Devil in the Details

 As research is progressing along the lines of learning how to be a freelance writer, I've come across the unwashed underbelly of content writing. 

A quirk of my personality is the inability to lie. I can stretch the truth, I can expand on an idea to incorporate possibilities and hypotheticals, I can even stretch my opinion to witness and incorporate the perspectives of others, but outright lying for the sake of content production is not within my realm of abilities and makes me a bit sick in the belly to acknowledge lying as a means of income production. 

When an employer calls for content producers who are able to write against their own opinions or who can produce for the sake of content production, the ethical bunny in my head rears up on its back legs, flicks its little bunny ears and reaches into its little bunny basket for the most accessible incendiary device (my ethical bunny wears camo and carries a basket of grenades). 

There is too much noise for the sake of noise in the world. I can't tolerate it as it is, why would I contribute to the incessant din for the sake of contributing to the din? That is contra-self-care for a person who is seeking pure self and value in this extended breathing period. 

Since leaving the hill (several years ago, now) I have been confronted over and over again with my naivete, idealism, and simplicity as if they were a calf-skin glove to the face, but what is the point of living this autistic life (thump chest with autistic gang sign) if I can't be true to my naive, idealistic and simplistic self? A half-truth or outright untruth writhes in my chest like a bag of snakes, fills the pit of my stomach with the bile of diseased culture and forces me into the blank-stared overwhelm of facing the demon of what is wrong with the world and its doomed occupants.

It will be quite a while before I attempt to pitch for a freelance writing position because I have to prepare. I must establish a writing history (this blog and Twitter should do for that, perhaps?). I have to establish with myself what my limitations and abilities are, along with developing the skills I will need to communicate with the people who are responsible for hiring writers. Underscoring all of that is a deep dive into attempting to uncover the aspects of interaction I am ignorant of along these lines of professional development. 

{There are entire scopes of communication I am not able to access because the levels of social interaction that are required to communicate successfully to certain groups are alien to me, like what it takes to catch the ears of young people who gather at night-time establishments to meet and converse with strangers in a manner that isn't polite and yet develops relationships (?! What is that about? How can you talk to mean people and want to spend time with them? How is that a thing?).}

I will interact with this world on the terms that will allow me to sleep at night. I cannot complicate this life because I cannot tolerate complication, it's the way my brain works, and I have to go with what I've been given. I stretch myself as much as I can, while recognizing my limitations and talents.

 I am anomalous. I am pure Tania. I keep moving, one foot in front of the other. 

A Crossroad: Blog Revisited

 It seems I have found myself at a crossroad with infinite paths.

I am a 47-year-old female with autism and PTSD from a really fun high school senior activity that has become pretty common these days (school shooter, anyone?) and a lifetime of trying to get by with a cracked psyche that could only positively contribute to a successful writing career that will indefinitely begin with, "It seems I have found myself at a crossroad with infinite paths."

Today, I find myself tooling around the internet looking for SOMETHING in this modern world that I can lend my innate talents to that will prevent unnecessary mingling with the unvaccinated and over politicized masses while, with great hopes, contribute to the mothballs in my savings account and simultaneously keep my Amazon Prime account active, and I should mention a girl has got to eat.

My search began this morning for strictly online employment possibilities. All of my previous employment searches were for in-person, travel-required positions that paid way too little that I would have to be desperate to take, but with the type of desperation that required the ability to be around other people without making the inevitable social flub that usually happens awkwardly, ever so awkwardly, within the first hour or so of being in my presence. I can sell 10 minutes of Tania time as if I'm the most levelheaded social butterfly you will ever meet, but then that mask starts to melt not long into the "getting to know you" phase. I have never been fired, but I have very quickly accepted the fact that the situation I have put myself into as an employment relationship will not be sustainable for my peace of mind.

I did love being an Operations Manager for Guitar Center for 3 years, but Covid is a bitch. Damn you, Covid, for destroying the peace and potential and progress of my previous position. It had taken a while to find that thing that I was naturally good at, that I enjoyed doing, that kept me sharp and focused and involved in something I was passionate about with other people who could take the waves of Tania as they crashed upon the shores of limited social contact. That was a fun job. Once again: Damn you, Covid.

