Haha, the only reason I'm updating this...

Is because a local radio DJ said it on air. Don't read this, go here:

www.facebook.com/falserhetoric

or

falserhetoric.bandcamp.com

or

www.reverbnation.com/falserhetoric

Maybe someday in the future I'll update it and it'll become the band's tour diaries or some shit. Until then, go friend/like/listen to/love us at one (or all) of those links above!

;)

~Alyce~

Teamwork and Kids. (or, 'Why Children should never be Game Spectators')

As of late, I have been spending many hours on the wonderful planet of Pandora--I've been playing Borderlands with a friend like a fiend lately, and I fucking LOVE it. And I'm not even a fan of first person shooters.  I'm beginning to wonder if co-op is my preferred gaming mode. There are a lot of things I do on my own, and I have a tendency to keep to myself. But when it comes to videogames with friends, I'm always the first to suggest a co-op game over any PVP. Perhaps it has something to do with my avoidance of confrontation? Even fighting games lose their luster. As of recently, I kinda hate them. But Let Me Tell You Why.

I have a couple of friends (a married couple, in fact) with kids that I hang out with during a good amount of my weekends. We'll call 'em Mama and Papa Friend, and Kid1 and 2.

It's pretty relaxed; we watch shows together, play games (video and board), and occasionally go out. It's honestly a relatively rare situation we have, but it works for us. Most of the time, the games we play are arcade or puzzle videogames. But every now and then, it's a fighting game, or some other competitive game that pits me against (9 times out of 10) Papa Friend.

I'm beginning to think there's a genetic alert that goes off in the kids' heads that tells them to come into the living room whenever Papa Friend and I play a competitive game. This same alert seems to shut down their sense of good sportsmanship during the duration of the game and they, in turn, cheer for Papa Friend The Entire Time. 

The ENTIRE FUCKING Time.

Now look, I'm 26, I'm single, I don't (want to) have kids, and I haven't been consistently around them in over three years. Doesn't mean that I don't like them (after and before a certain age). My little siblings are 13, and 8(twins, too). Love em to pieces.

But I am Not Used to being booed by not one, but TWO children. I already don't really care for PvP, so the fact that these little people are hoping for my failure just ticks me off.

I know what you're going to say, "Pusher, honey, it's just a game. They're just kids. Chill out." And maybe you're right. Perhaps it's just me. Perhaps it's the environment. I'm spending time with an entire family that is not my own. And while I feel welcome enough--as a guest and a good friend--I am not part of their family. So this act feels like a very subtle attack on the outsider. And this might say a lot about where I stand with my own family--being away from them, only getting to see them once, maybe twice a year. I feel a disconnect with my blood, and I'm not quite sure where to begin with fixing it--and whether it should be fixed.

BUT maybe it's all about what the kids say:

Kid 1: "Yay, Papa won! He's the best!"
Kid 2: "Aw, Papa lost! That's not fair!"
Kid 1: "Go Papa! Papa's way better than Alyce."

Am I being too sensitive? I must be--if my family said stuff like this, I'd totally blow it off and talk back. But hearing it from these kids makes me want to duct tape their mouths shut. It's interesting, because other than these moments, the kids are fine, we get along well, and there are no problems. It's just these fucking competitive games that bring out the part of them that makes me cringe. And fume. And blog, apparently.

So, I've made a promise to myself that I will never play a competitive game over there unless the kids are asleep or away. And even then, I would probably be opting for a co-op dungeon crawler or first-person shooter anyway. ;)

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

PS: If Mama and Papa Friend are reading this, you know I love you all (yes, including the kids). But you know exactly what I mean.

Reflections on Nanowrimo

(or, 'How I learned to appreciate the half empty glass')



According to the mandated rules of Nanowrimo, I didn't win. By the end of the month, I had only made it to 15,000 words. Now, I could say that there were distractions by the ton: I took a trip to New York, there was the Thanksgiving holiday, new friendships, etc, etc.

I could also say that these were merely excuses that kept me from the task at hand. Both valid (and commonly used) arguments, yes.
A goal of 50,000 words can be a daunting task for the literary neophyte; but some can pull it off (I know of one, for sure). The feeling of accomplishing such a goal can and should be liberating--every single one of those words belongs to you. It is your own creation (now do you understand why there are so many writers that are assholes? They feel like a god--and I completely understand).
So should I feel like a loser? Part of me totally does. I didn't even reach the halfway point in my word count. Perhaps it's not impressive in the grand scheme of novel-writing, or the high aspirations for the month of November (especially when, like me, you try to compare your word count to someone like, oh, I don't know...Stephen King. The man writes fucking tomes). But, in spite of my word count, there was one thing I didn't do.

