Submit is The point of no return. The introvert bloggers dilemma. Intentional blog 05

Reading Time: 5 minutes

Break the status quo before it breaks you.

I’m not sure what’s worse, the dread before hitting that button for fear of being exposed as someone seeking attention or approval; or the realization that there is something wrong in what I just sent out to the world for all to see and judge. Or, the feeling when I let it slip and nothing ever does make it out of the drafts folder. It’s the same tired old narration going through my mind. Same old stories; equally bothersome but for different reasons.

The creation, the preparation, and the declaration.

So here is a creation. Let’s jump into the middle of that process. Lets just for arguments sake say it’s a short work of fiction. It could be anything really; in my own case it can be blog, fiction, music, or any combination of those. But in this blog let’s say it’s a great funny story about a family of woodchucks finding an orphaned porky-pine they name Spike.
(Ah, a childrens story. Now we’re getting somewhere even if we’re completely sidetracked. Making a U-turn right here gets us back to this blog. . )

Okay, the story is done. It has been lovingly crafted, edited, picked at and rewritten multiple times. It is finally perfect. Noone has been allowed to read it. Not even a mother, brother, best friend. Nope. It’s too personal. That story is special. It’s so close to the heart. There are so many hours of frustration and creative bliss poured into that family of woodchucks. . So noone has been allowed to view the miracle of Spike.

Because once it leaves the safety of the harddrive and word processor; It won’t be the same. It will never be the same again.

My precious!

Enter submission anxiety disorder.

This is the point where a decision needs to be made and different people view this in vastly different ways. Today, I’m turning to those who can relate to what I’ve just described. It is most likely someone commonly called an introvert. In the spectrum of introvert I suppose it can be someone that is simply shy, with low self confidence, maybe someone with difficulties dealing with people in general. A loner perhaps. Call it what you will. I’m all of those myself. You know better than I do who you are. I try not to generalize and clump all of us under one label. This is a tricky territory to walk so , bare with me. 🙂

To publish or not to publish.

Now, that is the question. Publishing is easy so that’s not really a problem. A free blog, Facebook, selfhosted website, wordpress.com… you name it. The question is if it’s worth the anxiety, the fear of rejection, the potential negative critique, the internet trolls.

Is it really worth all that crap just to let others read that stupid little story. There are millions of books online and they are all written by better writers and all those books are worth reading by someone, or they wouldn’t have been published. Right?
And who would care shit about Spike anyways. What’s the point.

Isn’t that a sad recital? What a bloody waste.
Because people do want to read what you write. People do want to know your thoughts, hear your talent, and I would say that the worst thing that can happen is that nothing happens.
It is however what that voice in the back of the mind keeps saying and it is very convincing. And whether it is lacking confidence or true support from family and friends that in the end makes the potential future author leave things as they are, chances are drastically higher that the introvert is the one choosing not to push that button.

Status quo is comfortable.

But that’s not where we want to be. Status quo means that nothing changes.* Nothing is moving forward. Lessons are not only not learne; they are not taught to start with. There is no gain without some risk and as far as the act of revealing Spike to the world goes. It can be very scary. But I’ll tell you what;

Status quo will kill Spike and his family!

So, get over it. Push that button. And the next one, and the next one. When you’ve pushed that publish button a couple hundred times and exposed yourself and your creations to the world; it will be a little bit less scary. But you gained friends, knowledge, confidence, a network, a presence. So push that bloody button and break out of the status quo. Spike deserves his audience. And so do you.

After the fact anxiety disorder.

It will come. If you are the type that found it physically hard to push the button. (You did push it didn’t you?) Your heartbeat quickened, your hands started sweating, stomach clenched. You were a bit out of it. Exhilirated and devestated all at once. Out of your comfort zone like a fish on dry land. You clicked it. You published. If your case is severe, your thoughts go around and around and it may sound something like this:

Oh my god. I did it. Damn it. why? I didn’t have to. I finally did it! I could have made it better first. Who’s going to read it. Will there be feedback? should I take it down before anyone reads it? I should! No, I can’t now. I’m not an author, not a blogger, not experienced. That’s stupid. I shouldn’t… I have to check to see if there’s comments. should I tweet that? Is that presumptious, Arrogant? But I want to know. But what if they don’t like it? It’s stupid. i should have read it one more time before. I should have, could have, would have. Wish I hadn’t.

Sigh! Tiring isn’t it?

The bad news is that it will happen again. If you are like me; it will happen for another couple thousand times. Hopefully you are not quite like me.

The good news is; after just a few outbreaks like this it does get better. It gets a little bit easier to handle.

A typo will not end the world as you know it!

