"So I am a Writer..." (September 8th, 2017)

    Whenever people ask me what I am, my canned answer tends to be writer. It’s short, it’s a good conversation starter, and ladies start thinking of Hemingway, and he was a sexy fella.

    The problem with being called a writer though is that the word writer has a sort of gravitas to it. There are some heavy connotations to something that is very pedestrian in meaning.

    A writer, at its core, is a person who expresses their ideas into an oral or written format. That’s it. To me, that is all it will ever be. However, scanning around the English department, talking to other writers, and listening to readers read their work at art events, I get uncomfortable about what it is to be a writer.

    Here is a thing about me, I hate when people compliment my work, even when they are being genuine. Part of it, in fact probably all of it, is that I’m insecure. I hate when people use the same vocabulary to describe my work as they would a George Carlin joke or a Tupac lyric. I don’t see myself in that league. I don’t see my ideas as sacred or a movable feast (that’s a Hemingway reference).

    Like for example, I was talking to these two girls from my Creative writing class, and they started discussing some of the work I presented in class. They analyze the form, my deliberate word choice, and creative premises. I should have been flattered, but I was left disconcerted. 

  

    This lead me to think of my Creative Writing professor. I remember her, after hearing a piece I wrote, delving into terminology I didn’t even consider when writing. Like what the fuck is form dividing into structure or something? I honestly don’t even remember what she said I was so taken aback.

    There is also the running trend that my most praised work is also the work I worked the least amount of time on, admittedly some of my favorite pieces I’ve written tend to have had a short turnout.

    I think of the writers and lyricists who spent years on a piece, and here I am getting praise from a piece I wrote from a writing exercise. I feel like I don’t deserve it.

    I say this with the firm knowledge of how hypocritical this sounds to people that know me as a writer. I hate being praised, but whenever I get criticized I get defensive. I hated being praised but I hate seeing my work being dragged through of the mud of constructive, and sometimes nonconstructive, criticism. At least I have the self-awareness to know that it will benefit me as a writer in the long run, even after a twenty-minute argument with a colleague.

     I think when it all comes down to it, I have an indifferent opinion of art.

    The way I define art is any form of expression. An absolute definition, and I usually don’t describe anything with absolutes. The reason being is that absolutes either make something too grand, too horrific, or too insignificant. When everything is special, nothing is. And when everything is art, nothing is art.  

    I am a person! A normal person. I like word search puzzles and flavored chap stick. I develop crushes on girls, I get bitter when I am hungry, and sleeping is my favorite part of the day.

    Do you want to know how I write? I pour a glass of sweet tea or soda, put some words on a document that I think are interesting, walk around my house when my legs start cramping, and go back to my desk to start the process all over again. There is no profound ritual when I write. I don’t write in a hipster coffee shop or in a bustling location. I don’t pour a glass of my personal vice to drown my sorrows away. I have porn for that!

    I guess that’s the lesson. I mention Hemingway, Carlin, and Tupac, but they were normal too. Yet I deify these people for their excellent work, because I personally connect with their specific expressions.

    In other words, art can also be defined as your subjective and personal blah blah blah I don’t even know what I am saying anymore. This paragraph totally contradicted what I said earlier.

    This entry is getting rambly. I am going nowhere, and I don’t think I need a simile to visualize it.

    I might as well sit in bed, listen to the beauty of Storms of Life, and maybe watch some new episodes of Bo Jack Horseman. That reminds me, I need to do an entry revolving around Todd. That should be fun. 

A Pretentious Post About a Pretentious Past Time (September 1st, 2017)

       “This entry is brought to you by Paul Hunton. Paul Hunton will give you the creative knowledge you need, as well as the extra credit if you go to the First Friday Art Trail. Go to Texas Tech University and enter the promo code, whyme, and you too might sound like a Pixar character that is Paul Hunton.”

       But in all seriousness, I had an interesting time at the First Friday art festival, or else I wouldn’t be writing about it.

    Full disclosure before I actually begin, I ultimately find festivals like these to be really important. Art festivals, at their core, are culturally necessary for a strong community and for strong forms of expression. Lubbock, or any city, would lose a part of their soul without them. You would be ignorant to say they have no part in our society, regardless if you like them or not. But enough of that, on with the trashing.