I didn't quit.
Not once have I said, 'Oh, just forget it. I'm a failure. This is going nowhere.' Yes, I have skipped a shit load a few days. I have had some writing days where I was so scrupulous with my words that I would overthink every sentence that went down, and ultimately delete it. Other days, 2000 words just flowed out so beautifully I thought I may have been slipped some speed (and wanted more). And, of course, almost every day every now and then I chose videogames, movies, Korean Dramas or knitting over writing because I truly felt I had nothing to say. And who wants to stare at a blank screen or page with nothing to offer? It's like going on stage, and you forgot all your lines. And you're naked. And sweaty.

Our goals are our own. 50,000 words is just a catalyst to get you thinking about your own aspirations. It could actually be any amount of words you want--30,000, 15,000, 4000, 100,000.  Whatever makes you feel accomplished, set the mark there. Maybe you aren't writing every day, but you are thinking every day. Throughout an entire day, I think about all of the stories I'm writing at some point. I like to build in my head, and then get it all out in large quantities. Sometimes that takes a couple days, and sometimes a whole week.

Don't get me wrong--I still have a lot to work on when it comes to discipline, and I would love to write every single day, but I refuse to beat myself up over a goal not yet reached. I'd rather think about how I can keep moving forward.

November is over, and I'm still writing. I'd like to think of myself as a winner.

~Pusher.of.Pens.~

Accountability post (and teeny nerd moment)

Happy Friday, people!

Guess what my plans are tonight?
Exactly.
Yeah. I'm a lame-o.
A lame-o who's gonna get published, dammit.

This is just a quickie, but I thought, for accountability purposes, I would post my word count goals and the respective rewards I set for each of them:

1: 10,000 words: Upgrade my laptop. 
Since I can't afford a new laptop just yet, I'd like to keep the one I have in tip top shape. Right now, because it's from late 2007 (or early 2008?), it only has 1 GB of RAM, which is a little pathetic. So I'm upgrading to 2GB, which I think will be its limit on the processor it's running on (Intel Core 2 Duo). After this, we'll see how long she lasts...

2: 25,000 words: 250 G Hard drive for my xbox 360
Shut up, I like my RPG's. And my Arcade Games. And my TCG's.

3: 40,000 words: NEW RECORD PLAYER! (Or, at least, start seriously looking for one)
My current one is pulling some slow demonic shit on me right now.  Yeah, it makes my Baroness album sound hella gritty (It already sounds like Odin's house band), but it's not how it was meant to be heard, ya know?

4: 50,000 words and beyond: AHHHHH I'M NOT SURE YET. I was thinking of dinner at the best damn steakhouse in Chicago (with a friend or two, of course), but we'll see what else I think of. Maybe I should just make it: Save as Much Money as Possible to Get an apartment when your Lease is Up. Maybe I can convince someone else to take me to a celebratory steak dinner? (you know who you are...and yes, there's more than one of you)

If/when I figure out how to maybe make this a list that I can cross out as I progress and put on the side as a widget, I may do that. But maybe not. Don't want to clutter up my ad-free blog with my crap.

Anyway, back to writing.

Post coming soon, though. I was having some thoughts today, and I was thinking maybe I'd turn em into words for you to read.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

There is no try...

"Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things."

~Ray Bradbury

NaNoWriMo.  

I got serious about it this year, kids.  I created a schedule of writing with daily word count goals, rewards for when I hit certain goals and recruited a team of supportive readers to give me input throughout the process. 
But most importantly, I have an outline for my book this time around.  A working, plausible outline for a story I'm really excited to write.
But even more most importantly, I showed the idea to a few friends, and they want more.   To have that kind of support behind me is a completely different feeling from my normal 'keep-it-to-myself-until-I-churn-out-a-draft-that-I-don't-want-to-burn-immediately' state of mind.

It's great incentive to know that someone is hoping for and expecting me to continue an idea. This was where my team of supportive readers stemmed from. Anyone who knows me knows that it's rare that I ever tell more than one person in detail what I'm writing about, but there was something about this story: 

I wanted to share it. I wanted to share my idea before I even started writing it. This never happens.  

I, being a believer in Fate when it's convenient for me, took it as a sign that I should continue on with this story, and work my glutes off to get this baby written, like, seriously. And so, it's my focus--for this entire month and beyond. And even when I don't feel like writing a lick, I can remind myself of a few things:  

1. It sure as hell isn't gonna write itself.
2. I have people who matter to me, waiting for this story.
3. Merely 'trying' will get me nowhere.
4. I want this more badly than anyone else does.  

I haven't finished a draft of anything since I left Columbia, and I am long overdue for something completed. I am done 'trying' to get through a story.  

