You Watch Your Phraseology!

I love word meaning in the writing process. How a whole sentences structure, meaning, and impact can change with just one word, or switching two words in thier placement.
The first example is a quote from Disney's Tron. I really don't care how you feel about the film. It's allegorical techno sex, a basic, recognizable story frame and simple dialogue that let the visuals of where the story is being told stand out. I digres.
In the beginning, As part of his intro, he says "I kept dreaming of a world I thought I'd never see." In trying to quote this, I would flip flop the order of two words to make it "a world I never thought I'd see."
The first implies exactly what's going on, Flynn making a world with the hopes of one day experiencing it. But switch those and it gives it almost a disregard for that world, an apathy that would have changed our idea of how much we should really be interested, too. Eh, never thought I would see it.
Or, I thought I would never see, but I was working toward it the whole time.

My favorite in word changing is Once Upon A Dream. Hmm, didn't intend for them to both be Disney.
The line is "I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem." I always accidentally changed it to "seldom what they seem."
I love how this vastly changed how the vision is seen.
When visions are seldom all they seem, you still have a vision on your hands, even if it's not as fantastical or spectacular as you think. And you know this about your vision, but fight the dragon and dance in the ballroom anyway.
But when your vision is seldom what it seems, at best it's not what was intended, but it's doing a good job fooling you. At worst, you are being horribly deceived by whatever you are imagining whatever this is to be, but it's certainly no vision.

Never underestimate the power of word order and word useage.

Resources

People gravitate, like the stuff of stars they are made of, to what they desire. A middle manager may have a wood workshop, a nurse might have collected as Wilton baking tools and bake her ass off. Cashiers collect historical war books, you get the point.

Even though I spent my youth writing, when I entered the Economic Destiny of the Blue Collar Work Force, I wrote off (haha) the idea that I could write as an adult with any real result. This was my life, as was my mother’s and her mother’s. Work, sleep, whatever you do after your shift, well, that’s just a bonus.

I collected books. At first just a few authors. Then I went through a non-fiction phase and collected those. During that time, a book on the craft of writing had crept in. I don’t know how, or when. But that’s when I started collecting books about writing.

Still, writing was a pipe dream. Work, sleep, clean. Work, sleep, watch a movie. Work, sleep, go to a friend’s house. Work, sleep, read, read, read.

In retrospect, I was writing the whole time. A financial attempt at college, articles and website reviews, little stories, plots and outlines for books. I had never actually stopped using. I just told myself I had. Somehow, I managed to hide it from myself.

Then the bottom fell out. As it did for just about everyone else at the start of the Recession/Working Depression.

Well, this was my chance. I found an angle on a popular theme, and it carved a novel out of my flesh.

From accounting and data, I went to retail. I hadn’t had a standing job for over a decade. But when it comes to work, I’m very Winston Zeddmore, “If there’s a steady paycheck in it, I’ll believe anything you say.” Thanks to whatever or whoever you want to blame, part-time work was all I could get.

A dump truck of shit hit my little life fan, but that’s for another time.

During this time, I had given myself over to Literature as my Lord and Savior.

And I knew no one would help me but me.

So, how do you school yourself in Creative Writing? How do you earn a Faux MFA? How do you teach yourself if you don’t already know?

Those writing books were getting redundant. Like fitness magazines that recommend squats every other month, yoga magazines that feature another wealthy couples unused space into their ashram after the one they visited in India.

Fuck, I’ve only eaten at an actual Indian restaurant once or twice. I’ll probably never make it to India.

I reasoned that there are a few ways to get to the honey ye desire.

Shakespeare. “Classics.” Pulitzer Prize Winners.

That’s where I started.

The public library is okay. Unless you are at a branch office, which has the most recent remodel and “consumer friendly” updates. I used my library card for little else than Great Courses. Those things are expensive. Because they are so fucking good! I already owned a few and bought one for a friend, but the library opened the flood gate of subjects. If I had to recommend just a few for the purpose of this discourse, I would say “How to Listen to and Understand Great Music,” “Reading and Understanding Shakespeare,” and “Books That Have Made History.” (this last title is much longer.) But, please, don’t limit to these three. Great Courses could run a for-profit library on their own.

