Welcome to the Benighted States of America.
Put up your feet, and let us take care of ya.
You’ve no need to think and no reason to work;
Your needs are provided for by some other jerk.
There’s enough to go ‘round, assuming we fudge it.
We work on the concept of short-sighted budgets.
You want welfare? We got it. That’s what taxes should do.
Unless you make money — it’s others first and then you.
Sacrifices are crucial, but only for some.
Payday comes first to the poor, useless, and dumb.

If that’s not your thing, we’ve got choices for miles:
The one other option is just over the aisle.
Drastically different — true opposites in fact, –
These guys will control you with a much different tact.

Come see the view from this side of the border.
Here we worship guns, Christ, and wealth (in that order).
Keep your own money, it’s all yours to control;
All that we ask for is your body and soul.
We keep government small and stay out of your way
unless you’re pregnant, non-christian, foreign, or gay.
We’re righteous, we’re pious, we know what is best:
Work hard in this lifetime; your reward’s in the next.

It’s time now to make this important decision:
Whose sect to select? Which side will you sit in?
We expect loyalty, with no deviation
Irregardless of issue or situation.
And if you hear mention of a third-party choice,
Know that they’re crackpots and don’t waste your voice.
They’re a lost cause that can never advance
Because you’ll never ever give them a chance.

You’re a citizen now of the U.S. of A.,
So raise your right hand and say as I say:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident:
That all men are created to be subservient;
That they are endowed by their creator
With congenital right to elect their dictator;
That to secure their income and their thoughts,
Governments are instituted and then bought;
That when the state becomes destructive of ends,
That direction was chosen by its citizens.
God bless America.”

I’m getting this admission out of the way now in hopes that I can convince myself to return to short-form writing of some sort.  Feel free to say “I told you so” in the comments section below.

Seriously, though, after years of desperately wanting a hobby to call my own, I’ve finally realized that all I’ve really been looking for is something to be distracted from.  The hobby isn’t important — it’s the distractions which make life fulfilling.  What makes it even more satisfying is knowing that I’m really good at it.  Distractions, that is — I’m very good at being distracted.

Okay, okay.  All joking aside, I’ve made a decent amount of progress in the story planning.  When I’m in the mood, I very much enjoy the process.  However, a constant fear hangs over me — a fear which says this is all in vain because of my short attention span which might as well be featured in the “shortest” section of The Guinness Book of World Records.

When thinking about — oh look, there’s a show on I wanted to watch…

One of the reasons I finally decided to take the plunge was the discovery of the Snowflake Method, a writing paradigm which well matches my personality.  The Snowflake Method encourages the creation of  small pieces of the story which are then expanded further and further in discrete, manageable steps.  For instance, the first step is to write a good one-sentence summary of the story.  Next, you expand that sentence into a paragraph.  The remaining steps alternate between creating/expanding your characters and expanding your story.

This works well for me because it involves a mix of planning and writing.  You don’t truly begin writing the novel until everything is mapped out and you have a pretty good idea about whether the thing is going to work or not.  But the planning is balanced with the writing of summaries and character dossiers.  Further, my short attention can (I hope) handle the process because of the bite-size goals.

The Snowflake Method is almost the complete opposite of another method I’ve used in the past: the Seat of the Pants Method.  Like it sounds, this writing style involves sitting down and just going for it.  Without too much forethought — and with little idea of where the story and characters might lead you, — the author writes and writes.

The SotP Method serves me beautifully for poems.  I don’t believe I’ve ever thought out a poem in advance.  Because poems are so short, it’s not a big deal to write blindly and then go back for some cleanup.

The same cannot be said for longer form writing.  A few years ago I began writing a story with only the barest idea of where it was going.  I wrote and wrote, fretting the whole time whether it was going anywhere.  Eventually, after about 10,000 words, I came to a dead end and my attention span gave out.  I liked my characters, but the story was a pointless mess.  Had I any confidence in its direction, I may have been able to convince myself to go back and fix it.  As it was, I couldn’t bring myself to put more effort into something so amorphous.  I revisited the story a few years later, made another weak attempt to finish it, and haven’t touched it since.