Trust me, it’s not going to happen. A mistake will not kill you, torture your pets, your kitten, or get you locked up by the Internet maffia. So, get over it. If you find a mistake after the fact, do correct it. That’s just good form. Look at it this way: If you find a blog or a story with a mistake of some sort. Do you really think less of that person? How much do you truly care about the level of perfection of that thing you just read. Truth is; if it doesn’t interest you; you will simply click onto something else and you won’t give it a second thought. Why would anyone think of your published work any differently? If someone likes it, they will hopefully remember you, share your story, and leave you a comment. You win! They win! It is a true win win situation.

There will be mistakes made. You can trust me on that too. I’ve made all of them. I’m still here, my world is still functioning. Think instead:

I did it! and I’m going to do it again.

Yes, you did, and you will.

And now, since I am an attention junkie, I want to talk about me for a moment. 😀

Heh. This brings me to the dilemma. I am the kind of introvert that loves and loathes attention in equal measure. Over the years I have come to accept myself and how my brain works. I have published stuff online for over a decade now and I have never become completely comfortable with it. I started out with uploading music on mp3.com. That just shows how old I am. lol.
I think those first few clicks on the submit button paved my path up until this day. I was terrifyed. The anxiety hit the roof. But I was exhilirated and so excited I didn’t know what to do with myself. What happened was that I got instant feedback. And it was all good. I was lucky. If I had been ignored, rejected, flamed, or put down in any other way; I firmly believe that I wouldn’t be writing this today. I became an attention junkie and I have been fighting it since then.

Here was the thing back then:

I wanted to be looked at but not really seen
I wanted to be understood but not really communicating.
I wanted nice feedback but not be critiqued.
I wanted everything to be perfect but was too hurried and anxious to make it so.
I wanted attention and recognition but was too ashamed to admit it
I wanted the answers but couldn’t ask questions.

I want to bee seen and heard because I think I might have something worth someones time.
I love nice feedback and I even dig critique because it all teaches me something.
I want everything to be perfect but it’s okay if it’s not.
I want recognition and attention and I’m happy to admit it.
I ask questions even when they make me feel like an idiot.
It’s all good!< Just go for it.

It is what it is. I’m afraid of many things but that is not going to stop me from trying. My creations are not everyones cup of tea and even if I would want them to be; I can’t please everyone.
I will not let Spike turn to dust and sad memories in a drawer anymore. I’m letting Spike out.

Just as I’ve let
Chrissy out to play,
Kate and David, Sky, Kristina, That guy in
A gal eerie of desire who I can’t remember the name of,
Marcy, Denny and all the others. I have decided not to trash my online presence again. Finally I’m at the point where I can say:

It truly is all good. Scary or not, I will do what I love, no matter what!

And I hope you do too.

And now that I’ve gotten that out of my system; Just push that button will ya?

It’s scary, but it will be okay. Whether it’s starting a blog, showing off your music, telling the world online or offline what you can do, it’s the best thing you can ever do. There may not be an undo button anywhere, but more importantly; there is no Redo button when there was no Do being done to begin with.

Huh?

So if you could wrap your head around that sentence; Go ahead! Push that button.

Leave your comments. What’s your story?

Jenny K Brennan
Ontario Canada 2014

*”Status quo” is a Latin phrase
meaning the existing state of affairs.

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October 21, 2014October 31, 2014

A gal eerie of desire Part 1 of 5 – Wednesday Exhibit.

Reading Time: 7 minutes

A Gal Eerie of Desire

By Jenny K Brennan

Part 2.

Mild explicit warning. This content is for adults. And don’t say I didn’t say so. Enjoy.

Part 1 of 5 — Wednesday exhibit

Another day had passed without incident. It was the way I liked it. Boring and uneventful, worry free and totally uncomplicated.
When the front door to the office building clicked shut behind me and I started toward the parking lot, my thoughts flashed to Angie. I really wished she would stop pestering me. Why I agreed to go out with her was still a mystery. I wasn’t interested in her. Not that way, had said as much. It wasn’t that I disliked her or anything; I just didn’t understand why it had to be so complicated.
Girls. They had so many needs. Romantic dates, cozy evenings with wine and… I shuddered despite the heat. One night she had brought out a tattered book of erotic stories. When I turned to her and asked, “What’s that for?” she had looked at me in that way that only women are capable of, and left. I supposed she had expected me to say something else. Or do something. It was just unfortunate that I had to keep working in the same building as her, where she could give me the look and a snide remark whenever our paths crossed.

I pushed Angie out of my mind and sighed.
The sunlight hit me full force as I rounded the corner and I squinted in the glare.
No, too much bother. I had much more interesting things on my agenda. I needed a cold shower, and all I wanted was to head home, to my one bedroom flat, where half a left over pizza from Gus’s waited for me in the fridge. A package from Amazon might even be waiting in the mailbox. Then there was that buggy Ajax app. That was about as much excitement as I felt like dealing with on an average day. Nothing could beat calm and orderly, organized and scheduled.
And then I saw her.