So, here I am trying my hand at Freelance Writing. I'm an intelligent and creative cookie, I can do this. Now, all I have to do is learn this website, inside and out, partake in the offered courses and one-on-one instruction (and hope the money that I had to borrow from my parents because I am that pathetic at this point in my life will give me a lift out of the hole I have found myself in over these past few months), navigate the "selling myself" obligatory application phase successfully, understand the details of the writing prompts/demands of content production, prevent myself from feeling lost in the humanity-eating machine that IS content production, and become prolific enough in the production of said content that I can sustain the needs of an adult single female with a demanding feline dependent in a world with constantly increasing demands of modernity and unnecessary technological progression- i.e. I gotta stay current. (Here is where I mention my soul would much rather melt into the natural cycle of the woods and winds and peaceful chatter of the untouched forest than dip my toes into the explosively progressive world of man.)

Not with the intention of using the fact of being Neurodiverse as a crutch or excuse pointing at the failings, or apparent failings, of this current lifecycle do I mention it. No, I mention my Neurodiversity as an extra tool that I have to draw from in order to offer perspectives that others may not have access to. I can see things other people can't, frame thoughts that are unpopular in an abstract dimension, point to the unspoken and the awkward without fear because this is how my brain works. I am not afraid of death, so I am not afraid of words. I will own this new opportunity for growth and altered direction. I'm going to see where this path of the infinite paths leads me, and I will do it with verve. 

Of Fires and... well, fires are enough for now.

Is a burning Fall the payment for a drenched Spring?

When you're packing up to head out of Dodge, it is telling when you review which books to bring. I grabbed 3.

The Hero and the Crown, by Robin McKinley

The Book, by Anonymous

and a research guide on book collecting, which I have yet to read.


The fires here are nearly put out, the local fire fellows cutting lines in the earth as a dare, standing together with their hats askew and shovels ready.

I'm home again, but the books remain in my briefcase, snugged with writings and mock-ups. The lack of space for oxygen within the case lends an extra level of protection, its weight disguising it as a box of bricks- perhaps to fool the flames.

Next time, though (if there is a next time, and up here there tends to be), instead of heading out of Dodge, I'll stick around the store and keep checking updates, start a physical message board and place to let the fire people cool their heals. I'll keep the coffee brewing.

 I ran off the hill with my critters and my spouse when we could see the flames from the front porch, but we were safe.

Some friends were not so lucky.

Of Floors and Outside brooms

                 Sweeping the back patio, behind the shop under the madrone and cedar, I was reminded of my grandma's house, and of my great grandma's house (the grandmothers I have never really known or been known by).

          When the idea for the new patio was surfacing, I thought of my grandma's kitchen floor. It was more than dirt. It was polished clay, worn solid through years of use and care. It was a floor that could be cleaned and wiped up.

          The kitchen table was there, and I ate strange and wonderful things, my feet kicking the air in the darkness below, wondering what was being said between she and my mother, and loving her smiles and back rubs. She found "The Little Prince" in English on the television for my brother and I. It was a wonderful night.

          Great-Grandma had a tile floor on a foundation of concrete. I'm pretty sure the home complex was owned by an uncle who looked over Great Grandma and Great Grandpa, because there were younger but still old people who lived in the adobe structure sitting by the building with the concrete floor.

           The back yard was clean compacted dirt that the aunt-lady swept while Great Grandpa sat under the trees and laughed at the roving chickens. They seemed real nice. They all gave me hugs and kisses and smiles and sweets. I tended towards rotund after grandparent visits.

          Their floors, their spaces, were used and kept and decorative and cool and calm. I want to capture some of that, weave it into the manzanita border of the patio and make it welcoming to readers and chatters and thinkers and singers and tutors and students and those stopping for a spot of tea.

    Though the back patio looks like dirt now, I have plans. It will take time and constant care, but it will be burnished clay. It will be water repellent and solid. You will be able to walk barefoot, the outside floor feeling like leather under your feet, cool and forgiving. I will battle falling leaves and feral cats. It will be joyous.

                       

The Girl On The Train: Paula Hawkins

Since the film came out, The Girl On The Train by Paula Hawkins has been coming and going more often at our little bookstore and since some readers request a review I thought I'd give it a read.  Done and done.

Yeah. It was okay. I read from cover to cover in about a day and a half. At no point did I think, "This book is rubbish", nor did I want to set it down and quit reading. The characters were wonderfully faulted, the mystery was interesting and sordid, new information was slowly fed to the reader in small enough bites to be just not enough to make assumptions too close to the truth.

