Spring cleaning for the ADHD mind
I've been thinking of a crapton of ideas for potential posts, since I still want to keep doing this stupid thing. But the main jist of it, i.e. documenting my increasingly tedious and aimless attempts to publish a novel, has been put on hold somewhat while I let my brain defrag and I conduct tedious and aimless research in a bid to find out how, exactly, one goes about getting published while simultaneously waiting for people to read the revised version of my story. It's a necessary break lest my mind go supernova and I do away with my story via defenestration and go pursue a career as a business analyst, or something else equally as horrible.
The question then becomes: what to do with this thing? It's not a pressing question, as I don't imagine I have any readers who are not blood relatives (thank you guys by the way. I feel a bit less like the internet-version of that guy who stands yammering at brick walls awkwardly close to where you wait for the bus to go to work).
Most of the ideas I come up with are rants, because what else is worth reading on the internet if it isn't accompanied by gallons of butthurt and nerdrage. Years ago when I still bothered with it I had accumulated a reputation on livejournal for vast outpourings of nerdrage and other overreactions to things I deemed interests, to the point that members of my friends-list actually waited in anticipation for my inevitable two-cents whenever shit went down on the fandom. No, I will never tell you my LJ name for the simple fact that the account still exists and that feels like asking for trouble. I 'd like to think I've calmed down somewhat from my LJ days, being a college grad and successfully, independently broke for the last two years. If you read my rant about the second Hobbit movie here, that was actually pretty mild, all things considered. I had concise arguments delivered with a clear and pointed intention. There were strong verbs, if I recall. Sure I cursed a few blue streaks, but that's common of just about anything I do, and yeah maybe my language sounded vaguely threatening but only if you're the kind of person who pisses me off. Everyone else would have been safe, honest. Look, I have anger problems, okay? This is not a place for judgment, with the glaring exception of my own judgment because my opinion is the only one that matters. The internet told me so.
One rant I really need to do, and it would probably need to be busted up into a cycle of posts because the length of it as one would be sheer insanity and no one, not even I, would bother reading it: Sherlock Holmes. More specifically the BBC's miniseries Sherlock, but such is the extent of my comprehensive devotion that I will need at least two primer-posts before even starting to talk about Sherlock. Because I have a burning need for everyone to understand why I love it, and why I started loving it, and the whole journey that got me started loving this stupid fucking set of characters as much as I do. It's dumb. I'm sentimental about a lot of things, it's true, but it's usually things steeped in my family. I adore Lord of the Rings and all things Middle-Earth because my mom used to read it to me and my sibling when we were kids. I have an eternal fondness for anime because it was the first thing Conor and I had actual conversations about. My favorite movie of all time is one I used to watch with my whole family when I was seven, laid out on blankets in the living room with big bowls of buttery popcorn and enough room to roll around and cackle at all the parts that kept getting funnier the older I got.
But Holmes has always been different because it wasn't something someone else showed me, nothing I was forced to endure until I finally liked it "for my own good" or an inherited interest passed down from my parents. It was something I tried on a whim, for really no good reason, and fell so madly in love with it that I have to remind myself occasionally that these characters weren't ever real. And since my mind is the type that must forge connections and unearth patterns and otherwise analyse things unto death, I spent a very long time kicking around the "why" of the whole thing. Why these stories? Why these characters? Why this one character in particular? Why this author? Because it wasn't just Holmes and Watson I adored, I fell in love with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as well. Why why why? There have been better writers. There have been more in-depth characters, more finely-tuned plots, more engaging mysteries. Why is this the zenith of all my intellectual curiosities? In the end there isn't an answer. I find that frustrating sometimes. I can't stop thinking about things if I still haven't solved them, which almost guarantees I'll never stop being infatuated with all this. It's a life-long affliction. Could be worse, I suppose. It could be herpes.
All the other ideas presenting themselves for bloggability are less hystrionic discourses on the merits and limitations of an anime series I've been revisiting, and one more really choleric rant that I'm sure will be good fun for all, but that will have to wait until after the posts on Sherlock as it directly relates to it. This post I guess you can take or leave. I'm mostly just priming anyone reading this for a slight shift in gear, and considering I can't drive a stick-shift I wanted it to be as disorienting as possible, since this feels about as subtle as a sack of wet pea-gravel to the face, transitionally speaking. I also seem to have a fondness for verbosity and long rambling sentences this post. It's odd how the things you read will influence how you write. I picked up Catch-22 recently and now I just want to throw out pretty ten-dollar words that no one understands because my brain doesn't acknowledge the concept of "vernacular." Also, read Catch-22 if you never have. Literally the funniest goddamn book in the entire English language. It's so awesome it's probably going to get me fired because I won't stop laughing at my desk.
