Well, not exactly dead and not exactly letters. My friend Zaida at Manhattan's Peak has a great post up about importing some old posts from a previous incarnation of her blog and it got me thinking about a similar thing that's been happening in my life for the last couple of weeks. I've been getting old e-mails.
See, I got a new computer a couple of weeks back, a brand new, sleek and shiny laptop. My old laptop had soldiered on bravely, but was slouching towards obsolescence. The battery had failed a while ago, the CD burner came and went and I'd packed it to the gills with plays, short stories, pictures and what-have-you. It wouldn't be long for this world, so it was time for an upgrade.
I figured, since I was upgrading, I'd go all the way. As anyone who's talked to me for more than a minute knows, I'm a resolute and passionate PC guy. Screw Apple and their slick, easy-to-use computers. I like mine tetchy, surly, somewhat unresponsive and difficult. Like my women. Which explains many other things. But moving on.
Since I was getting a new computer, I figured I'd step up to all the new bells and whistles. Yes, that means the dreaded Vista. This would eventually try my patience. Be careful what you wish for and all.
For the better part of a decade now (and, Jesus God, it's weird to write that sentence), I've been using Outlook Express as my e-mail program. I've moved my accounts from computer to computer, set it up on various work computers. It's simple and I like it and, most importantly, I know it really well. So, of course, Microsoft has discontinued it for Vista. *Sigh* Okay, fine, I thought, out with the old, in with the new. I moved over to Microsoft Mail, their new e-mail program, and went about getting my old messages.
Anyone who's talked to me long enough to discover the depths of my disdain for Mac products has also talked to me long enough to realize that I spend a lot of time online and do a lot of e-mailing. In many ways, it's my preferred method of contact. Maybe it's because I'm a writer, or surprisingly shy and reserved, or maybe all of the TV I watched as a child has permanently warped my brain. Take your pick. I use my e-mail a lot, I get a lot of e-mails, sometimes even from actual people and I like to keep archives. For a while, on my computer before my last, I had several years of messages stored in Outlook Express. When, for some reason, I couldn't import them onto my new computer, I hung onto the files, thinking someday I'd either figure it out, or I'd get a new computer and be able to import them. It was honestly one of the things I was most excited about getting a new computer for.
But when I got my new computer, I couldn't find the old files. Which was a major bummer. Still, I soldiered on. I set up Microsoft Mail, hooked it up with my Yahoo account and started downloading the messages. I have about five years' worth. Five years of e-mails is, well, a lot. Something like 60, 000. I'm not kidding. It's a lot. And downloading it takes a lot of time. I set it up and then went and did things like go to work and come home and it would still be downloading.
Which was fine and dandy once. But then, for reasons known only to Bill Gates, every time I opened Microsoft Mail, it would start all over again, downloading the same messages again and again. So I switched to Windows Live Mail. And downloaded 60,000 messages again. But then it wouldn't download any new mail. So I switched to Thunderbird. 60,000 again. Again, no new mail. Apparently, I'm not meant to be downloading messages right now. Or maybe never again.
Watching five years' worth of e-mail scroll by, three or four times over, can be really overwhelming. Names pop up that you haven't seen in years, they suddenly dominate your e-mail, then fade away, replaced by other names. Threads come and go, themes, jobs, you relive old events. Sometimes I would be intrigued by a subject line that I didn't remember, or a sequence of events that I'd forgotten about. Sometimes I would read an e-mail from someone I'd lost. Sometimes I was amazed to find how the same kinds of situations, the same subject lines, the same threads would crop up over and over again. Sometimes I was amazed to find how much I'd changed, how I'd responded to something before. It was like finding a real-time diary.
But maybe the lesson of it all is to let go. Do I really need to carry the last five years with me all the time? Aren't today's message more important than last year's? Live in the present goes the old mantra. Live in the now.
But at the same time, this is my past, my history. My achievements, successes, failures, heartbreaks and fuck-ups are there, in cyberspace. I know that somewhere, somehow, they just might exist forever. And I'm okay with that. How will they ever publish The Letters of J. Holtham without five years of e-mail? Maybe it's a good thing.
But, after a month of seeing my past scroll down my screen over and over again, I'm ready to let it go and start a new archive. So feel free to send me an e-mail. In five years, it might remind me of this moment.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Writing Anarchists: Diary #4 (or The Doldrums or Shaking Hands With Failure)
Page count: 10
In the air right now: Sufjan Stevens, "Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois"
To quote one of my all-time favorite writers, sorry I haven't rapped at ya in a while. Life...it just keeps happening, right? I took a trip out of town, I survived a yearly review at work, I drank some cheap beers (probably too many), saw a great show, saw a brilliantly awful movie (Everything you need to know about that is here. Read it and I dare you not to want to see the movie.), a little of this, a little of that.
