, the more I hated my life, but I felt that I couldn't leave.

"Burn Baby Burn" is the closest song to ever match a moment of my life.

Summer Turns Me Upside Down . . .

Lesson learned this weekend: If a slender 5'10 blonde in her early twenties with the face of a younger Cameron Diaz starts talking to you at the pool, you should probably try to engage in a conversation that isn't limited to one syllable responses from your side.

Stutter

Crap, I was trying to add links to books I'm currently reading. I thought I coded everything correctly - it showed up on the preview window just fine. Then when I went to republish the blog with the links -- my blog was replaced by this weirdo Brazilian blog.

Intuition

I made decent progress on the novel yesterday, but unfortunately suffered from sever insomnia last night. I don't think I fell asleep until 4:30 a.m., and woke up feeling, for lack of a better word, oogie around 10:00 a.m. to the sound of vacuuming across the hall. The vacuuming continued for two hours. So, not feeling too creative today. However, I'll be writing another song entry later tonight to keep up my prose chops.

On a random note, I hate to admit it, but I have Jewel's new song stuck in my head. Someone has already written how I feel about the makeover of Jewel and Liz Phair, so I won't go into my cynical apathy at the mainstream recording industry. I will say that, just on music terms and based on the admittedly narrow sampling of their first singles from the new albums, Jewel is doing better than Liz Phair.

Although I may be a music snob, I'll be one to admit that good music doesn't necessarily have to come from clever lyrics or complex arrangements (and I certainly don't believe obscurity necessarily equates to quality). Music succeeds if it sticks in your mind and you don't feel like taking a hammer to your head because of it. In other words, catchy music can be good music. And Jewel's first single, "Intuition", is catchy indeed. With the first accordian notes and the children's song quality of "la la la la", you're hooked. You can't get that chord out of your head (which is good because it makes you forget the so in your face it's vapid lyrics about media fakers, though the 'look who's calling the kettle black' quality does create additional entertainment value, especially because Jewel is probably earnest about it). The Middle Eastern-tinged melody is different enough that it doesn't become cloying, like Mmmmbop. And I hate to admit that I find the new Jewel catchy because I hate the music of the old Jewel. It was bland, over-wrought crap that sounded like the poetry a junior high granola chick would write. At least Jewel's new single isn't bland.

Unforntunately, Liz Phair's new single is. "Why Can't I?" is utterly forgettable. The melody is similar to those of Pink's slower songs, and those lyrics sound familiar because she used The Matrix - Avril Lavigne's producing team. It's like watching Kim Catrall getting into low-ride capris, keds and a Walmart blouse going up to midwestern teens and saying "Hey, I'm hip! I'm with it!" Though at least Kim Catrall would have a better time getting noticed. When I first heard "Why Can't I?", I couldn't remember the melody five minutes later.

I guess the lesson learned is that if you're going to sell out, make sure you're going to get noticed.