I've suddenly found myself among the masses of artists and Macbook-tapping hipsters in a coffeeshop. I'm not, by far, a hipster, but I'm feeling a little out of sorts here because I'm currently an accidental stereotype.
I'm an artist sitting in a Starbucks with my notebooks placed carefully beside me on the couch placed before the unlit gas fireplaces, and an Apple laptop sitting on my lap. I'm working on my novel, as I'm sure half the people in here are also doing. My canvas-and-faux-leather messenger-style shoulder bag is sitting at my feet with a goofy snorkel-and-flippers key chain hooked to the handle with my little bundle of keys. I'm currently blogging about my life. Welcome to the artist stereotype, person.
Also, I just watched a nerdy-looking stereotype finish a 5x5 rubix cube in a flurry while staring at his iPad on the table in front of him. When I sat at the couch across from his table, he looked up at me like a deer in the headlights, as if someone in this proximity was a rare or terrifying occurrence to him. I sympathize, buddy, and good job on the cube, I can't solve the 4x4 ones to save my life, leave the other row/column out of this brain, thanks.
I'm only here because I had to fill out forms for a police background check so the people who hired me to teach children art can know for sure I'm not an escaped convict that's going to go crazy with a bunch of kids in the room. I'm too timid to have any sort of criminal record. Literally anything that could have me charged with anything requires more guts to do than I have.
This includes, but is not limited to:
Speeding
Parking in the wrong place
Littering
Spitting
Public disturbance
Failure to pay ________.
Tax evasion
Disorderly conduct
Theft
Indecent exposure.
All of these things require some nerve that I will never possess. Well maybe one day... I am forcing myself out of my little bubble of timid terror, bit by bit. Maybe one day I will have the nerve to be a day late on my payments... or run naked through the streets. Wouldn't that be the day...
You know, some places actually have runs/bikes for freaking CHARITY that are like "run 5k naked and raise money for cancer." Seriously. I would die. First of all, how can girls run naked?! Seriously, you need some... support.
See how easily I got sidetracked? I started off talking about how I'm a stereotype and ended with women can't run naked. And my criminal record is in the middle.
This is how I talk, too. Conversations with me suck.
Also, will have a drawing for you all (all 5 of you... I see you in my reader stats you creepers!) tomorrow. Going to start accentuating some stuff with the art I claim to be able to do but never show unless it's a scribbled stick-figure comic about anxiety.
I promise it's not abstract.
Also, while I'm on the topic of 5 readers... all 5 of you rock, I can't believe someone actually reads this crap. Now I have to find a way to entertain you haha.
7/3/12
When I can't write, I dick around on the internet.
Publishers have warned me that they dislike their writers putting any of their stuff online before it's published, for copyright reasons. And of course I would like to protect my work AND my anonymity here, but I have recently found Translate Party, that takes a sentence of yours and translates it back and forth from Japanese to English until it stops changing. So I thought I would insert a paragraph I wrote into this thing and see what it comes up with. And now I'm going to share it with you. Enjoy!
To relax, she is a little bit at the end of my statement. The young man was a threat from his first breath. He is taunted by a young man Sali fast child soldiers. Boy King and the clown, my mother earned his weed habit. Fortunately, he was heir to his brother, Aaron Phillip. Three juvenile poems, many young nobles hours study, his cousin tribe. All reviews are Aaron North stay 書して and reports.
Alright. So, that has literally NOTHING to do with my novel. There are no child soldiers, no one with a "weed habit," and no one named Aaron Phillip or Aaron North... and I don't even know about the random Japanese characters in there. Unfortunately for a reader, this is not funny at ALL. I don't know why I thought it would be funny. It's funny for ME, because I know what the paragraph ACTUALLY is, and it's hilariously different. You SHOULD be getting a character's background in that one paragraph, but good luck trying to find it there...
Basically that paragraph says a character was a threatening weed smoker (supported by a boy-king, a clown, and his mother) who was taunted by child soldiers. He is apparently heir to his brother. After that I have nothing. In reality, the background says that he was an undisciplined boy who dishonored his family, and his family was only saved by his older brother's reputation. That's all. I don't know where drugs came into it. Freaking golden, man!
Alright, either back to writing or onto critiquing others' writing... which is more attainable...
To relax, she is a little bit at the end of my statement. The young man was a threat from his first breath. He is taunted by a young man Sali fast child soldiers. Boy King and the clown, my mother earned his weed habit. Fortunately, he was heir to his brother, Aaron Phillip. Three juvenile poems, many young nobles hours study, his cousin tribe. All reviews are Aaron North stay 書して and reports.
Alright. So, that has literally NOTHING to do with my novel. There are no child soldiers, no one with a "weed habit," and no one named Aaron Phillip or Aaron North... and I don't even know about the random Japanese characters in there. Unfortunately for a reader, this is not funny at ALL. I don't know why I thought it would be funny. It's funny for ME, because I know what the paragraph ACTUALLY is, and it's hilariously different. You SHOULD be getting a character's background in that one paragraph, but good luck trying to find it there...
Basically that paragraph says a character was a threatening weed smoker (supported by a boy-king, a clown, and his mother) who was taunted by child soldiers. He is apparently heir to his brother. After that I have nothing. In reality, the background says that he was an undisciplined boy who dishonored his family, and his family was only saved by his older brother's reputation. That's all. I don't know where drugs came into it. Freaking golden, man!
Alright, either back to writing or onto critiquing others' writing... which is more attainable...
Then the artist can pay her bills!
Only one more month of this instability bullcrap and I'll be out of the hole!! I mean, literally in the next three days if I don't get my sh*t together, I'll be royally screwed, then after that it's going to be a mad race to the finish line, but hey! I have a permanent band gig. And by that I mean, I'm going to get paid for nightly gigs and tours without travel expenses. Why? Because I am officially a HIRED professional musician, which is SO MUCH BETTER than a freelance professional musician because freelancers have no freaking clue when their next paycheck is coming.
So I'm still doing the fine art thing, at least for another couple of months, and I'll be damned if I'm going to give up my writing, but this is just wonderful.
I mean I'm a little lost right NOW because I can't afford my utilities, instrument payments, or even the art supplies for a lady who's ordered artwork from me but HEY! Only a few more weeks of this hell before I'm off to wonderland of holy crap I can actually make it as an artist and not worry about dying every month.
Ta da! Look at me, ma!
So I'm still doing the fine art thing, at least for another couple of months, and I'll be damned if I'm going to give up my writing, but this is just wonderful.
I mean I'm a little lost right NOW because I can't afford my utilities, instrument payments, or even the art supplies for a lady who's ordered artwork from me but HEY! Only a few more weeks of this hell before I'm off to wonderland of holy crap I can actually make it as an artist and not worry about dying every month.
Ta da! Look at me, ma!
6/28/12
Depression of an artist.
Things can get very bleak, very fast in this world. It's a very lonely career with a lot of opposition, not a lot of love, no co-workers, and a very negative context surrounding your life choice.
Depression is actually very common among artists of all sorts. Some of my artist contacts tell me it helps them do better art, so they just kinda go with it. Others can't and fold under the pressure.
