96. reboot

Thoughts about NaNoWriMo 2011.

Tonight I finished my novel, “Relics.” Or rather, I passed the 50,000 word mark. 50,131 to be exact. That’s what we were supposed to do: write 50,000 words in 30 days. And I did that. Well, I didn’t really finish the novel itself. I looked down at the word count and realized I’d passed the 50K mark, stopped, hit Ctrl-A, then Ctrl-C, then Ctrl-V’d my novel into the validator form and hit enter. All manner of bells and whistles sounded.

It felt incredibly empty.

And I’m left feeling utterly drained and defeated at the end of all of this. Not only am I utterly unsatisfied with the final product, it’s absolute trash (in my opinion, and in this case mine is the only one that matters).

What’s worse is that everyone else seemed to pass the mark so effortlessly. Some people even finished weeks ahead of schedule. And I had to strive and churn, and basically shut myself away all weekend to get even 50,131 fucking awful words out; none of which made any sense plot-wise, and none of which I’m happy with. So, after submitting it tonight (or this morning, rather), I selected the last 18,489 words and without a single hesitation or thought hit the delete key. This is what comes of being a slightly bi-polar, depressed hyper-perfectionist: I’m my worst and most unforgiving critic.

Basically, I can’t forgive myself for not coming up with something decent, or even passable. None of it feels inspired. The concept that I came up with was way out of my league, at least for the given time frame. The deeper I got into the story the more I realized I didn’t know and didn’t have time to sketch or work out; and the more I didn’t know the steeper the curve became and the more daunting and formidable the shadow of my own incompetence grew. There’s a whole world other I haven’t worked out and just couldn’t get the voice for, that I’ve barely scratched the surface of, and I should have been able to. Other people seem to have been able to do it.

I was only able to produce absolute shit.

All I’ve wanted to do for the last three weeks is curl up in a ball, watch movies and just not have to deal with novels or the rest of the goddamn world. I feel creatively and emotionally drained and empty. I’m looking back on past work that I’ve done, even for the short fiction collection I finished in October, and that was much more inspired. Even this feels insipid.

Depression is a bitch, my friends, and it sucks being a creative artist afflicted with it.

I’m going to bed. After I make my bed, of course. I just took the laundry out of the dryer.

95. cornucopia

Here’s a little Thanksgiving story I wrote last year and recorded today. It’ll be new to most people, but the first people to hear it were Joe, Jenny and Seth.


The title to this blog is rather ironic since I feel anything but enough right now. Quite the opposite. This time last year, I was spending Thanksgiving with my family, shortly after being outed to them by my ex. Then I joined friends of mine with another family where I wasn’t worrying about feeling judged or rejected by anyone. And Seth was there (which is why I was there). That was probably one of the last happy times I can remember.

I realized today that I’ve been depressed ever since the night of my birthday. There have been happier times and moments when I’ve been able to escape into a happier persona, but every day since then has been tempered by some sort of sadness. And today, when most of America is gathered with their families, making happy memories together, I’m home, by myself, not really wanting to be around anyone. And I’m not anticipating it getting any better for Christmas either.

Happy holidays.

94. hurricane

No walls can keep me protected, no sleep, nothing in between me and the rain. And you can’t save me now: I’m in the grip of a hurricane. I’m gonna blow myself away.

I’m going out, I’m gonna drink myself to death. And in the crowd I see you with someone else. I brace myself ’cause I know it’s going to hurt, but I like to think at least things can’t get any worse.

No hope: don’t want shelter. No calm: nothing to keep me from the storm, and you can’t hold me down ’cause I belong to the hurricane. It’s going to blow this all away.

I hope that you see me ’cause I’m staring at you, but when you look over you look right through; then you lean and kiss him on the head, and I never felt so alive.

And so dead.
– Florence Welch

Just needed to get that out of the way. It’s appropriate for my mental state today since I had some rather unpleasant dreams last night about Seth that have left me kind of depressed and moody today.

This won’t be so much an excerpt as a publishing of my cast list for the novel. It’s always evolving as new characters introduce themselves, but this is the main cast of characters that appear consistently throughout.

