I haven't been doing much personal writing lately...mostly it's been essays and updates about my novel. In a tribute to the old days of online journaling, this is going to be one of those self-indulgent personal pieces that also serves as a writing exercise; I've fallen into a rut and need to stretch my imagination.

My first novel was a great success. It started out as just a small success, a little known cult classic. Then word spread and it garnered the attention of those literary critics I don't give two hoots about. They heralded it as an insightful glimpse of the face of loneliness. There was talk of how it touched on the growing phenomenon of urban isolation. Some folks likened it to a classic country song about alienation and 'urban wickedness'. It was never one of those New York Times bestsellers, but it put me on the map. I was 26 when it was published, and 27 when I was interviewed. The reporter said that she loved Mark - the protagonist of my novel - and how tragic his loneliness was. I asked her if she caught the priestly angle, and she said that that was actually something that deeply resonated with her - her father was a pastor who always seemed so aloof. She also remarked that Mark's separate from the rest of the world, he's on a whole different plane of existence. A clever gal, that one.

That article got me noticed enough so that I could get an advance on my next book, which was about a darker side of loneliness, the festering violence of a man with hate and intolerance in his heart. That's only one side of him though. He's a protector, a guardian. But he's got nobody to protect, nobody to save. Yeah, yeah, it's sort of yet another spin-off of a different side of myself, but hey, it's still good work, and the publisher gave me and advance, so I must be doing something right.

That was my second book. In between that one and the one I'm working on now, I finally met a woman who ended up being my fiance. I remember the day after she confessed that she was in love with me, I wondered if maybe that psychic I saw all that time ago was right, that I wasn't destined for dating lots of people and that I would only need to meet that one single perfect woman whom I would marry. If she was right about that, that means she was right about me living 'til I'm 80 or 90, too. Back then, I didn't think there was any reason I should have to live that long, but now that's all changed.

So yeah, about that woman. I love her. It was funny, we met through the Internet. She was all the way on the West coast, and I've always been a New Yorker, so I figured that we'd never meet and that she was probably too different for me. It was totally platonic at first. That's why I felt alright showing her my website; otherwise, if I was romantically interested, I probably wouldnt've ever showed her. I'd be afraid of what she thought about my writing, whether she'd misinterpret it and all that. Plus, she's a good three inches taller than me. While I'm not threatened by women who are taller than me, I just always envisioned myself with a smaller woman. I guess it's that protector in me (yeah, that one, the one I drew inspiration from to write my second book).

But yeah, she didn't let the fact that I was shorter than she was stop her. She secretly read my writings and I guess she saw in me something she just couldn't shake. With time, I saw in her a fiercely loyal woman who I knew would be a devoted mother to my children. There was this one evening when I was at her place and we were baking a cake for her aunt - we were still relatively new to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend - and we ended up talking about our childhoods and dreams. She started talking so honestly about how she wanted to raise her family, what she envisioned. I always wanted to talk about that sort of thing, but I didn't want to scare her away with such talk.

Anyway, that night, when she was sifting the flour and talking about what sort of mother she'd be, her back turned to me, I just stood there, staring at the back of her head. It was that moment, when my heart told me that we were both looking for exactly the same thing, that I fell even more deeply in love with her. She noticed I was quiet and turned around. Our eyes met, and something inside both of us just clicked. Without saying a word, she walked to me, floury hands and all. She took my hands in hers and stood real close to me. We just stared into each other. It felt like an eternity. I didn't need to say a word: she knew what I was thinking. She knew that we both wanted the same things, the same future. She knew that my heart was completely hers, that we could spend forever with each other. It was just one of those leaps of faith.

