Clearing Out the Cobwebs

This has been slow-going, trying to get this blog up to speed again.

I find myself so overwhelmed by my own ruminating that I can't seem to sort out what I want to say. It's sort of like this exchange between Albert Brooks (as the character Daniel Miller) and Rip Torn (Bob Diamond) in "Defending Your Life":

Miller: Where were you? I'm just curious.
Diamond: I'd tell you, but you wouldn't understand.
Miller: Don't treat me like a moron. Try me.
Diamond: I was trapped near the inner circle of thought.
Miller: I don't understand.
Diamond: I told you ...

I often feel as if I'm trapped near the inner circle of thought. It accounts, in part, for my reputation as aloof, sometimes smug. I can get so pensive at times that it seems as if I'm disengaged. It's the other way around -- sometimes I'm so engaged in trying to unravel one issue or another that I find it difficult to express myself. Hence, writer's block.

It's also why I haven't yet done anything to promote this blog. Sure, it's out there for anyone who happens to stumble across it, but I haven't advertised it to friends or family or the general public. At the moment, I'm writing this for the mere exercise of writing, the act of putting thoughts in a readable format (remember when we called that "putting thoughts on paper"?) Eventually, I'll feel sufficiently comfortable with sharing my perspective that I'll get around to addressing specific topics, beyond my my writer's block, that is.

I've come to realize that the problem is my sense of vulnerability -- the reasons for which I hope to get into in future posts -- is hindering my ability to share. Writing in any form is a deeply personal act. Even if you're not writing about yourself, all writers reveal some part of themselves in their words. Doesn't matter whether it's a memoir, a novel, a biography or a news story. The way in which writers approach the topic at hand always exposes something about their psyches, hard as they may try to conceal it.

I was trained in journalism -- newspapers, specifically -- and I liked it because it provided some measure of detachment. I could exercise my craft under the cover of objectivity. It was not, I told myself and others, about me, but about the day's news. But as I've gone back and looked at my writing, I realize that everything I've ever written had a little bit of me in them. I'll bet some computer whiz could cook up an algorithm that would figure out all of my biases and hangups and fears based on how I wrote the lede or turned a phrase or structured my stories, regardless of whether the personal pronoun was ever used.

I've also come to realize that I've been missing one thing in my overall outlook on life that I had in abundance back in the day: a sense of boldness, at least when it came to writing. I approached every assignment, every project, every essay with the unshakeable knowledge that I could write anything. I have no shortage of doubts about my abilities, but until the last few years I was fearless when I sat down to write. But a few years back, for a whole lot of reasons, my confidence was shot to hell, and when the trepidation extended to my belief in my skill as as a writer, well ... game over.

So figure me, if you come across this, for these navel-gazing posts. I've always been reluctant to slap a PTSD diagnosis on myself, but there's no doubt I'm working through some old trauma. Be patient as I take a few baby steps on the road back to writing. I'll be back on my feet soon.

Grammy a Break

I didn't watch the Grammy Awards last night.

Nothing against the artists, mind you. (Well, maybe some of the artists -- but I'll keep a lid on the hatin' for now.) I admire the talent and drive that got them where they are, for the most part. And in many cases -- though not all -- they deserve the accolades.

It's not the awards per se that I'm against. It's the show itself.

The industry and its fans would argue that a big, glitzy, glamorous extravaganza is a fitting tribute to the people who have become internationally famous and the people around them who pushed them to greater heights. It's celebratory, they would say.

It's masturbatory, I say.

Entertainment is an ego-driven business, and the bigger the ego, the greater the need to be stroked. Maybe I'm just getting grumpier as I get older, but I no longer have the patience to sit for three hours watching people fawning over themselves. That goes for all awards shows -- Grammys, Emmys, Oscars, you name it.

It's possible that I've lost patience because in my current job, I've become much more aware of how the sausage is made. I don't want to call out anyone in particular, but there are plenty of household names out there who are much more the product of marketing and promotion than actual talent. That's not to say they don't have any talent -- I certainly couldn't do what most of them do. But in many cases their talent isn't any greater than someone struggling below the radar.  They just managed to surround themselves will people who saw an exploitable resource. And believe me, once that resource is thoroughly tapped out, those people whose lives are envied by millions get thrown out faster than moldy cheese.