Dramatis personæ

The Mortals

Kiera Adler, a shop girl
Russell Jaffree, an eleven-year-old boy
Katherine Jaffree, Russell’s mother
Harry Royston, a taxi cab driver
Maris Jurczyk, proprietor of TheBonum FerculumDiner

Edward Montrachet, President of the United Colonies of America
Charles Berne, chief-of-staff to Edward Montrachet
Calvin Wescott, a male escort attached to the President

The Oracle
The Passenger

The Gods

Apollo, also known as Bragi, also known as Lugh
Athena, also known as Scathach, also known as Minerva, also known as Gefjon, also known as Nissaba
Camalus, also known as Ares, also known as Chernobog
Lir, also known as Poseidon, also known as Neptune, also known as Aegir
Loki, also known as Prometheus, also known as Gwyddion, also known as Enki
Odin, also known as Zeus, also known as Jupiter, also known as Dagna, also known as Marduk

The Dark Ones

Dominique, also known as Hel, also known as Hades, also known as Cernunnos, also known as Mot
Rose, also known as Nemesis, also known as Var, also known as Shiva
Méabh, also known as Nyx, also known as Nótt
Clay Toneco, also known as Tezcatlipoca

The Dreamless Ones

Dana Salo, also known as Aphrodite, also known as Venus, also known as Freya, also known as Ishtar – the president of Joutsen Cosmetics & Spas
Thérèse Konen, also known as Thalia – Dana’s personal assistant and one of the Graces (“Abundance”)
Agatha Belecourt, also known as Aglaïa – the head of Joutsen Cosmetics and one of the Graces (“Splendor”)
Allegra Freudlich, also known as Euphrosyne – the head of Joutsen Spas and one of the Graces (“Joy”)
Chloë, also known as Ceres or Anu – the owner of a flower shop in Manhattan
Pete Cochren, also known as Hermes, also known as Mercury, also known as Ogma, also known as Namtar – a stock trader

Huginn and Muninn, ravens of Odin’s
Sleipnir, a horse and sometimes centaur (when he feels like it)
Ratatöskr, a squirrel

93. sisyphus

Quick aside here from NaNoWriMo.

My friend Jenny just posted a link to an article on Ye Olde Facebook that was posted by Rachel Held Evans entitled “A Non-Zero-Sum Conversation Between the Traditional Church and the Gay Community“, which I guess is a re-post of an article written by a guy named Richard Beck. I thought about commenting but then decided to write my own quick rebuttal before plunging back into the writing fray.

For those who don’t care to read or explore either of these authors or their articles, let me sum up briefly. The thrust of the piece is that the gay community and the trad Christian community have mutually compatible interests in promoting acceptance, even in the face of fundamental differences in belief. “Both groups share a mutual concern in treating others with respect, love and dignity,” Beck writes. “We share an interest in the Golden Rule. We both want to be treated well.” He also rightly observes that trad Christians have an obligation as Christians to display kindness, hospitality and generosity – three things that the church lacks in spades.

He continues:

“The game isn’t zero-sum; it’s non-zero-sum. Fighting doesn’t have to be the only thing we have in common. There are significant areas of mutual concern, locations where we can drop our fists and partner together on important Kingdom work . . . Imagine how the conversation would change between the traditional Christian and gay communities if traditional Christian communities became, say, known for their guardian angel and anti-bullying programs and initiatives, often partnering with local gay advocacy groups to get this work done.”

This is a lovely, Utopian image where everyone gets along and is able to put aside their differences and work together to build a world based on peace and love. It’s a sentiment that many of my Christian friends express (including my two best friends, Mark and Emily) in their continuing work in building a church that fosters such a worldview, and is open to discussion and bridging that conversation with the trad Christian church in bringing about real and tangible change in how Christians and gay (and really anyone who is of a non-believing persuasion–Jews, Muslims, atheists, Hindus, etc.).

Well, forgive me for not jumping on the hippie bandwagon (to be sarcastic for just a moment) but I have experienced first-hand the “openness” of the fundamentalist church. And I can say that without hesitation that my friends will be fighting an uphill battle both ways to start that conversation; and maybe that says something of their love for people, and their willingness to not give up.

The problem with the trad Christian community and why I think this Utopian world will never come about is that their beliefs about the Bible and about this world will always prevent this. It’s why Rick Santorum, Michele Bachmann, James Dobson, Peter LaBarbera and the rest of the anti-gay crowd can say the things they do and still sleep at night. They honestly believe that they are doing homosexuals a favor by “proclaiming the Truth” (and yes, I am using the capital T there purposefully) in order to free them from their “lifestyle of sexual bondage,” which I think was something like the phrase Bachmann used once.