Perhaps that story will one day see the light of day.  For now, I have a new story and a new plan of attack.  Writing methods aside, I am well aware that the success of this project depends on my commitment and perseverance.  I don’t know any method for improving those attributes, so hopefully this won’t run into another dead end.

And with the above safety net of self-deprecation and humility pulled taut and firmly staked into the ground, I can share my embarrassing decision:  I am writing a novel.

Writing a novel is obviously a time-consuming endeavor, and I probably won’t have any new poems or short stories to post for some time.  In order to not keep my rabid fans hanging on an empty blog, I’ve decided to post instead about my experiences writing the novel.  If nothing else, I expect my torment and anguish will be entertaining to some.

And let’s be honest: I have the attention span of a A.D.D. dachshund, so this whole thing potentially won’t last too long.  You might have me back in no time.  Until then, wish me luck!

I’m wearing a divine herring,
and the herring is wearing me;
this god-like fish is glaring,
simply staring back with glee.

An oddly stranger bearing
a scaly beast of sea
produced the crimson herring
and pressed it upon me.

Were I predisposed to caring
I might’ve cared to take his name,
but taking in his carrying,
I took his name in vain.

He cast the fish, declaring
it “an idol wholly great,”
so, forced, i took the pairing
and also took the bait.

I’m wearing a divine herring,
and the herring is wearing me;
this god-like fish is glaring,
simply staring back with glee.

The worst is not the wearing
(though a god piece can look silly);
your life’s shaped by its bearing,
like a codpiece frames your willy.

The fish does force his sharing,
spinning pious thoughts, beliefs.
A nightmare is this herring,
spawning on without release.

My soul he is now chairing,
laying right from wrong.
A constant, searing blaring,
I’m prostrate to his song.

My world apart is tearing
from gossiping with fish.
I’m tempted, almost daring,
to serve him up as dish.

Warmed in a pan uncaring
of matters heaven sent,
a hellish hand preparing
wafts a heaven scent.

Devouring of herring,
I find myself alone.
And when I do comparing,
prefer him as fish bone.

Now silenced, no fish bearing,
unattached, myself can think.
And I, without despairing,
can choose which fount to drink.

But here comes another carrying
a similar gift from sea:
a cruel and scarlet herring.
The man reaches out to me.

I’m wearing a divine herring,
and the herring is wearing me;
this god-like fish is glaring,
simply staring back with glee.

–

Confused?  Don’t worry, it’s all explained here.

Dust swirls, and gravel and dried mud crack and pop as I bring the car to a stop. It’s just as well — I like to make some noise so I don’t take anyone by surprise. That’s a good way to get your head blown off around here.

The land around the trailer is a graveyard of rusted Fords and Chevys, some with their hoods standing erect like giant tombstones. Their epitaphs would read “flipped into a ditch,” “lost a demolition derby,” “dissected for parts,” or “just couldn’t go on.”

A curtain flutters beyond a cracked window of the trailer, and I know I’ve gotten the attention I was waiting for. I step out onto a dusty pathway, then slam the door behind me, just in case I haven’t been noticed yet.

A dog takes me by surprise when it leaps around a corner of the trailer, roaring like a lion. Its huge paws pound into the weeds of the front lawn as it sprints straight for me. I freeze like a stupid gazelle, able only to press back against the car as if my life depends on how much surface contact I can make with the molded plastic and glass. I made a rookie mistake, not checking for a dog, and now I’m going to pay for it.

I see the chain dragging behind the beast moments before it snaps taut and pulls the dog backward with an angry yelp. It regains its footing and stares me down from only a few feet away, a continuous growl escaping it’s deep larynx. I hear laughter from inside, but I’m alive.

Taking a moment to straighten my tie and let the adrenaline sluice back out of my bloodstream, I walk forward, brandishing my clipboard and pen like a shield and sword should the dog’s bonds snap. Internally, I bestow the name “Rezorh” upon the chained beast. Rezorh, a dragon stolen from its mother’s clutch and raised as the guard beast of this humble home. The dragon could break its chains if it truly wanted, but she senses I am here on a mission of good, so she merely feigns angered helplessness.