Still, perhaps nothing at all would have happened, if I hadn’t looked up at that exact moment to point that stupid transmitter at my little Toyota to disengage the lock. Most days I didn’t even do that as I always parked in the same spot. Except this morning as some inconsiderate brute parked across the lot with a huge truck and I had to find another spot.
So as I looked up, the woman just happened to be in my line of sight, watching me.

Her gaze, direct and fixed, hit like a punch in the gut. She didn’t look away, and I couldn’t pull out of the stare. An odd familiarity surged through me, reluctant to surface all the way, as if I aught to know her. I didn’t, but I should.
Suddenly, the damn tie was strangling me and I pulled at it, realizing that it was already hanging loose below the first two open shirt buttons.
Her eyes. I knew them, but she was a stranger. Something hacked away chunks from my mental level and projected it into a wobbly spin. I knew her, but from what? Where?
Without thought, my legs slowed, my body adjusted its path and I stepped toward the beautiful woman.
Somewhere beyond her, the Toyota beeped. Had I pushed the button? I couldn’t remember. The key fob was slick with sweat. I dropped it into a shirt pocket and wiped my hands on the denims.

Those eyes, intense, intriguing. There was a message there I couldn’t understand; something I needed to figure out. At the same time, some little part of me was sure I couldn’t and wouldn’t. And why not? I had no answer, just knew. There was something forbidding, a hard edge in her face.
She stood outside of “The Crone Cone”, a shabby looking ice-cream shop in the corner of the parking lot, on a patch of hot pavement where the air wavered in the relentless sunlight. Only after several moments I noticed the sticky toddlers glued to her hands, each holding a dripping ice-cream cone, blessedly silenced by their melting pleasure.
She kept looking at me, but something in her was changing. She raised her chin a fraction and let her eyes wander over me, curiously assessing, seemingly coming to some kind of conclusion in the short moment it took her to take me in, dissect and analyze me.
She glanced down at the children as if she had never seen them before and frowned, surprised to find her attached to these… creatures. After only a moment, though, her features smoothed and she resumed observing me.
She seemed flustered and moisture dampened her skin, made it shimmer in the heat. A strand of hair was plastered across her chin; another trailed a bridge over one blue … were her eyes blue? Green? … eye. The stray lock formed a static curve toward her ear where it joined a swell of thick dark … was that auburn? Red? Mahogany? … hair falling unchecked and heavy half way down her back.
A simple strapless summer dress in off-white hugged her body. Clinging in fashionable wrinkles it reached mid thigh. She wore no shoes. Bare feet? In the city? Her deep tan would suggest many hours outdoors. She had perfectly shaped toenails on perfect small feet. The rest of her was fit and lean but fragile and soft at the same time.

A drop fell from a leaky cone and made a white and sticky smudge on the top of her foot. She didn’t seem to notice. My imagination made a very vivid show of the translucent substance though. To my horror I realized I had a hard-on and drew hot air through my teeth. I liked feet, sure thing, perhaps more than most, but this was ridiculous. I imagined small soft toes wiggling along a row of fly-buttons. Even after hastily looking away, the image lingered.
If the day hadn’t been so hot, the flush creeping up my neck would have been so much more visible and not just a little embarrassing. I blinked and focused on her face again, feeling both silly and strangely bothered. A corner of her mouth had crept up in a shadow of a smile and perfectly shaped eyebrows moved upwards a tiny bit, just enough to make me certain she knew what kind of images I had fashioned in my dirty mind.
Surely she knew, and she didn’t mind.

I took another step toward her. She tensed and flashed a warning sideways glance and shook her head. I quickly shifted my eyes and altered my steps slightly as a man came up to her. Shit. I made it past them as if that was where I had been heading all along. Some guy. He handed her something. I took care not to glance back at them, unnerved and annoyed by the hollow place in my memory where I knew that this woman should reside.
After getting in to the car, thanking all the benign deities for air-conditioning, I watched the woman who had just become my obsession, the man and two little children, the latter three meaning nothing to me. They walked away along the hot pavement, toward the corner of Helen and Aurora, stalked by their skinny afternoon shadows. I had a funny feeling that she straightened up, held herself tall for me. Just me. She knew I was watching. She moved so smoothly, gracefully, despite the two toddlers pulling and jerking her arms this way and that, chattering and demolishing their afternoon treat.
She paid them no mind, simply looked straight ahead. That lady would radiate serenity walking through a war zone. Nothing would move her.