I proposed to her two weeks later. Quick, I know. But you know when, you know, you know? For me, I don't fall in love often, so I know when it's real. Anyway, I had planned on putting the ring on her finger by levitating it over her finger and, after having it hover for a few seconds, let it descend - I was an amateur magician. I wanted to do this one starlit night in a park. But then the damnedest thing happened. One day, she found it in my jacket pocket, and after waiting for a week, she couldn't keep quiet about it anymore. We were in Crate and Barrel, shopping for some baking stuff (I once attempted a cursory psychoanalysis of her: I thought her penchant for baking was a domestic yearning for parts of her childhood she felt she missed out on; she yelled at me for about a week after I pulled that stunt), and when there was a quiet moment, she grabbed the ring box through my jacket. "I can't wait any more, you idiot. Are you going to ask me to marry you or not?" She's always been strong like that, it's one of the reasons I even dated her. I pulled her in close and kissed her. "What do you think?" I asked. She gave me a sly look, said, "I'm not sure yet, show me again." We kissed rather passionately, which I'm embarrassed to admit. Hey, we were in Crate and Barrel for crying out loud.

And now we're married. We've got a nice little house in a nice little suburban neighborhood. I've got my psychotherapy practice in the well-monied part of town. It's a part-time gig though. That's alright because that gives me time to write. We'll probably have the two kids we planned on having once I get more steady clients. We both worry about what that'll do to my writing though. Getting more clients I mean. Well, I guess the kids too, when you think about it... But yeah, she's a sort of creative type too, so she knows how it goes, the creative process and all. Oh, did I mention? She took the photos for both of my book jackets. I didn't let her put a portrait photo of me on the back of it though. I'm not too hot about getting famous. Besides, it's better to let people wonder.

Oh, right, my latest work in progress. Well, this one is on family and siblings. I'm looking to examine themes like loyalty, taking the people in our lives for granted, and how precious our family is. That and death.

My wife's putting on some dinner, so I've got to go give her a hand. We'll finish this interview tomorrow, alright?

"Talk about yourself as you want to see yourself. And some day, that will be yourself."

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Remember how I said that I used my screenplay as a blueprint for my novel? Well, that screenplay was never finished. I first started it in order to enter a contest that I was made aware of as my position as founder of a screenwriting group on Facebook. The idea of having a real shot at getting noticed by Hollywood was immensely motivating. I had one month to finish it, which was more than enough time. But by the time I got up to page 62, I decided that I had to take my aspirations to write a novel more seriously. I shelved the unfinished screenplay.

Several months later, after much deliberation and procrastination, I started the actual groundwork and began writing my novel. With experience, I found that 2,000 words is about what I can write without working too hard. Beyond that, it takes a bit of discipline and effort. Last night, I wrote two chapters.

So far, 2,000 seems to be the magic number. I can write that many words, and each chapter seems to be averaging around 2,500 words (I had one really long chapter). Using Catcher in the Rye as a rough guide, its 74,000 words is divided into 26 chapters, meaning there is an average of 2046 words per chapter. If I were to model my book on it, I guess my pacing is relatively on track.

The more I get into my novel, the more I am seeing the differences between a novel and a screenplay. The screenplay is more like a sprint whereas the novel is a marathon. I've always been a sprinter. I never had much stamina. Or patience for that matter. It seems though that the novel is teaching me (or rather, forcing me) to sit down and focus. As Holden Caulfield would probably agree with, anybody can knock out a screenplay in less than a month, but it takes a real writer to finish a real novel. With probably a month and a third of a novel behind me, I imagine that my first draft will be completed by the end of the year. A second draft would probably be ready in another half year (considering that I will have other obligations to tend to), meaning I ought to have a pretty decent manuscript to show VB by next year's holiday season.

I've become incredibly vigilant with my writing. At the end of each and every chapter (and sometimes even every small scene), I ask myself: what is this showing? Why is it here? What do we learn about the characters? My eighth and ninth chapter has been my best writing so far, and perhaps it's because the story had gotten beyond the sixty-secondth page of my blueprint. But from here on out, it's even more important for me to be careful to stay on track.

