The Times We’re In

Posted on by
Reply

Regardless of your political persuasion, never, ever forget this: The only reason you’re not in an overcrowded holding pen, deprived of enough food and the right to clean yourself is because the government chooses not to put you there. If the government decides, for any reason, to round up you and your kind, then you will be rounded up. You can call it a concentration camp or something nice-sounding, but, regardless, that will be your home. At the moment, it’s undocumented immigrants and asylum seekers. Maybe they’ll stop there. Maybe they won’t. All you can do is hope they’ll stop. Or hope someone stops them.  

This is our reality now. 

Assembly Line of Inspiration

Posted on by
Reply

In February of 2017, I ended my two-year writer’s block by cranking out a story for publication (rejected). I then signed up for a writing contest, and that kept me busy for a while until I got voted out. And then, that spring, I made the conscious decision to write a novel (I add that distinction because I wrote my first novel by accident). When that was done, I wrote another one. And another. I never knew what I was going to write, just that I should sit down and do it. And so, I proceeded to work on short stories and novels constantly through the next two and a third years, rarely missing a day, until the wall I just hit. 

I can’t overstate how many times I’ve finished a chapter and informed a friend, “I have no ideas for the next one,” only to start work on it the next day. This is different. But this is an unfamiliar feeling, thinking about my novel and coming up with absolutely nothing. 

I’m not worried, I will write again. But I am a little unsettled. 

The Best Policy

Posted on by
Reply

I just took a personality test for a potential job. There were sixty questions, and over 20 percent of them were about how much cocaine I used. Not “Do you use cocaine?”; but “How much cocaine do you use?” Which I believe says a lot about the company.‬ 

Lest I forget, the questions about my cocaine usage weren’t the only things from this test. They were concerned about my marijuana, heroin, and meth usage (though not as much as cocaine), and they wanted to know not if, but how many times I’d faked an injury/illness to get out of work, as well as how much money I’ve stolen. I’m feeling profiled. 

Coda

Posted on by
Reply

I’ve written a lot about what happened with Kate over the past six months, and I’m sure you all are tired of it, but here is the final milestone: Today is the day when we go from separated to divorced. The marriage, while having ended in December, is over in the eyes of the law.  

After all this time, it feels like another day to me, so I’m going to continue to search for a full-time job while reporting into my part-time one and try to get back to writing. When the papers come in the mail, I will sign them, and my life will continue on the trajectory it’s been going for the past six months. 

This divorce isn’t 100 percent behind me, though, and considering what I had to go through to get to where I am, it really shouldn’t be. But it’s mostly behind me, and as long as I don’t wallow in it, I’m entitled to mourn, even after all this time. 

To mark the occasion, I changed my relationship status on Facebook. I had the option of “Divorced,” but I chose “Single,”* because I will not be defined by a marriage that was ended without my permission or even knowledge. I’m not the ex-Mr. Kate Schroeder, I’m Jeremiah Murphy, and I like being me. 

* Facebook is extraordinarily helpful when you change your status to single. It offers to block the other person or hide how they can see your current or past posts. It just wants you to feel comfortable. 

Feeling Drafty

Posted on by
Reply

Remember that almost-thirty-year-old book I’ve been working on? I just finished the first draft. Most writers will tell you that their first drafts are garbage and unreadable, but I am not most writers. I happen to think I write exceptional first drafts that need a little tuning up and hammering here and there. So what I wrote is pretty awesome. 

I feel that finishing this book fulfills a dream I’ve had for nearly three decades, and it feels really, really good. 

More Differences in Opinion

Posted on by
Reply

Remember my little rant (I have been ranting a lot these days, sorry) earlier this month about Internet and podcast critics? Today I got something in my inbox that brought me back to it. YouTube, despite being wrong about my taste about 85 percent of the time, sends me videos it thinks I should watch, and it sent me one entitled “The One BIG Problem with Endgame NOBODY Is Talking About.” This title suggested one of two things. One, that nobody’s talking about it because they didn’t know about it, so the filmmakers and producers and studio honchos and all the critics and the gazillions of people who’ve seen this movie so far haven’t noticed it, but our humble Internet critic is the only one smart enough to see through the glitz and excitement to find a BIG FLAW. Or two, that the filmmakers and producers and studio honchos and all the critics and the gazillions of people who’ve seen this movie so far have seen this One BIG Problem but are all keeping quiet about it for reasons, and this humble Internet Critic is the only one who is brave enough to speak out about it. I haven’t watched the video, nor do I intend to, but I do secretly wonder which one it is. 

My guess is two. You may not be aware of this, but there is a small, but vocal contingent of Internet personalities who will do anything to tear Disney down. They hate Disney, maybe because it’s the monopoly empire taking over everything (which is true, and I really shouldn’t let my love of Marvel and Star Wars and Disneyworld cloud my judgement—but I do). Or maybe it’s because Disney is being run by SJWs who are cramming their unnatural philosophy down everybody’s throat. But they’ll do anything to make Disney look bad, which, as it’s the only thing in their power, which consists mostly of posting videos with charts and graphs that prove that Disney’s socially conscious agenda is making it fail financially. It’s not, as Black Panther and Captain Marvel—two of their three biggest targets—making all the money in the world should attest to. That’s okay, they can explain that too—Disney is buying out empty movie theaters to inflate their numbers, never mind how that makes no sense whatsoever.* 

It may be the first one. Maybe there was a flaw that just slipped everyone’s radar, just like the Stormtrooper bonking his head made it all the way into the Special Editions of Star Wars despite it being kind of spectacular. But most likely it’s just a whiny boy with an agenda out to tear down the Evil Empire. I don’t want to know what the BIG Problem is in Endgame. I saw the movie, I really liked it. I had a few issues with it. Now, onto the next movie I’m going to pay money to see in theaters, which is *checks schedule* John Wick. Oh, Ted “Theodore” Logan, what kind of wacky trouble have you gotten into now? 