I've found myself walking that very fine line for over a year, now. Since last April. This is my story of the artist's depression battle.
Around that time, I realized the people I had surrounded myself with were awful people, save one or two of them. I was spending time with nasty, ill-tempered humans simply because they accepted me, and so I accepted them without realizing how immature and hurtful to others they were. When I finally did clue in, I panicked and began to recess into myself, and rely heavily on the one person I KNEW was a good person in my life because he was literally the opposite of everyone else.
When they saw that I no longer seemed to find their nasty antics amusing (Stopped going to the parties they organized simply for the sake of bashing our friend's girlfriend... specifically) and would become quiet in their rant-sessions, they knew something was up, and slowly began to see me as a threat to their heavenly retreat of hate.
So I entered May and June slowly growing apart from everyone in my life, having a financial crisis and watching helplessly as my University royally screwed me over financially because of a clerical error, thus denying my right to a diploma for six months after. Around this same time, my mother lashed out again and things continued to go downhill in the form of a slippery spiral of guilt on my part for being a terrible daughter. My work as an artist went through a rough spot, and a self-employed majority background and a music diploma that didn't exist yet weren't helping me to find a for-now job that would keep me a float. My desperation and guilt left me feeling like a failure of a human being and, after three weeks of eating nothing but plain white rice and peanut butter out of the jar, I decided I needed to do SOMETHING to make up for my shortcomings.
So, for that reason, in June, I packed my bags and headed down to Florida to spend a couple of weeks with that family.
It was the worst decision I could have made.
After being verbally abused and watching my parents beat the crap out of each other, after days of acting more like a parent to my sister and brother than their parents were, I finally had a mental meltdown and spent the majority of a day curled up in a ball, on the floor, shaking and crying and screaming whenever someone tried to talk to me, because I was terrified of how utterly trapped and isolated I had managed to make myself. Eventually they locked their pets in the room with me because they figured, hey, if they can't deal with their psychologically screwed up daughter, the family cat and runt-dog could.
Unfortunately for my ego, they were right, and I was able to calm down thanks to the animals.
My mother, as she often does, suddenly decided she was going to try to deal with my craziness (and I say that with a serious meaning) in a human way and take me away to Mexico (where they had bought a vacation house...) to spend some time in the sun, on a beach, potentially with horses.
Except where she really took me was to their property in the middle of batshit-crazyland, where everyone knew everyone and was trying to get them arrested by corrupt police and have their property seized, as if it was a sport. When we arrived there it was quiet for a few days, and then all hell broke loose when some crazy ass people showed up at our door demanding that we hand over the keys to our vehicle which they claimed was theirs. My mom then decided this would be the best time to pretend not to be around and leave her suffering daughter to deal with scary crazy people in the middle of a foreign country.
When I proved to be doing surprisingly well at that, she decided to give me more of a challenge by busting out of the house and screaming like a madwoman and making the situation so much worse and a million times harder for me to handle. So when that all came to a very angry, tense end, I had another (different) meltdown in which I once more shut down outwardly and couldn't do anything but stare at the wall and tremble in panic.
Oh, then there was a hurricane coming. So I panicked even more. I didn't sleep that night, just stared at the wall and out the window, wondering if I would die from a heart attack or a gunshot first.
When morning came around, my mother asked me what the best course of action would be, and I couldn't respond, so she booked an emergency flight back. We flew to Florida first thing we could and I got a straight connecting flight home from there, and haven't been back since.
When I got home, the trip had only made me worse and I wasn't any better on the financial front. So I had to somehow find a job and deal with being in a constant state of terror due to a serious case of "being broked" as my one friend put it.
So naturally I decided the best job would be sales, because when you're too terrified to talk to your normal friends you must be great at talking to strangers, right? Well, I was actually pretty good at it, but as I mentioned before I hated my life the whole time, and felt awful for what I was doing and had many emotional breakdowns over the course of the next month.
However, my friends had decided on going to a concert in Los Angeles featuring my favorite band of all time, and so they invited me to join them. As I was working, I had the money to do so and gladly accepted.
I had already decided to quit my job when I had my accident. In fact, I was considering doing it that very day when I was on my way to the job. On my way there, as I was biking along, I got very violently blindsided by a car who hadn't looked before turning right at top-speed. I slammed into the car and my shoulder bag hooked on the rear view mirror, yanking me violently before the bag's strap broke, thank God. My left hip and shoulder were knocked out of alignment, my left knee and right shoulder were dislocated, and I had three pulled and two torn muscles in my left arm. The doctors set me right but couldn't give me medication for the impending PTSD, because of prescription meds for tendinitis and insomnia that I was already on.
So they released me ONLY on the grounds that I had someone home to talk me down. I called my roommate to tell her about the accident, and she said she would be home, so I allowed myself to leave the hospital.
No one was there when I got home.
I called my RM again, only to have her tell me she had gone to a mutual friend's house but would be back later. Later came by and found me in a similar situation of being curled up on the couch, unable to move because I was shaking so hard, struggling not to puke every where from panicking, and crying uncontrollably for hours on end. RM wouldn't answer her phone so I sent her a text asking when she'd be home and she said "not tonight." So I spent the rest of the night in terrible pain and panic and shock, and when morning came still no one was there. No one would answer their phone and my one reliable friend worked in roofing, so I couldn't call him or I was sure he'd fall to his death answering my phone call.
Evening came around, and I had only been able to move to get some water, some pain medication, and to go to the bathroom before I resumed the position either on the floor of our kitchen or on the couch in the living room. I don't think I've ever cried that hard in my life. It was a bit pathetic, picture-wise, but nonetheless a very grim scene.
When RM finally came home, she informed me her and some of my closest friends had gone on a day-long road trip that they didn't want to tell me about because they were afraid I'd try to tag along. Then she asked how I was after my accident. It broke my heart, a bit, even though I had been drifting away from those people, I still was rather attached to them and the thought of them thinking of me in that manner was sickening. I told her I had spent the day curled up on the couch and crying from PTSD and was in horrible pain and told her to help me get to my room, because getting into bed was impossible because I couldn't pick myself up properly. She did that much and I regressed into silence.
Within a day, my job was demanding that I come back to work, so I quit.
Eventually, I got better, and I went to Los Angeles which was great for the concert and time spent with 2 of the 6 people (the 2 are now in my group of best friends), but two people in particular seemed to blame everything wrong that happened on me, and one seemed to think he had to do everything, despite the fact that I found us STUPID cheap flights, FREE lodging with free food/booze as an extension, and FREE ride to the concert. But sure. I had become an emotional punching bag for these two people, who were at the time in the group of nasty friends.
Upon coming back home, I went to hang out with that nasty group of people, where they proceeded to get super high and super drunk and go on a huge rant to me about how awful a person and shitty a friend I was and how they hated that I was so uptight and thought that I brought everyone down. After a couple of hours of abuse, I shakily left the house, apologizing for my shortcomings. I stood outside the house and called my one friend who had been there for me all along, and he came and picked me up. That was the last time I ever hung out with those people.
This time had brought us to the end of August. I had become severely emotionally invested in a guy, I had grown apart from the only friends I had known for two years, and was restricted to one friend who worked insane hours and thus wasn't always able to help. The guy, in true fashion to my luck, ignored my affections and started going out with another girl, and I think it broke the one last part of me I had left to be hopeful about.