Underlying their actions is the fundamental Christian belief that this world is not all there is, and that a better world awaits those who love and follow Jesus after death. Amongst the Evangelicals is the additional caveat that you have to “proclaim him as your Lord and Savior.” Just try doing a search for “how to become a Christian.”

“If you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.” – Romans 10:9 (NASB)

It’s this eschatology that allows them to believe that the only thing that matters is getting to the right side in the afterlife. NOTHING ELSE MATTERS EXCEPT FOR JESUS. That “nothing else” includes sexual orientation, because obviously God created us all with a heterosexual orientation–right? So what does it matter if you have to live 70 years in total misery or loneliness if at the end of all that you have an eternity with Jesus?

[hold for laughs]

It’s this view that will not allow any sort of conversation between gays and trad Christians, and I don’t know that Richard Beck or Rachel Held Evans really understand that. I have the sense that they grew up in much more generous Christian denominations that were more life-affirming and dignity-affording. Then again, maybe they do and like the pacifist protesters getting beaten down in the film Gandhi they know what they’re in for.

All I know is that until trad Christians back down from their position of biblical literalism and inerrancy, there can be no conversation, for to even back down would be to waver in devotion to the Word and to God, which means jeopardizing their eternal security. My own parents would rather hold to that notion: that if I continue to “live as a homosexual” that I will one day suffer an eternity in hell while they enjoy a blessed eternity with Je-sus. (No, my parents are not Southern televangelists, but it’s fun to make them sound like they are.

It was partly because of this that I became an atheist in the first place (and I’ll be devoting my 100th blog entry to the reasons why I am an atheist). Jesus supposedly stood for love, affording dignity to all persons and speaking out against hypocrisy. And yet his followers resemble more the men who allegedly put him to death, and are putting gays to death every day in one form or another. They will continue to fight against gay marriage and equal rights for gays. They will oppose anti-bullying measures because it “encourages the proliferation and tolerance of homosexuality in schools.” They will rail against the teaching of evolution, ignoring all evidence that contradicts and disproves creationism.

Because the bible told them so.

92. pythia

As promised, here’s a little teaser excerpt from the end of Chapter 1 of my NaNoWriMo novel:

SEVERAL MILES away, on the top of a tall hill on Staten Island that overlooked the eastern seaboard of the Atlantic Ocean, the rain continued to fall as more dark clouds continued to roll in.  The water churned and roiled, rocking the tugboats and other vessels that were still out in the harbor.

On top of the hill, the palace of the oracle was silent.

The trickle of visitors had been thin but steady all morning, bringing with them their usual questions about the direction a particular deal might go, or where to lay the foundation for a new building, or even the few questions about when someone might expect a new wife or boyfriend or lover to come along (although questions like that were rare and usually brought by foolish young women who didn’t know better, once and then never again).

But no one had seen the oracle yet.

The priestesses stalked the halls silently, their bare feet making no sound against the cold marble floors of the temple.  They were strange women, living sequestered in the temple at all times of the year, their faces covered by thick veils, long flowing black robes masking their features – in addition to the weapons they were known to carry.  Even the priests of Apollo who worked in the outer courts were not allowed in with them and to even attempt to violate that code was deadly business.

In the dark chambers where the oracle slept, the priestesses had been going about their morning business, speaking in soft whispers in dark corners where the sound would not carry and disturb her sleep.  She usually awakened around 9 A.M. and was immediately seen to by her attendants.  Her attendants were even stranger than the priestesses.  Unlike the other women, they were not veiled, though some wished that they would, with their pale faces and black eyes.  They would bring her to the sacred pool where she would bathe and then dress for the long day ahead.

From there she would be brought to the dining hall where she would eat a brief breakfast, and then be led to the chamber of visitation where she would take her tripod seat before the bowl containing a strange liquid into which she gazed, set between the massive pillars made from the same serpentine rock that the hill itself was made of.  The room was thick with the smell of incense and myrrh.  Then the first visitors would be brought in to see her.  It was only in the chamber of visitation that anyone was allowed to speak, but only in hushed tones.  Outside the temple the priests of Apollo would sort through the cases brought to the oracle by supplicants, and decided which ones would be brought before the oracle to be heard.

