THBBM - The Giraffe Café

The Giraffe Café
It was such lovely weather - the third day in Milano
7-7

-Frank Zappa
: I'm reading through a book called American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. It's exceptionally good, but I'm finding that I can only read about 70 - 150 pages a sitting or so. I'll sit down to read it, go for a while, and then just sorta feel the need to stop.
: I'm trying to figure out whether this is because of the book, or if it's because of me.
: I'm looking at three separate document files on my computer. Over the past week, I've had three solid story ideas pop into my head. Little scenarios and phrases that I want to build on. Concepts, visions, hunches. The document files contain tentative titles, dates, character names, and in some cases a few sparse notes, and even a line or two.
: The ideas are floating around in my head, but I've not been able to crack the shell and pour it out onto the skillet yet.
: I'm in this place I sometimes get where I want to have something written, but I'm not so interested in writing it, yet. It's the same sort of mood that will prompt me to go out and buy a burger even if I have all the ingredients in the kitchen with me at the time. It's not a bad thing, but it's an easy thing to remedy without curing.
It's the symptoms I notice, not the disease.
: The Gaiman book reminds me in some ways of some of Stephen King's work. Not so much the writing or ideas themselves, but the way the chapters are presented, with quoted lyrics at the beginning and special attention paid to the visual aspect of seemingly plain Midwestern locales. I've never disliked Stephen King's books; there was just a point where I got tired of following his plots around. This Gaiman book is different. The characters (and specifically the protagonist) are rich, and well hidden. I want to know what's going to happen. Yet about the time I hit the 65-page mark, I find myself slowing down... like I've eaten a bunch of pancakes, and even though they are delicious, the thought of taking another bite suddenly seems impossible.
: Kim's been lazily re-reading some Steven King lately. One of the Bachman books keeps appearing in the bathroom, or on the bedside table.
: Even though I've found that I'm never really able to get into these books as much as I once could, the author himself has always intrigued me. The sheer volume of books that he puts out is nothing short of astounding. Even when the books themselves are forgettable, or bad (and many have been) - the fact that he's able to crank so many of them out is simply mind-boggling. I know that Steve is one of those writers lucky enough to make a decent enough living from it that he can stay home all day and write if he wants to... and that certainly helps - but there's something inside Stephen King that makes him finish everything he starts.
Even when it sucks.
: The last King book(s) I sorta thumbed through were Desperation and it's companion volume, Regulators. I'll be honest with you: One feels like a re-write of the other. Like he punched out the first one, didn't think it was that great - reworked it into the second one, and then couldn't decide which one was worse and published them both just to piss off guys like me who can seemingly go forever without writing anything worthwhile.
: The writer in me wonders about the technician inside King. My imagination and his are different things. I'm quite happy with the development my writing is undergoing... but my discipline in seeing ideas through is something else entirely.
It wasn't always that way with me.
: Recently, (for the first time in almost two years) I went surfing. Unemployed for two months... I had the time. The waves were there - but I didn't go. I had a laundry list of excuses at my side, but they were all pretty silly - looking back.
: I had sort of subconsciously decided that doing things like surfing was something I didn't deserve to do. I was unemployed. The kid was on and off sick with colds, ear infections, and pinkeye - and because I couldn't keep my job, we didn't have health insurance anymore. Expensive office visits and prescriptions meant all the money was tight.
: Frustration. Tension. Arguments.
All my fault, because I got fired.
Again.

: Part of me knows that this sort of thought process is unhealthy, and somewhat over-dramatic and retarded. But the guilt I felt over what happened was hard to escape... especially as the days started to pile up without phone calls about resumes I had submitted.
: It's like you're invisible. Like you've disappeared. Like all the connections, education, and experience you had built over the years was meaningless. I couldn't get a job working a cash register (overqualified). I couldn't get a job writing for a newspaper (under-experienced). I couldn't seem to get anyone to look at me twice.
: When I would actually sit down to write, it would all be about how frustrated I was. It would all be sort of angry and unfocused, sweeping with pointless generalizations and blames, apologies and regrets. After a while, once I settled in to the fact that it was going to take some time to land a new position, I tried to get myself to write about something else - to take advantage of all this down time and create new work.
To go surfing, if you will.
: But no matter what I tried, I couldn't seem to find the ignition. Words would rush out, cough, and then sputter to a stop. Complaining about my now ex-job seemed pointless and depressing, but it was all I could really think about at the time.
: As I continue to edge my way through American Gods, I find myself being more and more taken by the way the protagonist, a strong but silent character possessing powers he had only begun to even realize existed, interacts with the other characters around him.
Longing for contact, but uneasy with conversation. Unsure of his own motives, but dedicated to his current causes regardless.
: It's as if the more that Gaiman paints the character, the less it feels like I know about him.
: Guys like that, sometimes you can talk to them, and sometimes you know it's best just to nod and smile, then let them alone to take care of their business.
25 pages more, then I'll probably stop for the day.

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