I entered my last year of University a beat-up, ruined human being. And it wasn't going to get easier, either.
I got a few harassing phone calls from the crazy Mexicans, because like a genius my mother had written my number down somewhere and they got a hold of it. My school's finance stuff was still a mess, and they had screwed it up further, and I was living with a roommate who now hated me because she was obligated to due to my former group of friends which she was a part of. I was falling behind in classes due to stress, and my student loans weren't coming in on time, so I was always mere hours away from being kicked out of school.
Eventually, with school blocking out all of my personal life, I was able to get a hold of myself temporarily in order to sort out the finances and get my butt in gear and pull my class marks up, eventually getting a 4.0 GPA that semester despite the hardships. I found not-nasty people to be friends with, and they slowly helped bring me out of my hole.
Medical problems kept getting in the way, though. I was in constant physio therapy along with chrio, massage, and acupuncture from my accident's injuries. Doctors kept telling me to hold off on drum school for a year to get better, but it was the only thing keeping me from spiraling back down, so I kept going.
All this combined with THREE debilitating sickness sweeps in six months, and I hadn't really made any progress with my life.
Eventually, one by one, I found out that some of the people that had been in my life for a while were actually amazing people who were willing to help me get better, and they have been helping me a bunch. There have been a MILLION setbacks, and I'm still very very deep in the woods. However, I am getting a lot better. I haven't had a psychological breakdown in a long while (knock on wood), but I'm still suffering from severe anxiety and panic attacks. I've had them since I went through the abuse when I was 12/13, but they've been much worse this year.
I panic talking to new people, I panic when I have to confront someone, and I panic if I think I've done something wrong. I panic when I feel the slightest twinge in my skeleton. I'm almost constantly suffering from acute anxiety, broken only when I'm surrounded by the amazing people I have found.
And when I do art.
So, that's why I'm currently your resident brooding artist. I have a lot to brood about.
Depression is actually very common among artists of all sorts. Some of my artist contacts tell me it helps them do better art, so they just kinda go with it. Others can't and fold under the pressure.
I've found myself walking that very fine line for over a year, now. Since last April. This is my story of the artist's depression battle.
Around that time, I realized the people I had surrounded myself with were awful people, save one or two of them. I was spending time with nasty, ill-tempered humans simply because they accepted me, and so I accepted them without realizing how immature and hurtful to others they were. When I finally did clue in, I panicked and began to recess into myself, and rely heavily on the one person I KNEW was a good person in my life because he was literally the opposite of everyone else.
When they saw that I no longer seemed to find their nasty antics amusing (Stopped going to the parties they organized simply for the sake of bashing our friend's girlfriend... specifically) and would become quiet in their rant-sessions, they knew something was up, and slowly began to see me as a threat to their heavenly retreat of hate.
So I entered May and June slowly growing apart from everyone in my life, having a financial crisis and watching helplessly as my University royally screwed me over financially because of a clerical error, thus denying my right to a diploma for six months after. Around this same time, my mother lashed out again and things continued to go downhill in the form of a slippery spiral of guilt on my part for being a terrible daughter. My work as an artist went through a rough spot, and a self-employed majority background and a music diploma that didn't exist yet weren't helping me to find a for-now job that would keep me a float. My desperation and guilt left me feeling like a failure of a human being and, after three weeks of eating nothing but plain white rice and peanut butter out of the jar, I decided I needed to do SOMETHING to make up for my shortcomings.
So, for that reason, in June, I packed my bags and headed down to Florida to spend a couple of weeks with that family.
It was the worst decision I could have made.
After being verbally abused and watching my parents beat the crap out of each other, after days of acting more like a parent to my sister and brother than their parents were, I finally had a mental meltdown and spent the majority of a day curled up in a ball, on the floor, shaking and crying and screaming whenever someone tried to talk to me, because I was terrified of how utterly trapped and isolated I had managed to make myself. Eventually they locked their pets in the room with me because they figured, hey, if they can't deal with their psychologically screwed up daughter, the family cat and runt-dog could.
Unfortunately for my ego, they were right, and I was able to calm down thanks to the animals.
My mother, as she often does, suddenly decided she was going to try to deal with my craziness (and I say that with a serious meaning) in a human way and take me away to Mexico (where they had bought a vacation house...) to spend some time in the sun, on a beach, potentially with horses.
Except where she really took me was to their property in the middle of batshit-crazyland, where everyone knew everyone and was trying to get them arrested by corrupt police and have their property seized, as if it was a sport. When we arrived there it was quiet for a few days, and then all hell broke loose when some crazy ass people showed up at our door demanding that we hand over the keys to our vehicle which they claimed was theirs. My mom then decided this would be the best time to pretend not to be around and leave her suffering daughter to deal with scary crazy people in the middle of a foreign country.
When I proved to be doing surprisingly well at that, she decided to give me more of a challenge by busting out of the house and screaming like a madwoman and making the situation so much worse and a million times harder for me to handle. So when that all came to a very angry, tense end, I had another (different) meltdown in which I once more shut down outwardly and couldn't do anything but stare at the wall and tremble in panic.
Oh, then there was a hurricane coming. So I panicked even more. I didn't sleep that night, just stared at the wall and out the window, wondering if I would die from a heart attack or a gunshot first.
When morning came around, my mother asked me what the best course of action would be, and I couldn't respond, so she booked an emergency flight back. We flew to Florida first thing we could and I got a straight connecting flight home from there, and haven't been back since.
When I got home, the trip had only made me worse and I wasn't any better on the financial front. So I had to somehow find a job and deal with being in a constant state of terror due to a serious case of "being broked" as my one friend put it.
So naturally I decided the best job would be sales, because when you're too terrified to talk to your normal friends you must be great at talking to strangers, right? Well, I was actually pretty good at it, but as I mentioned before I hated my life the whole time, and felt awful for what I was doing and had many emotional breakdowns over the course of the next month.
However, my friends had decided on going to a concert in Los Angeles featuring my favorite band of all time, and so they invited me to join them. As I was working, I had the money to do so and gladly accepted.
I had already decided to quit my job when I had my accident. In fact, I was considering doing it that very day when I was on my way to the job. On my way there, as I was biking along, I got very violently blindsided by a car who hadn't looked before turning right at top-speed. I slammed into the car and my shoulder bag hooked on the rear view mirror, yanking me violently before the bag's strap broke, thank God. My left hip and shoulder were knocked out of alignment, my left knee and right shoulder were dislocated, and I had three pulled and two torn muscles in my left arm. The doctors set me right but couldn't give me medication for the impending PTSD, because of prescription meds for tendinitis and insomnia that I was already on.
So they released me ONLY on the grounds that I had someone home to talk me down. I called my roommate to tell her about the accident, and she said she would be home, so I allowed myself to leave the hospital.
No one was there when I got home.
