Saturday, December 30, 2017
Friday, December 29, 2017
The Fat Suit
The biggest hurdle to losing weight when you're overweight is the fact that you can't see the light at the end of the tunnel. All you see is that you're wearing this fat suit, and that you can't imagine being thin again--it's so far away. You don't begin because you can't see success. And days go by with your weight only fluctuating a few pounds in either direction.
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
Stupid Arguments on a Stupid Day, Part III
I understand a physician's reasonable caution when prescribing opioids. I plan on having an honest conversation with my GP where I tell him that if he doesn't believe that I have significant pain that needs to be treated, that if he thinks I'm exaggerating in any way, just don't fucking prescribe the pills instead of trying to emotionally manipulate me into feeling guilty about being sick. My illness doesn't check in with my doctor every morning, and ask, "Is this okay? Because if not, I can scale it back." My pain doesn't depend on his schedule, his comfortable level with prescribing opioids.
Just don't prescribe the fucking pills, I don't want to listen to you whine about that shit.
Just don't prescribe the fucking pills, I don't want to listen to you whine about that shit.
Stupid Arguments on a Stupid Day, Part II
Besides the usual family bullshit, my GP called me last week, just before the holiday, and told me on voicemail that he would no longer refill my Norco prescription once every seven days (for ten pills), that he would only continue to fill it if I picked up the prescription every ten days (for ten pills). He said over the phone that this is what we "agreed to."
We did no such thing. He just dictated it down to me, and has refused to be flexible enough to even change the prescription to "one or more" pills per day (which is what the prescription said originally back in February).
Eventually, I had to call him back, even though we have an appointment on Friday. I did so yesterday, already angry, and wanted to tell him to go fuck himself (I probably would have if I had been able to get ahold of him). Instead, fairies intervened, and I was only able to speak to his office help.
On a different topic, the guy a few tables down from me at Starbucks is telling the woman that his problem with relationships is that he sacrifices too much. "I know there are sacrifices that need to be made in any relationship, but I can't lose myself," he continues.
He sounds exactly like some selfish asshole.
We did no such thing. He just dictated it down to me, and has refused to be flexible enough to even change the prescription to "one or more" pills per day (which is what the prescription said originally back in February).
Eventually, I had to call him back, even though we have an appointment on Friday. I did so yesterday, already angry, and wanted to tell him to go fuck himself (I probably would have if I had been able to get ahold of him). Instead, fairies intervened, and I was only able to speak to his office help.
On a different topic, the guy a few tables down from me at Starbucks is telling the woman that his problem with relationships is that he sacrifices too much. "I know there are sacrifices that need to be made in any relationship, but I can't lose myself," he continues.
He sounds exactly like some selfish asshole.
Stupid Arguments on a Stupid Day
Of course, yesterday, I was intensely angry (watched a recent Stanford health video which discussed the link between anger and an increase in chronic pain) for reasons of which I'm not sure about. While I was at the park that morning, Beck ran across a street, chasing something, and almost got hit by a car--and would have, had not the driver braked. She most likely would have died.
My grandmother (from my father's side) is visiting, and whenever she comes over, she is frequently talkative, politically conservative, and always agrees with whatever my father says. She idolizes him in a way that I believe is unnatural for a parent to feel about a child. My grandmother from my mother's side, the one who recently died, thought my other grandmother was annoying as shit. Sometimes, despite the woman's genuine sweetness, she irritates me too.
My parents came home yesterday at approximately the same time, and immediately started talking about my father's medications. My mother threw out this conspiracy theory idea that the doctors were prescribing needless medications for my father for financial gain on the part of the doctor. She couldn't understand that the doctor had prescribed him high cholesterol medication when he only had high blood pressure. I commented that they were related.
"He doesn't have high blood pressure," my mother answered.
I then corrected her, recently the American Medical Association decided anything over 130 was high. She just kept arguing with me like I didn't know what I was talking about.
I ended up yelling at her that she shouldn't let her "nonsense" influence Dad's medical decisions. I mean, the man's father did die of a fucking heart attack.