Chain bookstores are pricey, Amazon isn’t much cheaper, even if you can catch a deal. This is especially true of popular, current classics, and perennial classics. Having constant demand, their price remains constant, too.

However, there is an untapped well, even in the Culture Desert, where people just discard treasure.

Thrift stores.

I’ve gotten more non-fiction, Shakespeare analysis, Cliff Notes, Spark Notes, classic novels, collected works, and textbooks from thrift shops than anywhere else.

Are they dated? Sure. Just like the book of analytical essays on Hamlet that actually had something to say without involving actor’s names. What people throw away. Plato, Hobbes, Erasmus, Faulkner, Hemmingway, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, issues of Psychology Today, on and on.

Where do you go when nobody knows your name?

Your private library, where books are less than a quarter each.

And it’s Paradise.

Wage Slavery

I heard this term a long time ago, before it became the truffles on the entrée of current political rhetoric. It was one of those things that I’ve always lived with, but didn’t have a name for. Like Rape Culture.

So, if for some reason you’re reading this and you don’t know what I’m talking about, here’s a few definitions found on the Internet.

“Wage slavery refers to a situation where a person’s livelihood depends on wages…especially when the dependence is total and immediate.” (Wiki)

“Wage slavery is the state where you are unable to perceive choices and create courses of action different from the grind of the job.” Whywork.org

And just to set the tone for this post, here is a quote found on Whywork.org. “Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.” Norman Cousins.

I can’t speak for the politics of wage slavery. But I can tell you what it looks like, what it lives like, what it holds back and what it takes from you.

Just at this company I currently work at, several instances of harassment and insubordination have occurred that will not be responded to. I’m actually terrified to write this, in the thought that someone will make the connection of who I am, even as Nobody, and there goes my job. We all know what happens to people who speak their minds.

No one in my position can afford to speak their mind and lose their job.

I could walk you through a common month as a woman, wife, writer, and clock punching employee. Maybe that’s best, seeing how it all ties together.

Right now, I’m writing this from my last refuge. A nook in my closet/utility/laundry area thing in my human cube apartment. Which I have to be grateful for. It’s this or sitting on the corner with the very nice homeless man we called “Jesus” who was mysteriously picked up by Social Services and never heard from again. Watching it happen sent chills down my spine.

I’ve made this nook pretty badass. A fabric porch chair covered in blankets and some wiggle room, extra laundry baskets covered in blankets and I have an ottoman. I even have a giant plastic skeleton hanging right by me. Hell, I’m going to go to Wal Mart tomorrow and get a hanging jewelry rack for the closet so I can put my headphones, smart phone, and pocket tissues in. I’m sitting under the All and Clorox, so there is a bar above that. It’s going to be downright convenient. Fuck me, I even have a cup holder.

So, let’s start at the first of the month. I feel pretty good. As good as I can feel. But that’s for another day.

I get my first check of the month, husband gets his first two, and we pay bills that aren’t due for days, maybe weeks, because that would overlap with rent, which takes my whole second check. And I haven’t paid this little for rent since the nineties. Car, car insurance, cell phone, and the adjustments debtors have made to accommodate our downgraded lifestyle. I don’t have cable or internet access. I don’t have membership fees, or online subscription services, like Prime, Play, Hulu, or Netflix. So, groceries and gas, the errant soda at work, and that’s it.

Some actual things that have happened; I get yelled at by a customer, which happens often. Because people know they can do that now and get away with it. Except when I go to my boss (who has a Doctorate and 15 years youth on me) and tell them what I need to get this twat out of the line, they have a panic attack. So, I’m getting Retail Flu, misery at both ends. I can’t get my boss to help me, I can’t get this customer what they want. Everyone screams at me until they are tired of it. I tell them I’m going to the bathroom and take headache medicine instead.

Next week, I get yelled at by the other boss, in a manner which I like to call Saddle Up, where they ride your ass for at least an hour, either because they are unhappy, got a bad review, hate poor people, or today just decided to hate you. I’ve seen other people get saddled up, and it’s a lot like prison mentality; I’m so sorry but I’m glad it’s not me. However, this goes on, yelling at me in front of employees and customers for over two hours. Which triggers a panic attack so powerful I’m actually immobilized. What I want to do is leave. If someone had described this to me, I would have thought HR was already involved. But I get to ride it out, shoulders hunched, while what she wants keeps flip-flopping back and forth until I finally get to leave my shift.

