Scribo Ergo Sum, or The Paradox of a Writer

I recently started reading a collection of David Foster Wallace's posthumously published essays, entitled Both Flesh and Not.  If you haven't ever read anything by Foster Wallace, I highly suggest you do.  His writing is philosophical, literary, intellectual, and utterly relevant.  He's a "writer's writer."

As I fancy myself an intellectual and a writer, I find Foster Wallace's essays poignant and inspiring; the latest essay I read, though, 'The Empty Plenum', resounded with me in a way that reminded me why I pursued literary studies and why I have always lived for (and by) the written word.  In this essay, Foster Wallace discusses David Markson's Wittgenstein's Mistress (which, I have to admit, I have never read and had not heard of before reading this essay) and examines, essentially, what makes fiction great.  He mentions several writers and novels I read in grad school, comparing those "works of genius" and others before getting to what was, to me, the heart of the essay: great fiction requires great writers, but what drives one to write?  "Ontological insecurity," the need to have our existence and experiences acknowledged, affirmed, and expressed:

The need to indite, inscribe - be its fulfillment exhilarating or palliative or, as is more usual, neither - springs from the doubly-bound panic felt by most persons who spend a lot of time up in their own personal heads. On one side - the side a philosopher'd call "radically skeptical" or "solipsistic" - there's the feeling that one's head IS, in some sense, the whole world, when the imagination becomes not just a more congenial but a realer environment than the big Exterior of life on earth.

He posits that writers are, in fact, empty plenums.  This paradox certainly describes all the aspiring writers I know.  Writers, as a general rule, tend to be deeply introspective and generally introverts.  We observe first and analyze every facet of every interaction.  This is not, however, to say that we are not fun-lovin', hell-raisin' party people; most of my writer friends are incredibly sociable, funny, and - let's face it - a little crazy.  Writers spend an unhealthy amount of time in our heads; character fault, personality flaw, whatever you want to call it, but I suspect that this omnipresent analysis of human behavior and interaction drives us to become social beings - whether to postpone examining our own psyches or to engage in social experimentation, testing out our hypotheses on friends or strangers.

The act of writing itself, however, is a lonely exercise.  One cannot write with distraction, as anyone who has ever had to write a college essay can attest.  While that essay you BS-ed on Sartre was simply a forced exercise, means to an end, grunt work, writers (on any level) write to get the Interior out.  We feel a compulsion to express, to share, to paint what is going on in our heads, and though we will eventually share our chef d'oeuvres with our loved ones, our muses, it is damn near impossible to interpret and delineate our mental drivel unless we cloister ourselves from any distractions.  The solitary act of writing may explain the procrastination of many writers: as observers, we are distracted by minutiae to a fault, and it is incredibly difficult to turn off this heightened sense of watchfulness to dig in one's heels and get to work.

I am not suggesting that my writing is on par with the greats, especially philosophical or existential, original, or even good.  I am, however, driven by the same compulsion that David Foster Wallace describes - the same compulsion that drives all writers, all artists.  I need to have my voice heard, I need to have my existence acknowledged, because all artists are, on some level, both slightly narcissistic and slightly insecure.  Psychoanalysts would have a field day with us, I'm sure, because you can't spend all that time in your own head, examining every word, every expression, every situation and action without becoming slightly neurotic.  I can, however, guarantee that we've already self-analyzed and used our own neuroses as inspiration for our work.  I write, therefore I am, because if you don't take the time to appreciate the human experience, it's over before you realize it.

Unwilling Forays into the Wacky World of Funeral Planning

Influenced by the recent death of several older relatives, my mother began reflecting upon her own mortality.  This, and a conversation with the office manager of her church about burial plots, inspired my mother to drag me to a funeral home while we were out running errands - all under the guise of "picking up a brochure." I should've known something was amiss when she went from one building to another, paper in hand, and didn't come out for 15 minutes, and only then to tell me to come in.

Normally, I don't want anything to do with hospitals, funeral homes, or mortuaries, unless dragged there by guilt and my affection for the deceased.  Had I known what was happening, I may have just stayed in my car.  Alas, I did not, and I was lulled into a sense of calm by the trophy and award store signage on the front of the red brick building.

As I walked up the path to the building, I noticed that there were headstone and grave marker samples laid in the front lawn.  "Curious," I thought to myself, but continued into the abyss, blissfully unaware of what was to come.  Inside, I was greeted by green carpet popular in the late '70s and early '80s -worn, but clean and cared for - and slatwalls filled with urns and headstone vases, while large headstone templates of varying colors and materials bore different fictitious (I hoped) names, yet oddly the same portraits.  My mother sat in a small room around a round wood veneer table with an older blonde woman, whose graceful, moderately wrinkled face still conveyed the exceptional beauty she must have been as a young woman, and a rotund and raucous silver-haired man with deep set, hooded blue eyes whose age was impossible to tell, as it is with all life-long smokers, but who I guessed was somewhere between 65 and 78.