A little of writing. Very little. Too little.
This project started off with admittedly, pretty ambitious goals: write a full-length play, from scratch, for specific actors, rehearse and put it up at least as a workshop all in about five weeks. It's a crazy idea. I managed to sell the Ensemble Studio Theatre, my artistic home, on the idea, at least provisionally, got a director I really like working with on board, and a bang-up cast who all signed on sight unseen. I got the dates I wanted, the venue, the whole kit and caboodle. I even got all of you involved, with my oh-so-witty posts and such. It was all so grand and exciting.
And then I hit the doldrums. Writing can be like sailing (as I, a lifelong landlubber, understand sailing): you set out for a destination, you have charts, maps, hard tack, whatever you need to get there. You've got it all, but there's one part that's pretty much out of your control: the wind. You have your tricks to keep moving forward, but if you hit the doldrums, well, you hit the doldrums. And I hit the doldrums. And with the doldrums, come the sirens.
The sirens sing and sing, but these aren't pretty, aren't singing about how much tail (wordplay!) you're going to get in the murky deep. They basically screech at the top of their lungs about how this whole endeavor is doomed to failure, you were wrong to set out, you were wrong to consider sailing, hell, you were probably wrong to be born, and you should rectify that error at your earliest convenience. All you can really do is lash yourself to the mast and try to ride the current out.
As everyone I know knows, I do love me some Facebook, but this is one thing (among many) that Facebook makes so much worse. Because there's nothing worse when you're struggling than a constant stream of happy, successful people updating about their various summer conferences, workshops, productions, writing adventures. That right there stokes the fires of bitterness. Which just plain ain't good when you're sitting down to write. Writing out of bitterness is the quickest way to kill any inspiration or joy.
So why go on Facebook, you ask. Very smart. Unplug, go live your life, do things. And I do. I get of the house, do karaoke, even go on the occasional date (or pseudo-date), talk to friends, have a gay old time. The last thing on my mind is writing. The very last thing. So far last, it might as well not be there. Which then begs the question of why do it at all. So when I sit down to write, yeah, there's nothing there. I'm thinking about some girl I like, or the ball game I watched, or what am I going to sing for Numbers karaoke (it's a theme night, all of the songs have to have numbers in them). Not about my characters or story, or the fact that I'm supposed to be in rehearsals, trying to pull this thing together.
See? The doldrums are cleverly self-perpetuating.
Sooner or later, you start to listen to the sirens and think, maybe this was all doomed to failure. I've written two full-length plays this year, both of which I'm pretty proud of. That's a pretty good haul. Kick back and coast for the rest of the year. That's the good side.
The other side is I haven't had a production in forever. I haven't even gotten a positive response from any theatres in forever. This career thing is pretty well stalled. So...why am I still at it? I'm barrelling into my late thirties and while I've already let go of being a wunderkind, there isn't a lot of time left for me to be emerging. When do you cut bait, paddle back to port and chart another, easier course? There must be other destinations, other islands or countries, maybe not so far off, across such stormy seas. Quiet, nice little places you can drop anchor and settle down and be, at least, content. That's the less good side.
So, okay, maybe there is one beautiful, lovely, perfect siren. She's the quietest of them all, barely a whisper. When the wind turns just right, I can hear her, telling me how great this idea is, how these doldrums won't last forever, that I can do it and then it will be wonderful. Everyone will be impressed, she coos, and riches, fame, fortune and love will follow right behind. I just have to go a little bit further. That far-off distant land is getting closer, every day, she insists. Just beyond the horizon. When you hear that one, it's hard to turn back. Because the other islands are nice, lovely and all but they're not where you really want to go.
I should be used to all of this. Since it happens every time. But every time, it's all new. And every time, I have to ask myself seriously: what am I doing? Where am I actually going? And what happens if I don't get there? Worse, what happens if I do? If you shake hands with failure long enough, you forget what success feels like. You fear the unknown. It feels like the smart thing to do is just walk it all back.
My mama didn't raise no idiots. But my dad sure did. I'm too dumb and stubborn to throw it in. I'll make some adjustments, maybe, do a reading, not a workshop, aim lower for now. But I'm going to finish the freaking thing. I am. It might suck a lot, but it will get done. I'll get to a little atoll, where I can rest, load up on coconuts and mangoes and then set sail again. I'm sure it's just beyond the horizon. Just a little further.
Apologies for both belaboring and maddeningly mixing my metaphors there. That's just how I roll.