I called my RM again, only to have her tell me she had gone to a mutual friend's house but would be back later. Later came by and found me in a similar situation of being curled up on the couch, unable to move because I was shaking so hard, struggling not to puke every where from panicking, and crying uncontrollably for hours on end. RM wouldn't answer her phone so I sent her a text asking when she'd be home and she said "not tonight." So I spent the rest of the night in terrible pain and panic and shock, and when morning came still no one was there. No one would answer their phone and my one reliable friend worked in roofing, so I couldn't call him or I was sure he'd fall to his death answering my phone call.
Evening came around, and I had only been able to move to get some water, some pain medication, and to go to the bathroom before I resumed the position either on the floor of our kitchen or on the couch in the living room. I don't think I've ever cried that hard in my life. It was a bit pathetic, picture-wise, but nonetheless a very grim scene.
When RM finally came home, she informed me her and some of my closest friends had gone on a day-long road trip that they didn't want to tell me about because they were afraid I'd try to tag along. Then she asked how I was after my accident. It broke my heart, a bit, even though I had been drifting away from those people, I still was rather attached to them and the thought of them thinking of me in that manner was sickening. I told her I had spent the day curled up on the couch and crying from PTSD and was in horrible pain and told her to help me get to my room, because getting into bed was impossible because I couldn't pick myself up properly. She did that much and I regressed into silence.
Within a day, my job was demanding that I come back to work, so I quit.
Eventually, I got better, and I went to Los Angeles which was great for the concert and time spent with 2 of the 6 people (the 2 are now in my group of best friends), but two people in particular seemed to blame everything wrong that happened on me, and one seemed to think he had to do everything, despite the fact that I found us STUPID cheap flights, FREE lodging with free food/booze as an extension, and FREE ride to the concert. But sure. I had become an emotional punching bag for these two people, who were at the time in the group of nasty friends.
Upon coming back home, I went to hang out with that nasty group of people, where they proceeded to get super high and super drunk and go on a huge rant to me about how awful a person and shitty a friend I was and how they hated that I was so uptight and thought that I brought everyone down. After a couple of hours of abuse, I shakily left the house, apologizing for my shortcomings. I stood outside the house and called my one friend who had been there for me all along, and he came and picked me up. That was the last time I ever hung out with those people.
This time had brought us to the end of August. I had become severely emotionally invested in a guy, I had grown apart from the only friends I had known for two years, and was restricted to one friend who worked insane hours and thus wasn't always able to help. The guy, in true fashion to my luck, ignored my affections and started going out with another girl, and I think it broke the one last part of me I had left to be hopeful about.
I entered my last year of University a beat-up, ruined human being. And it wasn't going to get easier, either.
I got a few harassing phone calls from the crazy Mexicans, because like a genius my mother had written my number down somewhere and they got a hold of it. My school's finance stuff was still a mess, and they had screwed it up further, and I was living with a roommate who now hated me because she was obligated to due to my former group of friends which she was a part of. I was falling behind in classes due to stress, and my student loans weren't coming in on time, so I was always mere hours away from being kicked out of school.
Eventually, with school blocking out all of my personal life, I was able to get a hold of myself temporarily in order to sort out the finances and get my butt in gear and pull my class marks up, eventually getting a 4.0 GPA that semester despite the hardships. I found not-nasty people to be friends with, and they slowly helped bring me out of my hole.
Medical problems kept getting in the way, though. I was in constant physio therapy along with chrio, massage, and acupuncture from my accident's injuries. Doctors kept telling me to hold off on drum school for a year to get better, but it was the only thing keeping me from spiraling back down, so I kept going.
All this combined with THREE debilitating sickness sweeps in six months, and I hadn't really made any progress with my life.
Eventually, one by one, I found out that some of the people that had been in my life for a while were actually amazing people who were willing to help me get better, and they have been helping me a bunch. There have been a MILLION setbacks, and I'm still very very deep in the woods. However, I am getting a lot better. I haven't had a psychological breakdown in a long while (knock on wood), but I'm still suffering from severe anxiety and panic attacks. I've had them since I went through the abuse when I was 12/13, but they've been much worse this year.
I panic talking to new people, I panic when I have to confront someone, and I panic if I think I've done something wrong. I panic when I feel the slightest twinge in my skeleton. I'm almost constantly suffering from acute anxiety, broken only when I'm surrounded by the amazing people I have found.
And when I do art.
So, that's why I'm currently your resident brooding artist. I have a lot to brood about.
Sleep deprivation
I'm so sleep-deprived that I typed "sleep depression" into the title and stared at it for a full minute trying to figure out what was wrong with it.
Why?
Yesterday I was already sleep-deprived (hence the slightly bitchy post), but THEN I had a day filled with frustration and a slight battle with even more procrastination, but got a lot done and was able to deal with stupid-schedule customer civilly, which is a feat (or so I am quickly discovering).
I woke up yesterday after going to bed at my usual obscene hour. I checked the time and I had only gotten 4 hours of sleep, and as it is usual for me to do that, I carelessly began to fall back asleep before being caught in the grips of a panic attack. Something was wrong. I groggily sat up and fumbled with my laptop to turn it on and check my digital calendar, and sure enough, I had a rehearsal in an hour.
I dragged myself out of bed, threw some half-decent clothes on (tank top and tattered jeans... how rockstar of me...), grabbed my drum sticks and boogied on over to the bus stop just in time to catch the one bus that would take me immediately to my rehearsal. By the time my rehearsal was over, I had to get to work on my day and had no time to catch up missed sleep. I had a bit of a go with the customer and after a million drafts of concepts that she just wasn't happy with, I finally was able to come up with something that got a good response, and I decided to call it a day. At 1am.
Well the show that I was playing that I had a rehearsal for yesterday was at 8am this morning (WHO WANTS LIVE MUSIC AT 8AM?! Crazy people, that's who...) so I had to get up at 5 so I could be all fancy-looking and out of the house at 6:30 so I could get to the venue at 7 for set up and sound check.
Noon rolls around, and I have to have a phone call with one of my regular customers, meet a guy who just bought my surround sound stereo system, and sort out my bills and stuff which the post office royally screwed over. Then I had to practice for my audition a bit, but quickly crapped out because I'm so sleep deprived, and here I am. I'm highly considering marching off to the nearest coffee shop and buying a huge bucket of coffee. That's right, a BUCKET. Because I need to have a rehearsal with the bass player that I'm auditioning with tomorrow, just to be sure we're tight and can impress the super band.
And then I have to have SOMETHING to show my customer AND my publishers. I seriously can't wait for this weekend. I'm skipping town to go into a remote part of the country with no one around so I can relax and reset my brain, because it is in serious danger of exploding. Violently. I'm SO TIRED.
I don't get enough sleep as is except for weekends, so less than usual just kills me.
Also, I'm considering starting to throw up cartoons or something drawing/picture related to potentially gain readers other than the internet air.
Why?
Yesterday I was already sleep-deprived (hence the slightly bitchy post), but THEN I had a day filled with frustration and a slight battle with even more procrastination, but got a lot done and was able to deal with stupid-schedule customer civilly, which is a feat (or so I am quickly discovering).
I woke up yesterday after going to bed at my usual obscene hour. I checked the time and I had only gotten 4 hours of sleep, and as it is usual for me to do that, I carelessly began to fall back asleep before being caught in the grips of a panic attack. Something was wrong. I groggily sat up and fumbled with my laptop to turn it on and check my digital calendar, and sure enough, I had a rehearsal in an hour.
