waaay too close to 9/11

BLAKE HUDSON 

FOR PRESIDENT

These colors don't run!

a reflection

Isaac and I were at The Anchor talking about all the benefits of journaling on a daily basis. One such benefit, we agreed, was that you can see the evolution of your thoughts over extended periods of time. Basically I'm big into studying worldviews: what makes a worldview, how worldviews operate and change, how worldviews can follow different paths, the relationship between worldviews and belief systems, the relationship between worldviews and interpretation of life events (both being guided by, sustained, and foundational for worldviews), and the tight nexus between perception and praxis. One of the countless pleasures of looking through my old journals is that I can trace how my worldview has evolved; and for a considerable amount of time yesterday, I was able to see how various life events (and, more importantly, the interpretation of those life events) has shaped and transformed my worldview from what it was then to what it is now. But that process isn't what that post is about. Really, this post is all about me showing you how bat-shit crazy I was back then. Looking through my old journals from those olden days, I've seen within that old system-of-thought four key facets:

(1) Life's all about finding a wife so you won't be alone and then you can have sex all the time guilt-free.

(2) Every girl you meet--no matter what--is a potential future wife.

(3) When a girl breaks up with you, it's because God's mad at you.

(4) If you want to fall in love and get married, you have to be a legalistic Christian.

Yeah, that's not the best framework through which life should be conducted, and as funny as it may be, the sad truth is that I'm still wrestling through some of the baggage from that thought-process, and it's not something I like. Looking at that old mindset (which, really, is a bit more complicated, but that's always the case), it's refreshing to see how far I've come. I'd like to think I'm much more grounded, wise, and thoughtful. You can call it cynicism, but, really, stoicism is a better definition. Don't know what it means? Look it up. And then throw Jesus in there somewhere. 

on writing (II)

As could have been suspected, I haven't yet written the last two chapters of Act 2. Ams read through Act 2 with quite a few pointers; she liked it, but she agreed with me that there were areas of concern. I'd already had these areas of concern written down, and Amanda basically confirmed my suspicions. In light of this I've been doing a lot of thinking regarding the style of the story, wrestling with different things like present-tense story-telling versus past-tense; story-driven plots versus character-driven ones; the nature of the three-act story having to be tweaked in light of the nature of serial novels. Lots and lots of thinking, lots and lots of note-taking, lots and lots of purveying different pieces of literature (both mine and not mine) in the attempt to piece together the best possible route for this sort of story. These are things that always need to be taken into consideration, and as the scope of this multi-volume project becomes evident in my mind's eye, I'm thinking the original route--something akin to Chuck Paluhniuk's mode-of-writing--should be discarded. At this point I'm thinking about doing what I did with the 2010 remake of "36 Hours" (a remake which has done surprisingly well, *almost* redeeming the success of the original). 

Being a fan of paradoxes, the question "Past tense or present tense?" can be answered, "Both." Likewise, the question of "story-" or "character-driven" storytelling can be answered, "Both." How so? It looks something like this: not one but two story-lines, one focused on the past and one centered in the present. The difference in narrative style between the two helps to both feed and differentiate the different story-lines. The past story-line is, specifically, the story of the zombie pandemic of 2011-2015 (I literally just now came up with those dates; they'll probably be tweaked). The present story-line is the main character's reflections on those events in a different time and place where all this has become integrated into the national psyche. 

The Zombie Pandemic: A History. The bulk of the story will be focused on the actual pandemic. Each novella's broken into three acts, each of which fits into a chronological retelling of the story, each act with its own over-arching and embedded story-lines. The technical details involve past-tense story-telling, a cleaner and more precise prose, story-driven rather than character-driven. The biggest conflicts aren't those things raging in the main character's head but those raging in the world outside him. While not a total tossing-out-the-window of characterization, the focus is shifted from the character's interpretation of the world to the character's activities within that world. This might be the best fit for this part of the book for several reasons: quicker, more fast-paced story-telling that's action-oriented and descriptive rather than reflective and contemplative. This "reflective" story-telling can become a trend for a person like me, slowing down the story in a literary morass of psycho-babble and incoherent contemplations spreading eight pages (something I'm guilty of doing; I need to save that shit for the blog). With this mode of story-telling, I'm freed from that burden and able to steer around it, keeping the action chugging along rather than becoming a muddled mess. And, ultimately, focusing the attention on story developments rather than character developments would be a good maneuver. It's like that cryptic rule: "Know your audience." And let's be honest: most people who like reading zombie stories are the sort who want a good zombie story, not an analysis of the character in the midst of it. This doesn't mean the character will be dry and static but that, within the actual story, the over-arching focus isn't on that. 