A toddler stumbled, fell on hands and knees, and mashed the ice-cream against pavement. She leaned down, stayed just like that, for just a few moments longer than strictly necessary. I let out a slow breath.
“You did that on purpose.” I made perfectly clear through my teeth as she soothed the child. I watched her move away and gears in my head spun, smoked, glowed bright red from friction. They didn’t move me forward any.

I knew her from somewhere; I just knew. When had I ever been blessed with such company? Now just face it— someone like that would never even glance at me and even if, it would be while elbowing her friend to make sure she wasn’t the only one laughing.
But she had looked at me. Actually looked at me. Smiled even. Some cruel impulse had for a second almost made me talk to her. Why for Gods sake would I do something so stupid? But she had smiled hadn’t she?
I stole a few moments of watching her ass which was tightly fitted in that skirt, the tanned skin of her arms and the perfectly shaped calves and ankles. No doubt, she knew she made an impression in that dress, although I suspected that with such a body she could walk around in a potato sack and still turn heads, harden soft parts and dampen panties. She was just that fucking hot. How could I not look?

In my traitor of a brain, an image materialized— my hand at the back of her knee, slowly sliding it up toward and then slipping under the skirt, finding the place where that tantalizing shade promised both damp hot skin and slick moisture.

I thought about her on the way home. While checking the mail, fixing the hose to the washer, and while pretending to read the TV-guide, she haunted me. I couldn’t place her, and it was driving me up the walls. Around and around, gears grinding, no movement.
Her face, her body, her need. Need? Holy fuck, the only need going around was mine. Don’t kid yourself you retard. She had kids for fucks sake.
And that guy, I couldn’t quite recall what he looked like. Tall, blond? Yeah, whatever. He didn’t belong with her. A flash of hot sharp jealousy burned in me, an irrational rage toward anyone who would dare touch her, and anyone who had ever been with her in all the ways I could only imagine.

“Slut!” I heard my own voice but I didn’t recognize the whiny squeak. I sat still for a moment to gather up what was left of the sensible me. The feeble chuckle that came out when I realized there was precious little to collect was no more recognizable. Idiot. It was no use; the hamster wheel turned again and I was back where I had started. I knew I had to let it go, if not the stubborn fantasies then the idea that it had anything to do with me. That one look. It had been one look and it was driving me out of my mind. This was not the me I knew.

I ate the pizza, because I had to eat. I showered, because that reek of sour sweat kept following me around, so it had to be coming from me. The TV stayed dark, the PC remained cold and quiet.
I couldn’t dislodge her from my mind even for a second. The lingering feeling of recognition kept nagging. It wouldn’t ease.
Nor would my erection.

To be continued….

Continue reading?
Part 2.

Don’t miss the next awkward and silly thing happening on Studio Chaotic!

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Cover image: Sculpture by J K Brennan, photo by D G Brennan.

October 20, 2014October 21, 2014

Phobia – A not so irrational fear Part 2 of 2

Reading Time: 3 minutes

Phobia – A not so irrational fear.

By Jenny K Brennan

Part 2 of 2
– Read Part 1 here.

“Trust me, you little shit!” I said to the bug. I barely recognized my own voice. I drew in air through my nose in short raspy drags as I rraised a heavy boot and drove it down hard. The thing didn’t even twitch before I crushed it and
squeezed its insides from its shell with a sickening wet crackle. White
stringy slime and black flakes appeared around the edge of the boot.
I stepped back, dragging my foot, and scraped the thing off. “If you hadn’t
bothered me, I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

I stared for another moment and walked to the front door, giddy with
delight. I had to tell David. I smiled, threw the door open and rushed out
on the porch. And there I stopped, fought, and failed, to swallow a whimper.

Crawling, turning, shivering, the oily bugs covered every surface. Patio
set, the truck, garden shed, all layered in shiny black beetles. As I
watched, a clump fell from a maple branch, and my bamboo windchime clattered
for the last time, scattering bugs as it crashed to the ground.

“David, where are you?”, I choked on the words and my legs crumbled beneath
me. I turned toward the garage to call again, and I saw him.

He lay just beyond the porch, covered in bugs. Their thick blanket broke up
as I stared; revealing blue cotton, pale skin, a shrivelled limp hand. They
evacuated his body in moments.

“David.”, I tried to say, but it was locked as a scream in my head.

Cold, numb, I somehow found my feet and went to him. As I dropped down
again, all but one creature moved away. It shivered and buzzed madly,
struggling to get free from a thin gold chain that had slipped between hard
shell and flimsy fraying wings, trapping it.

I grabbed it; wrapped my fingers around bug and chain and ripped it loose. I
felt it shudder and crack, before throwing it into the crowd of retreating
bugs, trailed by a sparkle of gold. I released the scream, a horror without
words, in rage without limits. Then, I saw his face and stopped. If I hadn’t,
I never would have. David didn’t like screaming, he was.