* Disney doesn’t do this, but you know who does? Right-wing Christian movies. And you know what? It’s okay if you’re a pastor and you think your congregation would enjoy God’s Not Dead 2: The Return of Zombie God (or whatever that movie’s about—I haven’t seen it). But if you’re using this as evidence that the United States is aligning with your notions of a fictional small town, as well as the equally fictional heroes of Duck Dynasty, rallying behind the “traditional” notion of never being in the same room with a woman because it’s quaint and pure, then you’re being disingenuous, and that’s something that Jesus very clearly told you not to be. 

Review from the Top

Posted on by
Reply

Between 2002 and 2004, I wrote these updates on Sunday, sharing the events of my week and sent them out to all my friends. They were action-packed, exuberant (more exuberant than I was most of the time), and bluntly honest about myself. I started them out because I vowed to myself that something interesting would happen to me every week. And it did. 

I saved these into a file on my hard drive that got destroyed when Newcastle sat on it. Luckily I had a hard copy that went into storage, never to be seen again, until now. Because I thought it would be fun to relive my glory days as Jack Murphy (inside joke, don’t ask), I dug it up. 

It was not fun. Jesus. I was not nearly as witty as I gave myself credit for. I am the last person to complain about his past writing—I feel like most of mine holds up, maybe with a polish—but Jesus.  

I feel like someone pulled the rose-colored glasses from my face and dropped them to the floor, smashing them with their boot. 

Time for You

Posted on by
Reply

A question: if someone says, “That’s so nineties,” what does that mean? I think, as someone who came of age during that decade, I have a harder time of categorizing it in broad strokes than someone who didn’t. 

To me, when I think of the nineties, I think of the early part of the decade, when the eighties were hanging on by their dying hands. I think of when gangsta rap was just a toddler, when industrial music was a thing, and when alternative rock was transitioning from an actual alternative to mainstream. Fashion was baggy—so, so baggy—and brightly colored while also being muted at the same time, and people wore Doc Martens to weddings. Cars went abruptly from blocky to streamlined, and I don’t remember anything about the architecture. Right wing talk radio had only just started to infect mainstream political discourse, and everybody thought that was a fad that was going to go away. But when people talk about the nineties, this is not what they’re talking about. 

So what is it? 

Modest Tea

Posted on by
Reply

I’m not a success by any means. I’m only a marginally published author, and I don’t think I’ll be published any more than I already have been. I’m not an artist, not anymore, even after all the work I put into it over the past ten years. I’m divorced and living in the curtained-off living room of a one-bedroom apartment, most of my stuff in storage. I can’t get a job, despite four solid months of looking—though I do have insurance and some work at The Container Store. The Murphy name terminates with me, in that I have no children.  

When my ancestors, who fought and toiled their way through Ireland and Poland to get to the United States and battled in wars and suffered to bring me to being, look at me, will they be disappointed?  

Probably not, because I’m happy. I’ve got a lot to worry about, but I live a good life. I have lived a good life. I’ve seen the world. I lived in one of the most exciting cities on the planet for six years. I’m living in an exciting city now. I’ve met countless people who have enriched my life. I’ve written six novels and am in the home stretch of a seventh. I’ve got a cat who may be the most annoying animal in the world, but he is the most precious thing to me. My roommate is the Queen of Cracking Me Up.  

I know that my ancestors would see that I’m not toiling in a field eighteen hours a day, that I had married for love, that I’m broke but not starving, that my name and my memory will carry on long after I’m dead because of the people I’ve touched—not just because of genetics, that I can turn my dreams into words that live in my hard drive, but may go elsewhere, who knows, I’m not counting anything out. They would see all of this and breathe a sigh of relief. They would be proud. They may not understand things like cafes, but they would be proud that I go to them so frequently and drown myself in my imagination. They would be proud that I made something of myself. That something may not be CEO or bestselling novelist, but it’s enough. It’s all I want*.  

And so, on this, my forty-third birthday, I give myself a slow clap. I did it—I kept it together, despite how hard the world (and my biology) have made it. That calls for some cake. 

_________________________ 

* Well, that and a freaking job. 

Something About a Bullfrog

Posted on by
Reply

One of the advantages of having such an unusual name is that, when I hear someone say “Jeremiah,” I’m 80 percent certain they’re talking to or about me. So I’m trained to react to it like a dog reacts to its own name.  

That’s why I was in a state of such high alert when the lacrosse bros were sitting behind me in the cafe, having a long, detailed conversation about their bro, Jeremiah. I was so tense and unfocused while they were there that I don’t think I wrote more than a paragraph. By the time they wrapped up, I was a wreck, relieved that they and their bro were gone. 

Taking their place were a middle-aged lady and a teenage boy who, based on their conversation, were a church youth leader and a church youth. They talked about, at length, a fellow youth named Jeremiah. Was this this same Jeremiah as bro Jeremiah? It doesn’t matter. I have a repetitive stress injury from my ears perking up every time they heard that name.  

I don’t think I can adequately express the amount of anxiety that hearing my name coming from strangers causes me. That’s why I avoid wearing my name tag at work. It’s been literally years since I’ve heard my name spoken about a person who wasn’t me, so the bombardment gave me a bit of a complex. That’s why I was so relieved to go to work that evening, where people don’t ever use my name, even when they are referring to me.