I set rewards and goals for myself, because I have realized that I become easily distracted by life in its many aspects. Last year during this month, I was in the process of moving out of my old apartment, staying with friends for two weeks, and then moving into a new place. A novel was the last thing on my mind. Over the summer I was having other issues. But right now, I have no big moves, no nervous breakdowns, no important dates (Other than my trip to New York)--just a shit load of writing time when I get off work. I am not going to 'try' to hit my word count, or 'try' to finish a draft, I am just going to do it. And if I fall behind, I will not 'try' to catch up; I will.  

I have noticed that when the word 'try' comes into play, lots of other little defeatist words sneak in, like, 'but', 'if only', 'I don't know', 'maybe'. These all form excuses, which keep us from moving forward.  

Look, we're all human (I think), we all err, we all get distracted. But we're also much stronger than we realize. There's something to be said about perseverance and stubbornness in the face of obstacles. When I feel beaten down, lacking motivation, I have to remind myself of how it feels when I finish a long section that had been stewing in my head all week. I have to think back to how I was in my writer's flow, where the words just kept coming for hours and tell myself that I want to feel that again.  How else can I get that feeling back except to Keep Writing?  

So yeah, find me on NaNoWriMo (PusherofPens), look at my widget to the right to track my progress, etc etc. 

~Pusher.Of.Pens.~  

Elucidation

To be honest, I don't have to explain myself to you.

To be honest to myself, I have some (internal) explaining to do.

Ever since I hit puberty, my life has been a multitude of questions beginning with "What": What do I want to be when I grow up? What is sex like? What am I looking for in a relationship? What do I believe in? Whether or not this is a common stream of thought in all adolescents, I don't know. I like to think, though, that this is part of the shared experience of growing up with my peers.

At 26, I've managed to answer many of my 'what' questions, but the path to my answers has not always been clear.  Sure, it was made apparent to me at a very early age that my life would revolve around music and the written word. While I've had some uncertainties through the years and experimented with other paths, all signs led to those two passions. It is an undeniable calling that I am finally choosing to no longer suppress with fear and outside influence. But this outside influence was answering some of those other 'what' questions.

We are raised by people with their own set of values, and up to a certain point it is all we know. Once we are old enough to make our own decisions, to ask our own questions, we are not a clean slate; we have the bias of a past generation. So, we start out by answering the questions of 'what' based on how we were nurtured. At some point, though, the answers stop making sense to us, and we start asking "Why."

Why do I want to be an artist?
Why do I have this spiritual belief?
Why do I continue to follow social constructs that go against my basic ideas of human life and liberty?

I am at a point in my life where I am constantly peeling away the layers of conditioning I have gathered over the years. Each time I peel one away, I run the risk of putting it back on because I feel too exposed. In some instances, I feel safe in the beliefs I was raised on because not thinking about it is a much easier task than being honest with myself.

I have questioned everything from my sexuality and idea of love, to the ethics of owning a pet and buying canned goods. I found early on that the notion of 'normal' doesn't exist; it's just the way of the masses. I am finding that many of my ideas don't align with these masses, and perhaps at some time in my life, I may be judged and ostracized because of this. I am always tempted to just keep the layers on and suffer in silence.

I am constantly changing, constantly evolving into a person that I will one day be able to look in the mirror and recognize, but I don't feel that right now. The reflection is familiar, like an old photo of a classmate, whose name and relation to you is right on the tip of your tongue. The woman looking back at me is trying to break through; she's trying to break through all the bullshit 'whats' and screaming 'why'?

While it is not an easy task, and I certainly don't have all the answers (where's the fun in that?), I feel a little freer knowing that I made a conscious decision to explore it all and listen to my heart rather than settle for what has been handed to me.

But, to be honest, I don't have to explain myself to you. This is all for me.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Assertive (Or, She has a Pen.)

She had a bad habit of playing therapist. She was the modern sexless sapphire;  the matriarch there to suckle the adult toddlers, to solve everyone's problems.

She watched them talk. She watched as the complaints rushed out of their mouths, like levees breaking, like dams crumbling, flooding her mind, washing away any self-reflection she was saving for herself when she got a moment alone.

Because to them, she was just the girl at the tin can on the other end. She was the Freud, the Dear Abby, the Oprah--ethereal beings that were untouchable, that didn't need assistance. They comforted and soothed the self-absorbed, the emotionally afflicted.

They told her laconically that they wanted to know what she was going through, but she knew better. She knew that once she began to talk, it would always, Always, gravitate/relate back to them. She helped them believe that the world revolved around their melodrama, their fuck-ups, their self loathing.

But things have changed.

She is now purging her life of anything that does not benefit her progress, her comfort, her self-assurance.

That includes those who have likened her presence, her friendship, to that of a therapist's session.

She has no time for one-sided relationships.

She has no time for those who only see her as a "good listener."

You have been mistaken. She is merely a writer that enjoys observing and analyzing the human experience. She will take your stories of self-inflicted woe and twist them into her own beautifully flawed gems of fiction.

Be warned. She has a pen. And she will fucking use it.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~