But even if I hadn't been exposed to the inner workings of the entertainment world, I still don't think I'd be very interested in awards shows. I find self-indulgence very disquieting, which could explain why I haven't done better in my career. I'm more inclined to look away than gawk at people who go through life saying, "Look at me! Look at me! I'm fabulous! I'm brilliant! Revel the spectacle that is me!" I respond very poorly to people who demand attention and respect, but I'm very loyal to people who quietly earn it. So when I admonish artists to just shut up and play, it's not a diss. Don't tell me what you got. Show me.

First Thing in the Morning Is the Last Thing I Need

Why is it that so many writers are (or claim to be) at their best in the morning?

You've read the quote, or some variation of it: "I get up every morning at 4:30, scan the headlines, do a little research, then I write until about 8 a.m." Then there's the litany of holistic exercises to feed the creative soul -- going for a morning swim in the ocean, hiking the backcountry, taking a brisk walk or some other stress-reducing activity.

It's that kind of account of personal drive that contributed to my turn away from writing for a long time. I've never been that disciplined, and I figured that if I couldn't approach the craft like a 13th Century scribe locked up in a monastery then I obviously wasn't sufficiently serious about the craft.

But here's the thing -- it's not the time of day that matters. It's all about AAA -- anxiety, anger and adrenaline. For me to be at my creative best, I need to be stressed out by a fast-approaching deadline or so pent-up about one thing or another that I need to find a way to express myself.

That's why I've taken to my keyboard at this moment, near 5 o'clock in the afternoon -- because someone said something that triggered an emotional response in me. What was said is not important. In the greater scheme of things, it was trivial, actually. But it was enough to send me looking for a convenient place to express myself, so here I am.

Suppose, you may ask, that my emotional trigger had been fired at 5 a.m. rather than 5 p.m.? Wouldn't that inspire me to jump out of bed and fire up the laptop?

Nope. It would inspire me to roll over and go back to sleep.

Sleep has been an unfortunate response to emotional trauma for me over the years (unfortunate because it's ultimately counterproductive). When I come under severe stress, my whole being shuts down, mentally and physically. If there's a bed or a sofa nearby, that's where I'll take my refuge.

At the moment, though, taking refuge is slumber is not an option. So I'm indulging myself with a bit of rambling prose. It's an emotion-dump more than an effort to impart wisdom or be entertaining, so I apologize for being self-indulgent.

My purpose in blogging about this is really more for archival reasons that anything else. I'm hoping that writing about my mental process will, in the future, aid my writing process. Maybe I can look back someday and recapture this for something more creative. As for anyone else who might read this, well, I don't want to leave you hanging, so here's a takeaway for you:

The early bird catches the worm, but who wants worms?

Let's Try This Again

Back when I was trying -- unsuccessfully -- to carve out a freelance career while I was between jobs (read: unemployed), I created a blog just to keep the neurons firing between bouts of despair. I created a more elaborate website than this spartan Blogger page, and spent a lot of time tweaking it and trying to make it pretty. Essentially, it was a way to fill time.

I let it go after I re-entered the full-time work force. That was my first mistake.

I had thought that the original iteration of Not 4 Nuthin' was a failure because few people read it. That should have never been the point. From the get-go, it should have been about the writing, not the reading. "A writer writes," according to the scribe's bible, but I resisted that age-old mantra because I thought writing for its own sake was an exercise in futility. Wrong.

So as I resurrect Not 4 Nuthin', in this stripped-down, no-frills version, let's make it clear from the outset: this blog is for me. It is my therapy. It's meant to empty out that swirling, whirling, twirling onslaught of dreams, fears, wisdom and nonsense that is the maelstrom of my brain. No nods toward legacy, no income goals, no worries about search-engine optimization or traffic or "content" (which may I add is the most loathsome appropriation of a word ev-ver).

Maybe someone else will get something out of this as "content" (ewwwwwww) falls out from between my ears. Maybe I'll throw in a pretty picture now and again to break up the gray. Eventually, I might even make this blog looks like it was created later than the early '00s. But for now, it's just me and my mind. And that's not for nothing.