Ye Old Seamonkies.net

Firstly, a disclaimer: I am not writing this blog as an expert trying to impart knowledge on aspiring writers. Nothing I say here reflects expertise.

I think documentation of the kinds of questions and frustrations I come up against during my first year of writing might be useful in the longer term, since it could serve to help others ask the right questions.

I don’t really like to read, but I at least think I understand some of the mechanics of stringing words together. Likewise, I am not completely ignorant of the elements required to make a good story. To me the devil is always in the administrative overhead.

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Copywriting and intellectual property: I am really not sure what a writer needs to do to protect intellectual property. For example, this blog — it’s not that I am looking to “monetize” this crap, but I would like to avoid having others monetize my work for me in ways that cause me to scowl. The modern era is full of shady digital jackassery — this aspect probably deserves some careful thought.

Publication: Why write? If all I wanted was a some cathartic act of making chaos from order there is probably an easier way to do it. Writing is only a valid pursuit if it is read. How do I deliver words to consumer? I have no idea. Perhaps on-line at no cost. Perhaps figure out if publishing is still a thing. Damn — I really don’t know.

Self discipline: February 1 was my first day on the job. As you can see, it’s the 4th already. This is the first day I’ve sat down to write. My plan was to devote 20 hours per week to the craft… Even if we count the time spent poking around on the internet for answers, I am still behind on my hours.

January 31, 2021 has come and gone. That date marked six months since I retired and was the date I chose to decide upon a path forward. Six months of notes scrawled into the margins of my calendar. Six months of post-its with ten words of a multivolume manifesto written haphazardly on each one. Six month of mostly not thinking about it, punctuated by bouts of heavy introspection.

My alternative futures were many — all shining like gems on the bottom of the sea… just out of reach, twinkling with the suggestion of greed or desire. All these futures so obviously flawed that it did not require and great feat of breath-hold diving to know the score. All living in Schrodinger’s cat box as both possible and impossible.

I considered Portugal and beginning the process of trading in my society for one I didn’t know. Intellectually, I fully understand the moral of that story — that all societies are kind of horrible; however, I have always found it comforting to feel alienated in a foreign land. I am, after all, an alien there. Here, I just feel alienated — the familiarity just makes it worse. When Portuguese society gets together to perpetrate some horrible injustice, I have no control over it. I can easily dismiss it as “them” or “they.” When we do it here, I am equally powerless, but there is no denying that it was “we” that done the deed.

I estimate that if I had chosen this path, I could have spent 6 months a year learning the language, customs, and history. I would have delved into the arcane culinary minutia to determine conclusively what I like and don’t like about the food there. I could have traveled the other six months — Europe is a varied place; I would not have been bored. I could have even traveled back to visit here — I would like my cultural divorce to be amicable. Really. It’s not society. It’s me.

Where’s the flaw? Oh, birdo! Even if I could figure out Euro parrot licensing, it would be a tough journey. How would I get her back to the U.S. when the war starts? We have to be terrible bureaucratic lurches too. Could I do that to the perpetual 3 year old? To the Green Weenie herself?

Of course I not. Dreams of alien alienation will wait. Perhaps a eurozone passport by 60 isn’t an “end” per se. It seems like a subordinate goal to some grand plan that does not yet exist.

I could go back to school. Last year (or maybe the year before) I had gone through the motions of applying to graduate school. I had enjoyed Rhode Island in the recent past, and think I am at a point in my life where the repetitive head injuries would allow better discipline in an educational setting. While I am not at a point in my life where I am willing or able to pay for school, I was willing to work for it.

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Without going into too much gory detail, I note a complete lack of understanding for the politics of academia on my part. I was not accepted. I don’t see much sense in repeating the exercise again.

Other programs, like undergraduate biology, have appeal; however, it seems impossible to make undergraduate studies cost neutral. I do not believe I want it that badly. Like Portugal, an education can wait.

What about finding a job? Even if I harbor negative feelings towards society, can’t they hand me a pile of money to be their monkey?

{the clickity-click pauses — a sigh is heard in the background}

Of course. I was a pretty good monkey. I’m sure society would have me back if I asked. I am pretty certain I wouldn’t even need to grovel or degrade myself unduly. I am quite fortunate in this respect.

Don’t take this the wrong way either — I like money as much as the next monkey. I’m not some dangerous degenerate that eschews material comforts and preaches poverty. I simply value a more honest relationship with society than is possible while I’m a kept person (even if we are separated and seeing other societies). Does that make sense? I somehow doubt it does.

Well. That’s all for now. Tune in next week for the answer to the big question… or maybe just a longer list of futures I decided against.