The front door looks like it’s been devoid of paint for decades — not peeling patches, but as if someone took a sandblaster to it, — and the screen door in front of it hasn’t had any screen for at least as long. I open the frame of the screenless door for the sake of appearances and knock on the door proper.

I hear movement inside. A hulking troll lurking in the dark of its cave. Breathing heavily, I use my forearm to wipe the sweat from my brow, and I draw my sword.

–

I graduated at the top of my class, the only pupil to score perfectly on the final exam. It was a proud moment, though my parents were not there to share it with me. Truth is, I would have been embarrassed if they had been. What must they think of their baby boy settling for this?

As I shook hands with the instructor, I looked around at my fellow graduates. What began as a group of thirteen quickly dwindled to seven after the first class. Actually, three dropped when they found out classes were even involved.

Halfway through the course — which is to say after the second day, — we lost two more students to more important matters such as sleep and getting baked. Eight hours of repetitious teachings and inane questions each day wore on me as well. With classes lasting all day and gaming to catch up on at night, I got very little sleep that week. At least we got paid for our time.

The course finally ended, culminating in the easiest final exam ever devised. We went over the multiple-choice test questions in advance. The test was open-book and open-note. We were free to ask the teacher for help during the test.

Three passed. The other two would have a chance to try again the following day.

This is how I became a proud graduate of the Census Bureau Enumerator class of 2010. Yep, a proud moment.

–

A minute passes and no one answers. I knock harder and longer. Muffled noises filter through the thin door, but still no one opens up. I will try two more times before I leave.

After the third try, the door opens abruptly, and I release the screen door in my haste to back up. It clatters noisily in the face of the trailer’s resident.

He is your typical redneck: dirty, plaid and sneering. He looks like he could be around forty which means he’s probably only thirty. A wad stuffed between his lip and grimy teeth, his jaw works silently up and down. He squints at me, or at the daylight streaming into the dark trailer. And, of course, he holds a double-barreled shotgun nonchalantly by his side, as if that’s how he greets all his guests.

“Wutchu want?” the man in front of me drawls. Larry the Cable Guy’s act is not an exaggeration. If anything, it makes rednecks sound educated. I would prefer a troll had answered the door, even if it meant the possibility of getting eaten.

As I begin the spiel, my voice cracks. I clear my throat self-consciously and press forward. “I am a census taker,” I tell the man, “an employee of the U.S. government. I would like to ask you a few questions about your household.”

The man looks out the door past me, as if searching for my backup. I am alone, and no SWAT team will burst forth from the weeds and dead autos to save me should something go wrong. I briefly wonder if any cannibals live way out here.

“Ah don’ care fer no gummerment.” The man spits through the screenless door onto the ground. “An’ that Obama feller ain’t got no right askin’ no questions.” It occurs to me that if a troll eats a human, it can’t be considered cannibalism.

“President Obama has nothing to do with this,” I tell him. “The U.S. Census is held every ten years to assess the population of our country, regardless of which political party is in power. If your hillbilly mom ever made you go to school, you might have learned about that.”

I don’t say this. Instead, I say, “Yes sir, but I need to ask the questions just the same.” I’m starting to sound like them, and I hope he doesn’t think I’m mocking him.

“Come in ‘ere,” the man says, jerking his head sideways in invitation.

“Thank you sir, but we can conduct the interview right here. It will only take a few minutes.” I raise the clipboard and scan for the first question, though I know it by heart.

He doesn’t let me speak. “I ain’t con-duck-ting nothin’ through a door. If you wanna talk ter me, you’ll come inside.”

He backs into the darkness of the trailer and waits. I open the screenless door and step just inside the threshold and let the door close, but not completely. It’s held slightly open by the backs of my shoes.

I raise the clipboard once more and begin. “Sir, is this your primary residence or a seasonal home?”