Fifteen Years Later (Give or Take). The present-tense story-line will be the place where I can divulge my little fits of fancy when it comes to reflecting on the cognitive responses to a zombie pandemic and the manner in which that affects our worldview and, thus, our modus vivendi (manner of living). This is, honestly, the most fascinating thing about a hypothetical wide-spread zombie outbreak. The tale of the pandemic, told in past-tense, will be from the main character's perspective as he looks back on those events and goes through them, digging through the horrors of his past to try and find some sort of meaning in them for the present. It is, essentially, what we do all the time without knowing it. The technicalities of this part of the story are that it's told present-tense, with much more reflection on the events and how they've affected the main character as well as his world, and this is character-driven rather than story-driven. 

I came up with this technique of two plot-lines (and by "coming up with it" I mean thought of it; I'm sure it's been done before) a few years ago, and I found that it worked amazingly well with the "36 Hours" remake. The remake's success, coupled with readers emailing me about the style, has reinforced my conviction that such a two-pronged plot-line can be successful so long as the two story-lines remain integrated. What this means is that the present story-line isn't some shot out of the dark but the direct and natural result of the events which transpire in the zombie pandemic. Everything in the present-tense story-line must be in harmony with what's come before; and not only that, but the present-tense reflections on the events must be evident in the events themselves, so that continuity is achieved. It's a pretty big bear to wrestle, but it's like Rob Hoos, in that it's a good bear to wrestle, and even when you've been defeated, there's sort of a victory there (if only because you got to wrestle with Rob Hoos). All this is tentative in the sense that I haven't yet fully decided on a route to go with the story (in the sense of its literary style), but I'm going to play around with it for a bit and see how I feel (and what others think). 

in memoriam

I've been listening to this song so much lately, and for a lot of reasons. First of all, remove the lyrics and you have one of the best zombie theme songs possible (in my opinion). Secondly, with the lyrics, the song serves as a sort of nostalgic memoir, taking me back to about two years ago when I was "madly in love" (which is to say being a stupid and silly boy) with a chick named Sarah. Damien Jurado's passion and lyrics mirror the ocean of thoughts and feelings which I swam in daily back in those days. Certainly my perspective on "true love" has changed since then, gone more of a cynical route; and the whole event added countless "red flags" to my dating bag-o'-tricks. In hindsight, looking back on those days (as I did late last night perched in bed with my new Wal-Mart lamp illuminating my journal pages), I can only smile and shake my head at the foolishness of this boy, a foolishness repeated in more recent times, a foolishness which remains intrinsically connected to an over-arching dream that refuses to die and/or be killed (more on that next week!). As much as I've matured (i.e. become hardened in my cynicism and passing it off as wisdom), this foolishness is something easily-repeated. For as cynical as I am, this much I've learned about myself over the past two months: for better or worse, hope remains an integrated facet of my life, and any attempt to disintegrate it is nothing short of a self-inflicted evisceration. 

hindsight. heh.

We're supposed to know what we want to do when we "grow up." We're supposed to embrace our purpose and follow it wherever it may lead. But purpose is a damned strange thing, if there is such a thing. If it's real, is it something given to us or something we choose, or both? Is it something we intrinsically have, something we've got to discover through "authentic self-exploration"? Or it something given to us by society, by those we're closest to? Or is it something we give ourselves without even knowing it? Does this need for purpose stem from within or outside us? Does it say something at all about anything, or is it just cerebral mishap, some primitive gland gone wrong, our own feeble attempts to make sense of our muddled lives living in this muddled word? 

I used to know exactly what I was supposed to do, my purpose in life. So I went to college and got my degree and realized nothing's as simple as we thought it to be. We were told we need to go to college, to "get real jobs," not be stuck in those hole-in-the-wall jobs like selling cable or flipping burgers or even *GASP* doing coffee. But when we went to college, we realized it's not as straightforward as we'd been told. In the 1950s, hardly anyone went to college. At age 18, you got a real job, moved out from your parents' place, and then got married and had kids. Once colleges started booming, people started jumping at the opportunity. But before that, people who went to college usually ended up with really good jobs right out of college. Thus was born the concept that going to college is the yellow brick road leading to "The Good Life." Flash-forward sixty years, and everyone has a degree (they're literally just handing them out sometimes!), the jobs are scarce, and 85-90% of us college graduates end up working either a job outside our degree or in a job that doesn't even require a degree. There's far more degrees than jobs, and now most of us are just trying to get by which school loans weighing us down. The system that was supposed to lead the way to "The Good Life" has gone bankrupt, and now we just have more debt and wasted time than those who didn't go to college in the first place. 

