Category: Daily Story Project

I’m not even paying attention to my writing. I’ve got a video playing on my TV (see below) and I’m sitting on the couch with my laptop. I’m just tapping out in words what I’m actually doing, and it’s just as boring as you might imagine.

If I were starting this experiment over again, I might change the rules so that I don’t have to publish the 500 words every day. Because my guts are telling me that it might be better to only publish the good ones, the ones that may be of interest to people who aren’t me. I could write the posts and build up a backlog and then pick and choose the best posts out of the bunch to actually post? Am I overthinking this?

When I post this, I will have written over 10,000 words in the past 3 weeks. That’s a tenth of a NaNoWriMo. I’m happy about it and I want to keep building on that streak. This appears to be working for the intended purpose.

As I’m hinting at above, though, I think the next step is to… write better? Wait, hang on, is my Negative Inner Voice just trying to tear me down again? I can’t even enjoy the moment for the accomplishment it is when the Negative Inner Voice tries to make me think poorly about the output. No victory is too good not to tarnish with mental insults. Dammit. I’ve just got to keep on going.

(I typed that and then set my laptop down and watched YouTube some more… we return to this post after an hour-plus break.)

There’s a part of my personality that will do anything to sabotage me. Sometimes I give in to its destructive suggestions, like avoiding writing anything because I’m very close to a goal. Eventually, though, I can fight past it. I may fail at the 500-words-a-day challenge I set myself, but not today. Here I am typing out words, the more words the better, in order to put this duty aside for the rest of the day.

On top of my own brain telling me I can’t do the thing I’m literally in the middle of doing, I’m also hampered by reminders that I can’t see very well right now: I’m wearing my glasses, which are a very old prescription, instead of my contact lenses. I like to give my eyes a rest from contacts about once a week, although honestly I haven’t been doing that lately. My eyes are due for a rest. But in the meantime my eyesight is fuzzy, at least for reading text on a computer screen. I can see far away normally; I’m near-sighted, though.

But regardless, I’m almost done with today’s challenge. These may not be the only words I write today—I have plans that I’m keeping to myself for now—but as long as I pass 500 words in this post, after much mental struggle, I will have kept my promise to myself. I may fail, but not today.

I’m sitting in front of my computer, full of bacon and oatmeal (yes, my morning routine spills over into the weekend, too) and watching YouTube videos while waiting for a patch to download for Elder Scrolls Online. The last video I watched is “On Motivation” from John Green, and while he spends most of the video disparaging the idea of pithy motivational quotes, he also acknowledges their power. Particularly the phrase often attributed to Will Smith, which I’ve quoted above.

(In the video, John Green phrases it backwards, i.e., “You don’t have to get ready if you stay ready,” which, honestly, to my ear, sounds better. It’s ending on a positive note. It’s telling you the part you want to do last, so it sticks with you, unlike the more common phrase I found all over the internet, linked above. But I also want to quote correctly, so, there it is.)

Like any aphorism, it has a ring of truth but can fall apart if you dig in too deep or examine it and compare it to real-world examples. Nobody is ready all the time. That would be exhausting. But it does seem like a good practice to, well, practice doing the hard thing you’re planning on doing in the future, to build up some momentum towards it rather than try to tackle the hard job from ground zero or square one or oval negative-3, if you’re particularly out of practice.

Right? Staying ready at all times takes some energy, but jump-starting from complete unreadiness might take more energy. Dishing it out slowly over time means you may use less energy overall. There’s some intuitiveness to that concept. It rings true, even if you can poke holes in it if you look at it with a critical eye.

The part that struck me, though, is that whole building-up-to-something-hard is what I’ve been trying to do with my 30 days of 500 words per day thing, of which this post is day #19. I’m trying to build up to something I’ve attempted but have never completed: NaNoWriMo, where someone writes 50,000 words in 30 days, which requires, on average, 1,666.667 words every day. Usually, I barely make it to my 10th day, and typically fall much shorter than that. On my best attempt, I managed 13,000 words, if my memory serves me correctly (and it was years ago, and I haven’t double-checked, so who knows?)