The whole conversation reminded me of my late grandmother's insistence that she didn't need to take any of her medications either, and my other grandmother's insistence that having a persistent cough doesn't mean anything, much less something serious. If you're eighty-five-years-old and you have had a cough for several months, maybe you should see a doctor. But, nope, no one listens to me because I'm fucking out of my mind.
My grandmother (from my father's side) is visiting, and whenever she comes over, she is frequently talkative, politically conservative, and always agrees with whatever my father says. She idolizes him in a way that I believe is unnatural for a parent to feel about a child. My grandmother from my mother's side, the one who recently died, thought my other grandmother was annoying as shit. Sometimes, despite the woman's genuine sweetness, she irritates me too.
My parents came home yesterday at approximately the same time, and immediately started talking about my father's medications. My mother threw out this conspiracy theory idea that the doctors were prescribing needless medications for my father for financial gain on the part of the doctor. She couldn't understand that the doctor had prescribed him high cholesterol medication when he only had high blood pressure. I commented that they were related.
"He doesn't have high blood pressure," my mother answered.
I then corrected her, recently the American Medical Association decided anything over 130 was high. She just kept arguing with me like I didn't know what I was talking about.
I ended up yelling at her that she shouldn't let her "nonsense" influence Dad's medical decisions. I mean, the man's father did die of a fucking heart attack.
The whole conversation reminded me of my late grandmother's insistence that she didn't need to take any of her medications either, and my other grandmother's insistence that having a persistent cough doesn't mean anything, much less something serious. If you're eighty-five-years-old and you have had a cough for several months, maybe you should see a doctor. But, nope, no one listens to me because I'm fucking out of my mind.
Poetry Contest
My mother explained to me that the poetry contest for the community college was just a minor stepping stone, and that I shouldn't place much emphasis on it nor any much energy.
I guess I just don't see it that way. My Creative Writing Professor praised my latest poem, called: "Paresthesia," even though he never said much in person about my two short stories. I decided that I would enter the poetry contest again in the spring. Who knows? Maybe if I win two years in a row, I can call myself a "poet" without inducing an ironic gag in myself whenever I say it like trying to swallow a bitter Norco pill without water.
I guess I just don't see it that way. My Creative Writing Professor praised my latest poem, called: "Paresthesia," even though he never said much in person about my two short stories. I decided that I would enter the poetry contest again in the spring. Who knows? Maybe if I win two years in a row, I can call myself a "poet" without inducing an ironic gag in myself whenever I say it like trying to swallow a bitter Norco pill without water.
"Whoever is There, Come On Through"
“Being depressed is like being in a dream. The suspicion is that
everyone you meet is actually depressed, too, only they don’t know it.
Or worse. The suspicion is that they’re just aspects of you,
manifestations.”
--The New Yorker, "Whoever is There, Come on Through," by: Colin Barrett
--The New Yorker, "Whoever is There, Come on Through," by: Colin Barrett
The Lazy River
"We’re submerged, all of us. You, me, the children, our friends, their
children, everybody else. Sometimes we get out: for lunch, to read or to
tan, never for very long. Then we all climb back into the metaphor. The
Lazy River is a circle, it is wet, it has an artificial current. Even
if you don’t move you will get somewhere and then return to wherever you
started, and if we may speak of the depth of a metaphor, well, then, it
is about three feet deep, excepting a brief stretch at which point it
rises to six feet four."
--by: Zadie Smith, The New Yorker, "The Lazy River"
An interesting story where the narrator talks about a metaphor like it's a real, tangible item.
--by: Zadie Smith, The New Yorker, "The Lazy River"
An interesting story where the narrator talks about a metaphor like it's a real, tangible item.
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
Because Metaphors Are Bad, Part II
Of course, you want your friends to be honest with you--what else are friends for? Harry's feedback was not unsolicited. He asked to see the short story, and I responded that I wanted his criticism.
We know walking up to a friend and saying, "You look fat today" is at the least rude, and at the most also cruel, especially if said friend has an eating disorder of some type (although all women suffer from feelings of negative self-image, to varying degrees).
If a friend asks you, "Do I look fat today?" And said friend is overweight, the friend knows he/she is overweight, you don't need to remind him/her, "Yes, you look fat today...by the way, that sweater on you sucks."