To do that, I have taken to asking myself yet another immensely important question: Why do we care about Mark (the main character, name subject to change)? There must absolutely be a reason that we care about him, otherwise the reader won't go forward. My novel is a character study, so I must remind myself to reveal his character in a way that causes the reader to actually give a hoot.

Another unusual strategy I've taken to is to review my book as if it were being studied in class. Sure, it's a little presumptuous, but the way I figure, if you aspire to literary greatness, there's no better way than to treat your own work as if it were great enough to be studied.

As usual though, I remind myself of these guidelines through and through while keeping in mind that I cannot look back too often, in the interest of actually finishing the damned thing. After nine chapters, I think I'm finally getting the hang of it all. I can't wait to complete the first draft so I can get to the good stuff: refining it all. Adding literary touches where needed, playing with words and structure...that's the stuff I really enjoy.

Writing a novel is a deceptively massive undertaking. VB had told me that I should be more than confident enough to go forth with my literary aspirations. Only now, as I approach 30,000 words, have I truly gained that deserved confidence. With any luck (along with my continued hard work and discipline), perhaps my dream of writing the Great American Novel (or perhaps just a Great American Metropolitan City Novel) will come true after all.

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A writer's circle can be quite critical to his or her success. Personally, I feel that writers, as well as all artists, need a nurturing environment in which to hone their craft and to develop their artistic voice. A large part of that involves surrounding yourself with the right people.

(Oh, by the way, the voice in my head is reading (writing?) this with a sense of whimsy, almost a devil-may-care attitude. I suggest you read along with me in like fashion, just for optimal kicks. Of course, feel free to interpret my words in any way you please.)

In my own personal life, it's a little difficult in terms of being accepted as a writer. My parents are not exactly encouraging on this matter. A writer doesn't exactly make much (if any) money, that is until he turns into a New York Times best seller. A writer is seen as unproductive and sometimes even lazy. As most people see it, who wouldn't want to sit at home in front of a computer, dreaming up stories all day?

Not many of my friends seem interested in my writing. Nobody's asked me what my novel is about. The strange thing is that strangers ask me about my novel more than the people who I supposedly am close with.

Family members aren't exactly interested either, even though they're supposed to be the ones you can rely on for support. I gave my aunt my completed screenplay to read (it was the first one I had ever written) and she never brought it up again. I am still afraid of asking her about it, or even to ask for it back. Luckily that wasn't my only copy.

By and large, it was my old English professor (whom I shall call VB) who was incredibly supportive. She believes in me so much, far more than anybody I have ever met. Old teachers, family, friends, nobody ever took enough interest in me or my talents to commend me or to encourage me to pursue my talent. VB instilled in me a sense of confidence and possibility. For that, I will never forget her. Of course, I do still intend to keep touch with her. She is, after all, a newly published author and, without trying to sound like one who uses others, a possible path into the publishing industry.

I think that one should seek out those whose worlds say yes. And when one finds such people, one should hold on to them fiercely. It's hard to find someone supportive and encouraging who at the same time understands precisely the hardships you face in your given endeavor.

Writers, being creative folk, each have their own individual processes. Mine has clarified with time. For me, I wake up and grind some fresh Brazilian coffee and put it on to boil. Then I make some toast. By the time the water has boiled and I've added it to the coffee grounds in my Bodum press pot, my toast is ready to be buttered and slathered with Smuckers red raspberry preserves (you know, the one with the red and white picnic table checkers). Not jam or jelly. Preserves. I watch a quick television show while I eat my breakfast, finishing only half a huge mug of my coffee (into which I've put precisely six spoons of sugar, three per cup). Sometimes I read a magazine article, but I never read the news (when I'm in my writing mode, I live in a cave).

And then, when I'm done eating, I start writing. I might take a peek at what I've been up to since the last time I wrote (sometimes I take a break because I just can't get those juices flowing), but most of the time I can remember and I just start banging away at that keyboard. I stew in the minds of my characters, mull over conversation choices, think of stylistic ways to word sentences in order to keep from becoming boring, and lots more. In short, I just write.