Also, if the boss isn’t watching what I’m doing, and isn’t making the only other person watch the queue, I get screamed at for being busy. So I have to make sure and tell my boss to pay attention at work while I am doing work so the work gets done down the line.

A different manager actually dropped the N word. In front of a new black co-worker. When they left, I felt the need to apologize and say that I had never heard that word uttered by another employee here ever, which was the truth. They let it slide and ignored it for the rest of the day. I agonized over it after work. I could have reported it. Maybe I should have. The next day I asked what they wanted to do about it, do you want me to report it, if you want to report it I will back up your statement. The co-worker was way too cool about it, and it hit me that this isn’t unusual. The manager in question was blowharding about how many people he knew and was related to, and this was also true. The co-worker decided to let it go, they needed the pay more than morals. What made me feel sick was that I knew exactly what that felt like.

Right now, I’m waiting for the bills I’ve paid to clear, before I can do anything else with what’s left. What I’ve forgotten at the store, doctor visits, prescriptions, or new clothes for work to replace ones that have worn out.

Now I’m on the second half of the month. My second check is rent. No matter how early it comes, that’s what it gets written for. Nothing but groceries and gas happens on rent weeks.

This is when my medical professional doctorate holding boss decides they are going to tell me that I don’t actually have food allergies. They like to argue, no matter how I try to remain calm, it just seems to piss them off more. I tell them to stop, they say they can just keep going. The only reason it stops is because they’ve become distracted with something else. This is actual textbook harrasement. But I’m too scared to do anything about it, because even though “retaliation” is against the policy, law, whatever, they always manage to find something. Panic attack, bathroom break. I have my phone on me, desperately wanting to walk out, report this, something. The best I can do is ignore them, but they continue through the day, offering to buy me food at some place, offering to buy lunch some other place because “that’s the only thing we can eat together” and making remarks about Easter candy, because “it’s too bad you can’t eat these.”

The month starts over again. This time the manager throws a fit because you are helping someone on the phone too long and not doing your job. Even though it’s an insurance company investigating a customer for fraud. They actually put their hand on the phone, and it’s just a reflex before they make it look like I hung up. Now it’s a zoo around me, because my “peers” are watching my boss go ape shit, me talking on the phone, and covering the phone to try to keep my boss calm. When the call is finally over, I get accused of mishandling the call and not doing my job.

Panic attack. Bathroom break.

I watch the bank account to make sure rent clears before we pay anything else.

I can do nothing about any of this. Because my survival depends on every cent I get. I haven’t gotten to property tax, income tax, vehicle tags, or professional license renewal fees.

I have to take the fits of rage, harassment, being singled out, and customer abuse because if you have a job, you have to hold on for dear life to it.

So, what does this have to do with writing?

Time and Money, dumbass.

Everything plays second fiddle to the J.O.B. I think about writing all day long. A good idea, a scene, a song for the mood, a quote, someone who inspires a character (this also happens in a good way, okay?). After a day with panic attacks, it’s all I can do to come home and lay down. After being the intermediary for managers who do not want to deal with the filth that they perceive our customers to be, and be assured, they do, I am out of social chips and my mind is exhausted. The amount of sleep I get depends on my schedule.

Why does this make me a Poor Angry Writer? What gives me the right to want to write all day and “not contribute to society?” If I didn’t have to worry about getting the necessary education requirements or having health insurance, if my only worry was tapping keys, researching sites, and reading books, what could I possibly contribute?

Well, there is always tutoring and volunteering. My time would be best spent explaining Shakespeare to high school kids, illustrating the metaphors in nursery rhymes for elementary schools kids, or helping middle school kids traverse the lingo in a textbook. Adult literacy. Senior reading groups. College level editing guidance. Or, >gasp<, running a non-profit book store of my own, with a for-profit business on the side. Resumes. Complaint letters. Editorial essays. Wording an obituary. Strategically phrased formal request.

Heaven help us all, writers are fucking useful.

Except when you keep them useless.