This is the rationale as to why I very rarely give negative feedback on writing. Most novice writers (at writers' group and in class) understand that they have room for improvement. Coming down on them hard with lots of criticism doesn't do any good--it just discourages them from wanting to strive and become more advanced. In everyone's writing, there is at least one positive thing to say. If I have a negative comment, I try to frame it in a question, to make it easier to digest. In the end, it's not my job to instruct any writer--that's for the professors and for the editors.
That being said, how can we ever improve if someone doesn't tell us what areas we need to improve in? The vast majority of writing I read, I dislike. Often, I even think that certain articles in the New York Times are lacking, but I'm not sure anyone would care if I wrote to the Editor, and explained that to him. People who are successful in writing, who have fans and a following (no matter how few), well, I probably shouldn't go up to them and say, "By the way, just from me, you suck." Why? Because obviously the writing has an appeal that perhaps I just don't understand or just can't see. Most people think that writing at the New York Times is some of the best in the world. If I think it needs more creativity (I'm thinking primarily of the Modern Love column), well, I simply could be wrong.
In other words, I keep my negative views to myself, for good reason.
Again, I haven't been able to get published in the New York Times, and I don't have fans and/or a following, so why shouldn't my fellow writers comment on my work? I don't have a good answer to that. All I know is that when you're fat, you don't need your friends to tell you you're fat even if you ask, "How do I look today?"
Hmmm...perfect, babe.
We know walking up to a friend and saying, "You look fat today" is at the least rude, and at the most also cruel, especially if said friend has an eating disorder of some type (although all women suffer from feelings of negative self-image, to varying degrees).
If a friend asks you, "Do I look fat today?" And said friend is overweight, the friend knows he/she is overweight, you don't need to remind him/her, "Yes, you look fat today...by the way, that sweater on you sucks."
This is the rationale as to why I very rarely give negative feedback on writing. Most novice writers (at writers' group and in class) understand that they have room for improvement. Coming down on them hard with lots of criticism doesn't do any good--it just discourages them from wanting to strive and become more advanced. In everyone's writing, there is at least one positive thing to say. If I have a negative comment, I try to frame it in a question, to make it easier to digest. In the end, it's not my job to instruct any writer--that's for the professors and for the editors.
That being said, how can we ever improve if someone doesn't tell us what areas we need to improve in? The vast majority of writing I read, I dislike. Often, I even think that certain articles in the New York Times are lacking, but I'm not sure anyone would care if I wrote to the Editor, and explained that to him. People who are successful in writing, who have fans and a following (no matter how few), well, I probably shouldn't go up to them and say, "By the way, just from me, you suck." Why? Because obviously the writing has an appeal that perhaps I just don't understand or just can't see. Most people think that writing at the New York Times is some of the best in the world. If I think it needs more creativity (I'm thinking primarily of the Modern Love column), well, I simply could be wrong.
In other words, I keep my negative views to myself, for good reason.
Again, I haven't been able to get published in the New York Times, and I don't have fans and/or a following, so why shouldn't my fellow writers comment on my work? I don't have a good answer to that. All I know is that when you're fat, you don't need your friends to tell you you're fat even if you ask, "How do I look today?"
Hmmm...perfect, babe.
The Idea of Someone
"From your college partner, you will extract a love for the arts. The Idea
of Someone will recite poetry to you, but not the saccharine, rhyming
kind, the prose type that’s real. And, in the comfort of your double
bed, in a glittering moment of intimacy, you will recite poems back to
them, from memory. Finally, someone will understand you the way only an
imaginary person can."
