Deviant Rambling

I guess I never realized how much I love to bitch about the state of the world. Having this site to do it is pretty awesome.

Everyone take me seriously, but also maybe don’t, because nothing is probably worth taking seriously.

If you go down the rabbit hole of what it is like pursuing a career in freelance writing, you’ll find millions of websites telling you how anyone can do it. Then they will offer pages of nearly identical advice and lists of links to other sites where you can find work. Links that contain affiliate commissions for click-through.

What follows will be dozens of listings for writing SEO content to trick Google into ranking content higher so it gets more traffic. Presumably to sell things. But you’ll need to thread the needle of writing that is engaging and accomplishes the desired results. I call this “writing by the numbers”.

In fact, once you have composed your posts, you can run them through websites that will rate them for SEO and tell you if you did it right or not.

Blog posts and list posts (the coined term Listicle makes me want to eat bullets) become a watered down version of creative writing when they take on the baggage of sales, but it is an unavoidable concession. You’ll have to decide if you’re alright trading some part of your integrity to help sell garbage to people who don’t need it.

Figure out what your soul is worth and then trade it. All to pursue a passion.

Every once in a while you get to work on something that feels right, though. It pours out of you and it doesn’t feel forced. There is no struggle to complete the task because it’s what you do naturally. The pay will be low and you won’t care because the fulfillment will be otherworldly.

Those projects are what get you through the part that feels like work. The concept that you may see more of them keeps you going.

But don’t let the rose-colored shades lull you into a false sense of security. Most of what you do will be a job like any other. You’ll hate that you have to do it for money, and that will make it feel like it saps it of meaning. In my experience it does. The amount of time you take to recover from this sapping dictates how often you’ll get to projects that are effortless.

The wins are better than any I’ve ever felt at a traditional job. This means that on balance, pursuing writing for a living is better by default. I’m accustomed to feast or famine so it isn’t unfamiliar territory to me.

The assertion that “Anyone can do it!” is a stretch. You’re gonna have to be comfortable with lean times. If you can’t handle wildly variable income and need stability, get a job.

If you are a born masochist, it might be worth it. I guess that makes me one.

While perusing writing gigs on offer at a popular site, I happened upon a gig that seemed interesting upon first glance.

It was in a category I’m familiar with and happy to write about and I felt like it was a good potential opportunity until I got to the third page of the application. In the summary, they listed the position as full time and the requested word count would have qualified. What they failed to mention is that they would be offering $500.00 a MONTH to do it. The listed rate for what equates to a full-time position was something approaching $3.00 an hour.

I know creative work of all kinds is undervalued. I understand that completely… But that rate is insulting to anyone’s intelligence. They are asking for a full-time commitment for just above indentured servitude.

I’m good. You can have the few minutes I donated to fill out the application but that’ll be it for me.

Today I felt myself nearing the bottom of how I can feel about my place in the world. The facts of this year and what remains to be resolved have taken a toll on me.

Because of my sense of loyalty and duty, I have spent most of this year filling a hole and I’m just so tired. The common phrase “something’s gotta give” feels appropriate, and I am the something this time.

It’s all such a pedestrian concern though. It’s just debt, like I’ve spent years smashing. But those years have been brutal. They’ve left me questioning my sanity at times like this. Why is this time any different?

Because this time, I’ve lost people and all I have to show for it is debt caused by a business that I want to be done forever. Debt that is mine alone now, personally. If only I could disrupt everything I know about myself and work nonstop, I could pay it off.

Today I accept the fact that I must pull out all of the stops to eliminate this debt before it eliminates the parts of me that I actually believe in.

When the reality of having to make some kind of living rears its ugly head, it has a way of forcing the creativity right out of me. Some form of hesitation crops up and gets directly in the way every time I try and sit down to write something.

It feels as though I am losing the thread of what this is all for during these times. All of the projects that I have began with the best intentions that crashed and burned when my enthusiasm died. It felt like a valuable use of my time when I made them, but I can barely begin to recall them all.

That is why I can return to this place. It serves as an out loud accounting of all of these projects and their failures, in a roundabout way. I don’t mention them all by name specifically because I attach some shame to them. I am ashamed because I can’t even retrieve the enthusiasm I experienced for these ideas in the first place.

All of them felt like the thing that would finally give me some path to purpose. The trick is I’m not sure that is anything external.