Was.

I touched his cold skin. I brushed away his hair and stared at his open
eyes, his slack mouth, waxy white features.

“David.” I whispered. “I killed it, David. I’m not afraid of bugs anymore.”
I looked up from my dead husband, to the house, our house. It was theirs
now.

Thousands, millions of black silent monsters covered every surface. A slow
river of insects poured over doorframe and threshold, taking possession.
That was the final straw. “Evicted am I? You just knock yourselves out you
fucking bastards! Did you forget me? I’m right here!” I screamed. I raged, I
cursed and pleaded until my voice broke.

I lay down beside David and held him, wondering why they wouldn’t come to
take me too, to ease the pain that scraped, clawed, and scratched at me with
its inevitability. “I’m going to wake up soon. Any minute now.”, I told
David as I smoothed out a wrinkle in his shirt.

I pulled my legs up, dragging the heavy boots along the grass, and then I
could smell it. A sharp, sickly bitter scent. It came from the shoes, from
the remains of the one I had crushed. The bastards wouldn’t touch me. I
glared at them, empty of fear. “You fucking cowards!” I sat up and something
eerily like a laugh escaped me, “We’re not having such a great day, are we
honey?” I refused to feel the burning behind my eyelids, and postponed any
recognition of ache.

I eased my feet out of the death-marked work boots, grabbed them both with
my usable hand and threw them. They landed on the porch and bugs nearby
shuffled, jumped, or flew from the scent of death.

In the few seconds remaining, I rolled David onto his back, snuggled close,
pulled his hand on to his chest, and braided our fingers together. I closed
my eyes.

The sharp rustling started, increased, stopped. I knew what they were doing;
they were shifting, preparing, then they would jump.

I waited.

October 19, 2014October 21, 2014

Phobia – a not so irrational fear- Part 1 of 2

Reading Time: 4 minutes

Phobia -A not so irrational fear

By Jenny K Brennan

Part 1 of 2
Go directly to Part 2 here.

“Kate, don’t look.”

But, I had to look. I sat on the floor with the vacuum next to me, poking at
sticky cobwebs in a cupboard with the hose. I needed a break anyways, so I
killed the machine and made the mistake of looking up.

David stood rigid at the sink, an expression on his face I had never seen
before. I turned my gaze to see what he stared at and froze; the insect
above him dominated my narrowing vision. I wished to sink into the floor had
it been possible, would have been very comfortable between floor joists.
Until David took care of it. He always did.

Illuminated in unforgiving clarity by the afternoon light, the bug clung to
the cupboard corner. It was the size and shape of a kiwi cut in half
lengthwise, sleek and oily black. I couldn’t see its legs under its dome of
bisected exoskeleton, and didn’t care to.

Without looking away from it, David reached a hand toward me. I placed the
end of the vacuum hose, a hard plastic pipe, in it. He moved it into
position and nodded. I pushed the button, realizing as the machine started
whining that it simply wouldn’t work. The bug was too big, the pipe too
small.

He poked the insect with it; there was nothing wrong with the suction so it
should have, in the least, trapped the flat black thing on the end of the
pipe.

Its reaction was instantaneous: It convulsed and shivered, whirring fast,
its biological motor in overdrive. It jerked away from the plastic and
jumped. I shrieked. The shell unfolded, sprouted wings, and launched my way-
droning, hissing. I screamed, ducked and dived, scrambled on all fours
behind David and then stood. Shuddering and flaying my arms about my head;
I could do nothing but whimper: “Get it! Get it! Get it off me!”

“Hey, easy, honey.” David’s voice registered only when he put his arms
around me. “It’s not on you! Sweetie, it’s not!” I cowered in his arms, and
opened my eyes, allowing my arms to drop away from my head only when I could
see for myself that it was so.

“Holy fuck!” David breathed and held me tight. He reached down, shut off the
vacuum, and sighed. “I guess I need to take care of that, huh?”

The thing sat silently in the corner, where dry wall met drywall, just above
the wayne-scotting, protected by the shallow ledge, a small shelf filled
with crystal trinkets on one wall, and a framed wedding picture on the
other. “I can’t get it there.” David said. “Not without…”, he trailed off.

I knew what he meant. That was not a bug that could be easily squished in
paper towel, nor flattened with fly swatter. This thing was unreal; it was a
bug from hell. I could still hear the vicious humming; still feel the
displaced air as it swept passed. I took a deep breath and nodded.

“I have spray in the garage. It should work. Kills everything.” I chose not
to hear doubt in his voice.

David understood. Spiders, flies, Daddy longlegs, wasps, earwigs, ants. He
accepted my fears. I loved him for not making fun of me when I panicked, for
his patience. And the terror eventually eased. These days I could clean off
cobwebs, and hear a bumblebee fly about without screaming. I understood
David’s oft repeated words: “If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother
you.”