When people ask me when I'm going to either (s) stop doing coffee and get a better job or (b) go back to school for my Master's, I just want to ask them, "What's the point?" Nowadays when you have a good job, you hold onto it, especially when it easily pays your bills. And if it's a job you're okay with, then why change? Is there less honor in that job than another? Are we still buying into this bull-crap? And if I get my Master's, what then? The market's still flooded, the system's still screwed up. I'd just be in the same place with more money torn from my pockets. And the funny thing is, all this is predicated on the conviction that where I'm at now isn't good enough. It's not good enough for those who want to see me doing great things, it isn't good enough by society's standards. I need to do all it takes to get a better job, to have my own place, to move ahead; and I want to know WHY this isn't good enough. I'm taking care of myself, I'm paying my bills, I've got a good place, I'm surrounded by friends and family. Let's be honest: in all this Occupy Wall Street hoopla, looking at it on a global scale, I'm in the top 1%. I really have nothing to complain about, I really don't; but I do, because I'm selfish and self-centered, just like everyone else. But at least I know the system's screwed up (in more ways than one), and at least I see that things aren't as simple as we were told. Really, it's the 1950s all over again: we're getting jobs so we can trying to do our best. 

the 20th week

Current Time: 4:24 PM
Current Music: A Fine Frenzy, "Near to You"
Current Mood: Hopeful

Monday: I worked my usual 9-hour shift, and Cat did interviews for a new hire. It'll be good to have another person on the floor, things have been getting more chaotic with each passing week. After work I wrote about 50 pages on my zombie story. Jobst and I hit up City Barbecue on Glenway: ribs, hush puppies, and cornbread. Quite the meal. At U.D.F. where I pumped gas, the cashier commented on how hot I am. It was weird. It's definitely the long and scraggly hair. All the rebellious chicks are into that, or at least the ones with meth-rotten teeth. Brandy came over for a little while once sun set, and I joined her and the festive crew in Blake's room for a bit. I went for another drive, just like I did last Monday night, overwhelmed with the weight of purpose. "Purpose": it's a tricky thing. Is it something we have by nature or something given to us, maybe even something given to us by ourselves? Is there even such a thing as purpose, or is it something we've made up, some existential knot in our psyche? And where does this desire--even, dare we say it, need--for purpose come from? Is it a signpost, and if so, to what lies behind or to what lies ahead? Ugh, I'm giving myself a headache.

Tuesday. Covered Anna's Food Prep shift since she needed the day off. I remember how back when I started doing food prep, everything seemed so chaotic. Sure, there's chaos, but I'm calm through it all these days. I had cereal and a banana for lunch, ran some errands and worked out at the house after work, and then I went back to work for training 5:30-6:30. Rob and I hung out for a bit after training, and I spent the evening hanging out with Brandon at his loft on Walnut. We got his cat blazed off catnip, and I watched episodes of "The Office" with Blake and Amos before falling asleep.

Wednesday. Mandy and I hung out a bit this morning, and I did my thing at The Anchor before closing shop with Amos. After work we went over to Rock Bottom, meeting up with Blake, Mandy, and Katie (who came into town). The head brewer bought us all some rounds. I had the bourbon beer and half of Katie's pretzels. Rock Bottom paid for the whole thing, which was pretty great. Amos and I went home early (being tired from work and all), and later everyone at Rock Bottom came back to the house, and Kile from work came over, too. It was good hanging out with everyone crowded up in Blake's room.

Thursday. Before my closing shift I went to The Anchor for coffee and orange juice. Work wasn't bad at all. It was a nice day, so we were slow. Pat D. and I met up at Rock Bottom and sat with Rob and Mandy, who were also there. Ballpark pretzels and a chocolate espresso porter (espresso from Tazza Mia, which Rob himself pulled), and everything paid for by Rock Bottom. The perks of being a part of Tazza Mia are sublime. Carly was there with her mum, so I went by her table and chatted with them for a bit. It was definitely weird running into her, since it's been so long since we've hung out, but don't think I hated it. It was good to see her, and I'd like to see her more often. And I miss her boyfriend, too. I went for a drive through Eden Park and on the way back, the snow started coming down hard. The roads turned to slush and my car was sliding around. That was weird, too; especially since half an hour later, nothing had accumulated. And it was spotty, too.

Friday. Like an idiot I locked my keys in my car last night, with my only spare being up in Dayton. "Classic," Blake said. Mandy was nice and gave me a ride to work, and we were slow with it being Veteran's Day and all, and then Mandy picked me when I was done. I spent the evening writing, and when Ams came home from work, she used her AAA membership to get my keys out of my car. She joined Blake, Mandy, Andy and a Brandy (so many 'dy's in there) for a David Bazan concert. Brandy won lifetime tickets to his shows. Rob and Amos went over to Kristian & Kile's for a party, and though invited, I declined: I was in the writing zone and didn't dare break that. An exciting night ended with me in my P.J.s drinking hot tea and watching "30 Rock", all at 9:30 at night before bed, all this with me bundled up on the sofa like a baby in the womb. Yes, I'm the male version of Liz Lemon.