The problem is that most people just see you sitting around doing nothing. The art of writing isn't respected, at least not by most of the folks I'm around. I'm a little beyond the age of the average undergrad, but I'm still taking my classes. People see me as biding my time when I'm really trying to work. Just because I don't yet have a piece of faux parchment with gothic lettering that somehow entitles me to get a "real job" (because somehow people who didn't spend lots of money on an education are somehow not qualified to get a "real job") doesn't mean I'm not working on something. Don't you see I'm trying to create something here? That's a task far more complex and difficult than most any tasks you'd perform as a "real job".

Sometimes, when people ask me what I'm up to (mostly nosey and judgmental family members), I don't bother telling them I'm writing. I get so excited about my idea for a short story, about the themes that would resonate with modern urban society, about the importance of touching each other and physical proximity, about the latest bit of writing I've done, so I tell them all about it. And then I just get those staring nods that say, "Uh-huh, I hear you buddy, you keep doing that. I don't have a clue what you're talking about, but just keep on doing what you're doing." Nowadays, I just tell them I'm still taking classes. This tactic still yields chastising lectures about how I need to hurry up and graduate (still better than those blank stares, I say). What's the rush, I ask them. The point of an education is not to get a diploma but to become learned, I posit. They can't really figure out why I'm wrong because I'm not, so they just quietly agree, secretly disagreeing. Then they wait a couple of months to a half a year before they bring it up again, just for kicks.

Then you've got your friends who don't really understand your writing process. For me, I've got to live in a cave. I can't get distracted, and I don't really want to go out and talk to anyone. I just need to hunker down and get those chapters written while I've got those juices flowing. Ya dig? No, ya don't dig. Oh well. They think I'm ignoring them or something, but it's just "the process". Why can't you understand that? I'm glad at least one of my friends understands that. Then again, maybe it's just that she feels it's all for the better since she's going through some things of her own.

Finally, you've got the jealous folks, the ones who are afraid you'll make it big. I guess it's a compliment really, because they see that you've got what it takes to become a success. They'll just try to shit on you or rain on your parade. You'll finish a chapter and maybe they'll act interested, but all they're really looking for is a way to take you down a peg. Creative work is never perfect, and it takes a lot more skill and effort to create something than it is to tear it down. It takes months and years to build a skyscraper, but only a few seconds to blow it up.

A writer's life is complicated and difficult. Whether it's bills, friends, family, or the landlord, there's always something that's trying to screw with you and your state of flow. Lots of people think lowly of us creative types. Few understand us. That's why my dedication page will be devoted to VB, the only person who believed in me and saw my potential as a writer. She's part of the reason I keep working on my novel day in and day out. It's her I want to make proud, to prove to her that she was right about me. It's not my mother or my father, not a friend or a lover. Part of it is my hubris, a way to thumb my nose at those who lacked the vision and foresight to see my success.

If any of this sounds arrogant, it's because of two reasons. For one, I need it. If I don't believe in myself, nobody else will. And secondly, perception is reality. If I think I'll be a great literary success, then that's what'll happen. If that's what I envision, then there can only be one outcome. Pushing myself to reach for greatness is the way to avoid mediocrity. But I should be careful not to become a perfectionist either, lest I end up never having published anything.

Here's to all you writers out there (and painters, musicians, and countless other creative types) who have to schlep through all the bullshit to see their vision become reality. I hear you buddy, just keep on keeping on.

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I have just hit the 16,000 word mark. That's 21% of my goal of 74,000 words. Depending on the physical dimensions of the novel, I have written approximately 45 pages out of 210 or so. Today, I sat down and wrote for about nine hours, taking a break for about an hour in the afternoon. All in all, I've gotten five chapters behind me.