“Do you want to come?” He mumbled. I stood stock still and shook my head. If
I let it out of my sight, I wouldn’t know if it got away… He nodded. “I
know. I’ll just be a sec, ok?”

I trembled, but allowed him to ease from my grip. “If I don’t bother it.” I
said with more conviction than I felt. “Go.”

He kissed my forehead, let a hand linger on my shoulder, and then stepped
through the doorway to the hall.

I pinned the insect with my eyes, daring it to move, begging it not to.

I listened as David opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The
door closed and I was alone. With that. thing.

I watched it. It still didn’t move.

David’s steps faded. I cursed our decision not to connect the garage to the
house.

The creature shifted, emitted a shrill rustling, and stilled. My heart
hammered, every muscle burned with adrenaline, I was paralyzed by fear.
“David, please hurry.”

It jumped, unfolded its wings, and came at me. I screamed, flung my arm as
I stepped back. A hard thud against my hand silenced its frenzied droning. A
searing pain spread across the top of my hand, but quickly turned numb.
Astonished, I stared at the thing as it sat on the floor like a large black
pimple. I held my arm to my chest and backed away, breathless, as I couldn’t
seem to find air between heartbeats.

Keeping my eyes on it, I reached around the doorframe and grabbed a pair of
boots from a shelf. David’s, big, clunky, bug-crushing work-boots. Just what
I needed. I glanced from boots to bug-too far to throw.

“Now, you just stay right there.” I wheezed. I fumbled, couldn’t seem to
grip the boots, or feel anything below my left wrist. I glanced at my arm
and quickly looked away. There was no time for it now. Fear would have to
wait. I had a job to do. Keeping my eye on the bug, I pulled the boots with
my other hand, and stepped into them.

“Don’t move.” I hissed, taking a step. My left hand grew numb from
fingertips to elbow, skin waxy white. I felt no pain, just an icy tingle.

“This won’t hurt one little bit.” I stepped closer.

Continue reading in Part 2 here.

October 18, 2014October 18, 2014

Reasons not to blog. Motivation drives the message. Here’s why that can get messy. — Intentional blogging 04

Reading Time: 5 minutes

Should you really blog?

There are many bloggers out there and so much great content. It’s huge. Basically, it is a new world and now is the time to be a part of it. The reasons to start a blog and let your voice be part of this global conversation, share your voice and views are numerous. I, for one, do want to take part and create a presence online that matters and that people will find interesting and engaging. Condensed in one simple pitch the message says: Write great content, find an audience, network, and good things will happen.

Yeah, damn right, just do it!

It’s all good and fine and very very tempting. But…

There is a but. A few of them in fact. This is a list of thoughts that should never be a main reason to throw a blog out there. Here are thoughts that, when they pop up in my mind, I stop what I’m doing. Just stop, rewind, and rethink what I’m doing.
because when it comes down to content here’s what I think I know:

Intention, conscious or not, changes the message.

Some articles simply make me feel a bit uneasy. I feel manipulated and sometimes I’m not clear why. It could be that the motivation of the author included one of these statements:

“I’m gonna make me some money!”

I’ll just write some list blog and put ads and links about what I’m talking about. If I put them between that bullet point and that link, and schedule a hundred tweets. Some idiot is going to click that link. What about an old fashioned pop up and a form that won’t go away. I need that email address. and if i place this picture with the product there and force visitors to that page and… Okay, what am I gonna do a list about? Hmm.

Personally, I hate ads. I hate poorly written blogs where ads are intrusive, in your face, and all that junk. A blog listing the five best ways to lose weight in time for Christmas. And there’s that ad for diet pills, miracle foods to boost the metabolism, wondrous exercises that will make you slim in ten minutes.
To be blunt: Pages like that make me sick to my stomach and if I could erase me ever ending up on that page I would. My visit endorsed that garbage just slightly and sometimes I think, like the child I am deep in my heart of hearts:
“I take it back! I’m sorry, I take it back. Please tell me I didn’t just go there. I wish I hadn’t.”

It’s just so obviously fake and manipulative. But I know it works. Crazy as it is, it bloody works. But is it worth it?

In my opinion, making money is a bonus that may end up happening with time. slowly.
If you believe in a product I see no problems with it; I’m not a total purist as far as that goes. A great add thoughtfully placed might get me clicking on it. But an auto generated ad for male enhancement pills injected in the middle of a blog about women’s sexual health is neither.
“I’m gonna be famous!”
I don’t know how to say this; but I will give it a try. 🙂 I would love your opinion on this because my feelings about the “fame” factor online are strangely conflicting and I don’t have room on this page to dissect all of my thoughts. But here is what feels obvious to me:
If content is great, the personality is interesting, the ideas and conversations are world class superb. and if the audience is with you. If there is enough substance in the material to feed that hunger that is all of us watching what you do. Then maybe. Just maybe.