    If I were to give advice for people thinking about going to an art festival such as the FFAT, it would be go before it gets mainstream. I spent about ten minutes finding a parking, and ended up parked by a railroad track. I parked in front of a no trespassing sign and wondered if it was worth it. I was also wondering if I was breaking the law. I got out of the car and looked at a guy not parked but waiting in his car. He wasn’t moving but occasionally checked his phone, so I was assuming he was waiting for a drug deal. First Friday Blaze Trail, am I right?

    I walked to LHUCA to attend a screening of Ken Burn’s new documentary of Vietnam. I sat for a few minutes, enjoying it, and then realized it was only an excerpt. Once the excerpt to episode one ended, it jumped straight into an excerpt of episode three. My OCD ass couldn’t take that shit, so I walked out.

    At that point, I figure I do what I love most and explore a little.

    This leads me to my two-part second piece of advice, if you want to really learn about yourself, go to an art festival alone.

    I’ll tell you what I learned, I have a contentious opinion when it comes to art. I walked into a room with only paintings of squares and dots and immediately walked out. I walked into another room and saw “my artistic statement” followed by a lengthy paragraph and immediately turned around. If you have to preface your art gallery with a statement explaining your point, you already failed as an artist.

    The only one that I liked, and I regret not remembering the name of the work or the artist, is a painting of two men sitting on a couch while one is holding a narwhal. It caught the eyes. It makes you ask yourself questions. It’s the only thing that came to mind when I am writing this entry. Actually, one other thing that comes to mind was the cover band singing CCR while a girl exclaimed to the guy next to her, “it’s supposed to be symbolic.”

    “Why do people come to art festivals?” I ask myself, as I watch a group of teenage girls take a basic picture in front of a red door. I started going through the cynical answers. They are pseudo intellects, they have an excuse to get drunk outside, or they are here for the extra credit like me. My brain and anxiety started seeing the fakeness. It was the first time where I disliked people-watching. I started seeing them as squares and dots instead of people. I started to get bored, only the beauty of the Texas sunset mixed with the Lubbock modesty kept me from leaving.

    I slowly stopped approaching people I knew from my past and present, which I almost never do. People from Tech, SPC, and even people before then. I a guy from high school, a girl I had a crush on in third grade, and a kid from my high school film analysis class who smoked too much pot and didn’t have the intelligence to pull off a decent academic career.

    Long story short, after meandering for thirty minutes, I learned that diminishing returns comes quick to me when it comes to socializing, that I don’t like art forced onto me, and I am not a fan of crowds.

    I asked myself if there was optimistic answer to my proposed question, and I could only think of one besides the obvious you genuinely like the art. But in that case, you're as weird as the guys who watch volleyball for the action.

    The reason you like going to art festivals is because you are with someone else.

    This leads me to my second part of my second piece of advice, if you want to really enjoy an art festival, don’t go alone.

    I saw families laughing and bantering. I saw lovely couples and friends. I eventually ran into two buddies I knew from SPC who made the experience a lot more palatable. They really helped ease my mind since they had almost the exact same opinion I had of the festival. It was also nice catching up with familiar faces. Unfortunately, I didn’t stay long with them.  

    Later in the evening, I ran into another group of friends. Well I was friends with three of them, the other three I just met. If I had to describe them, it would be like if the cast of Zoey 101 came to life and decided to go to an art festival. This idea was cemented when I brought up this comparison which lead them to have a ten-minute argument on which character from Zoey 101 they would be.

    But whatever, they were charming, wonderful people and it was great meeting them.

    I ended up leaving around 9 o’clock for two reasons. One, because I wanted to write. And two, because I was horrifically thirsty and personal principles keep me from buying $2 water.

    This leads me to my final piece of advice… bring a water bottle.

    But I had fun. I know I did because I spent more than 1000 words talking about it. I experienced, I laughed, and most of all learned that everyone are squares and dots, but you learn not to care.  Nah I'm just kidding. I learned the Zoey 101 character I would be is Lola.