Thread: Learning New Things Every Week

The weeks for me are like sand being pummeled by tons of frothy water. There is violence, noise and motion. Yet, after repeated cycles, there is only high tide and low tide. Depending on the day, I reside somewhere in the soggy, debris strewn mess between them.

At the end of last week, I posted in the 'Obama' and 'Debt' forums, as one of the only conservative voices. Through innuendo and implied guilt by association, I was told my views were racist, ignorant and backward. I did not allow myself to be bullied off the forum by the hate and anger. I'm past caring what strangers think of me. Still, it was sad seeing so many frightened voices shrilly attacking a political ideology. That whole "I don't agree with you but I'd die defending your right to speak" has been replaced with, "Just shut up. Some ideas are just too dangerous". As a parting gift, someone left negative reputation on my profile. I suppose if you can't win on the battlefield of ideas, scorched earth it is.

So, I think "Well, let's try some current events and pop culture". I posted a thread called "Economic Meltdown" and simply asked the community what (if anything) people are doing to prepare. I go to work, and get back thirteen hours later to find the thread hijacked by a load of infantile drivel. Baron had to remind the unruly children that an adult was speaking, and to mind their manners or go outside. Obviously not being able to mind, the kids took their ball and left. I never got reasoned or thoughtful response. Sometimes, I have too high expectations.

Shift gears. I posted the first few pages of a manuscript that I've been working on for over two years now. The good news was one person read and critiqued it (two, if you count the three sentences from a second member). The critique was detailed, objective and fair. It also made me feel like dirt. I don't have the benefit of an English or Journalism degree. I don't live in academia. I use the tools I have, and make an effort to acquire more in what free time I have.
I worked hard, using many of the suggestions provided to me, and polished up my manuscript. I re-posted the edited pages and waited. And waited. After a day or two, I knew that my post was on page four or five, and no one would see it.
I just wanted one person to look at the revisions.

I have a personal mantra: "The only thing worse than not having hope, is having hope." Don't bother to look for the edited pages now (like that was even a possibility). I deleted them.

Finally (yes, this jerk is almost done!), a while back, I was invited to a group on WF. I checked the group page regularly, but no one ever seemed to post. I eventually posted. There were two replies. Still no activity last week, I posted once again. The response I got was that "No one monitors that forum. But thanks for sharing."
Back in school, the popular kids would ruthlessly torture the geeks by waving the possibility of acceptance in front of the hapless nerds. One time honored trick was to tell the geek that there is a party at 123 Maple Street at nine. Ha Ha! The real party was at 456 Elm at ten! Fooled you! Yeah, like WE would invite YOU? Get Real.

Why did I just write this? Well, the thread asked me "How was my week?"

I don't know how my week was. They're all the same. I sit wet and cold, shivering in the sand, waiting for the next wave to drop on me. I smell rotting things. In the distance, I hear the joyful laughter of children. One of them is probably asking their mommy who the creepy man covered in sand and seaweed is. I can feel their distrust, contempt and fear. Yet, they go back to frolicking. I go back to...? Do nihilists have a term for this? Nevermind.

Winston, patience. If you find your work on page four with nary a response, maybe ask someone that you critiqued for a quick look. I bet they would do it. Just taking it off is no help. It takes time here, to get to know people, and have them get to know you. I did respond to your thread in debate, just was not sure where you were going with it, and then it went spiraling off. That happens. Chum around. Try again. It will be alright.

sending you positive vibes

You do have an alternative, you know. Join your local writers’ group, meets the second Tuesday of the month down the library, 7 p.m. or thereabouts.

Then you will have something to whinge about.

Responses to a difficult person:

The fix problem response (details possible solutions, offers advice)

The encouraging reasons (unconditional reassurance, non-judgmental)

The angry response (dismissive, reflects negative tone)

A very representative sample with only three responses. I love sociology. Too bad that I enjoy food and shelter, or it would be a rather interesting career move.

Yes, I am difficult. To those who care, or have a morbid curiosity, I have detailed some motivating factors as why my A hole factor is so high. WARNING: The following can be classified as both TMI and Inappropriate Personal Disclosure. Reader discretion advised.

I started reading Like A Fox's obituary for her mother. It was so heartfelt and moving. It got me reflecting how suck a$$ the obit that I wrote last April for my mom was. After beating myself up for a lack of a soul and bad writing skills, I realized that it wasn't all my fault. My mom wasn't a hypochondriac. She told me she was dying every day for ten years. As a boy, I think that I used up all my legit compassion many years ago. I'm bad at faking. If I had friends to confide in at the time, the scars wouldn't be as bad. But as Jehovah's Witnesses, we didn't associate with non-believers. The good news was that with her Alzheimer's, she wasn't as angry and mean at the end of her life. She couldn't remember to hold a grudge. Made saying goodbye easier, I think.