Once a visitor had asked their question, the oracle would gaze into the bowl that was set before her, and she would begin to speak.  It was in an odd guttural language that only her attendants understood and they would interpret for her.  Occasionally the oracle would throw stones, which the attendants would then read and interpret for the visitors.  But once the answer to the question had been given, they were to leave at once, with no further questions.

It was serious business going to visit the oracle, and only the most serious and pressing questions were brought to her.  There were plenty of fortune tellers in the city, but you could only be sure of the most accurate answer from the oracle.  Leaders from all over the world came to visit her, and it wasn’t uncommon to see presidents and heads of state coming to the temple.  But once they were in her presence, they were no longer men of great importance.  They were at the mercy of her word, mortal men terrified of the future and what it might bring.  It was in the presence of the oracle that all men (and women) came face to face with the implacableness of fate.

The priestesses moved about restlessly, unsure of what to do.  It was verboten to disturb the oracle for any reason, even by the priestesses or her attendants.

Then, as a loud clap of thunder split the silence, followed at once by a blinding flash of lightning, the attendants jumped as the oracle suddenly sat up in the bed that was surrounded by a thick veil, her eyes wide and staring at something unseen.

“They are coming!” she screamed in a voice screeching and high.  “They are coming!  They are coming!”

© COPYRIGHT 2011, DAVID PHILIP NORRIS

91. yen

Brief update this evening.

Spent most of the day in bed with a fever. Started feeling not-so-great yesterday afternoon and by the time I got home all I really wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep.

Which is precisely what I did.

All I wanted (besides to not feel like the second coming of Hades, who, by the way, is a character in my novel – and no, HE DOESN’T SPEAK IN SMALL CAPS) was for someone to bring me potato soup and maybe read to me or something.

But, alas, that was not to be. I wasn’t even hungry, so all I could do was curl up in bed in the fetal position.

And, naturally, that set off a whole chain of depressing thoughts that led to feeling more and more depressed, augmented by the fact that I was feeling like the second coming of Hades. Thoughts that I’m almost twenty-nine and still single, and this is likely what the whole rest of my life is going to look like: Lying in bed in the fetal position, feeling dreadfull (sic), and wishing that some cute guy would bring me soup.

The holidays are also fast approaching, and this will be the first year ever that I do not celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas with my family. It’ll also be the first year that I observe both as an atheist. That part isn’t so bad since I never really believed in any of it anyway; but it’s losing my family, and not having another family to be a part of, that’s the hard part. I’ve always more or less been on the periphery when it comes to holidays as the non-plus 1 – always the single guy at the table. Now I don’t even have a table, or a family. Or a God. It’s a lot to take in at once.

Most of today looked very much the same, aside from checking work email occasionally (and got an email back from a co-worker saying, “What are you doing!? Stop checking your email and worrying about what’s going on here! Get better!!”) and then going through some old keyboard music and realising how full of shit I used to be. Some of the organ music was cool but so pedantic. Oh god, enough with the twelve-tone! I kept thinking. It was 2001-2003, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, I guess.

Makes me wonder now how I’m going to look back on the work that I’m doing now. That’s the beauty of being in the business of creating, is that you’re always a work-in-progress. Unfortunately, that means producing a lot of shit in the process. But there is always some good that comes of it. It’s like mental alchemy – with the gold comes a lot of dross.

In the meantime, is it too much to ask for a great, cute guy to come and bring me soup, and maybe read to me from the New York Times?

Perhaps.

90. spittle

I am taking a quick break from NaNoWriMo-ing to post some additional quotations from Emma Goldman, the Russian-American writer, feminist, anarchist and atheist. The following is from an essay that she wrote in 1913 titled “The Failure of Christianity.” Once I am done with NaNo, I want to dive into her writings a bit more as this is precisely the sort of thing I need to be reading in order to purge my mind of the dangerous nonsense I was brought up with as a child and young adult. Enjoy.


Christianity is most admirably adapted to the training of slaves, to the perpetuation of a slave society; in short, to the very conditions confronting us to-day. Indeed, never could society have degenerated to its present appalling stage, if not for the assistance of Christianity. The rulers of the earth have realized long ago what potent poison inheres in the Christian religion. That is the reason they foster it; that is why they leave nothing undone to instill it into the blood of the people. They know only too well that the subtleness of the Christian teachings is a more powerful protection against rebellion and discontent than the club or the gun.

