Doobly doobly doo

I have a number of drafts saved in various stages of completion, and skimming through them is a weird experience. Little things are disconcerting, like finding a sentence proclaiming I liked the movie Detachment, and not having the faintest idea what that movie was about. Perhaps this is why I create so many lists. Perhaps I am afraid of not remembering what I like, and to some degree, not remembering who I am. Am I the sort of guy who likes that movie still? I have no idea? Googling the movie did bring back a faint recollection, but none of what I recalled was associated with a favorable reaction. So all I have to go on is my own word. I wouldn't lie to me, right?

The irony that the movie was titled Detachment is not lost on me.

Today I wondered how ridiculous it will be when people look back at small aspects of our system. My judge asks the jury if they smoke, so he can know whether or not to plan for breaks as needed. While the idea of accommodating smokers seemed a bit weird at first, it makes sense when you realize the goal is a fair trial, not correcting the behavior of the jury. If someone can't pay attention to the evidence as it is presented, a break is warranted. Then again, it's not like we go around asking people if they are addicted to other drugs and allow them to get their fix. Because at the heart of it, there is a chemical dependency there, an addiction that takes over. We draw the line in some pretty weird places, and while that part of the debate isn't new, when it comes to the priorities of the justice system, I suppose I'm wondering what happens when a juror can't do a good job because they are dependent on something we find less acceptable than lung cancer.

And on that light note, thanks for reading! (This is brief because I'm multitasking and actually writing something else as well.)

Another failure

I'm never sure how to feel about people who point out massive coincidences in plots. On the one hand, it's nice when plots are believable. On the other, it's worth considering which stories get told in real life. If the protagonist got hit by a car when he crossed the busy intersection without looking both ways, the story would have never been told in the first place. Or at least, that protagonist wouldn't be the star. My temptation is, then, to break the mold. But of course the problem is that if you tel the boring man's story, or the story of the guy whose bad guys don't miss the thousand shots they fire, there isn't much to tell.

I speculate that this is why people enjoy long sagas like Game of Thrones, where seemingly main characters are killed off, and nobody seems sacred. It's nice to have the tradition disrupted. You almost need to write a saga though, to have enough characters to ensure enough "spares" to continue the plot.

I'm in the brainstorming phase. I don't know when one progresses past that phase. I suspect it occurs when one starts writing, but that's only a suspicion for now. Part of me wants things planned out, to have a picture of characters in my head, and to know what's going to happen. Another part of me knows that's not likely to happen anytime soon. A third part of me remembers that I have never had those things in mind when I've started writing. In fact, I can't remember a single time I've started out knowing anything more than the first few sentences.

This blog has always had a subtheme of being about my struggles with writing, and I suppose it's not about to change any time soon. It's gotten to the point where I consider it a failure to write in this blog, since it means I'm not writing something of "substance." So today I have failed again.

If you're wondering why I've started writing at all (even these "failed" attempts), I suppose it is due in large part to my desire to not live a wasted life. I realized recently that I was measuring my success in terms of tangibles. I was happy to have enough in my bank account to not worry about money for a little while. I was happy to have been flown to play handball (and I still am). I am happy to have achieved what it feels like so many people my age are not achieving. But I wondered if that was really what I wanted to achieve. Then, never content to be only one level removed from my desires, I wondered if I was only wondering that so I could seem cerebral and special.

I consider frequently the possibility of devoting myself to what makes me truly happy. It seems that I could be somewhat successful at handball if I devoted even more time to it. I might be able to do creative things, such as write. But stepping back and examining what happens when I have no responsibility, I see someone who plays video games and looks at screens of various sizes. I don't feel like that person, and yet, we are to some degree the sum of our actions. This is problematic only to the degree I am bothered by not resembling my own conception of an ideal human. When does one give up on the ideal? When do I declare failure?

I'm sure there is always a redemption to be had. There are always stories of people who used the last years of their lives to make a difference, so of course no failure is truly final. But one can only shift their goals to the side so many times before they must admit they have compromised. As one of the least-compromising people I know, I sometimes feel I know a lot about compromise (even for a lawyer).

Thanks for reading!