I sat quietly in the corner, trying to blend in with the wall, realizing at last that I had been deceived.  The blonde woman was filling out paperwork as her boss, the raucous man, looked on and corrected her mistakes in a tone that conveyed both exasperation and amusement.  "You've got to learn this," he said in a heavy Southern drawl.  "No, no.  You put her name HERE, not THERE."  I tried to remain as still as possible, hoping everyone would forget I was in the room, intrigued by the intricacies of a few of the headstones, while repulsed by the atmosphere of decay implied by the wares.  Unfortunately, my mother kept trying to involve me in the conversation, as if somehow being included in the process would put me at ease.  I tried to show my disinterest by answering in monosyllabic replies and head nods, but she did not grasp my meaning.

Whenever her boss left the room, the blonde woman would chit chat with my mother as she filled out paperwork.  She tells my mom how, sadly, she lost her husband "just like that" one day, and how arranging your burial plans early is something that was done in the '50s, after "the house, the car, and the honeymoon.  People just don't do that anymore."  I thought about this for a moment, and the idea of getting "his & hers" graveyard plots for each other as newlyweds seemed both bizarre and macabre.  (Who am I kidding...this whole experience was macabre.)

After about 20-30 minutes, the last of the paperwork was filled out, and I thought, "YES! I can finally leave," but no.  Somehow, I was dragged into a conversation between Raucous Southerner and my mother about how my mother doesn't look her age - a remark we hear all the time, as neither of my parents look as old as they are.  I must have laughed quietly, because RS looks at me and says, "Well, honey, don't you jus' have the NICEST [only he dragged out the first syllable, so it became 'NYYYYE-cest'], most beautiful smiiiile." (I find that older men like to say this to young women a lot...a nice, nonthreatening, nonsexual way to give us a compliment.)  Then, of course, he had to ask me my age (again, something socially acceptable only to old men).  When I responded, he made a HUGE deal about how I look much, much younger than I am, to which my mother responded by basically giving the man our family history.

Fast forward another 10-15 minutes, and RS begins telling us how mortuaries make him uncomfortable, which is why he sticks to the headstone/plot part of it.  (I suppose it's mildly less creepy.) He begins telling us this story about a humpback from Georgia who died:  the mortician couldn't figure out how to prevent the deceased from sitting up in the coffin, but finally came up with using a rubber strap.  This was back in the day when you had the wake for your late family member in your house and stayed up all night, which is critical for the joke.  So 3 or 4 of the family members stay up, then gradually get up and go to bed.  Finally, only one of the relatives is still awake and with the coffin, when the strap breaks and the corpse sits up and says, "Well, if you're going to stay up, I guess I'll go to bed too."  Funniest joke ever, right??  WRONG.  As if I'm not already freaked out by this entire experience in mortality, I now have to picture a zombie coming out of its coffin??  No thank you.

I quickly gathered my things and started heading toward the door, thankful that this entire experience was at last over.  I was free to go back to the land of the living, a world that does not involve the repose of human remains.

What did I learn from this foray into funeral planning?  First, that those involved in this field have completely warped, macabre senses of humor.  Secondly, that I'm never being duped into "just getting a brochure" with my mother ever again.  Thirdly, don't trust so-called trophy and award stores, as they're just fronts for morticians and funeral plot salesmen.  Get your kid something else for finishing first in her soccer league, like a cookie...or a pony.

I'm too overeducated for this job...

(Fair warning:  there's going to be a lot of complaining and some whining in this post...but blogs are mediums for expressing the self-absorbed and the quotidian, so shut up already.)

I. Hate. My. Job.

There, I've said it.  In fact, as a friend pointed out, I've said that a lot over the years.  When she said that, I started thinking, and I realized that I have complained about hating every job I have had over the past five years--except for my stint as a Teaching Assistant in grad school.  Sure, I complained about that some, I don't doubt, but I didn't loathe it with every fiber in my body.

So what am I doing?  I moved back home to help out my mom, and I've enjoyed being close to family; however, this temp work that I'm doing is makes me feel like an automaton.

My problem is that I cannot stand to be bored.  Seriously.  In a recent conversation with a friend who was studying for her Master's comps, I was asked if I'd rather be bored or go through comps & finals over again.  I chose comps, which made the friend question my sanity.  I hated comps and had a major case of senioritis my last semester of grad school, don't get me wrong, but I'd do it all over again if it meant I had a challenge.

Being that my last few positions have been very repetitive and very un-challenging, it's no wonder I've been job hopping.  My current job could easily be done by a robot and makes the shoe job look like organic chemistry (which I've never taken, but I hear is terrible).  It's no wonder I'm the definition of stir crazy.  (Seriously, look it up...I'll wait.  doobie doobie doo... Told ya.)

Teaching French is, essentially, the only job I've ever enjoyed.  Obviously, I liked it enough to go to grad school, so why am I not teaching it?  Well, life got in the way, and I ended up riding the retail train way longer than I had planned, and now I'm here.

So here we are kids, and this is my New Year's Resolution:  I am going to be a French teacher this year, and I'm not going to get derailed from this goal this time.  I'll need you guys to keep me focused (I'm easily bored, duh...haven't you been reading??), because let's face it, job hunting sucks.  But I'm doing it, dammit!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to lose a few hours of my life mired in teaching websites.