But also I usually decide to jump in only a few days ahead of the start of November. I steel myself, I build up the mental energy but never actually write much in the days leading up to the 1st of November. I start from zero, after having gone over and over in my mind how much I need to get done out of the gate. Nothing on the 31st of October, then a giant burst of writing at the earliest possible moment when the next day rolls around.

This year, however, I will have practice. I will have a minimum of 19 days in a row of writing something, 500 words, every day. And every day after this that I keep this up will add to that streak, and get me closer to the start of NaNoWriMo. Assuming I do, in fact, make it 30 days, I can either keep going, staying ready, or push myself a little closer to the ultimate goal of 1666+ words per day. Maybe increase it to 750, or even 1,000 words per day. I can ramp up. Because, clearly, I can do 500 words a day. I’ve demonstrated that to myself. If this were NaNoWriMo, I would already be over my previous—you know what, I’m going to go check my official stats, hold on.

According to my stats page on the official NaNoWriMo site, my best year was 2016, when I logged 22,145 words, lasting 16 days, on a novel I called “The Elites Ran Away.” I don’t really remember that, even though it was only 3 years ago. But as I was saying, by writing 500+ words per day for 19 days, I’ve already logged almost half that amount. I can definitely do this.

This year, I’m getting ready now and staying ready all the way through November.

Had a very long day at work today (see my previous post for a hint). But it didn’t stop with troubleshooting an in-car computer and having to take dashboards apart and copying and copying and copying files to and from various drives and servers.

It ended with my monthly server updates, where I go through and run Windows update on all the servers under my care, make sure that the updates install correctly and don’t break anything, and rebooting them and verifying that all essential services are working properly. Even when it’s easy it takes forever, and I can’t really start until the regular staff goes home.

Today it wasn’t easy. Had several updates break, had more than one server that just didn’t feel like booting up again afterward, and had one server that was still downloading updates 2 hours after my normal quitting time.

I wrestled most everything back into working order and left that one last server downloading updates. I’ll check on it Monday and reboot it after hours next week. But I’m also going to be worrying about all the updates that failed to install, and what problems those failed updates may cause me down the line, and I’ll also be beating myself up for not being able to pull off this seemingly simple task smoothly.

In my 6 months (hey! I’ve been on the new job for 6 months as of next Friday!), I think the server updates have worked as hoped for exactly once. If I told you your odds of surviving were 1 in 6, you’d probably think those are terrible odds. Sometimes a Windows network feels like it’s held together with duct tape and baling wire. That’s not just me, right? Other Windows sysadmins feel that, too?

I’ll be honest here (since nobody is reading this)—from the moment I woke up, I had tightness and pain in my chest and abdomen that, I was convinced, was an impending heart attack. Nevermind that I have no history of heart failure on either side of my family. Nevermind that I walk and exercise regularly. I was just sure it was a heart attack, and I felt the anxiety grow as I pondered that thought.

It was a vicious circle, though. My worry was causing my anxiety to spike, which made me worry more, which upped my stress and anxiety. I was anxious about work, and the things I’ve had to leave undone to put out fires, and the shortcuts I’ve had to take to get the fires put out, and wondering what everyone else thought about me and my job. It was horrible, and it took a lot of self-talk to walk myself back from that. I’m not 100% convinced I’ve got it entirely under control, but at least now I have the weekend to try to put it behind me.

Tomorrow I’m going to Edgefield to see one of my all-time favorite bands, Cake, playing with Ben Folds, a performer I like but have never seen live. I’m going to sit on the grass surrounded by people I love and who love me, and sing along, and enjoy a cold delicious adult beverage. That’s my one and only plan for this coming weekend.

(Oh I plan to keep writing 500 words per day, of course. Sunday will be my twentieth in a row!)

G’night. I love you all.

My job at Multnomah County had its ups and downs, just like any other job. Most of the downs were political in nature: my boss was scared of me and I was always under pressure to shape up. Perhaps I needed that pressure; I had been fired for cause at Powell’s, after all. I wasn’t the best employee.

Despite MultCo being a union job, in the first year, there are no protections for an employee. They’re on probation for a whole calendar year. How did I survive?