I dragged myself out of bed, threw some half-decent clothes on (tank top and tattered jeans... how rockstar of me...), grabbed my drum sticks and boogied on over to the bus stop just in time to catch the one bus that would take me immediately to my rehearsal. By the time my rehearsal was over, I had to get to work on my day and had no time to catch up missed sleep. I had a bit of a go with the customer and after a million drafts of concepts that she just wasn't happy with, I finally was able to come up with something that got a good response, and I decided to call it a day. At 1am.
Well the show that I was playing that I had a rehearsal for yesterday was at 8am this morning (WHO WANTS LIVE MUSIC AT 8AM?! Crazy people, that's who...) so I had to get up at 5 so I could be all fancy-looking and out of the house at 6:30 so I could get to the venue at 7 for set up and sound check.
Noon rolls around, and I have to have a phone call with one of my regular customers, meet a guy who just bought my surround sound stereo system, and sort out my bills and stuff which the post office royally screwed over. Then I had to practice for my audition a bit, but quickly crapped out because I'm so sleep deprived, and here I am. I'm highly considering marching off to the nearest coffee shop and buying a huge bucket of coffee. That's right, a BUCKET. Because I need to have a rehearsal with the bass player that I'm auditioning with tomorrow, just to be sure we're tight and can impress the super band.
And then I have to have SOMETHING to show my customer AND my publishers. I seriously can't wait for this weekend. I'm skipping town to go into a remote part of the country with no one around so I can relax and reset my brain, because it is in serious danger of exploding. Violently. I'm SO TIRED.
I don't get enough sleep as is except for weekends, so less than usual just kills me.
Also, I'm considering starting to throw up cartoons or something drawing/picture related to potentially gain readers other than the internet air.
6/27/12
I'm never going to have a "real job," get over it world.
Here's why.
I've despised every single real job I've ever had. And when I tell this to people, they tell me, "oh, no, everyone feels that way but you just have to tough it out for a while. Just think, if you tough it out, you'll have a steady income and stability in your life!"
No. I mean, I DESPISE the "real jobs" people my age work. I mean, I worked in sales last year for an energy supplier, and even went through a course to get my contracting license because it was good money and I thought it would be nice to have stability. I broke down crying halfway through my day on a daily basis because I hated myself so much for what I was doing and how I was wasting my life at this dead-end occupation, so I quit after two months. I had become crazy depressed and couldn't deal any more. And this is what has happened with every single job I've had.
So I'm the person who draws for a living and then gets side money from selling prose and doing music. Which, actually, ARE all "real jobs," but the majority of people will NEVER see it that way.
I work longer hours than a huge majority of the people in this country. I usually work on art for a MINIMUM of 6-8 hours a day, sometimes 10. I usually practice my instrument for 3 hours a day, along with rehearsals and shows that pop up all over the place, and I also write well into the night. I get around 5 hours of sleep on a regular basis because I work so much. Even when I'm hanging out with friends I have my notebook on my lap and I slowly chip away at filling it my novels' details. In my spare time I go to the gym and work on being a healthy human being because, let's face it, 90% of my work is sitting on my big butt and hardly moving at all. The other 10% is drumming, so it's physical but doesn't count as regular exercise.
I have a better work ethic than most people my age, yet when I tell adults of my occupation, they're all disappointed and act like me not having a "real job" is a lazy problem. Hah.
Just think about it. Without people like me, there would be nothing to decorate stuff with so everything would be boring and depressing (look up studies of effect of fine art on depression), those books that everyone loves reading wouldn't exist (say good bye to George Orwell, J.R. Tolkien, the Bronte sisters...), and the music that people SURROUND their daily lives with (vehicles, concerts, grocery stores, iPods, parties) would also be gone. Your world would be silent, depressing, and stupid, because literary arts make you smarter.
So don't knock the artists!!
The worst is when people I've known for a while (old friends, friends' family, my family, former teachers, etc) ask me what I'm doing with my life. I usually start with music because even though I'm less successful at it, it sounds the most impressive.
"Oh, I went to ________ University for three years and got two music diplomas. Now I'm a professional musician, I fill in for some jazz gigs, show around town in weddings and parties with my country band, teach drum lessons and all that stuff." Then I have to move on and act like my real job is a super cool side thing. "And then in other parts of my day, I'm working as a professional artist. I do a lot of personal AND corporate stuff and my art is selling all over North America. I also get some publishing deals for writing. It's cool stuff, pays my bills and keeps me busy."
This is exactly how I have to say it, otherwise people are like "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE YOU IDIOT?!" Except they say it like "Oh... that's... very interesting. You don't hear that very often."
I used to say it like this, which is more what I'm doing for real.
"I work out of my home as a fine artist. People call me up and ask for portraits of their family or pets, or sometimes some paintings for an office and all that, that's my main job. Then I work as a freelance musician. I play the odd jazz gig around town, and then my band has been playing a couple of weddings this year. I teach some drum lessons, too, but those are few and far between. Oh! I'm also working on a novel and I have a couple publishers interested in it, it's a great opportunity."
That's the truth of it. Every time I give the first explanation, I feel dirty on the inside because it's very deceiving, but it's the only time I don't get looked down upon. Some people, when I tell the straight up truth, say "so what are you looking to do in the future? As a career?"
And I'm like "... this?"
And they get all flustered and embarrassed because they know that I know that they don't really think it's a real career. Then they try to cover it up with "... so you're living the dream, huh?"
And I'm like, no, I'll be living the dream when I'm famous. Except I don't say that because then they'll really hate me.
But I'm about to join a semi-famous band so that goal may be coming a bit quicker than I thought it would. You think I'm joking, but I'm serious. Auditioning for a big-time country band, complete with thousands of people per audience and international tours. So if you hear about this super cool new chick drummer coming up with this sweet new country band, my cover may be blown on this blog. Then you'll all find out that sometimes I lie about names and certain objects to throw my thousands of readers off of my real life tracks, and then my life will REALLY be ruined...
I've despised every single real job I've ever had. And when I tell this to people, they tell me, "oh, no, everyone feels that way but you just have to tough it out for a while. Just think, if you tough it out, you'll have a steady income and stability in your life!"
No. I mean, I DESPISE the "real jobs" people my age work. I mean, I worked in sales last year for an energy supplier, and even went through a course to get my contracting license because it was good money and I thought it would be nice to have stability. I broke down crying halfway through my day on a daily basis because I hated myself so much for what I was doing and how I was wasting my life at this dead-end occupation, so I quit after two months. I had become crazy depressed and couldn't deal any more. And this is what has happened with every single job I've had.
So I'm the person who draws for a living and then gets side money from selling prose and doing music. Which, actually, ARE all "real jobs," but the majority of people will NEVER see it that way.
I work longer hours than a huge majority of the people in this country. I usually work on art for a MINIMUM of 6-8 hours a day, sometimes 10. I usually practice my instrument for 3 hours a day, along with rehearsals and shows that pop up all over the place, and I also write well into the night. I get around 5 hours of sleep on a regular basis because I work so much. Even when I'm hanging out with friends I have my notebook on my lap and I slowly chip away at filling it my novels' details. In my spare time I go to the gym and work on being a healthy human being because, let's face it, 90% of my work is sitting on my big butt and hardly moving at all. The other 10% is drumming, so it's physical but doesn't count as regular exercise.