One year ago on this day I woke up feeling like complete shit. Another day and night spent drinking to avoid the reality of hating my work. This was the day that broke me of both habits for good.

From that day forward, I started to constantly question what role my work played in my life. I connected drinking to my need to escape from the occupational dread I experienced every day. All drinking did was exacerbate the dread. What used to be a numb and warm glow only served to highlight what I already knew.

On December 2, 2021, I stopped drinking cold turkey. I also stopped allowing work to have such a stranglehold over my every thought and feeling. A couple weeks after this epiphany, dad was laid low and never got back up. It was when this happened that I knew I’d never drink again.

Despite witnessing the collapse and eventual passing of my father, I never experienced one urge to pick up the bottle. This event had the opposite effect. I am still surprised to this day that I never even experienced the urge.

Though I stopped drinking, I am still experiencing the existential hangover that my business and work life caused. Those are habits that are built on decades of conditioning and will not easily go away.

This does leave me feeling aimless at times. The work I did was the worst, but it kept me focused on tasks so I couldn’t take any opportunity to examine if I was happy or not. I wasn’t then, and I’d say that now I’m just not satisfied. I am infinitely happier than I was when the business operated, but now I need to discover what I am meant to do in this life, 40 years into it.

As always, I know I’ll find my way. My intuition has seldom failed me. The world is rife with possibilities and the only true limitations I have are self-imposed. My gut was right to stop drinking and trying to be something I’m not. Now I just need to listen to see if it’s telling me what I should be.

There is a near-constant flow of thoughts I have that I should be doing more to create. I should be making the world a better place somehow. The direction is not obvious, but appear to be limitless.

“Prove it or shut up.” – This becomes the mantra of my mind at any given time. It is at once triumphant and defeatist.

I spent some of my time today writing another test article and it was about the meaning behind song lyrics. I enjoyed writing that and it was completely effortless. But I recognize that kind of opportunity isn’t as common as the less than ideal ones which involve SEO. I hope to build that relationship through my creativity alone, and if I am able to do so, it is a form of proof I need.

Formatting, structure, etc. are all set on a project basis and are often provided in an outline. That makes it easy to put content together, but it is still up to me to create all of it.

When the guidelines are looser, closer to improvisational, I can do the work for hours and enjoy it the whole time. It engages my particular brand of creativity immediately and completely. Today’s assignment was one of those. I started building according to the general guidelines, and before I knew it, I was done. And it poured out of me in such a fashion that I don’t fully understand where it came from.

By my estimation, it was also thought-provoking and well-written. But the gauge of effectiveness is different than the one for what is interesting. Just because a piece is well-written, doesn’t make it an effective tool for the business trying to use it to monetize a page. I continue to struggle with setting aside my need for depth in favor of optimization. Writing to drive search results and traffic to improve sales feels… fake.

But anything I would do that isn’t pursuing my creative life is fake by default. It is a resignation that I’m not good enough, and I am. It’d be nice to not have to constantly convince myself of that, though.

Dear universe:

On this, the 20th of November, 2022, I have decided that this will be the last winter I spend fighting the very environment just to exist. I just used the snowblower on what appears to be 5-6″ of snow that has fallen overnight. I understand that people over in New York got that many feet but to them I would say the same thing I am saying to myself now.

If you stay, you’re out of your fucking mind.

I hate this place. I hate winter. My bones are aching and for what? Because some shit is cheaper here? Because this is where I grew up? What does any of that matter in the long run? Spoiler alert, it doesn’t.

I don’t care if I have a stout cardboard box somewhere warmer next year, I will not do this again. Everything in me says leave and I’m done ignoring it.

A headline just barely scratched the surface today but it should be the only thing anyone is talking about.

The crown prince (and prime minister for obvious reasons) of Saudi Arabia has been granted immunity from a trial for ordering the assassination of a journalist. What’s more, the US granted the immunity.

…wait what?

The same United States government that said they would hold Saudi Arabia accountable for a murder has decided that our reliance on oil is more important than who the hell we are fundamentally as a nation. This isn’t some little blip in the news cycle, this is complete subservience to a country who has something we want.

We are hated for a reason. We police the world but are complete hypocrites if the policing might require we step on some oil covered toes. We have done some truly shameful things but this one blows my mind.

