(Not Quite) Moving On

So, I have to apologize, everyone, but I just got my Very Definitely Final Warning about Blogger, and so things are going to be nuts here for a bit.

For those of you who didn't see my previous post on this subject, Blogger is deprecating its FTP service, which is the current method I use to publish my blog to this site. Their other options are, unfortunately, unworkable for my needs; you see, they want me to stop using the domain I pay for and start using their Blogspot or custom URL, and I simply refuse to do that. So, as of May 1st, Blogger is not going to be the way I communicate with you, the howling masses.

But fear not! The blog is not dead, merely putting on a new hat. You can continue to follow me at my new, shiny WordPress blog. More upgrades and updates to come soon, I swear; the site looks naked because I've been futzing with it in between bouts of Life and have simply not had the time to deal with it just yet. But tonight, my friends...tonight...we code.

In that vein, you may see the site revamp for tyler-hayes.com generally soon, in which case this blog may migrate off the main page. If it does, fear not; we'll make the placement for it nice and easy to find. Thank you for continuing to read, even in these busy times; and as Stan Lee might say, Excelsior!

Irony

So, you remember how I posted last night about writer's block and the burden of writing?

Yeah.

You know how sometimes the universe slaps you?

Yeah.

As of about an hour ago, I have a short story slated for a magazine later this year. More details will become available as I have them, but for now, I'm glad to see my perseverance rewarded and my whining silenced. As Stan Lee would (and will again) say: Excelsior!

Maudlin

So, this is where I circle around what my gut is trying to say for a bit. Bear with me.

I'm going through what I like to refer to as my tri-yearly freakout. Those of you who aspire to write professionally (or who do), and perhaps those in other pursuits, will understand this one. It's that phase you go through, periodically, where you tell yourself it isn't working; where the turns of phrase don't stick together as well, where the plots turn out to be Swiss-cheesed with problems, where the writing life just plain sucks and you're looking at your life as something stygian and overwhelmingly huge, something filled with this awful chore that will just be you knotting together failures until the time for your swan song comes. That phase where the thought that repeats is your friends, separate from you, talking while you're away (or worse, gone) and having no more to say about your art than a shrug of the shoulders and a downward turn of the mouth.

The worst part of that phase isn't the doubt. It isn't the feeling, ever so melodramatic, that it's over; that this time the despair will break you and you will give up. It isn't wanting to ask for absolution or support and knowing that it can't come from outside. It's knowing that you can't stop.

That's a bit of bathos, really. My point is, I'm in that downswing of the phase where I want to give up and I want what "you have" ("you" being those who do whatever it is non-writers do after work). Tomorrow, after I sleep and do that job thing, I'm not going to be doing that; tomorrow I'll be here, editing, or writing, or doing something with my time that advances this whole dream thing, even if it's just by inches. Maybe I'll submit another story or two and hunt down an agent; those things always make me feel better. And honestly, I feel pretty good about that perseverance, even if it does feel kind of Sisyphean at times; it's been said that the key to writing isn't to write when you love it, but to write when you hate it—and while that's cold comfort, cold comfort is better than none.

And that was my once-yearly post about writer's block, folks. I promise you've got until at least next January.

(Brief) Review: The Secret of Kells

I cannot describe this movie to you, and that's the beauty of it. I could skim over the surface of what it's about—Irish history, Irish mythology, art, fear—but that would not encapsulate this film.

Because this is a story that could not be told in this way in any other medium. Not with computer animation; not with live actors; not on paper, whether black inked or four-colored. This story needed the warmth and vibrance of hand-drawn pictures, the abstracted art direction, the haunting visuals. This was a story that had to be told through pictures first, with the sound only there to supplement what your eyes were taking in.

It is about the Book of Kells, yes; and about a boy, and a girl, and two old men. It's about the Northmen and the magic of Ireland. But it's more than those, and it's not those the way you'd expect. This isn't the light whipped-cream, unflavored-meringue version of Ireland American wants you to digest. This is more honest than that, and more amazing. Never has a cartoon had to do so little work to make me cry.