I have a better work ethic than most people my age, yet when I tell adults of my occupation, they're all disappointed and act like me not having a "real job" is a lazy problem. Hah.
Just think about it. Without people like me, there would be nothing to decorate stuff with so everything would be boring and depressing (look up studies of effect of fine art on depression), those books that everyone loves reading wouldn't exist (say good bye to George Orwell, J.R. Tolkien, the Bronte sisters...), and the music that people SURROUND their daily lives with (vehicles, concerts, grocery stores, iPods, parties) would also be gone. Your world would be silent, depressing, and stupid, because literary arts make you smarter.
So don't knock the artists!!
The worst is when people I've known for a while (old friends, friends' family, my family, former teachers, etc) ask me what I'm doing with my life. I usually start with music because even though I'm less successful at it, it sounds the most impressive.
"Oh, I went to ________ University for three years and got two music diplomas. Now I'm a professional musician, I fill in for some jazz gigs, show around town in weddings and parties with my country band, teach drum lessons and all that stuff." Then I have to move on and act like my real job is a super cool side thing. "And then in other parts of my day, I'm working as a professional artist. I do a lot of personal AND corporate stuff and my art is selling all over North America. I also get some publishing deals for writing. It's cool stuff, pays my bills and keeps me busy."
This is exactly how I have to say it, otherwise people are like "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE YOU IDIOT?!" Except they say it like "Oh... that's... very interesting. You don't hear that very often."
I used to say it like this, which is more what I'm doing for real.
"I work out of my home as a fine artist. People call me up and ask for portraits of their family or pets, or sometimes some paintings for an office and all that, that's my main job. Then I work as a freelance musician. I play the odd jazz gig around town, and then my band has been playing a couple of weddings this year. I teach some drum lessons, too, but those are few and far between. Oh! I'm also working on a novel and I have a couple publishers interested in it, it's a great opportunity."
That's the truth of it. Every time I give the first explanation, I feel dirty on the inside because it's very deceiving, but it's the only time I don't get looked down upon. Some people, when I tell the straight up truth, say "so what are you looking to do in the future? As a career?"
And I'm like "... this?"
And they get all flustered and embarrassed because they know that I know that they don't really think it's a real career. Then they try to cover it up with "... so you're living the dream, huh?"
And I'm like, no, I'll be living the dream when I'm famous. Except I don't say that because then they'll really hate me.
But I'm about to join a semi-famous band so that goal may be coming a bit quicker than I thought it would. You think I'm joking, but I'm serious. Auditioning for a big-time country band, complete with thousands of people per audience and international tours. So if you hear about this super cool new chick drummer coming up with this sweet new country band, my cover may be blown on this blog. Then you'll all find out that sometimes I lie about names and certain objects to throw my thousands of readers off of my real life tracks, and then my life will REALLY be ruined...
I won a small part of this night/morning back...
I bravely battled with water in the sink that refused to warm up and actually won. I feel like this somehow justifies my pathetic attempt to take on cool air this morning.
Also I'm watching an episode of the Colbert Report while writing in my ideas notebook, so something is also redeemed in the writing front.
However, I have the hiccups. Worst night ever.
Also I'm watching an episode of the Colbert Report while writing in my ideas notebook, so something is also redeemed in the writing front.
However, I have the hiccups. Worst night ever.
I didn't do jack today and I don't even feel bad.
It's kind of a lie. I mean, in comparison to the real world things that I listed in my last post, I did nothing today.
This morning started bravely enough.
I desperately clawed my way out of bed this morning, for the first time in this house having to convince myself to venture into the cold of my room from the warm awesomeness of my comfy blanket. Usually my bedroom is sweltering and I have a fan blowing directly onto my bed 24/7 along with my window and door wide open to allow for circulation, but steady rain cooled everything down and sleepy-me was just way too unmotivated to reach up and turn the crank that closes my window, even though the window is above my bed by about one and a half feet... long story short my room was stupid cold this morning and I always have to give myself a pep talk before I do battle with the ruthless fiend.
In the end, the cold won and I raced from my room in a hurry, stumbling down the short hallway in my boxer shorts and tank top (or as Old Navy calls it, "cami") to dive headfirst (over-dramatization) into the warm welcoming box of a shower. And my motivation just pretty much spiraled down from there.
I spent the first 5 minutes wasting water by lying on my back and staring at the ceiling, just kinda feeling guilty that some people have to dig impossibly deep wells for just a sip of the precious liquid that I was letting continually drain for no reason. Also contemplating the meaning of life. After a long haul, I finally managed to at least sit up and complete the shower process, and then reluctantly get dressed and put my "I'm a real adult" face on before going downstairs to make food and figure out what to do with myself.
This started badly.
I hate fish. And I hate eggs. I also hate milk, but that's besides the point here. I hate fish and eggs, but unfortunately I'm also a bit of a health nut and both of these things are packed full of essential... stuff... so I put on a brave face and eat them. Well, this morning I was dead tired and starving and unmotivated and still recovering from getting my butt kicked by a semi-cool room, so I figured the more protein to kick off the day, the better. I ALWAYS start my day off with an egg. Usually disguised under spices and a slice of toast. Last night, I had cooked myself some fish and hadn't eaten all of it. So I thought, hey, add some meat to this party. Worst idea. I don't even know why I thought this would be even close to an okay thing. So I had an egg and a slice of fish on a multigrain toast and it made me feel wrong, like health had somehow molested my well-being for the day.
Confused and a bit agitated, I sat down to try and make some headway on my novel while the rest of the house's occupants were sleeping (University students + evening jobs = sleep until forever...), but instead I ended up in an all-too-familiar position; lying flat on my back and throwing a balloon filled with sand (aka "My Ball") repetitively at the ceiling.
Finally the rest of the residents trickled out of their respected bedrooms. One left for work, one left for a music clinic, and the other just sat there staring at me over a bowl of slowly-mushifying cerial as he tried to force himself into a semi-conscious state.
A bit annoyed with my inability to create anything intelligent enough for literary masterpieces, I picked myself up, grabbed my computer and headed for the house's practice room, where my drumset lives. I spent, oh... maybe an hour in there, learning a couple songs for a band I'm auditioning for in a few days. Now, an hour sounds productive, but my regular practice times last 4, sometimes 5 hours in a row. This is because I went to superhardcore music school, and it's become ingrained in my psyche. So, I became irritable and depressed at my failure at focusing for a normal amount of time, and I had hardly made enough progress on the songs, but I was beat (haha) and didn't want to drum anymore, so I left.
And my first thought was, hey, while I'm being unproductive, I should probably go for a run.
But even then, it took me talking myself out of talking myself out of a run, and half an hour of looking at fitness inspiration on Google before I managed to drag my pathetic butt out the door. The gym is a half-hour bike away, which is nothing for someone who bikes EVERYWHERE in a major city. I got there and started a treadmill run because it's rainy and miserable out, but about "3 miles" into the run I wasn't feeling so good. I blame the fish. A little put-off, I ended my run 2 miles early and commenced other workout. I also ended that a bit early because I was starting to feel dizzy and I still had the half-hour bike home in the rain to worry about.