Friends and co-workers. When tensions with my boss reached their height, many of my co-workers stepped in and talked to my boss and her boss, defending my skills and knowledge and explaining my personal situation, to explain why I was acting the way I was acting.

And about a year and a half from my hire date, my mom passed away from a long, drawn-out bout with lung cancer. Mom was always on the smaller side, but by the end, she was positively skeletal. Goodbye, mom.

The first thing my boss said to me after I returned from my bereavement leave was a reminder to fill out the paperwork to account for my time off.

Shortly thereafter I became a shop steward for AFSCME Local 88. Unions are a net good. They’re the only democracy allowed in the workplace, which is why they’re constantly under fire by authoritarians and capitalists alike. But that’s a story for another day.

13 years. That’s how long I worked at Multnomah County. It’s my career record—unless you count all my years as a flibbertigibbet. I quit because I felt I was spinning in place. I may have quit because of grief or depression. My nephew, someone who I grew up with and thought of more as a brother, died, also of cancer, in 2010, and it broke me, badly. Goodbye, Kevin. I miss you every day.

When Kevin died I lost a person to whom I had always shared stories. When we’d played as kids, we were telling stories to and with each other. He grew up to be an improv actor and comedian. He always encouraged me to write.

I wanted to write. For the next year and a half, I survived on barely any income at all and tried to write a novel. I did not finish it. I have not, yet, finished that novel. I still work on it.

So I had to get a new job, and since I had a lot of background in IT and computer support, that’s where I landed. Again. Did phone support for one of the largest banks in the country, and am now providing tech support for a small town down in the Willamette Valley. It’s paying my bills.

I still want to write, however. Which is why I’m here, pounding out 500 words every day. Training for the big run. Or several smaller, but paying, runs. Hire me, and you’ll get that passion and experience put to good use.

Did you know that “pulling mussels” is a British euphemism for sex?

Now that I know, this song makes so much more sense.

Got that song stuck in my head this morning. It’s very catchy, and with the new-to-me meaning, there’s an added layer of titillation on top of the political critique.

What to write today? I have an “About” page to write so let’s try that.

I was born in Portland, OR more than a half-century ago, on what was apparently a snowy late December night. My parents drove all the way from Gladstone to St. Vincent’s Hospital—not the current location in practically Beaverton, but the old location, in Northwest Portland. Although I was present for that, I don’t remember much. Seriously, the next thing I remember was being able to read.

I read the Sunday funnies to my older sister. I’d read the traffic signs as my parents drove me around. I’d read the graffiti in restaurant bathrooms and, loudly and in public, ask my parents what it meant, to their amusement and embarrassment.

So they’d buy books for me to read. Comic books, those Scholastic books they sold at school, paperback novels. I’d read it all. I read Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles in 3rd Grade because the teacher was dumb enough (or perceptive enough) to put my desk right next to the bookshelf. I just picked it up off the shelf and dug in, ignoring the teacher completely until I had finished it. I wouldn’t say I understood it all, but I devoured every word.

My first 20 or 30 years are mainly a tale of me reading everything I could get my hands on, and everyone else trying to get me to do something useful instead. My dad would go fishing on the weekends, driving way out on the Upper Clackamas River or out to a lonely creek near the Oregon Coast, and I’d spend the whole time with my nose between the covers, happily perched on a rock near a gorgeous stream until it was time to go home.

It all culminated in me getting a job at Powell’s Books, which was a dream come true. Within 2 years, I was fired from there, largely because I spent my money on books instead of bills, which led to depression and apathy, which led to not working. Fired.

What happened next is also kind of a blur. I had to figure out something I could do for money that wouldn’t distract me from reading. As it was the early ’90s and tech was on the rise, I got my first computer-related job packaging up replacement Pentiums for Intel customers, where I met a man who looked like Kingpin and sounded like P. T. Barnum. He took me under his wing and mentored me through the process of job hunting, using Richard Bolles’ “What Color Is Your Parachute?” as a guide.

I landed, eventually, a job at Multnomah County doing IT work. A union job, with great pay, great benefits, and protection from most of my screwups. It was a good job, and I stayed there 13 years.