He snickers. They all do.

“Yeah, this jus’ my Summer home. I got me a mansion what to live in durn the Win’er.”

“Sir, I –”

“Sheeit, kid, wutchu askin’ me all these things for? I don’t even live here.” he snickers again.

“You don’t?” I ask dumbly.

He shakes his head no, then calls further into the trailer. “Bodean! Someone here wanna talk wit chu.”

We wait, but no one answers. Is this guy pulling my leg? Is he trying to lure me further into the house so he can eat my leg? Banjo music pops into my head, and I realize cannibalism may not be what I most need to worry about.

–

“Are there any more questions?” the instructor asked after one particularly redundant lesson.

I glanced around and saw Andre with his hand up again. The other students saw him as well and sighed audibly. Then someone threw a pencil at him.

“Yes, Andre?”

“Is this job, like, dangerous? Does anybody die doing this?” Andre asked. It was our fourth day of classes. You’d think, if this was a concern of his, he’d have asked a little earlier in the process.

I laughed internally at the question. We’re just asking people some harmless questions. How could that be dangerous?

The instructor scanned a sheet of paper on his desk as if it held the answer to this exact question. “There were no enumerator deaths in 2000,” he says.

“Two thousand? That’s years ago,” Andre said. “What about last year, yo?”

Our instructor was either infinitely patient or stoned. I don’t know which. “Andre, the Census is only run every ten years. There were no enumerators last year.

“Oh, right, right.” Andre played it off. “I knew that. I meant before 2000. What about in, uh…” he trailed off.

“In 1990? I don’t have any data on that kind of thing before 2000.”

“So, like, 2000 could have been a fluke or something, then? Maybe there was a mass e-number-ator slaughter in 1990.” Another student fidgeted, looking nervous about this new possibility.

“There was no enumerator slaughter in 1990. Or ever. This is a safe job, and if it wasn’t they’d have to pay you more. As we’ve learned, if there is ever any hint of danger, you are to leave immediately. Let’s go over the rules one more time, class.”

Those of us who were still listening sighed again.

–

“Bodean” makes a shuffling appearance into the living room. He stops next to the man I’ve been conversing with and gives me a big, gummy smile. I actually can’t tell if he’s smiling or scowling since his face is one giant knot of features, pinched together by what might be centuries of age.

“Heh?” the newcomer wheezes. He is stooped, plaid and pale, and he reminds me of an old hermit I met once in a gaming storyline. I try to remember how that encounter turned out.

“Sir,” I begin again. “Are you the owner of this, uh, home?”

“Ahbeenhuhfottyeasanahdonkeerwhu…” the man wheezes unintelligibly for a while. I have a feeling he’s giving me his life history. If only I could understand him, I might have the answers to all my questions.

His gums flash continuously as he speaks, but I have yet to see a single tooth. The man looks like a fish gaping for air which reminds me that the hermit in my game had transformed into something while I visited. What was it?

Bodean concludes and looks at me with his maybe-smile again. I look to the man with the shotgun for assistance. He’s glaring at me, as if I’ve just insulted his friend, or perhaps it’s his dad.

“I think you done asked enough questions fer today,” he says coldly.

I know I’m supposed to leave if I’m asked to, but he didn’t really ask directly, and I’m annoyed at how much time I’ve spent just to get nowhere. I ask the primary/seasonal home question again, this time addressed to the old man.

Bodean’s mumbles are somewhat clearer this time. I make out the words “get out” and “boy.” His face is clearly not smiling now, and he reaches for the gun the other man has been leaning on. With amazing speed, he brings it level with my chest. He aims slightly off to my left, but if he’s got buckshot in there, aim won’t matter.

I remember now that the video game hermit turned out to be a sorcerer troll in disguise. The small cabin was a trap, and my character died right there in the ambush. I lost a lot of loot on that mission.

I’ve officially been asked to leave, and I nearly fall backward through the screenless door in my haste to comply. I back out onto the dust walkway with my clipboard shield raised in defense.