Saturday. I went to The Anchor and did some writing, and then at noon Rob, Mandy, Britney and I hit up Dusmesh--"There's an 'S' in there. I just now got that." This is becoming a customary weekend ritual, and I'm not mad about it. Back at the house I slept for an hour and a half and ran some errands. At sunset I took a drive not to Eden Park but to little Ludlow on the river, and I sat on the bleachers at the baseball diamond with the squat Victorian houses behind me, and the dreams of my youth--dreams I've hunted down and sought to kill like one who poaches hope--surged to the surface. As much as I don't know what I'm going to do with my life--like most people of my generation--I do know that a hefty factor and consistent thread in any viable options is that deepest dream of mine, the desire for a quiet life of love, family, and friendship. Any skepticism or stoic absolutions can't get rid of the fact that it's what I want most. On the way back I went down by the stadiums, and the streets were FLOODED with red and traffic was hell. When I got home I did some more writing and listened to The Avette Brothers. Good stuffed. Deep into the night I drove down Route 50 to Mariemont and hit up the Starbucks there--iced soy caramel macchiato and a pumpkin scone, oh how I've missed those pumpkin scones--and I walked up by the stone church with the weedy graveyard where I wrote one of my better devos in my C.C.U. days, a little talk on how reality isn't a fairy-tale and how taking fairy-tales and shaping them around God to both (a) give them substance and (b) validate them is classic foolishness. My views on that subject remain reinforced rather than demolished, albeit with a bit of fix-me-ups here-and-there. Ludlow and Mariemont, locuses of Hope & Cynicism, that constant tension. It's inescapable, and I hate that.

Sunday. I slept till 8:30 and then met up with Isaac and Josh at The Anchor. We talked about some cool things: 1 Peter 2, "spiritual sacrifices", vices and virtues in culture, and civic duties. I had cottage cheese with crackers. It's kind of a big deal to me. Their cottage cheese is the best I've ever had. I ran by the bank and saw Josh--Mikaela's Josh--there, and we caught up. Amanda and I had a brother-sister date at Rock Bottom, where I got their dark stout and their brewery nachos. Phenomenal. All paid for by Rock Bottom: they gave us $25 gift cards in our tip jars. Uh-mazing. I spent the evening hanging out with Amanda, and then she went to her friends' place, and I lounged around for a while, and Amos, Blake, Mandy and I hung out for a while. And then I had to go to bed.

morning ritual

This picture was taken months ago. But except for
longer hair, I've still got that weird look on my face,
and I'm still wearing ridiculous old-man sweaters.

It's 10:20 and I'm at The Anchor waiting for Isaac to show up. He overslept, but I'm not mad. I came here early to get some work done, and let's be honest: alone or with someone else, The Anchor's a great place to be. I'm drinking some coffee (full-on robusta!) and pairing it with orange juice, and I'm anticipating some cottage cheese and crackers once Isaac comes through that door with his frizzled red beard and probable cardigan. 

I don't want to divulge too much information on my weekend (as a re:cap will be up here tomorrow), but I'll give away this much: I've got some kick-ass writing done, close to thirty pages written (but not yet revised) Friday and Saturday. I've spent this morning hammering out some of the finer details with the transcript (basically a chaotic mess of scribbled notes and drawings collected in a little notebook, which I use to construct a play-by-play of the scenes to enable me to feel them out and guide them appropriately; basically, it's called The Snowflake Method and it's a plotting style that's just taken off, and one which I actually used before it became common knowledge; yes, I'm a genius). The first book is going to be around 280 pages long, which is pretty long for a serial novel; and honestly I've considered breaking the stories up even more, into 120-140 page novellas. But we shall see. Regardless, I've finally gotten the last three chapters of Act II stenciled out, just ready to be splayed onto the page. After my time here and before hitting up Rock Bottom at lunch for a brother-sister date, I'm going to try and get the next chapter done; and the evening will probably be spent working on the last two chapters (both of which I've already gotten mostly-written). And then I'll probably celebrate the completion of Act II with some coffee and a cigar.

I've got so many writing ideas in my head, it can become a cobweb-strewn nightmare in there sometimes. At work we were talking about what it'd be like to be in other peoples' heads, and both Cat and Amos agreed: they could only be in my head for a small window of time, fearful of what they might find. I can't blame them, I find scary stuff in there all the time. That's the price you pay for being stuck in your own head most of the time. Sometimes the pressure of unfinished writing projects (or anticipated projects) can seem too much to bear, and my hope is to start knocking most of these out the water. Once I get Book One finished of this zombie serial, I'm hoping to finally finish revising the last few chapters of "Dwellers of the Night: Book 3." I removed the project from my storefront and discontinued its sales, except perhaps for Amazon (I can't remember), and I've gotten lots of complaints from readers looking for it, since it got pretty popular. I need to get it back up so people don't forget about it. 

Isaac's here, and so is Josh, so I'm going to go.

Have a good day. kthanxbai