So I changed and went home. Got yelled at by some crazy lady in a car which caused me to have a slight anxiety attack, even though I was doing nothing wrong.
Got home and immediately started dicking around on the internet. At first I was all "I'm going to read this one page of blog, and then I'll be off to real work!" And hours went by. Then I fell asleep on the kitchen table and drooled everywhere, and my computer ran out of batteries and I woke up to its pathetic "help me, I'm dying!" sounds.
So I made a pot of coffee, even though it was evening time, plugged in my sputtering-to-battery-death laptop, and bravely sat down with my "super ideas for novel" notebook to get some work done.
Nope, more funny blog reading.
And then "just one episode of Tosh. 0."
And then dinner/lunch. Which was NOT fish. Eugh.
And I still hadn't written a WORD for this stupid thing.
So I dragged myself up to my room where I commenced reading some drafts I have written and telling myself that it counted as work even though it didn't.
And here I am. And it's 12:30 in the morning, I'm dead tired and I haven't done anything.
To recap.
1) Bravely battle with less-than-desirable temperature. Lose.
2) Waste water
3) Worst breakfast ever
4) Fail at writing
5) Fail at practicing drums
6) Fail at workout but still workout so it's still a bit okay.
7) Have anxiety attack over crazy lady who wants to run over a bicyclist.
8) Procrastinate
9) Fail at writing take 2
10) Procrastinate
11) Better food than breakfast
12) Fail at writing forever but convince self reading own writing is okay too
13) give up and blog instead.
I'm a real grownup.
This morning started bravely enough.
I desperately clawed my way out of bed this morning, for the first time in this house having to convince myself to venture into the cold of my room from the warm awesomeness of my comfy blanket. Usually my bedroom is sweltering and I have a fan blowing directly onto my bed 24/7 along with my window and door wide open to allow for circulation, but steady rain cooled everything down and sleepy-me was just way too unmotivated to reach up and turn the crank that closes my window, even though the window is above my bed by about one and a half feet... long story short my room was stupid cold this morning and I always have to give myself a pep talk before I do battle with the ruthless fiend.
In the end, the cold won and I raced from my room in a hurry, stumbling down the short hallway in my boxer shorts and tank top (or as Old Navy calls it, "cami") to dive headfirst (over-dramatization) into the warm welcoming box of a shower. And my motivation just pretty much spiraled down from there.
I spent the first 5 minutes wasting water by lying on my back and staring at the ceiling, just kinda feeling guilty that some people have to dig impossibly deep wells for just a sip of the precious liquid that I was letting continually drain for no reason. Also contemplating the meaning of life. After a long haul, I finally managed to at least sit up and complete the shower process, and then reluctantly get dressed and put my "I'm a real adult" face on before going downstairs to make food and figure out what to do with myself.
This started badly.
I hate fish. And I hate eggs. I also hate milk, but that's besides the point here. I hate fish and eggs, but unfortunately I'm also a bit of a health nut and both of these things are packed full of essential... stuff... so I put on a brave face and eat them. Well, this morning I was dead tired and starving and unmotivated and still recovering from getting my butt kicked by a semi-cool room, so I figured the more protein to kick off the day, the better. I ALWAYS start my day off with an egg. Usually disguised under spices and a slice of toast. Last night, I had cooked myself some fish and hadn't eaten all of it. So I thought, hey, add some meat to this party. Worst idea. I don't even know why I thought this would be even close to an okay thing. So I had an egg and a slice of fish on a multigrain toast and it made me feel wrong, like health had somehow molested my well-being for the day.
Confused and a bit agitated, I sat down to try and make some headway on my novel while the rest of the house's occupants were sleeping (University students + evening jobs = sleep until forever...), but instead I ended up in an all-too-familiar position; lying flat on my back and throwing a balloon filled with sand (aka "My Ball") repetitively at the ceiling.
Finally the rest of the residents trickled out of their respected bedrooms. One left for work, one left for a music clinic, and the other just sat there staring at me over a bowl of slowly-mushifying cerial as he tried to force himself into a semi-conscious state.
A bit annoyed with my inability to create anything intelligent enough for literary masterpieces, I picked myself up, grabbed my computer and headed for the house's practice room, where my drumset lives. I spent, oh... maybe an hour in there, learning a couple songs for a band I'm auditioning for in a few days. Now, an hour sounds productive, but my regular practice times last 4, sometimes 5 hours in a row. This is because I went to superhardcore music school, and it's become ingrained in my psyche. So, I became irritable and depressed at my failure at focusing for a normal amount of time, and I had hardly made enough progress on the songs, but I was beat (haha) and didn't want to drum anymore, so I left.
And my first thought was, hey, while I'm being unproductive, I should probably go for a run.
But even then, it took me talking myself out of talking myself out of a run, and half an hour of looking at fitness inspiration on Google before I managed to drag my pathetic butt out the door. The gym is a half-hour bike away, which is nothing for someone who bikes EVERYWHERE in a major city. I got there and started a treadmill run because it's rainy and miserable out, but about "3 miles" into the run I wasn't feeling so good. I blame the fish. A little put-off, I ended my run 2 miles early and commenced other workout. I also ended that a bit early because I was starting to feel dizzy and I still had the half-hour bike home in the rain to worry about.
So I changed and went home. Got yelled at by some crazy lady in a car which caused me to have a slight anxiety attack, even though I was doing nothing wrong.
Got home and immediately started dicking around on the internet. At first I was all "I'm going to read this one page of blog, and then I'll be off to real work!" And hours went by. Then I fell asleep on the kitchen table and drooled everywhere, and my computer ran out of batteries and I woke up to its pathetic "help me, I'm dying!" sounds.
So I made a pot of coffee, even though it was evening time, plugged in my sputtering-to-battery-death laptop, and bravely sat down with my "super ideas for novel" notebook to get some work done.
Nope, more funny blog reading.
And then "just one episode of Tosh. 0."
And then dinner/lunch. Which was NOT fish. Eugh.
And I still hadn't written a WORD for this stupid thing.
So I dragged myself up to my room where I commenced reading some drafts I have written and telling myself that it counted as work even though it didn't.
And here I am. And it's 12:30 in the morning, I'm dead tired and I haven't done anything.
To recap.
1) Bravely battle with less-than-desirable temperature. Lose.
2) Waste water
3) Worst breakfast ever
4) Fail at writing
5) Fail at practicing drums
6) Fail at workout but still workout so it's still a bit okay.
7) Have anxiety attack over crazy lady who wants to run over a bicyclist.
8) Procrastinate
9) Fail at writing take 2
10) Procrastinate
11) Better food than breakfast
12) Fail at writing forever but convince self reading own writing is okay too
13) give up and blog instead.
I'm a real grownup.
6/25/12
Crazy weeks ahead.
So this week has lasted for two days and it's already been insane.
Yesterday I woke up at some obscene hour in the morning to make it to an early-morning church rehearsal before sitting zombie-eyed through the service only to play the music set at the end and nearly pass out in my roommate's car on the way home. I may or may not have drooled all over his car.