My novel started as a screenplay. I imagine the screenplay as a sort of fast track prototype. It's quick and dirty. It gets the job done, but not without imparting a sense of style, structure, and purpose. It essentially launches your story from mere thoughts into your head into a cohesive body of work. The trajectory is set by the first pieces, and the tone and topic matter are defined for the most part.

I use my screenplay as a sort of outline for the novel. But the way I work, I find that my characters often take a life of their own. Sometimes, they don't fit into the neat little boxes I want them to. Sometimes, the characters just don't have chemistry and the story takes a slightly different turn.

When you are writing an entire chapter, an entire string of scenes, it can be easy to get tunnel vision and to get lost. After I was done with this last chapter (the fifth one), I decided that I needed to check on the overall progress. I had to see where my novel was going, to make sure that it was going where I needed it to go. I needed to hit those milestones set by my screenplay.

I ended up making a mockup of my novel in PDF format (complete with an absolute ripoff of the Catcher in the Rye cover, the white one with serif text and rainbow stripes in the corner). This serves two purposes:
1) It reminds me to keep my eye on the prize. Seeing how my novel would look in the format of a real novel (instead of a very bland 12-point monospace font in a plain text file) motivates me to keep working towards the finish line. It is a very real and practically tangible reminder of what I am aspiring to achieve.
2) It makes my novel nice and portable, with all the chapters clearly marked and unified in a single file that can be read on all my platforms (iPhone, Kindle, PC, Mac).

But more importantly, why am I converting my incomplete manuscript into a PDF novel?

It's because I need to re-read my novel from start to finish. To paraphrase Dr. Lecter (who was paraphrasing Marcus Aurelius), "Ask of each and every thing what is in and of itself." That is, what is happening here? What is being said and revealed about the characters? What purpose does this scene or chapter serve? Does it move the audience towards the next plot point? Does it follow the structure you plotted? Where applicable, is everything consistent? It's a very important exercise. With five chapters behind me, it's vital to the health of the story that I stay on track.

Of course, don't confuse this with editing. I believe that editing should be reserved for after the completion of the first draft. Otherwise, you'll be second guessing and modifying every damned sentence, and you'll get nowhere real fast. Don't go over your manuscript with a fine toothed comb. Rather, just skim it for main ideas. In fact, I have a chart set up to check my progress. One column designates the chapter. The next column is the summary of the chapter, essentially nothing more than a list of actions. Last but not least, the last column is a description of all of the character points that have been established as well as all other important information gleaned from the actions.

So far, the fifth chapter is one of the longest. I'm not entirely sure if I have to work on the pacing as the first three chapters were rather short. But again, I need to fight the editing instinct to back to rework those chapters. It's important to remain focused on moving forward with the novel rather than going back to rewrite every little bit of it. Laying down the foundation is critical to finishing a novel. You can't create a statue without first having a massive piece of rock to chip away at.

With any luck, I should be done by the end of the year. I actually can't wait to finish the first draft so that I can get around to refining it. As it is right now, the literary voice of it is quite rudimentary. I look forward to improving and picking apart my work.

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While the Sumatra coffees were what I sought out in the beginning of my coffee journey, it has since taken the backseat to the Brazilian coffee I ordered. I've recently concluded that the Brazil Serra Negra is my favorite coffee. To my palate, the Brazil is extremely smooth, with little to no acidity. In the finish, I find that it has some smokey cherry chocolate notes. The beans themselves are nutty and smell just like what I imagine coffee beans would smell like. It's something I can drink day in and day out, hot or warm or even cool.

I still have to take a closer look at the Burundi Bwayi beans that I have. I find that the African beans are a little too flat for me, while not being quite as smooth as the Brazil. I feel that I've experimented with enough single origin coffees for now. I'll of course return to them, but in the mean time I am going to focus on the roast of the bean. I'll probably end up trying an Italian roast from Starbucks, considering that I have easy access to such beans and won't have to wait for it in the mail. I hear that the Italian roast yields a very sweet cup of coffee.