--The Idea of Someone, The New Yorker, by: Olivia de Recat
--The Idea of Someone, The New Yorker, by: Olivia de Recat
Because Metaphors Are Bad
Most writers have their own demons when it comes to how they view their woeful, troubled writing. Virgil was seriously disappointed in the Aeneid and never wanted it published, even though it would become to be recognized as one of the greatest works of Western literature. Vonnegut would never have been published if it wasn't for his wife constantly pushing him forward and encouraging him. Most of us wish that we had someone who believed in us, our talent, no matter what. I guess you could say that that person for me was Harry, because my parents do not think much of my writing, and while I have recently receive much encouragement from my professors, that was not always the case in the past. Harry historically has always provided positive feedback and much encouragement, and seemed to genuinely like my writing. Back in 2007, sure, I received upwards of 500 hits per day on my Panther in Pumps blog with people sending me emails all the time, praising the blog and perhaps even wanting to work with me on some writing project--but that was ten years ago. Today, few people access this blog, and I assume that most of the people are people who have been following me for a long time like Amara and Rosa, etc, and that I haven't recently received any new readers.
So, when Harry sent me an email consisting of primarily negative feedback on a short story that I was actually proud of, you could say I was shocked and hurt. We're not supposed to take negative feedback personally, after all, there should be a separation between author and work, but no one who writes really believes that bullshit. When he sent the email on December 11, I still haven't been able to digest everything it says, and be okay with it. Theoretically, I should have faith in my own writing, and outside criticism shouldn't influence that. But that's really not the case.
"What you have to do with your writing in other forms is to reach that same level, which you haven't done yet...You're competing with a whole world of polished and published writers, who have all had unhappy childhoods of one kind or another."
The short story called "Because of You" consisted mostly of quick peeks into my troubled childhood. I understand that yes, some people have had more interesting and drama-filled upbringings, but I'm not writing about them, I'm writing about me. I'm sorry if you find it boring, but I have a feeling that I will (again) write about the same subjects if I ever complete my memoir. It was a bit like saying, "Naw, your childhood trauma doesn't count because other people have had it so much worse." I could lie, and say that my grandmother's boyfriend put his hands down my eight-year-old pants, but that would be unethical, wouldn't it?
My mother gives me the same advice that I just need more time in order to be good enough to publish. Honestly, between me and the five people who read this blog, I don't believe that's true. I've been writing since I was old enough to write and old enough to understand how writing was therapy, and many, many famous authors did their best work in their twenties. This is not to say that I can't improve with hard work, all of us can, but if I'm not ready now when in the fuck will I ever be?
"You can't rely indefinitely on the uniqueness or shock value of your experience..."
I'm not relying on uniqueness, I'm relying on connecting with other people through common experience, so that they can relate to the story and draw from it insight into their own emotions. But I get it, right, I can't shock people because every single event that I mean to be shocking has already been done before and with a better author, and therefore I can't compete. What is especially hurtful about this criticism is the idea that I have nothing more to provide to readers but shock. Surely, someday, there would be something profound in writing that is rather ordinary.
And, of course, I myself am not unique. Got it.
"We're left in the dark about basic things. What are your parents fighting about?"
Well, for one thing, I don't fucking remember what they were fighting about, therefore because it is a piece of nonfiction, I just couldn't make up some reason, and then I thought, does it really fucking matter what they were fighting about all those years? I don't think so.
"What did they argue about with your best friend's parents?"
Again, don't remember, and why should there be a reason when it's petty to split up two kids who have been best friends since birth just because you have a disagreement with the other parents? The reason isn't important.
"Instead, you devote a lot of your seven pages to extended metaphors...not much concrete detail."
Because metaphors are bad?
"Take it as your goal to make your readers feel that way too--completely hynotized, carried along with the story--even if you have to rewrite the same paragraph a dozen or a hundred times."
I understand that this is probably good advice--working the page until perfection, but I don't see myself ever rewriting a paragraph a hundred times, not even a dozen times because that's like grilling a nice filet mignon until it's shoe leather.
Harry also suggested that I find a contemporary writer, and emulate him or her. According to the New York Times Sunday Edition, Nora Roberts is number one on the bestsellers' list. I don't understand Roberts commercial appeal, and I certainly don't agree that she is great writer, someone to imitate. There are great writers out there who are currently working (Cormac is at the top of that list for me), but I don't want to be a contemporary writer. I want to write a classic (obviously an ambitious goal for someone who doesn't write well enough to be published outside of a school-wide poetry contest).
In the end, we're supposed to take negative feedback, and keep on truckin' anyway, sending out submissions, taking rejection letters and taping them to our wall, watching as they quickly turn into wallpaper covering our entire bedroom--writing for the sake of writing no matter who reads it. For the art.