At some point in the ride, he decided for us that we would head to his parent's place for lunch, and as his parents are as unreadable as he is, I felt that my half-dead state could not handle it very well and melted into a silent anxiety attack that lasted through the whole meal. Though his parents seem to like me an unsettling amount, so I think they overlooked it. His father certainly sympathizes with my pathetic shortcomings in social adequacy.
After the nerve-wracking meal I headed home to begin work on an audition video for a professional country-blues band I would like to join. I got about three songs into making the video and gave up for the day (I have a few more days to finish it) and worked on instead practicing a bit to keep up, so I don't faceplant in any of my upcoming performances.
My practice was violently interrupted by my group's bass player who had finally hunted down the stupid studio guy who had magicked off with our band's demo tracks, which he had secured and gave to me. But now my band wants these tracks mixed and as I am the only one with any music-technology background and professional programs, I'm stuck with the job.
After slaving at that for a few hours with my bandmates pestering me about the completedness of the tracks, I retreated to lock myself in my room to deal with other things. My website for my art business is being closed down due to the hosting company's closure, so I've been frantically re-coding another website to finish this week before my original one is destroyed with fire.
After that I worked on an art piece for a while, wrote a few hundred words to satisfy my almost-hired publisher, worked a bit on a sponsorship proposal and swiftly headed for bed.
This morning has been no better. Still working on mixing those tracks and the sponsorship proposal. In a couple of hours, I need to make my way down to a coffee shop an hour's bike ride away to meet up with a band's manager who is hiring me into a well-established, gigging country group, and after that meeting I am briefly meeting with another band's manager who has already hired me into a latin jazz group. Then I am meeting with my corporate customer who is paying me my deposit before running into another part of town by my old university to sort out some rent solutions with a cash store and mail some money orders to my landlords. That will take me well into the late evening where I will commence with some concept sketches and write a few hundred more words in my novels.
The rest of the week isn't looking any better. I have to complete a huge oil painting for this corporate lady in a week, along with a few other concept sketches for her. I also have to finish mixing these tracks, put together a media package, go to about six rehearsals for bands/upcoming shows, finish coding my website, play three gigs, and handle all my bills for this month. If I have time, I also have to send out my media package, work on promotions for my art, start throwing together rough transcripts for my publisher, and actually find time to go out and buy new art stuff because my supplies are dying.
Not to mention that besides all of this, I am still training for a 10k run and making art lesson plans for children.
That's a lot to do in a week...
Yesterday I woke up at some obscene hour in the morning to make it to an early-morning church rehearsal before sitting zombie-eyed through the service only to play the music set at the end and nearly pass out in my roommate's car on the way home. I may or may not have drooled all over his car.
At some point in the ride, he decided for us that we would head to his parent's place for lunch, and as his parents are as unreadable as he is, I felt that my half-dead state could not handle it very well and melted into a silent anxiety attack that lasted through the whole meal. Though his parents seem to like me an unsettling amount, so I think they overlooked it. His father certainly sympathizes with my pathetic shortcomings in social adequacy.
After the nerve-wracking meal I headed home to begin work on an audition video for a professional country-blues band I would like to join. I got about three songs into making the video and gave up for the day (I have a few more days to finish it) and worked on instead practicing a bit to keep up, so I don't faceplant in any of my upcoming performances.
My practice was violently interrupted by my group's bass player who had finally hunted down the stupid studio guy who had magicked off with our band's demo tracks, which he had secured and gave to me. But now my band wants these tracks mixed and as I am the only one with any music-technology background and professional programs, I'm stuck with the job.
After slaving at that for a few hours with my bandmates pestering me about the completedness of the tracks, I retreated to lock myself in my room to deal with other things. My website for my art business is being closed down due to the hosting company's closure, so I've been frantically re-coding another website to finish this week before my original one is destroyed with fire.
After that I worked on an art piece for a while, wrote a few hundred words to satisfy my almost-hired publisher, worked a bit on a sponsorship proposal and swiftly headed for bed.
This morning has been no better. Still working on mixing those tracks and the sponsorship proposal. In a couple of hours, I need to make my way down to a coffee shop an hour's bike ride away to meet up with a band's manager who is hiring me into a well-established, gigging country group, and after that meeting I am briefly meeting with another band's manager who has already hired me into a latin jazz group. Then I am meeting with my corporate customer who is paying me my deposit before running into another part of town by my old university to sort out some rent solutions with a cash store and mail some money orders to my landlords. That will take me well into the late evening where I will commence with some concept sketches and write a few hundred more words in my novels.
The rest of the week isn't looking any better. I have to complete a huge oil painting for this corporate lady in a week, along with a few other concept sketches for her. I also have to finish mixing these tracks, put together a media package, go to about six rehearsals for bands/upcoming shows, finish coding my website, play three gigs, and handle all my bills for this month. If I have time, I also have to send out my media package, work on promotions for my art, start throwing together rough transcripts for my publisher, and actually find time to go out and buy new art stuff because my supplies are dying.
Not to mention that besides all of this, I am still training for a 10k run and making art lesson plans for children.
That's a lot to do in a week...
When the schedules of others ruin you.
So here I've managed to score myself a big art deal, and I am eagerly awaiting the awesome moment when the manager gives me my first paycheck. But she was supposed to pay me last Thursday, and it is now Monday and she keeps blowing me off. Also, I've been getting e-mails from her asking me where her concept sketches are.
Oh, come on. I don't get paid, I don't work for you. Simple as that.When I get my money, you'll get your concepts.
I'm supposed to meet her in the next 5 hours... so that's hopeful, then I can actually go and purchase her supplies and get started. Stupid freaking thing is that I'm relying on this stupid deposit to pay my bills which are due by the end of this week. Rent has to be mailed all the way down to a city 6 hours away from me in the next couple of days, so I have to meet with her, run to a money store, buy a money order, and pray that there is, by SOME miracle, a freaking post office open past 8 o'clock at night.
If I can meet her on time, motor down to the one cash store in town I have an account at (in the sketchy area of town, so they don't rely on my non-existed employer for an account...), where I get my money order (assuming it doesn't take long) and book it two blocks down to the sketchy corner pharmacy post office, I can get everything in on time because I found an office open right until 8 o'clock.
Oh, come on. I don't get paid, I don't work for you. Simple as that.When I get my money, you'll get your concepts.
I'm supposed to meet her in the next 5 hours... so that's hopeful, then I can actually go and purchase her supplies and get started. Stupid freaking thing is that I'm relying on this stupid deposit to pay my bills which are due by the end of this week. Rent has to be mailed all the way down to a city 6 hours away from me in the next couple of days, so I have to meet with her, run to a money store, buy a money order, and pray that there is, by SOME miracle, a freaking post office open past 8 o'clock at night.
If I can meet her on time, motor down to the one cash store in town I have an account at (in the sketchy area of town, so they don't rely on my non-existed employer for an account...), where I get my money order (assuming it doesn't take long) and book it two blocks down to the sketchy corner pharmacy post office, I can get everything in on time because I found an office open right until 8 o'clock.
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