But the thing is, in my opinion, famous today is not the same thing as famous was thirty years ago. True recognition comes slowly but steady if you have what it takes, work hard, and create something that does matter.
I do think that famous is subjective and changes so fast that if the motivation is fame…. It’s not going to happen for the vast majority of us.
“I’m gonna tell those suckers out there that their wrong!”
Picking a fight to get people to respond. Disrespectful, ignorant, and arrogant.
Making a statement is fine and even sharing an opinion that may be controversial to get a conversation going is great. There are things we need to talk about in these complicated times. I think that is a great start. But the key here is conversation. If the assumption is that there is only one opinion that counts is just a terrible starting point.

Make it a question instead of a statement and be open for debate. If you know that nothing will change your opinion, then just leave it in the draft and start over.
“I can say whatever the hell I want. They’ll never know!”
Thinking that the net is still anonymous.
I do hope that we all know by now how untrue that is. There was a time when one could get away with pretend names and hidden identities. It’s not like that any more for good or for bad. The thing is that deception doesn’t work. Whether it’s poor research in a subject or a bold lie about yourself, who you are and what you’ve done or not done it will come back and bite you in the rear. If you can’t be more honest than not, just don’t bother saying anything. It reeks of disrespect and people can smell that stink from miles away.

Motivation colors the message and the audience can tell.

I seem to come back to the same thing in each of these items and that is honesty. Be true to what you say. A blog may be deeply personal or a review of the latest i-device or pure entertainment for fun; it doesn’t matter. What you say matters. How you say it matters. But your motivation matters just as much and if it’s forced, manipulative, confrontational, or simply arrogant, it’s not going to appeal to people.

Great content comes from heart as well as mind.

It may be a niche audience or millions of followers. That makes no difference. What I’m thinking is that fifty subscribers that love what you do is worth so much more than ten thousand twitter followers that just followed a link and did the expected click as a matter of course.

Don’t blog because you are supposed to blog. If it feels like work it’s probably not for you.

Tell your story in your own words and good things will happen.

And finally

Respect your audience even if the audience is just your dog sitting next to you waiting to be fed, your mother, and you.
You know that both your mother and your dog will know when you’re bullshitting, right?

Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think about this. Do you blog? Why did you get started? Have you thought about it forever but it just doesn’t seem to happen? Is there something I should add to this list? Please do tell. Leave your comments.

Jenny K Brennan

October 15, 2014September 27, 2017

Doggy snatchers. A NaNoWriMo winner (Unfinished). Chapter 1 – The unmentionables

Reading Time: 5 minutes

Doggy snatchers

By Jenny K Brennan

Chapter 1 – The unmentionables

Kent street West – Early Saturday

Out of impenetrable dark came a sound, a chitter chatter, as from a thousand rats. It rose and intensified. One chattering voice said. “How’s that? Can you move?” Several seconds of expectant silence passed where not a single rat even dared breathe. An intake of breath, a clearing of a clogged up throat, then a hoarse male voice answered. “Yeah, I can move eh, but I can’t see. These beings need light you know.” A moment of silence was quickly replaced by agitated chatter.

“Oh.” Rustling, tippy tap of small things moving around in haste.

Click.

“Aaaahhh, shit, cut it out. It hurts, the light, it burns!”

Click.

Darkness returned. Titter tatter, hushed chatter. Heavy breathing, and the Canadian voice muttered. “I have to be careful with that. Ok, my lids are shut now. Turn that light on again.”

Click.

He sat in a chair, naked but for a single sock; semitransparent beige crumpled and twisted around the ankle, its mate nowhere in sight. F3212 shivered in the raw, musty air. He was muscular, tattooed from neck to wrists, topped with a head of blond tangles, and proudly displayed innumerable scars on every limb but his penis. It dangled loose over the edge of the chair where he sat slumped. The man, who in the deepest crevices of his mind knew his name was Calvin Roberts, and not F3212, carefully opened his eyes, and squinted at the light, slowly adapted to it.

The big man blinked grit out of his eyes, and found himself looking at the soft wrinkle of flesh between his legs. “What is that?” And then he knew. The body knew, so F3212 knew. He didn’t quite understand it though. It seemed to serve several different purposes, of which one was to reproduce.

Reproduction F3212 understood. In this specific specimen’s patterns of thoughts though, the relationship with the opposite sex, what apparently was called females, or bitches, or babes, or skanks, or any of the names in this body’s library of vocabulary, was more complex than seemed strictly necessary.