No doubt I will be told that, though religion is a poison and institutionalized Christianity the greatest enemy of progress and freedom, there is some good in Christianity “itself.” What about the teachings of Christ and early Christianity, I may be asked; do they not stand for the spirit of humanity, for right and justice?

It is precisely this oft-repeated contention that induced me to choose this subject, to enable me to demonstrate that the abuses of Christianity, like the abuses of government, are conditioned in the thing itself, and are not to be charged to the representatives of the creed. Christ and his teachings are the embodiment of submission, of inertia, of the denial of life; hence responsible for the things done in their name.

I am not interested in the theological Christ. Brilliant minds like Bauer, Strauss, Renan, Thomas Paine, and others refuted that myth long ago. I am even ready to admit that the theological Christ is not half so dangerous as the ethical and social Christ. In proportion as science takes the place of blind faith, theology loses its hold. But the ethical and poetical Christ-myth has so thoroughly saturated our lives that even some of the most advanced minds find it difficult to emancipate themselves from its yoke. They have rid themselves of the letter, but have retained the spirit; yet it is the spirit which is back of all the crimes and horrors committed by orthodox Christianity. The Fathers of the Church can well afford to preach the gospel of Christ. It contains nothing dangerous to the régime of authority and wealth; it stands for self-denial and self-abnegation, for penance and regret, and is absolutely inert in the face of every indignity, every outrage imposed upon mankind.

Here I must revert to the counterfeiters of ideas and words. So many otherwise earnest haters of slavery and injustice confuse, in a most distressing manner, the teachings of Christ with the great struggles for social and economic emancipation. The two are irrevocably and forever opposed to each other. The one necessitates courage, daring, defiance, and strength. The other preaches the gospel of non-resistance, of slavish acquiescence in the will of others; it is the complete disregard of character and self-reliance, and therefore destructive of liberty and well-being.

Whoever sincerely aims at a radical change in society, whoever strives to free humanity from the scourge of dependence and misery, must turn his back on Christianity, on the old as well as the present form of the same.

Everywhere and always, since its very inception, Christianity has turned the earth into a vale of tears; always it has made of life a weak, diseased thing, always it has instilled fear in man, turning him into a dual being, whose life energies are spent in the struggle between body and soul. In decrying the body as something evil, the flesh as the tempter to everything that is sinful, man has mutilated his being in the vain attempt to keep his soul pure, while his body rotted away from the injuries and tortures inflicted upon it.

The Christian religion and morality extols the glory of the Hereafter, and therefore remains indifferent to the horrors of the earth. Indeed, the idea of self-denial and of all that makes for pain and sorrow is its test of human worth, its passport to the entry into heaven.

The poor are to own heaven, and the rich will go to hell. That may account for the desperate efforts of the rich to make hay while the sun shines, to get as much out of the earth as they can: to wallow in wealth and superfluity, to tighten their iron hold on the blessed slaves, to rob them of their birthright, to degrade and outrage them every minute of the day. Who can blame the rich if they revenge themselves on the poor, for now is their time, and the merciful Christian God alone knows how ably and completely the rich are doing it.

And the poor? They cling to the promise of the Christian heaven, as the home for old age, the sanitarium for crippled bodies and weak minds. They endure and submit, they suffer and wait, until every bit of self-respect has been knocked out of them, until their bodies become emaciated and withered, and their spirit broken from the wait, the weary endless wait for the Christian heaven.

– Emma Goldman, ‘The Failure of Christianity’ (1913)

89. dancing

Everywhere and always, since its very inception, Christianity has turned the earth into a vale of tears; always it has made of life a weak, diseased thing, always it has instilled fear in man, turning him into a dual being, whose life energies are spent in the struggle between body and soul. In decrying the body as something evil, the flesh as the tempter to everything that is sinful, man has mutilated his being in the vain attempt to keep his soul pure, while his body rotted away from the injuries and tortures inflicted upon it.

The Christian religion and morality extols the glory of the Hereafter, and therefore remains indifferent to the horrors of the earth. Indeed, the idea of self-denial and of all that makes for pain and sorrow is its test of human worth, its passport to the entry into heaven.

Emma Goldman, “The Failure of Christianity” (1913)