Ironically, my dad's still hanging in there. He doesn't want to hang anywhere anymore, including this world. He's friendlily and affable still. He laughs on occasion, but nowhere near like he used to. He bears his pain silently, and never wants to burden any of us. We can't talk him into any activities any more. He won't even read, like he used to. As difficult as my mother was, I think my dad just wants to go join her. He's stubborn. I think his mind is made. I also think writing his obit will be a little easier.

Recent studies have linked mental illness with heredity. I'll won't divulge much more than saying crazy runs in the family. I wish my Uncle Norman had the benefit of that knowledge fifty years ago. When he killed himself, I think part of my mother died with him.
We keep learning things, don't we? I'm now quite sure that it is the lot of some of us to suffer. There is no easy exit or early check-out. We pay the bills, smile when needed, and pray that we can make it one more day. If only, because people are depending on us. I wish Norman had thought about that. My mother might not have been such a train wreck.

Well, let's just leave with that. Again, my apologies. If I have cr#ppy social skills, maybe you can cut me some slack.
Or not. I'm really quite flexible.

You're in good company, here in forumland - in real life, most of us prolly have crappy social skills. Why else do you think we're here?

Winston, it's disappointing when you dont get feedback on a piece but I get the impression your feelings about it arent entirely just about your work. You've obviously got a lot of underlying stuff going on that you are aware of yourself. Have you tried talking to someone about it? I hope my response doesnt sound patronising, it's based on genuine concern. I know only too well that mental illness is not easy to live with and you're clearly juggling a lot of difficult emotion there.

A man should not strive to eliminate his complexes but to get into accord with them: they are legitimately what directs his conduct in the world.
Sigmund Freud

@ Jane Martin: Thank You. A doctor diagnosed me with "depression" a few years back. Being a tool of the pharmacological drug pushers, doc prescribed some seretonin inhibitor. It succeeded in making me jittery, and little else. I made some lifestyle choices that helped me much more than dope pusher doc ever could. I'm now comfortable with my neurosis, thank you very much.
Other members of my family have succumbed to the siren song of chemical mental neutralization. Unfortunately, one sister self-medicates with alcohol as well. Yeah, and she's the one "helping" me with my dad.

I visited Dad again today at the convalescent home. His skin is mottled with bruises from repeated falls. There was dried blood on his khaki pants, and the bedroom carpet from his falls. He's given up on just about everything, except the conviction that he will not go into an intensive care facility.
During a commercial break on the TV, I caught my Dad licking his lips during a restaurant ad. He told me that they never served real steak at his place. I tried to talk him into letting us take him to a casual dining restaurant. I knew his answer even before I asked the question. Yet, I had to ask. I don't know if it hurt him more declining my invitation, or my pain hearing it.
Death sometimes charges like a lion, striking ferociously and quickly. Other times, it circles like a jackal. It waits patiently for the prey to weaken. There is no mercy in either scenario. Only varied degrees of suffering.

I talked to my wife later. We're going to cook Dad a steak, with baked potato and corn on the cob and take it to him. The jackals will have their day. They will just have to wait.

Winston, your writing has always brought a sense of joy to me. I unfortunately never got a chance to see the piece you are referring to. It is frustrating and a little demeaning when you do not receive a critique, but at the same time there are several members on this forum who would be more than happy to view your work if asked to do so.

Its difficult to be in the caring role, especially with limited support. I'm glad you were able to make your lifestyle changes & do what you felt you needed.

The important thing is to not get down on yourself. You need to believe in your own ability first and foremost. Critique is an evaluation of craft, not talent. It's not a reflection on you in any way. It's one thing to have talent, it's another to mold language into art. It's a process, and nobody in the history of the world has gotten it right on the first draft.

Here's an article I read on Publisher's Weekly (or was it Writer's Digest?) that I saved because I found it inspirational. It's about how the author of The Help had her manuscripts rejected sixty times, and revised it sixty times before it was accepted. An extreme case to be sure, but a great example of perseverance regardless of what you may think of the book itself:

Kathryn Stockett's 'The Help' Turned Down 60 Times Before Becoming a Best Seller on Shine

As an aside, I haven't seen your writing but if it's anything like that paragraph about your father's condition I'd love to. Each of those sentences cut like short little knives in the dark. Have you ever read [I]How To Write A Sentence[ and How to Read One/I]? It's all about appreciating a writer's sentences like one would a painter's brush strokes, you'd like it.

I'm a fairly new member here so I wouldn't have seen this work you speak of anyway, but I must say that your ability to write is perhaps on parr with someone with a degree. I'm surprised you recieved no critique after you posted your revised copy. It's disheartening when people don't take what you say or write seriously; believe me, I can find nary a soul who'll read my own work and leave with anything constructive to say.

Although I can't relate to you completely on your life issues, I will send you all the best. I recently lost my grandfather, and his passing was made all the worse by rubbish care and cold and unfeeling doctors. Since then I've found it hard to trust anybody in that proffession.

But now that you've recieved a little recognition from members here, chances are you'll recieve some critique if you tried posting your work again. I know I'd like to read what you've written about. I'm not just saying this just for the sake of it either.