Maybe the short story "Because of You" sucked. My creative writing professor only gave it a 90/100, and had a similar complaint as Harry did, that the piece was covering too much ground too quickly.
I will take that into consideration.
So, when Harry sent me an email consisting of primarily negative feedback on a short story that I was actually proud of, you could say I was shocked and hurt. We're not supposed to take negative feedback personally, after all, there should be a separation between author and work, but no one who writes really believes that bullshit. When he sent the email on December 11, I still haven't been able to digest everything it says, and be okay with it. Theoretically, I should have faith in my own writing, and outside criticism shouldn't influence that. But that's really not the case.
"What you have to do with your writing in other forms is to reach that same level, which you haven't done yet...You're competing with a whole world of polished and published writers, who have all had unhappy childhoods of one kind or another."
The short story called "Because of You" consisted mostly of quick peeks into my troubled childhood. I understand that yes, some people have had more interesting and drama-filled upbringings, but I'm not writing about them, I'm writing about me. I'm sorry if you find it boring, but I have a feeling that I will (again) write about the same subjects if I ever complete my memoir. It was a bit like saying, "Naw, your childhood trauma doesn't count because other people have had it so much worse." I could lie, and say that my grandmother's boyfriend put his hands down my eight-year-old pants, but that would be unethical, wouldn't it?
My mother gives me the same advice that I just need more time in order to be good enough to publish. Honestly, between me and the five people who read this blog, I don't believe that's true. I've been writing since I was old enough to write and old enough to understand how writing was therapy, and many, many famous authors did their best work in their twenties. This is not to say that I can't improve with hard work, all of us can, but if I'm not ready now when in the fuck will I ever be?
"You can't rely indefinitely on the uniqueness or shock value of your experience..."
I'm not relying on uniqueness, I'm relying on connecting with other people through common experience, so that they can relate to the story and draw from it insight into their own emotions. But I get it, right, I can't shock people because every single event that I mean to be shocking has already been done before and with a better author, and therefore I can't compete. What is especially hurtful about this criticism is the idea that I have nothing more to provide to readers but shock. Surely, someday, there would be something profound in writing that is rather ordinary.
And, of course, I myself am not unique. Got it.
"We're left in the dark about basic things. What are your parents fighting about?"
Well, for one thing, I don't fucking remember what they were fighting about, therefore because it is a piece of nonfiction, I just couldn't make up some reason, and then I thought, does it really fucking matter what they were fighting about all those years? I don't think so.
"What did they argue about with your best friend's parents?"
Again, don't remember, and why should there be a reason when it's petty to split up two kids who have been best friends since birth just because you have a disagreement with the other parents? The reason isn't important.
"Instead, you devote a lot of your seven pages to extended metaphors...not much concrete detail."
Because metaphors are bad?
"Take it as your goal to make your readers feel that way too--completely hynotized, carried along with the story--even if you have to rewrite the same paragraph a dozen or a hundred times."
I understand that this is probably good advice--working the page until perfection, but I don't see myself ever rewriting a paragraph a hundred times, not even a dozen times because that's like grilling a nice filet mignon until it's shoe leather.
Harry also suggested that I find a contemporary writer, and emulate him or her. According to the New York Times Sunday Edition, Nora Roberts is number one on the bestsellers' list. I don't understand Roberts commercial appeal, and I certainly don't agree that she is great writer, someone to imitate. There are great writers out there who are currently working (Cormac is at the top of that list for me), but I don't want to be a contemporary writer. I want to write a classic (obviously an ambitious goal for someone who doesn't write well enough to be published outside of a school-wide poetry contest).
In the end, we're supposed to take negative feedback, and keep on truckin' anyway, sending out submissions, taking rejection letters and taping them to our wall, watching as they quickly turn into wallpaper covering our entire bedroom--writing for the sake of writing no matter who reads it. For the art.
Maybe the short story "Because of You" sucked. My creative writing professor only gave it a 90/100, and had a similar complaint as Harry did, that the piece was covering too much ground too quickly.
I will take that into consideration.
