Weird Beard.

I miss writing. Even if it's just for me. I'm back. 

The Blog Post You've Been Waiting For. Or Not.

And in the end we decided to write a blog post.

Who Needs This Stupid Job Anyway?! Oh Wait, That Would Be Me.

I have been working at the same place for about six years now, and since the bottom dropped out of the economy several years ago, I haven't received a raise. So when my boss came to me with a proposition about a raise the other day, I first determined I wasn't being "propositioned about a raise" (wink, wink), and then told him I was interested. My boss told me that if I could work a couple of more hours a day he would see fit to make sure I had a couple of extra Jackson's in my paycheck at the end of the month. Now, I'm no idiot, so I told him if he made it several Jackson's, I would do it.

     Things have been going pretty good since I got my raise. I certainly have been sleeping better. When I get home at 10'ish I have a late dinner and then go straight to bed; 4:30 comes pretty early, and my bosses dogs aren't going to walk themselves. But, man that sixty dollars at the end of the month is really a Godsend. Well, it's closer to forty after that crazy cash tax my boss was telling me about. Still, that forty dollars goes a long ways to covering my monthly Hydrox budget. I know that if I work hard and stay with it; within a couple of years I will be able to start buying Oreos.

UPDATE: Apparently my boss reads my blog and he doesn't think I am, finger quote "funny" un-finger quote. (My boss likes finger quotes, sometimes he finger quotes things like "good morning" or "I'm sorry for your loss") So I don't have a finger quote "job" un-finger quote anymore. It's probably for the best, now I have time to dedicate myself fully to writing. And it is already paying the bills, why just last week I made a whole $1.47 with the ads on my blog.

UPDATE TO THE UPDATE: $1.47 every week doesn't pay the mortgage. My landlord told me if I don't come up with some money pronto, he is going to have the old homestead towed away. Luckily, my boss said that he would rehire me, we talked and I negotiated a new deal. Starting tomorrow, I get my old job back; I have to go back to the starting pay scale and he still needs me to work the extra hours, but at least I am doing something useful with my life again. Unlike when I thought I was a writer. Writing is for losers; what was I thinking?

A Gator, an Incomplete Knife, and a Writer.

For proper effect, you should hum “The Battlefield Hymn of the Republic”, “Eye of the Tiger”, or some other inspirational song while reading this. But, not “Wind Beneath My Wings”, cause that's weak.

I became a writer at 12:00 noon, December 16, 2010. That was the moment I showed part of my book to an acquaintance and they assured me that I would never make it. It made me mad. It made me resolute. It made me say, “Oh yeah?! I'll show you!” I was aware a shift had occurred. No longer was I someone that liked to write, instead I was a writer that hadn't made it yet. I felt like Gator. Who?

     In the Marine Corps you meet people from all over. You get to be close with a few of them. You also have a larger circle of friends that you don't necessarily hang out with all the time. In that group was a Cajun dude named Gator. Now I can't remember Gator's real name or what he looks like. (My friend Curtis probably does.) What I do remember is that Gator LOVED to fight. He once fought his girlfriends father and brother, and in one particularly testosterone filled incident in Okinawa, he and several other jarheads from our unit picked a fight with much a larger Recon unit.

     But, the fight that I remember most, is the time he rescued one of the guys in our company. It was after a football game on base, and our guy was drunk and getting roughed up by three other marines. Now, Gator comes along and sees this and tells the bullies to knock it off. Of course they tell him to mind his own business, so he wades into the fight fists a'flyin'. In short order, he beat up two of the guys and was getting ready to dispatch the third. One of the guys Gator had already defeated, got up off the ground, picked up a piece of wood and cracked Gator in the back of the head. Gator's response that day was “Oh, now you F*%#ed up” and he proceeded to beat all three of those marines senseless.

     Today, I felt like Gator. I will kick the crap out of whatever is between me and my goal. (Inspirational music swells.) My whole life I've been someone who doesn't live up to potential. In school I was the proverbial “doesn't apply himself” guy. In the Marine Corps I just got by, and sometimes I'm a sorry excuse for a Christian. I could be a better husband and father. I have never been that dedicated to much of anything. From now on, I will dedicate myself to writing. I will actually learn the rules of punctuation and grammar. I will join the local writing clubs, and get advice from people that know. I will follow through on stories that I have started, I will make the changes that need to be made. And most importantly, I will write. I will get better, and I will write some more.

     Unlike my Father, I will go beyond the good intention stage. My Father was an intelligent man. He was funny and creative. He dreamed big dreams. He was always going to “do” something. One thing that he got into was making knives. He bought shaping machines, polishers and steel. He went to knife shows and got excited when people told him he had talent. He started to make knives. And... that's it. He started. My father never finished anything. He died young of alcohol; a life incomplete, unfinished. I still have one of his half completed knives in my tool box, a “what could have been.” I won't be that, I will be a finished knife, sharp and polished. I will write; and I'll cut a sucka'.

Sisyphus, Thy Name is Flip (Not: My Name is Flip And I Have Syphilis.)

Forever, Sisyphus was cursed to push a rock up a hill. He would endlessly toil and struggle to get it up. Reach the crest and he would achieve success. If only. But his destiny was one of utter futility. No matter how hard he tried, how clever he was, it was never enough. The boulder always escaped his grasp and rolled back down the hill. Defeat followed defeat.
     Today friends, I feel that way. Ever since I decided to be a writer, I have fought the good fight, slaving away, day after day to bring the public something good, something pure, the fruits of my labor. And... nothing. After all this time, I see no reward, there are no accolades, I continue to not be a commercial success. "How long, oh Lord? How long?" How much longer must I suffer for my art?
     Like Sisyphus, I strive to be the model of perseverance. I continue to soldier on, to press onwards, to pour myself into the breach. Oh, but it is hard. How does one keep motivated? Somehow, from where I don't know, I always summon the strength.  An inner wellspring of steely determination, forged in the fiery fires of tribulation and the opposition of anything beautiful and true. A dream that anything worth anything costs something. A promise that I made to myself when I decided that I would write, damn the cost. A promise that I made to myself back when I first started writing... almost two weeks ago.