And so F3212 probed and found many hidden places in Calvin’s mind. Places that F3212 did not want to go again. Places that not even Calvin wanted to go.

There were so many conflicting emotions, so many strange preferences. Although F3212 suddenly understood Calvin’s need and also shame over his cross dressing, those ideas and images would take long to ponder. Odd, but intriguing.

A slightly fuzzy ball of multicolored light, with fragmented swirls and streaks of black dancing across its diffuse surface, waited for F3212 to acknowledge successful transfer. The little creature, twenty-seventh of his kind, one of only forty-two qualified for human insertion, stood unsteadily on an undeterminable number of pointy stick-like limbs that moved independently to each other. They propelled the creature in little hops and jumps, skips and spins. But it stayed where it was, on the armrest, next to F3212’s left digit… hand. It paused in its pulsating and spoke, tap, tap, tapping its many feet that were not feet. Titter tatter.
“Something amiss? Your… face changes in a way I believe is agitation. Or something called horror. Is it horror this body makes you… feel?”

Calvin, who wasn’t quite Calvin, screwed up his face, opened his mouth wide, probed parts of his body with strange but familiar digits. He closed his lips, pursed them, and drew them back, working the fleshy muscle inside the mouth in experimental flops and contractions. He gurgled, wheezed, ground the teeth, and moaned. He pinched a red protrusion on his front. Nipple, the body advised, and analysis could be considered complete, if not totally satisfactory. “No, it is confusing. This body is so very… so strange.” He stood up, tried his weight on one foot, then the other. He bent his knees, stretched his arms, felt the rough growth on his face. “Functional, if not optimal. It will do.”

He turned to the little flickering light, which if flickering lights could look apprehensive, looked apprehensive as it tic, tic, ticked away with the many feet and leaned a little ways away from the human that was not a human. Calvin’s face changed, became rubbery with shifting sensations and contradicting impulses. A spastic move seemed to shift everything out of true and a shiver traveled through the body. Then it stopped, leaving the human perfectly still.

F3212 saw through the human’s eyes, could speak using the human’s tongue, but the connection to anything beyond Calvin’s natural perception faded. Stunned by a sensation never experienced before, F3212 watched the lights dim a little bit, felt all other senses dull, and lost control of the body. Not for long, just a short slip that shouldn’t have been possible. But long enough to change everything.

Calvin offered a thumbs up and a splitting of the teeth and lips in something that should represent joy. In this particular body however, the sensation that provoked the grimace had a strong leaning toward malice. Wicked happy. That’s what this body was feeling. Rage mixed with satisfaction. So strange.

He spread the fingers of his right hand, fisted them, spread them again but this time he bent the first finger, placed the thumb on the first finger’s nail, moved it to the small maintenance worker that had arranged this particular snatching, and flicked it off the armrest.

The ball of light exploded in a quick white flash and a series of agitated beeps and squeals. Calvin laughed. When B27 landed on the bare concrete floor, it sprang up and tittered off to the open ventilation shaft and turned, stomping its sharpened limbs in fury. “We do not appreciate such attitude, F3212, we will not accept another failure. You know what to do. Just don’t forget. Humans wear clothes. The runaway must be returned. Report here when successful.”

B27 could have saved itself some trouble, because F3212 didn’t hear. The awareness of many had vanished. The thing that couldn’t happen, had just happened. F3212 was alone.

With a final huffing squeal, B27 turned and rapidly disappeared into the dark shaft. It would lead out. A group of lower level operators, flickering in green instead of white, quickly followed the boss and vanished.

Calvin was alone in his basement, where the unmentionables had found him, passed out on a soiled futon mattress. Why he had gone down there to drink himself stupid, not even Calvin the way he was before, and sober, could have answered.

But Calvin was no longer alone in his head, nor was he even remotely sole master of his flesh, bones, or thoughts. He was strong though.
He stood silent for a long while. Fascinated by a wonderfully complicated view of life, new knowledge, novel sensations. He knew what had happened, and he also knew he should curl up and shriek in terror. Most would. Calvin was strong though, and no little brain sucking alien would take him down without a fight. Nothing would suppress Calvin Robert’s urges.

He relaxed back in the chair, letting his curiosity lessen his resistance. Just for the time being. Because really, what the hell did they want?

The thing inside him suddenly knew with painful clarity that they had made yet another mistake. Yet one more bad judgment. Even as The alien regained control over Calvin the human, it realized that these creatures could not be controlled, not for long. The little parasite was revolted and at the same time, intrigued by all the possibilities the new body could offer, and wary of its power.

For now, F3212 was in control. F3212 would find the runaway and bring him home, away from this terrible place.

But F3212 felt something that his borrowed body wasn’t capable of.

F3212 was afraid.