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Grateful for Poetry
"I suspect every poet
understands intuitively that writing poems is a kind of theft in its
essence and sometimes in the actual circumstances of its production. I’m
stealing time to finish my next book from activities that might benefit
me or my family or my students. Writing poetry is a form of
confiscation, its returns always speculative. Usually its returns are
paid to others, when the author is long dead."
--The Poetry I was Grateful For in 2017, The New Yorker
--The Poetry I was Grateful For in 2017, The New Yorker
The Fibromyalgia Diagnosis
On Friday, December 15th, I drove to Los Angeles, and I was seen by a UCLA rheumatologist. After spending more than an hour with me, he told me frankly that I had fibromyalgia. He recommended that I be seen at Stanford Pain Management Clinic (I already have contacted them, months ago, and am currently waiting for an appointment). If you are at all curious about the disease and how Stanford treats it, you can watch this video, featuring Dr. Sean Mackey, MD, Ph.D. himself as he is the director of the clinic. The lecture contains information about fibromyalgia specifically, but also contains information about how to treat chronic pain in general. The only downside of the lecture is that it was filmed eight years ago, a lifetime in modern medicine. The information that Dr. Mackey shares is very similar to what I heard from the Rheumatologist from UCLA, that fibromyalgia is primarily a central sensitization phenomenon, and perhaps not even a muscle tissue or ligament disease as was originally thought. The reason why Stanford doctors believe that fibromyalgia is a central nervous system disease is because there are other symptoms that occur like sleep disturbances and cognitive difficulties.
Unfortunately for me, bad planning as it was, I ran completely out of my Seroquel, and was unable to take my usual dose at night on Monday. I thought that evening that I would be fine as I have slept soundly since being put on the medication. That night, I hardly slept at all, and only got about five hours fitfully. It was a reminder of all the good Seroquel does despite the weight gain. I've been recovering ever since.
Unfortunately for me, bad planning as it was, I ran completely out of my Seroquel, and was unable to take my usual dose at night on Monday. I thought that evening that I would be fine as I have slept soundly since being put on the medication. That night, I hardly slept at all, and only got about five hours fitfully. It was a reminder of all the good Seroquel does despite the weight gain. I've been recovering ever since.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
"Cat Person" from the New Yorker
This short story has been receiving quite a bit of publicity. It's called "Cat Person."
Saturday, December 9, 2017
The Case for Not Being Born
People, in short, say that life is good. Benatar believes that they are
mistaken. “The quality of human life is, contrary to what many people
think, actually quite appalling,” he writes, in “The Human Predicament.”
He provides an escalating list of woes, designed to prove that even the
lives of happy people are worse than they think. We’re almost always
hungry or thirsty, he writes; when we’re not, we must go to the
bathroom. We often experience “thermal discomfort”—we are too hot or too
cold—or are tired and unable to nap. We suffer from itches, allergies,
and colds, menstrual pains or hot flashes. Life is a procession of
“frustrations and irritations”—waiting in traffic, standing in line,
filling out forms. Forced to work, we often find our jobs exhausting;
even “those who enjoy their work may have professional aspirations that
remain unfulfilled.” Many lonely people remain single, while those who
marry fight and divorce. “People want to be, look, and feel younger, and
yet they age relentlessly”...
--The Case for Not Being Born, by Joshua Rothman, The New Yorker
--The Case for Not Being Born, by Joshua Rothman, The New Yorker
Friday, December 8, 2017
Don't Get Any Pretty Ideas, Part II
When I told my World Literature class what my mother said, everyone burst out laughing. The professor looked a little horrified.
Don't Get Any Pretty Ideas
I was in the local ER because my left hand was tingling, and I (along with my GP) was concerned that I was having a stroke. Instead, I got diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome. My mother was next to the bed the whole time. We were discussing my World Literature course, one of which I struggle with constantly.
My mother says to me, "You're not as good of a writer as you think you are. I mean, you're not Edgar Allan Poe...I'm not saying you couldn't get there, but..."
My mother says to me, "You're not as good of a writer as you think you are. I mean, you're not Edgar Allan Poe...I'm not saying you couldn't get there, but..."
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