There is a vision I maintain of who my father was.  Within this encapsulation, there are almost certainly creative liberties I’ve taken to smooth out the rough edges.

No man is perfect but am I robbing him of his journey?  The rugged perseverance he had to display to provide is a direct cause of his broken body.  When the journey ends in ashes anyway, it can feel as pointless as the pile that used to be Tim.

Even now as I attempt to summon a nuanced portrait of the man I knew well, I can feel myself pulling at the reins.  Was the man truly worthy of lionizing?  The gut check response is yes.  I collected evidence of this immediately following his passing.

No one had a bad thing to say.  But isn’t it the case that people always try to think the best when someone has passed?  I feel like I do a disservice to myself if I am at all dishonest about who I saw when I looked at him.

Dad trusted too much for too long.  He expected the best from everyone and would deny evidence if someone didn’t live up to it.  He always allowed room for grace.  It was a misstep that he was aware of and in his attempts to overcorrect, he started to become bitter and angry.  His well-earned frustration of 40+ years was impossible to hide and by the end, he was suspicious of even the most well-intentioned people.  It hardened an otherwise open and receptive man.  This was the price the business asked of him, and he gave willingly because he thought it was right.

Ironically, dad didn’t trust anyone to do the work he paid them to do.  Years of watching people take easy roads and just plain slack off took their toll.  In the last year of his life, dad became increasingly agitated by all of the perceived laziness of his employees.  I believe he came by this agitation honestly.  He keenly observed others working after his body denied him the opportunity.  This observation used to lead to advice and a guiding hand to help anyone how to do a thing better.  By the time he was ready to hang it up, it just looked like a bunch of barking at people to stop being lazy or they were fired.  He had run out of patience, and I have had to wrap my mind around that.  I foolishly believed his supply was endless.  That wasn’t a fair judgment but everything I knew about him said the supply would never run out.

When Josh inevitably failed in spectacular fashion, dad blamed himself.  He could never understand the power of the substance he was up against.  He honestly believed that his son was just being stubborn and didn’t want to do better.  The substance was calling all of the shots all of the time.  It was only once the substance started making mistakes that cost 10s of thousands of dollars that dad reached his breaking point.  It’s a point he reached a dozen times.  His only failure was the blind ignorance all parents must experience up against such a chemical enemy.  There is no rationalizing whom a person becomes when they decide methamphetamine is for them.  Parents have an innate ability to rationalize for their children, though.  When you put that much of your love into something, you expect greatness from it in return.  But it’s an unhealthy expectation to place on yourself and your child.  The most heartbreaking thing about it is that it couldn’t have been any other way.  Josh had to burn out.  Mom and dad had to love him anyway and think better of him.  As an arguably more objective observer of this pattern playing out, I had no such illusions about my brother.  But I didn’t have the weight of creating a life bearing down on me.  The point I’ve rambled to get to is that Josh’s wounds were entirely self-inflicted.  No one to blame unless you believe addiction is the boogeyman people make it out to be.

Near the end, I recognized some paranoia coming through in dad.  He felt as though the world was out to get us as a small business and that we never contributed to anyone’s doubt about our performance.  We routinely cut corners to get shit done faster and to save money because there was no margin in our work.  When this inevitably blew up in our faces, dad found an enemy and decided it was them out to get us.  It didn’t happen many times but when it did, dad committed entirely to the premise.  We cut a corner on a floor pour and lost more than 40,000.00 for the bargain.  Until the day he died, dad maintained that we got fucked, but we were made to correct our mistake, simple as that.  Dad couldn’t see his way to fully admit what had happened because he fully signed off on this butt-fuckery.  He just hoped we didn’t get caught but we did.  I spent an unreasonable amount of time engaged with this behavior and seeing how at odds it was with whom I believed dad to be.  It did much to humanize dad.  I attempted to bring rational thought into the conversation but he would shut me down and say we were just getting fucked again.  We got past it but that project is the one I will always remember as the one that fundamentally broke him.  It’s part of the reason I dropped the business like the dead weight it was the second dad passed away.  There was no more driving force to push the boulder up the hill.

Just like that, in the space of a few circuitous paragraphs, I allow the flaws an opportunity to speak up.  It feels like the secular version of a confession.  The things I would never discuss with the man himself because I wasn’t about to tell him who he appeared to be.  He knew who he was, and it’s part of the reason it’s hard for me to find his faults.