More to come…

The three-day weekend is over and in 15 minutes or so I’ll start my commute back to work. Right now I’m in the eating bacon and oatmeal and drinking coffee stage. So, mentally, I’m not at work. This time is still my time.

Last night, at some point, I had an idea about what I should write about this morning, but I did not write it down so I no longer remember what it was. I have to freestyle it—wait, I remember now. I wanted to write out (or at least a first draft of) my Hire Me To Do Writing copy.

I think I’ll just continue to freestyle this. Maybe I can use part of this as a draft, but I don’t want to just sit down and pound out something that’s going to be useful. So here are my thoughts.

By way of explanation, I’m going to revise and update the “About Me” and “Hire Me” pages for this blog. I also want to create a landing page, with a short snappy URL, that I can put out there into the world to be my canonical web page. For a long time, this blog has been that, but the blog requires more attention to dig in and find blog posts, so I don’t think it works too well for that catch-all, “who is this guy?” for any Jane or Jack to see if they encounter me out in the wild wild web.

If I want to try to sell my writing, since I don’t have very much published writing out there, I need to focus on a sales pitch. Building my brand, as it were. And honestly, I’m not sure what my brand is these days (or ever was).

Something I’ve always focused on when selling myself for my day job is clear, concise, and straightforward explanations of complicated or technical subjects. That will work well for my writing, too. I have learned over the years how to break down and break through the jargon, to use everyday metaphors, and to aim my words at where people are, rather than talking down to them.

In that same vein, I’ve tried hard to put myself in other people’s shoes, to see where they are coming from, and to empathize with and understand points of view that are not my own. It started when I read science-fiction; in good sci-fi, the author isn’t just depicting monsters, they’re figuring out whole societies that are not human societies and extrapolating how the individuals in them would work. Taking that to its logical conclusion means creating people with motives and reactions that make sense—even if that’s not how a human being would do. Reading those stories was good training for me.

And on top of that, all that reading was excellent practice in figuring out what is and isn’t good writing. Why wouldn’t someone hire me? I’m the kid whose mom learned I could read when she caught her three-year-old reading the Sunday comics to his older sister. I’m the first-grader who was playing with a typewriter when other kids were playing with dolls or balls. I’m the natural journalism student in high school, the guy who happily took typewriting classes so I could get my thoughts down on paper faster in a class of women who were pushed to being secretaries.

That’s why you should hire me to write whatever you need written. And I’ll work on spec!

Five hours ago, laying in bed trying to go back to sleep, I had some vague idea what to write here. I did not write it down, however, so it’s lost to the vagaries of sleepy-brain.

I’m supposed to just write whatever I want. That’s the point, right? Just pound out 500 words and get it over with? Grease the groove so that when I want to write something, it’s easy to start because I’m used to it? So why am I hesitating this morning?

I don’t want to just relate my day and journal what I’ve been doing. I want to write something great. I want an amazing anecdote or pithy observation to just flow out of my fingers. I want a tight essay on a relevant topic. I want a polished piece of art to appear here.

I don’t. I can’t. I should. I haven’t. I won’t.

These are all the voice of my resistance. Those godsdamned negative thoughts are what I’m working to overcome. They are the burrs in the groove, the sticky spots. Those feelings, those words, are the whole fucking reason I’m doing this exercise. My inner critic. The Voice In The Back of My Head™ that prevents me from writing.

Fuck you, Voice In The Back of My Head™. I’m writing anyway. Here I go.

I’ve said it before and I will probably say it many times more in the future: these don’t have to be good. If you’re coming here daily to see what I’m writing, bless you, but I’m warning you: I am not promising any kind of quality. That will come, and it will happen on what will hopefully become a regular basis; for now, though, these are training runs. Not very exciting. These are the “get up in the morning and do 6 miles before breakfast” of my writing muscles. I’m writing them for me, and me alone.

Believe you me, I will let the world know when I write something I’m proud of. I’ll shout it to the world. Every one of my 364 Facebook friends, 939 Twitter followers, 251 Instagram followers, and 130 Tumblr followers will hear the Good News! Until then, I’m grinding out the words and pushing through the resistance.

Sigh. I lost my momentum. That’s a complete thought and it’s only 364 words to the end of that paragraph. Gotta keep going.