The Secret of Kells gets five out of five haunting visuals. This is an arthouse film, and I saw it near the end of its run at the Aquarius, so it may be hard to find before it comes out on DVD. But if you get a chance to watch it, do so; you will not be disappointed. I almost promise.

Hi, My Name is Tyler.

So, the Sharks lost tonight. That's the last you're going to hear about hockey here, until and unless they come back from the measly single loss and win the Stanley Cup.

Now, back to the title of this post, which finishes: and I'm an addict.

It's no coincidence that one of my last really coherent posts on this blog was about hockey, though I'm not willing to crucify a single sport as the sole issue of concern. There's also board games to be discussed, and movies, and just plain needing some time to oneself.

Since the beginning of the year, as I've previously stated, time has felt all at once pliable and yet scarce, like I keep chugging my drink and suddenly discovering it's empty. I've done a lot and yet nothing all at once since the year started. I blame, well, myself.

I got on this trip, somewhere near the beginning of the year, that I needed to experience life. I needed to be out more, doing more, seeing more; I needed fuel for the creative fire. Unfortunately, I met that quest with my usual tendency toward obsessing, and utterly disappeared into new boardgames, the bizarre and unique experience of drinking at a sports bar, and San Jose Sharks hockey. I've wired my emotions into these things (especially hockey; that sports are like Diet War is not lost on me, watching it is like a drug), and I've let myself drink them in, and it's valuable in terms of understanding different sides of life, but it doesn't leave me feeling creatively enriched.

This is not to say I haven't been writing; this is to say, however, that it's been very cramped in this skull lately, and not a lot of it is adding to the creative flow. I used to have much quieter, meditative nights, and I used to find myself inspired a lot more. I think I've grown too earthy and too left-brained in my habits lately, such that the process is hurting.

This is not to say that I will not follow the Sharks, all the way to the Cup if I can help it. This is not to say I will never touch dice and cardboard again. But this is to say that it's time to stop, and it seems like the thing that makes me stop is saying it on the Internet. I need to write five nights a week again, and to get the magazine submissions flowing a bit more smoothly...and I need the things I go out to do to be a bit more dynamic. Hockey has its place, but like alcohol it's easy to fall into.

So here's the plan: go back to the writing thing. Really focus in on that. And try to go out to do more stimulating things; San Francisco is literally an hour's train ride away, there's no reason I can't spend more time soaking up the energy the city offers. And there's the Aquarius Theater, the Guild...there's life out there, and that's what I need to soak up. Not the Colorado Avalanche duking it out with the San Jose Sharks. (Though, that too; who knows what my knowledge of the Blackhawks' team colors might do for my writing in the future?)

Now, how does this affect you, you ask? Well, one of the burning bits of guilt I've felt of late has been my neglect for this blog; the total shutdown for days at a time, such that when someone else asked me about it I nearly fell to pieces defending myself. So, one of the next steps here is to spend more time on this blog, and that is going to mean both being willing to share my thoughts here, and being willing to do things that make me think. The new. The weird. The cerebral. And I'm sorry, Sharks; but cerebral ain't you.

But I'm still growing that playoff beard, boys. So go give Colorado hell.

Another Morning Speeds by

I'm afraid I have to commit the blog equivalent of a quickie here just to keep this sucker alive. For some reason, despite having about another hour of time in my evening, I find it difficult to get to the blog; yes, still. I've got a couple rants and a couple observations all saved up for you; but for now, I'm afraid I have to focus on the writing and ask you all a research question:

What resources can you give me that discuss the hero as a character archetype, particularly as it relates to fairy tales and folk tales?

I've got my Joseph Campbell and my Otto Rank, so no fear about those; I even have my Carl Jung in a pinch. But I feel like there has to be more scholarship on this subject, and while I delve through the Intertubes in search of the kinds of data I require I thought I'd leverage this blog for an assist. Any thoughts out there, readers of mine? It's for a story, I swear.