As usual, I couple my coffee with writing. I have finally finished three (very short) chapters, clocking in at close to 7,000 words. It isn't much, but I'm making progress and getting into the meat of the story. The truth of the matter is that most of the story has been outlined in my screenplay. The real difficulty lies in fleshing it out. For a writer, a novel is a far more precise endeavor than is a screenplay. Writing an entire novel is a whole 'nother beast compared to the anemic screenplay. My screenplay, had I completed it, would've probably been close to 20,000 words, and that's including all of the markup, not just the content. My goal for the novel is 74,000 words or so, more than three times the writing.

Why 74,000 words you ask? Catcher in the Rye was around 74,000 words. That means I haven't even covered a tenth of my novel. Of course 74,000 is more or less arbitrary: I am not going to stretch my novel any longer than it needs to be, and if it is shorter, so be it. I'm wondering if I need to make my chapters a little longer. It seems contrived to write my novel around chapter lengths though. But really, I should worry about that sort of thing after my entire first draft is complete.

I wonder how many cups of coffee I will have consumed by the time I finish my novel.

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I was eagerly awaiting the release of Tom Ford's A Single Man to home video. This was mostly because I love seeing suits on film and I had heard quite a bit about Tom Ford's fashion background having an influence on the film. Unfortunately, fashion seems to be all there is to this flick.

Colin Firth plays protagonist George Falconer, an English professor whose partner died in a car accident. We follow him on a single day as he contemplates suicide. Throughout the course of the day, nothing really happens. He meets an interested student, comes across an incredibly handsome young Spanish fellow, meets up with his old friend Charley (Julianne Moore), and ends the night by having a drink with said interested student and proceeding to take him home after a naked swim.

I'd like to get into a plot analysis and all that jazz, but the truth of the matter is that it's really nothing more than a cursory character study of a gay Englishman. As a movie, Ford creates some visually stunning images. As an appreciator of classic male fashion, I noticed the great attention to detail to the character's wardrobe. George Falconer was one helluva dresser: impeccable and tasteful. Ford's use of saturation and desaturation, while overused, was duly noted and appreciated as well. Sound, usually an underused and ignored part of film making, was finely utilized: the dramatic and wistful score, combined with the stunning imagery, almost stands to say volumes on its own.

Unfortunately, it doesn't say enough. I am a huge fan of character studies. My own screenplay-turned novel is a character study. That is why I know how difficult it is to write one. For a character study to be successful, it must have conflict, and it must cause the audience to ask questions. It must engage the viewer's emotions and challenge the intellect. The greatest difficulty lies in a character study that doesn't exactly have much going on in it. It takes a very skilled writer to pull it off. Getting the audience to become invested in the psychology of the main character is difficult. When I watched the movie, it lost my interest a little more than half way into the film. I kept wondering if this was just some kind of exhibition show for homosexuality and fashion in the sixties.

Personally, I think it takes a great deal of skill and talent to be able to adapt a novel into a screenplay. I imagine that it would take someone who is firstly trained in literary writing to understand the source material. Then it takes someone who is also a cinematic thinker. An adaptation of a novel can only be successful if the screenwriter has both skills. Otherwise, things are lost in translation as they usually are when making the traversal from novel to movie.

Because the film doesn't deliver as a character study (though Firth's performance is undoubtedly as excellent as the clothes he wears), it is nothing more than a moving painting. Yes, there is no doubt that the cinematography can be described with words like "beautiful", "stunning". But a film needs to be more than just appealing to the eye. It seemed to me that A Single Man was more a vehicle to show off Ford's outstanding sense of fashion and attention to detail; a showcase of what a well-dressed man would look like in the sixties. I felt like there was much more to the book than we were shown in the movie. I imagine that the novel would be a far more satisfactory emotional ride. The movie is akin to a blonde bimbo: very good to look at but not very intelligent or engrossing.