Yesterday was a great day. Woke up early, got coffee, wrote my words, then just hung out with the family/extended family. We all went to the casino for brunch, where I ate far too much delicious food, then we came back here and hung out on the beach. I sipped whiskey, and once or twice wandered down to the ocean to wade and soak my toesies. I brought a book to read but was too distracted. I got too much sun (shame on me—I did not wear sunblock). We ordered pizza for dinner, then watched TV after the sun went down. It was glorious. Even for an introvert like me.

Today I’m heading back to Portland after a bit because I can feel myself needing some recharge time, but I’m so grateful for being with the people I love. Need to do that more!

Drove to the beach yesterday.

For those of you who aren’t in Portland, it’s a minimum hour and twenty minutes to drive to the Pacific coast. That puts you in Seaside or Cannon Beach, depending on which way you turn once you’ve reached hit Pacific Highway 101–north or south.

Seaside is more cheesy, old-school touristy. There’s an arcade with bumper cars and skee-ball games. They sell Pronto Pups. There’s a boardwalk.

Cannon Beach is touristy in a different way. There are many art galleries, and brew pubs, and beds-and-breakfastses.

I didn’t go to either of those. I went to Lincoln City, which is over two hours’ drive, south and west from Portland. Lincoln City is a larger town, though still small compared to Portland. There’s a lot more general retail here. There’s small movie theaters and a big multiplex. There’s an Outlet Mall. There’s a Native casino.

I came here because my family has a beach house, one that’s been in the family for many decades. It sits right on a bluff over the beach—

—If you’re not an Oregonian, and maybe even if you are, you might not know that Oregon’s beaches are all open to the public, by state law. No one can buy up all the beachfront property and then close off access to it. Being a native, I’ve never really known anything else, so it’s super weird when I go on vacation somewhere and we have to go to specific parks and beaches and can’t just walk out to the surf where-ever our hearts and feets take us.

—where I can just walk down and dip my toes in the ocean whenever I want. I haven’t come here as much as I’d like, but it’s always very relaxing. I don’t have to worry about hotel rooms or parking or anything like that. I’ve got a place to stay if I need it.

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A post shared by Brian Moon (@lunarobverse) on Aug 31, 2019 at 12:46pm PDT

When I’m down with my family, I’m usually the second one awake. Today I was the first, because Betsy, my sister’s mother-in-law isn’t down this time. For most of yesterday, it was just me: I arrived just after noon and my sister and brother-in-law had gone out for breakfast and shopping. Wait, not just me: Archer, the family dog, was also here. Before long the two of them showed up, and then later some family friends called and asked if they could come down, and then my nephew Max pulled in.

What to do today? I have no particular plans. Want to do some writing. Got some books to read. Want to get my toes wet in the surf. Work on my website (now that I’m using it again, I have lots of ideas about how to tweak it and make it more reflective of my online presence). Who knows? Maybe I’ll just sit on the beach and watch the waves and take in that Big Ocean Energy.

As of now, everybody is stirring from sleep, getting showered and dressed. I made a pot of coffee. Hopefully, someone makes some bacon and eggs or something… It was nice having the main floor to myself to write this post. It was quiet and peaceful.

But now it’s time to join them.

“Snake Moon! I thought you were dead!” The man’s voice, from the far end of the bar, cut through whatever conversation Terry and I were having.

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A post shared by Brian Moon (@lunarobverse) on Aug 30, 2019 at 5:11pm PDT

I looked up from my pineapple hibiscus margarita (oh, Portland!) and felt surprised, complimented, and nostalgic all at once. Someone tell young Brian that he had lived long enough to experience seeing, and recognizing, a face he had not seen in two decades or more. Someone I worked with, closely, for two years, Clyde, walked over and we caught up.

Is it so weird to have old friendships? After all, the person sitting next to me at the bar was a man I had known since we were children in middle school. Regardless, it was an out of body kind of experience to talk to Clyde and to try to catch up on almost a quarter-century of happenings in the span of a brief bar conversation.