So, pointless blog post over. To anyone who checks this thing with any regularity, be prepared for a face-full of pretentious, analytical posturing because that's the only thing I do better than nerdrage. I'll get back on track with the publishing thing when I actually make any headway on it. Sometime within the next ten years, give or take a trip to a psych ward. And remember kids: always hang on to your dreams. Because otherwise you're just a crazy person, yammering at a brick wall by the bus stop.
Or herpes.
The question then becomes: what to do with this thing? It's not a pressing question, as I don't imagine I have any readers who are not blood relatives (thank you guys by the way. I feel a bit less like the internet-version of that guy who stands yammering at brick walls awkwardly close to where you wait for the bus to go to work).
Most of the ideas I come up with are rants, because what else is worth reading on the internet if it isn't accompanied by gallons of butthurt and nerdrage. Years ago when I still bothered with it I had accumulated a reputation on livejournal for vast outpourings of nerdrage and other overreactions to things I deemed interests, to the point that members of my friends-list actually waited in anticipation for my inevitable two-cents whenever shit went down on the fandom. No, I will never tell you my LJ name for the simple fact that the account still exists and that feels like asking for trouble. I 'd like to think I've calmed down somewhat from my LJ days, being a college grad and successfully, independently broke for the last two years. If you read my rant about the second Hobbit movie here, that was actually pretty mild, all things considered. I had concise arguments delivered with a clear and pointed intention. There were strong verbs, if I recall. Sure I cursed a few blue streaks, but that's common of just about anything I do, and yeah maybe my language sounded vaguely threatening but only if you're the kind of person who pisses me off. Everyone else would have been safe, honest. Look, I have anger problems, okay? This is not a place for judgment, with the glaring exception of my own judgment because my opinion is the only one that matters. The internet told me so.
One rant I really need to do, and it would probably need to be busted up into a cycle of posts because the length of it as one would be sheer insanity and no one, not even I, would bother reading it: Sherlock Holmes. More specifically the BBC's miniseries Sherlock, but such is the extent of my comprehensive devotion that I will need at least two primer-posts before even starting to talk about Sherlock. Because I have a burning need for everyone to understand why I love it, and why I started loving it, and the whole journey that got me started loving this stupid fucking set of characters as much as I do. It's dumb. I'm sentimental about a lot of things, it's true, but it's usually things steeped in my family. I adore Lord of the Rings and all things Middle-Earth because my mom used to read it to me and my sibling when we were kids. I have an eternal fondness for anime because it was the first thing Conor and I had actual conversations about. My favorite movie of all time is one I used to watch with my whole family when I was seven, laid out on blankets in the living room with big bowls of buttery popcorn and enough room to roll around and cackle at all the parts that kept getting funnier the older I got.
But Holmes has always been different because it wasn't something someone else showed me, nothing I was forced to endure until I finally liked it "for my own good" or an inherited interest passed down from my parents. It was something I tried on a whim, for really no good reason, and fell so madly in love with it that I have to remind myself occasionally that these characters weren't ever real. And since my mind is the type that must forge connections and unearth patterns and otherwise analyse things unto death, I spent a very long time kicking around the "why" of the whole thing. Why these stories? Why these characters? Why this one character in particular? Why this author? Because it wasn't just Holmes and Watson I adored, I fell in love with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as well. Why why why? There have been better writers. There have been more in-depth characters, more finely-tuned plots, more engaging mysteries. Why is this the zenith of all my intellectual curiosities? In the end there isn't an answer. I find that frustrating sometimes. I can't stop thinking about things if I still haven't solved them, which almost guarantees I'll never stop being infatuated with all this. It's a life-long affliction. Could be worse, I suppose. It could be herpes.
All the other ideas presenting themselves for bloggability are less hystrionic discourses on the merits and limitations of an anime series I've been revisiting, and one more really choleric rant that I'm sure will be good fun for all, but that will have to wait until after the posts on Sherlock as it directly relates to it. This post I guess you can take or leave. I'm mostly just priming anyone reading this for a slight shift in gear, and considering I can't drive a stick-shift I wanted it to be as disorienting as possible, since this feels about as subtle as a sack of wet pea-gravel to the face, transitionally speaking. I also seem to have a fondness for verbosity and long rambling sentences this post. It's odd how the things you read will influence how you write. I picked up Catch-22 recently and now I just want to throw out pretty ten-dollar words that no one understands because my brain doesn't acknowledge the concept of "vernacular." Also, read Catch-22 if you never have. Literally the funniest goddamn book in the entire English language. It's so awesome it's probably going to get me fired because I won't stop laughing at my desk.
So, pointless blog post over. To anyone who checks this thing with any regularity, be prepared for a face-full of pretentious, analytical posturing because that's the only thing I do better than nerdrage. I'll get back on track with the publishing thing when I actually make any headway on it. Sometime within the next ten years, give or take a trip to a psych ward. And remember kids: always hang on to your dreams. Because otherwise you're just a crazy person, yammering at a brick wall by the bus stop.
Or herpes.
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