Adventures in Job Hunting

Blerg... that Liz Lemon word completely and accurately describes how I feel about the process of re-entering the workforce.

I never imagined it would be this difficult to find a job that didn't make me want to gouge my eyes out on a daily basis, but this is what happens when you move to a glorified retirement community in the middle of a recession.

You want a HWAT??  A job??  Isn't that what you've got a husband for?
(Source:  cracked.com)

But the worst part of job hunting isn't even the mind-numbing hours you spend sending out resumés and cover letters, or even staring at online job boards until those obscure job titles actually sound interesting.  ("Principal Project Control Technician???"  What the hell is that??)  No, it's the entire interviewing process...each inane question and sycophantic answer kills you just a little bit more, until you turn into some interviewing robot.

Your company's approach to collating has revolutionized the industry.

The Phone Interview

While phone interviews are supposed to help interviewers weed out potential candidates, unless you're interviewing with a corporate HR department outside of your region, I find them a waste of time.  While traditional wisdom states that if you're being interviewed over the phone, you should get up and walk around; you're apparently also supposed to prepare for this interview as you would a traditional face-to-face meeting.  

False.

Everybody knows that your ass is sitting around in your pajamas (because hey, you're unemployed...you've got no place to be), probably sitting in your bed.  I don't pace during a regular interview; why would I do that in this one??  "Ma'am, are you okay?  You sound like you're out of breath."  "Oh, I'm just running laps around my house...helps to get the blood flowing to my brain."  No.  If I have a phone interview, I'm planted in front of my computer, looking up interview questions.  I mean, come on...if I have access to this resource, why not use it??

Also, this.
"I would describe myself as outgoing, a hard worker, and...what does that bitch think she's wearing?"

The downside, of course, is that without having to make eye contact, my mind is probably going to wander.  To counter this, I use this time to research the company further (and, occasionally, troll Facebook/Twitter/LOLcat-esque websites), so that I'm at least focused on something relevant to the interview.  

The Meet-and-Greet

The first interview is generally another colossal waste of time.  Every interviewer asks some variation of the same questions, so I've managed to adapt a canned answer that sounds really thoughtful.  Rarely do I get difficult/original questions that actually give me pause, and when I do, I'm grateful for a break from the mundane.  (And yes, I've been on the other side of the interview process, and it's equally as mind-numbing.)  During this initial step, I'm more focused on my posture, body language, and maintaining the appropriate amount of eye contact (you know, the kind that makes you seem engaged without giving off a creeper/I-will-come-to-your-house-and-watch-you-sleep vibe, like this).

I am so enthusiastic about everything you are saying!

The worst part of the meet-and-greet is during the end of the interview, when the interviewer has started talking about what you'll have to do.  You think everything is peachy, "hey, I've got the job!"  Not so fast...did we fail to mention there would be a second interview?  A second interview??  For this??  But you manage maintain your perky job seeker façade...

Then you come home and do this:

Why God??  WHY?!?
(From hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com)

...and down a few dozen bottles of whiskey.

Bienvenue, my little trolls!

I tried to start a blog a while ago at the behest of a friend of mine (who for some reason thinks I'm incredibly funny), but my insane retail job got in the way.  Now, having quit my job and moved to the middle of nowhere (ostensibly to help out family), I find myself with more free time than is good for me.

In between the fruitless, soul-crushing searches for employment offering more than Mitt Romney pays his domestic staff (hell, I'd even settle for that...put me in a binder, Mr. Romney!), I like to peruse the interwebs for things that make me less likely to jump from the roof of a tall building.  This, of course--in addition to turning me into Mr. Magoo--invariably leads to something pissing me off.  Normally a cynical, sarcastic gal with a heart of gold (like this guy), this trolling--in some sort of inverse alchemy--turns me into a ranting, I-will-cut-you-if-you-disagree-with-me sort of confrontational social media user.

How I imagine I look
(Source:  http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com)

Of course, I don't actually look like that, but that's how I feel.  I obviously have friends and relatives who disagree with me, but when I'm in the zone, I get combative.  (Mom always used to say, "Use your words."  I wonder if she regrets saying that now.)  I respect everyone's right to have an opinion, your opinion isn't always right (mine is...j/k, sorta), and sometimes it's hurtful and detrimental to others.  I also don't have to listen to your nonsense, which is my right.

So that's what this blog is going to be:  a cathartic exercise and (hopefully) amusing forum in which I can vent and avoid turning into a mouth-foaming lunatic, but I'm making no promises about the latter.

You won't like me when I'm angry.

Fair warning though, I swear like a sailor.  I have lived abroad, which changed my perception of culture.  I also like to make fun of pretty much anything, but especially politics and religion.  I studied history and find it terribly frustrating that politicians and religious figures often have no understanding of historical events (or current events, or logic, for that matter).

I will not promise that I will be a regular blogger, because I'm pretty infamously a procrastinator.  I can't even promise to maintain any particular theme, because whatevs (and FREEDOM, bitches!).  And if that bothers you, I'm sure you can find something vaguely entertaining by the trolls at Reddit.