Not a great read, but not a bad read. I would say The Girl On The Train is good vacation or day-off fodder.

Have at it.

Why Books?

This entry is an incomplete thought and may or may not be edited at another time.

               

              Alphabetization brings me a sense of structure that I can control and keep in precise and easily-filed order. This is why I am well-suited to a book store environment. This is also why I felt so very comfortable as a file clerk at my local community college. Happiness is a room full of words that need alphabetization.

                 

         Books… ah, Books:  informational spines, with titles that entice, authors to follow, material that speaks of publication history and quantity of particular units of print; covers that relay the use and storage and age and valuation, financial and social.

                                 
                                  Remember, though, to never judge a book by its cover.

                 
         The real value of a book is usually found between its covers.  Each book is a different aspect of mind of the writer.  One must remember authors are people. Each book, once read, is the voice of that individual writer in the mind of the reader, floating around with its message that is turned over in the reader’s process of introspection. That information becomes part of the reader’s experience of the world and of reality and forms their perspective of reality. The words used can develop the reader’s sense of language processing and familiarity with aspects of language that the reader would not otherwise have experience of, like a non-collegiate reading the words of a collegiate study, or a city-dweller understanding the of the words of mountain-folk.

               
         The History of Mankind is held in books, especially in books that aren’t history books.  The long view of humanity is held in the works of individuals just writing about what they think about. This many-subject writing gives an image of what life was like to the literate human without drawing the lines of time.  Holding a book in your hand that has, forgive the phrase, ‘travelled through time’ with its own story of use is like holding the hand of the author while the author was writing down ideas. Questions can’t be asked, but similarities between then and now, and them and us can be found easily. Understanding can be drawn. Pages can be turned. 

                A reader who is paying attention to an author’s words can experience something life changing; an eye-opening phrase that alters the way one uses one’s thoughts. Epiphany, understanding, creativity, these are aspects of mind that interest me when I read. I want to see the firing of synapses when I read. When I read, I want to appreciate the way an author puts words together to communicate a particular thought. 

                The problem with reading is the limitation of language, or at least the language that I speak and read. It is hard for many, including me, to portray a thought in real time that encapsulates all levels of thought. That is when art comes in handy.  Books, though, can pinpoint a concept, theme or thesis, and delve into it. 

               The business of books is not easy. Books are underappreciated and are in many places considered disposable because of a lack of relevance.

 It’s been my experience that relevance changes quickly.

View from the Stacks

I've mentioned I spend my time at a used bookstore; not to say the store is used in that it was once owned by someone else, lovingly read and passed on, but the books most certainly have.

I have the particular honor of being able to come to a lovely book-insulated atmosphere with the option to lock the door and just BE.  The stacks, the alphabetized order, the categories, the silent voices whispering out of time from the shelves... for a select few, this is bliss. I handle, almost daily, a quantifiable representation of humanity encapsulated in paper, board, and ink. The words held in these pages, many worthy, many seemingly waste beyond a picture in time of how reality presents itself to different minds and how those minds choose to present themselves, tell what is and what has been since words began being recorded. 

I recognize that print does not mean truth, but the collection of the print is a truth in itself. It is our truth and our truths, the face given to history to reflect who we are, where we have been, where we are, and where we are going. 

The big picture is very hard to see when you are looking at only one small part of it. The benefit of a categorized bookstore, specifically a used bookstore that is respectful of aged books (which are actually historical thoughts or pictures in time), is that it is easier to see humanity as a whole. It is easier to put ideas into perspective or to find perspective on an aspect of what we call "Life" when a categorized collection is looking you in the face. Of course, books don't represent all of what is, they are only a physical form of aspects of the experiences of others, but the books tell so much, even beyond the words they hold (see bio).

This is a great excuse to be a book-hoarder. The best thing about being behind the curtain in a used bookstore is that you get an excuse to keep those books that you would just rather not let go into the dumpster or the recycler. I try to find them homes, at least those I dub worthy ("Who am I to play God of the Written Word?", I ask myself. The answer, "But someone has to do it"). There are too many that have to be marked down and demarcated and devalued because of a lack of demand or shelf-space. I don't feel so much a hoarder as I do a guard of knowledge. I haven't read nor can I read a measurable fraction of what is on our shelves, but I feel duty-bound to protect what passes our threshold.

It is good to find the place you belong, and I belong among the stacks.