In the air right now: Sufjan Stevens, "Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois"
To quote one of my all-time favorite writers, sorry I haven't rapped at ya in a while. Life...it just keeps happening, right? I took a trip out of town, I survived a yearly review at work, I drank some cheap beers (probably too many), saw a great show, saw a brilliantly awful movie (Everything you need to know about that is here. Read it and I dare you not to want to see the movie.), a little of this, a little of that.
A little of writing. Very little. Too little.
This project started off with admittedly, pretty ambitious goals: write a full-length play, from scratch, for specific actors, rehearse and put it up at least as a workshop all in about five weeks. It's a crazy idea. I managed to sell the Ensemble Studio Theatre, my artistic home, on the idea, at least provisionally, got a director I really like working with on board, and a bang-up cast who all signed on sight unseen. I got the dates I wanted, the venue, the whole kit and caboodle. I even got all of you involved, with my oh-so-witty posts and such. It was all so grand and exciting.
And then I hit the doldrums. Writing can be like sailing (as I, a lifelong landlubber, understand sailing): you set out for a destination, you have charts, maps, hard tack, whatever you need to get there. You've got it all, but there's one part that's pretty much out of your control: the wind. You have your tricks to keep moving forward, but if you hit the doldrums, well, you hit the doldrums. And I hit the doldrums. And with the doldrums, come the sirens.
The sirens sing and sing, but these aren't pretty, aren't singing about how much tail (wordplay!) you're going to get in the murky deep. They basically screech at the top of their lungs about how this whole endeavor is doomed to failure, you were wrong to set out, you were wrong to consider sailing, hell, you were probably wrong to be born, and you should rectify that error at your earliest convenience. All you can really do is lash yourself to the mast and try to ride the current out.
As everyone I know knows, I do love me some Facebook, but this is one thing (among many) that Facebook makes so much worse. Because there's nothing worse when you're struggling than a constant stream of happy, successful people updating about their various summer conferences, workshops, productions, writing adventures. That right there stokes the fires of bitterness. Which just plain ain't good when you're sitting down to write. Writing out of bitterness is the quickest way to kill any inspiration or joy.
So why go on Facebook, you ask. Very smart. Unplug, go live your life, do things. And I do. I get of the house, do karaoke, even go on the occasional date (or pseudo-date), talk to friends, have a gay old time. The last thing on my mind is writing. The very last thing. So far last, it might as well not be there. Which then begs the question of why do it at all. So when I sit down to write, yeah, there's nothing there. I'm thinking about some girl I like, or the ball game I watched, or what am I going to sing for Numbers karaoke (it's a theme night, all of the songs have to have numbers in them). Not about my characters or story, or the fact that I'm supposed to be in rehearsals, trying to pull this thing together.
See? The doldrums are cleverly self-perpetuating.
Sooner or later, you start to listen to the sirens and think, maybe this was all doomed to failure. I've written two full-length plays this year, both of which I'm pretty proud of. That's a pretty good haul. Kick back and coast for the rest of the year. That's the good side.
The other side is I haven't had a production in forever. I haven't even gotten a positive response from any theatres in forever. This career thing is pretty well stalled. So...why am I still at it? I'm barrelling into my late thirties and while I've already let go of being a wunderkind, there isn't a lot of time left for me to be emerging. When do you cut bait, paddle back to port and chart another, easier course? There must be other destinations, other islands or countries, maybe not so far off, across such stormy seas. Quiet, nice little places you can drop anchor and settle down and be, at least, content. That's the less good side.
So, okay, maybe there is one beautiful, lovely, perfect siren. She's the quietest of them all, barely a whisper. When the wind turns just right, I can hear her, telling me how great this idea is, how these doldrums won't last forever, that I can do it and then it will be wonderful. Everyone will be impressed, she coos, and riches, fame, fortune and love will follow right behind. I just have to go a little bit further. That far-off distant land is getting closer, every day, she insists. Just beyond the horizon. When you hear that one, it's hard to turn back. Because the other islands are nice, lovely and all but they're not where you really want to go.
I should be used to all of this. Since it happens every time. But every time, it's all new. And every time, I have to ask myself seriously: what am I doing? Where am I actually going? And what happens if I don't get there? Worse, what happens if I do? If you shake hands with failure long enough, you forget what success feels like. You fear the unknown. It feels like the smart thing to do is just walk it all back.
My mama didn't raise no idiots. But my dad sure did. I'm too dumb and stubborn to throw it in. I'll make some adjustments, maybe, do a reading, not a workshop, aim lower for now. But I'm going to finish the freaking thing. I am. It might suck a lot, but it will get done. I'll get to a little atoll, where I can rest, load up on coconuts and mangoes and then set sail again. I'm sure it's just beyond the horizon. Just a little further.
Apologies for both belaboring and maddeningly mixing my metaphors there. That's just how I roll.
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