If Tom Ford can marry his visual sense with better storytelling, I'm sure he'll be a great success. But for his debut, he exposes his lack of cinematic vision and tells us that he is still just a fashion designer.

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Ever since I became more fiscally responsible, I canceled my Amazon Prime subscription. My brother commented that it's a good thing that I did considering that it makes me buy less. That's when I realized that Amazon Prime makes it far too easy to purchase things impulsively. It enables consumers to engage in (nearly) instant gratification. A very clever corporate scheme if you ask me. It makes sense and is consistent with their emphasis on making it so easy to shop on their website. From 1-Click and monthly product subscriptions to the new PayPhrase and the nearly instant content delivery on the Kindle, Amazon is savvy in reducing the path of resistance for consumers to make their purchases.

Coming from Amazon Prime, I was accustomed to getting my purchases at most two days after I put in the order. Now that I no longer have such privileges, I am stuck with Free Super Saver Shipping. And boy does it make me feel like a second-rate, third-class citizen. I placed the order on the 17th. It arrived on the 27th via USPS. To make things worse, they did the whole stealthy peach slip thing where they don't actually attempt to deliver your package, forcing you to make your way to the post office the next day. I know the games they play, and it is incredibly frustrating that they lie and claim that the package is out on a truck when it's actually just sitting in the post office.

Anyway, I am extremely excited to finally have my books in hand. This summer, I fully intend to study Nietzsche's On the Genealogy of Morals. I learned a bit about it from some lecture at Oxford I downloaded from iTunes U. Hearing the idea of the "sovereign individual" was like an intellectual ejaculation. I was that excited. Now, I have never read any of Nietzsche's works or studied them in depth, so I have no clue whether or not Nietzsche is satirical of the idea of the sovereign individual (perhaps it is unrealistic to expect to achieve such sovereignty?). But it is certainly something I have been striving to accomplish for the longest time. Now I have something to study, a paradigm to apply to my life so that I can identify my stances with greater clarity and precision.

As for where von Clausewitz fits in, he is heralded as one of the greatest strategists ever, and my intellectual interests drive me to gain a better understanding of strategy. But mostly, I am going to be doing an independent study of Nietzsche. I have no doubt that such an endeavor, pursued without the guidance of a teacher, will be a difficult one. Even so, I am thoroughly motivated to do so. In fact, I have given myself an assignment: to write a thesis by the end of the summer, as well as writing my own polemic by the end of the year. Much of writings are polemical, so much of the groundwork is done already. I only have to refine them and put them together in a cohesive form.

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A while ago I thought I would dip my toes into the waters of getting paid for submitting my writing to Associated Content. I never intended to make a living off of it, but hey, if I can get paid for things I write for free on my own time, why not?

I submitted an article, apparently for "non-exclusive licensing". It was declined, citing copyright infringement. I emailed them asking about it. This is what I wrote to them:

I submitted a paper I wrote entitled 'The Bible's Methods of Social Control' under this account. It was declined, citing copyright issues. I just want to clarify that as far as I can tell, the paper has only been "published" on my personal blog at www.wistfulwriter.com. I can remove the blog post. I was not aware that it was considered "published" even on a personal blog or website. Please advise how I can proceed to have my work reconsidered.

Here's what they said four days later:

Hi Wistful Writer,

You submitted that article under our non-Exclusive licensing agreement, which stipulates that the piece has not been previously published. You were also asked during the submission process if the piece had been previously published and answered no when you obviously knew it had been. Thank you.

I don't appreciate the unproductive and somewhat snarky tone of the email. It's very presumptuous. They assume that I "obviously knew" the article had been "published".

See, as a complete Internet article writer newbie, I had no clue that simply posting something on the Internet could be considered publishing. Of course, in retrospect, I suppose that the copyright at the bottom of all blogs has something to do with it, but as far as I knew, it was never published: nobody ever put it into print or media, and it only existed as something I posted on my personal blog.