I told him that he had not changed a bit. I was lying, but more to myself. I felt the years in my skin and bones and brain and so I felt that I had changed much more than he had. He was still married to the woman he married when we worked together. He was still doing the thing he had always done. He still had hair on his head and a warmth in his voice and a twinkle in his eye, the smooth bastard. I felt weighed down as if by rocks snuck into my pockets. The rocks were bad decisions, disappointments, betrayals (mine of others and others of me).

There was a party, it would have been Christmas 1995? Can that be true? In a big Victorian house in NW Portland. I have tried and failed, to put it into words. Clyde was there, and he was dating Amber, a woman I thought I loved. “Dating” may be too strong a word—all I really knew was that they had arrived together. But my romance-and-entitlement-filled brain had cooked up a heady stew. Two people: one a man I considered a buddy, who had given me support during a hard time, someone I had bantered and laughed with; and a woman I had spent time (trying to) get to know, young and beautiful, who had felt safe enough to allow me my friendship for her. Together, in a festive house full of cheer. And me.

Amber kept talking about the Luxor Hotel, in Las Vegas, which had recently opened. A black pyramid with a laser light shooting straight up into the night sky. As I loved road trips, I proposed one. The three of us, in a car, to Vegas and back. I still feel the push and pull and ache of friendship and love and jealousy and hope. I still feel it.

If Whit Stillman had made a movie of that night it could not have been more perfect. Amber would be played by Kate Beckinsale, or maybe Winona Ryder. Clyde, tall, Southern charm, dark-haired, would be… Chris Eigeman? Me, I’d be… Bobcat Goldthwaite, but, y’know, not nearly as manic. A subdued, serious role for young Bobcat.

Of course we did not go on that road trip. Of course we did not. The energy of that night, of that season, never left Portland. And apparently neither did any of us.

I’ll have to tell Amber I ran into Clyde the next time I see her.

Once again, no idea what words are going to come out of my fingers now. I’m just writing. Am I doing it right? I sure hope so.

My morning routine goes as follows.

My alarm is set to go off sometime between 5:45 AM and 6:05 AM. It’s actually an app that runs while the phone is on the corner of my bed and it’s supposed to keep track of my sleep cycles and wake me up at the perfect point in my cycle. That’s the theory. In practice, I either wake up just before 5:45 AM, disable the alarm, and go back to sleep; or I get jarred out of sleep at 6:05 AM, where I disable the alarm and go back to sleep (today was the former).

Going back to sleep isn’t disastrous because I have a secondary alarm that is set for 6:15 AM. It’s supposed to be a hard line: wake up now or Bad Things Will Happen. Today, I did not ignore it, but the mornings where I have ignored it are getting more frequent. Twice this week.

Once I’m out of bed, I get my slippers and robe and go downstairs, where I start some coffee, and turn on the oven, pre-heating it to 375° F. I put some aluminum foil on a cookie sheet and lay out some strips of bacon.

While the coffee is perc-ing, I go back upstairs, weigh myself. Today I weighed in at 213.8 lbs. I actually weigh myself naked (because of course) and I do it three times and average the results. Just seems more… scientific? I don’t know. Then I get in the shower and clean myself, brush my teeth, and shave my face.

After all that, back downstairs, where I put the bacon tray into the oven and set a 12-minute timer.

Back upstairs, where I get dressed, then back downstairs. While the remaining 12 minutes are playing out, I get my oatmeal ready. I buy instant steel-cut oats and they’re great if a bit boring by themselves. I add a pat of butter, some honey, and some crushed almonds, along with a pinch of salt. I’ve been trying to cut down on sugar. This is my normal breakfast.

Once the bacon is done, I enplaten it and carry it, my bowl of oatmeal, and my travel mug of coffee upstairs to the computer room, where I sit down and surf, or, as I’ve been doing for the past week and a half, write 500 words. Somewhere in there my “Leave for work” alarm goes off, which I’ve been ignoring lately. For instance, today the alarm went off 9 minutes ago, while I’ve been writing this.

Once all that’s done, I carry the plates and remaining coffee downstairs, put the plates in the dishwasher, top-up my coffee mug with whatever’s left in the pot (if I accidentally made too much), grab my messenger bag (my work badge and phone are in there), grab the faceplate for my car head unit, my sunglasses, and get in my car and drive to work.