I’m halfway to my car when the dragon reminds me of its presence, leaping desperately for a taste of my flesh. I scream and jump at the same time, but the beast’s chain saves me once again.

My eyes flit back and forth from the roaring dragon to the advancing troll with his magic staff. Finally, I turn and run the last few steps, exposing my armorless back to the enemies. The car starts immediately, and I drive away as quickly as possible, a cloud of dust kicked up from my noble steed.

When the trailer is out of sight, I pull over and try to calm my nerves. I make a few notes on the clipboard, then pull out the map. It looks like there’s a trailer park that needs canvasing down the road a few miles. As I pull back onto the deserted road, I silently pray they just won’t answer their doors.

My commute to work nearly resulted in five fender benders, three fatal collisions and two ostriches through my windshield (all separate incidents, narrowly avoided).

A fist fight broke out between two co-workers over a parking space as I cruised the lot, so I took one of several spots just past their disputed claim. I found out later in the day they were actually fighting over a heated eBay auction, not a parking space.

Shortly before lunch, my cell phone rang and I noticed my home phone in the caller id. Since no one was home except my dogs, I became intrigued enough to answer. Over the line, I heard the dogs howling and a duck quacking. I decided to go check things out and was glad I did because my house sat inches away from catching fire by a sparking power line severed when a yacht fell from a blimp advertising a new yacht-transportation service. There was also a duck in my kitchen.

Needless to say, I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch which left me grumpy for the rest of the day. My grumpiness became apparent to the boss when I inadvertently threatened his family with the plague. That landed me with a week-long data entry project that a high school intern would have been insulted by.

After a few hours of transcribing random letter sequences, the clock struck five and the boss asked if I could work on the project for another hour or so. At this point, someone anonymously emailed me an extremely incriminating photo of the boss with an asian or hispanic looking hermaphrodite. He saw it in my inbox and let me leave for the day, saying he would finish up the project himself.

On the drive home, I witnessed a commercial airliner forced to land on the highway. It was quite a site to behold, though, of course, it did a number on traffic. Eventually, I hopped out and helped to direct traffic around the stranded nuns emerging from the airplane. With a compact car, I could only carry three at a time but eventually got them all safely to their recital, baptism or whatever it was they were screaming at me about.

A few minor incidents later, I returned home and found my wife with her usual stack of evening papers and gossip magazines. She shoved an Us Weekly at me and pointed out an article on celebrity cellulite. Could I believe that Angelina Jolie had let herself go, she asked. Then she told me about the latest crisis in a country I’d never heard of: hundreds dead thanks to a ruthless dictator. The Steelers quarterback embroiled in controversy. The president’s embarrassing faux pas with a Chinese delegate. A new species discovered living in deep sea trenches. Brad Pitt visited a local Krispy Kreme. An entire day’s worth of newsworthy happenings.

I shrugged it off, and she asked about my day instead.

I told her a few of the highlights, knowing she would continue asking until I did. As usual, she overreacted and asked for more and more details. Finally, I told her I didn’t want to talk about it any further.

She asked how I could possibly not talk about it. Crazy things happened to me today, and how could I be so calm?

I responded with my usual philosophy: Ask yourself if will it affect you a year from now. Will it affect you a week from now? Will it even affect you tomorrow morning? If not, don’t worry about it. Forget the small things.

If we forget all those small things, she said, what’s left? Nothing’s left, she said, you’re just numb. She said amazing things happen every day in this world and we need to be aware of everything that’s going on so we can keep our heads above water.

I responded that amazing things do happen every day, and we’d drown just trying to keep up with it all. If you worry about every little thing, how do you cope when something big happens? If I’m numb, I told her, then she’s overwrought.

She blew up at me for calling her names and threatened me with divorce. She stormed into the den, and I heard her crying on the phone with her mother. How could he do this to me, she sobbed.

Unable to find anything worth doing, I went to bed early. My wife eventually hung up the phone and resumed her reading late into the night.

The next day, I walked out to retrieve the paper but found it hopelessly lodged under the landing pad of a small spacecraft.