In fact, I submitted another article (5 Reasons Women Have It Easier Than They Think) which was modified ever so slightly for keyword density. That article was accepted and I received a lowly offer for $2 for exclusive rights. Personally, I thought that the contentious material was worth at least $5, but hey, I'm not going to argue and haggle: business is business. Clearly, I declined the offer.

Anyway, the reason I bring that up is because clearly their copyright infringement department needs to do better work. That article was passed off as original "unpublished" work when in fact it was merely a slight modification of a preexisting work on the same website and same account that submitted another work that was found to be infringing copyrights.

But back to the email response I got. Not only is it presumptuous, despite my efforts to clarify where I was coming from, it was entirely productive and failed to answer the most important question: how do I go about resolving the issue? I figure I can just remove it from my blog, but they sure didn't give me any clue as to how to proceed.

I think this rude and annoying experience is more than enough to stop me from trying to peddle my writing to Associated Content. I'm not going to subject myself to such nonsense to earn a couple of bucks. Besides, I've read too many horror stories about people butchering people's content and all that. I'll keep the rights to my work, thank you very much.

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As we know, I am working on a novel. In self-aggrandizing jest, I call it The Great American Novel. But in reality, I don't actually aspire to such grandeur. My novel is not so wide in scope. It is primarily an examination of loneliness and the transience of city life on a personal scale. It doesn't really deal with things like the bond beyond a parent and a child and the effects of their past on their present relationship (that stuff is golden as it's timeless and universal). Now that I think about it, my novel is rather sparse when it comes to themes. I delve into the curious condition of being alone in a large city. I touch on how familiarity breeds a certain sort of stasis, and how modern technologies have led us to be more alone. It is largely, as I've taken to calling it, a portrait of loneliness. As such, it's not a piece of fiction that is all-encompassing in the various conditions of human nature. No, it's more focused.

In my Moleskine, I've got all these little boxes of scribblings with the heading IDEA and THEME. I have lots of them dotting the pages, but when I take a step back, I see that at the core they're really mostly about the broad sentiment of loneliness. Failed connections, the cyclical nature of loneliness, the desire to be free of it, all that good stuff; but it's still narrow.

Do I need to expand? I don't think I should. I feel that I'd be overreaching. This is, after all, my first novel. Hmm...now I can't fall asleep...

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In discussions with some acquaintances of mine, it was pointed out that my Great American Novel runs the risk of being self-indulgent considering that the protagonist is largely based on me. I have always been cognizant of that risk, that I might end up writing a thinly veiled emotional autobiography where my goal is to create a great piece of literary fiction.

Tonight, I just realized: my story is not self-indulgent. I shouldn't have to worry about that. See, I don't go around airing my grievances through my character, and I certainly don't go around plopping down autobiographic set pieces. The story itself stands on its own. Similarities to myself and my life are there merely because my experiences serve as the template. But by no means do they define the character. I'm not writing about my torridly tumultuous childhood and how my dysfunctional family turned me into the tortured adult I am today. My novel is not some perverse Freudian self-examination. No, my novel transcends my shitty past. Instead, I write my character from a distance. The same way I have a knack for stepping out of my own shoes (to a certain extent) in order to have a grounded look at myself and my circumstances, I use this ability to step back to make sure that my character is his own man with his own problems.

That I am writing this novel in third person certainly helps. Had I decided to go with first-person (like my favorite novels Catcher in the Rye and Anti-Hero), I am sure that it would inevitably become nothing but a shameful dramatized autobiography. I find that I strongly dislike the self-indulgence of autobiographies that are based around negative life experiences. Such things must be tastefully written so that they are more than just a big protracted diary or memoir. Everyone has negative experiences and to be frank, assuming that everyone wants to read your story is extremely self-indulgent. The goal of telling stories about oneself should be to inspire or to create an emotional connections and movement. Save the rest of that other crap for the therapist.

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