Centennial Men

Amidst the hustle and bustle of everyday life, we often forget the beauty and significance of human connection. I really miss my old friends, and even though I don't hate this life, I do wish I could go back sometimes. This is about two old friends that Erin overhears at the coffee shop, and it's called Centennial Men.

Centennial Men

A colorful array of empty tables spread across a delightful patio, surrounded by hundreds of empty chairs and a draft that barely touches the nose of this lovely sun-soaked afternoon.

And still, a big and burly grayed man insists on cracking the serenity. No other soul on the horizon, and still, the wool sock and wrangler jean wearing man has the audacity to plop his tuna salad right next goddamn door! Blasphemy!! Millions of tables, and I am the one with a rotting nose as he gnaws slowly at his feast.

Another centennial man limps over and exclaims “I was 71 yesterday, and now I am 72!”

“Oh man, Happy Birthday!” says the tunaman.

“Bob Marley’s birthday too you know”

“You better be damn proud of that one David!”

“February 3rd, 1951, and it’s a birthday present just to see you Dan!”

By now my nose has acquiesced, my anger subsided, and I fall back into my book as the two storytellers catch up in the beautiful afternoon sun, at the table right next to me.

How Feeling Unheard Can Stifle Your Creativity: A Writer's Struggle

Have you ever tried to write, but found yourself too distracted by the world around you? Maybe it's the incessant noise of the city or the chaos of a busy coffee shop. Or maybe, like me, it's the feeling of being unheard that stifles your creativity.

As a writer, I've always found solace in the written word. But when you feel like nobody is listening, it can be hard to find the motivation to put pen to paper. That's why I want to talk about the importance of feeling heard, and how it can impact your writing.

The Struggle of Feeling Unheard

As social creatures, we crave connection and validation from others. When we feel like we're being heard and understood, we experience a sense of belonging and purpose. This feeling of connection is essential to our mental and emotional well-being, and it can have a profound impact on our creativity.

When we feel heard, we're more likely to take risks and share our unique perspectives with the world. We feel more confident in our abilities and are less afraid of criticism or rejection. This, in turn, can lead to more innovative and impactful writing.

Conversely, when we feel unheard or ignored, it's easy to slip into a state of self-doubt and insecurity. We may second-guess our ideas or be afraid to express our true thoughts and feelings. This can lead to writer's block, anxiety, and a general lack of motivation to write.

It's hard to write when you feel like nobody is listening. Whether it's a lack of recognition from your peers or a feeling of disconnection from your audience, the struggle to be heard is a common one for writers.

As writers, we have a unique ability to connect with others through our words. By sharing our experiences and perspectives, we can create a sense of community and belonging. But in order to do so, we must first feel heard and understood ourselves.

Tips for Overcoming the Struggle

1. Find a supportive community: Surround yourself with people who appreciate and value your writing. Join a writing group or attend writing conferences to connect with like-minded individuals.
2. Practice self-care: Take care of your mental and emotional well-being. This can include things like exercise, meditation, and therapy.
3. Take breaks: Don't force yourself to write if you're feeling uninspired or burnt out. Take a break and come back to it when you're feeling more refreshed.
4. Keep writing: Don't let the fear of being unheard stop you from writing. Keep putting your ideas out into the world, even if it feels like nobody is listening.

Page 1

So obviously writing a book that's good is no easy feat. I re-read 90% of what I have written and think to myself "this is absolute dogshit". So I am not sure if I should just keep letting my mind vomit words on a page, or if I should try and create a style and just keep writing until a short 1st draft is done. I spent an hour editing, re-writing, and deleting so much. So as of right now, I have many ideas, and 1 page of writing that I don't hate.

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People who cry in the shower are really fucked up.. I get it though. Sometimes, when I let my mind wander a little too far, I can relate. I pierced my heart and bled soul for 184 pages only to be looking in the mirror at the end of the day a failure. The stillness of silence was suffocating, and I would do anything to have another human being acknowledge my failure. The headline in the news seemed to repeat,  “Tiger Woods beat… to win the… ”. Just once could it be “Erin Dugin’s book Sucks” or “Erin Dugan is a piece of shit, fuck that guy” 

My apartment is marginally bigger than a studio and it claims two bedrooms. Beyond the galley kitchen the furniture is plain, and everything inside is sparse, except for the mini exotic paintings collection that takes an acquired taste to understand. My eyes are fixed on the empty wall behind the medusa sculpture, empty, like the pages on my notebooks. I distract myself with a Time magazine, only to regain consciousness of the fact that I too now work writing shorts about shit I don’t care about. Fake writing as a fake writer. 

After a disastrous spiral of my mental health for the last hour, I unwind through a classic and wake up to Joey from friends blasting in my face.

In the morning I plaster on my bravest face, fortifying my dam to the lake of emotions unsuccessful in stopping the memories from flooding in. The drab, three-story eye-sore that I called home for several years would now just be a memory after this one last encounter. 

I remember being happy here, sitting in my squeaky chair being goofy and sometimes downright strange with my colleagues. But now, as I stand here, looking at the building, I can't help but feel a twinging prick of disappointment for the what could have been thoughts that all old men get when they talk about their ole playin’ days. 

Saving the old timer exaggerations for my grandkids, I do admit I really enjoyed the time at this place. In my office, the journals and stacks of notes haunt me, fools gold feeding me the courage to dream. 

The ignorance was sweet so I tuned to the voices around me as we were saying goodbyes. I felt the sincerity and warmth from the hugs and understood that it’s all business. The severance package was too generous, the company was never the issue, and I take sole responsibility for hemorrhaging fractions of their fantastic streams of gold. Real gold, not fools good.

100 Event Plot Creation

So today I watched a YouTube video about a publisher giving advice on how to write a book. He said to write out a timeline of events you wanted to happen in the book. But I took it one step further. I decided to write out 100 events/important interactions in the story in sequential order. And has filled out so much more than before. I can't say that the plot is any good, or if it will turn out any good. But we'll see. I did make the mistake of writing it all by hand, and typing it out seems like a waste of time. 

I read that the average book was 60,000-100,000 words. At this rate without any editing, this will actually take an eternity. But at the same time I spend 2+ hours on my phone each day, so it's all about how I prioritize my time. I am not giving up by any stretch, I am just struggling to write. 

Not really Struggling Pt 6

In time I will be able to write more than 10 words per minute and have less pauses and disruptions. Hopefully letting go and just writing whatever flows through my head. Practice will help, and feedback does too. But I don't think I'll be getting any feedback on this blog for some time. I convince myself that it's just something for myself, but feedback would be nice even if it was completely negative. Not complaining, I thoroughly enjoy writing by itself whatever medium that may be.

This is a chunk about Erin's house and perspective on houses:

There’s an indelible magic that resonates through the cracks of small homes. The magazines promise beauty, ease, yearning for a dream. A fool wouldn’t accept a bigger house, a nice kitchen island, a room for laundry. But somehow the ease almost makes it all forgettable. My childhood home has a massive wooden dining room table just about blocking the kitchen and was most likely meant for a mansion. And still, the inconvenience warmly pierces my memory forgetting the burden each day of squeezing past for breakfast. We joked that Dad bought it so that Mom wouldn’t eat too much, or if she did she’d be stuck in the kitchen forever. I would say that’s the reason I live in a glorified studio with a broken cuckoo clock and a mirror cobwebbed in the bottom corner. But the truth is I make a fraction more than the Chic Fil A drive through employees and 95% of my hard(kinda) earned money is sent to the old woman in lavishly wrinkling away in the Hawaiian sun. My spending habits are pretty good, I have a policy that I can only use my credit card for “essential items” like pens, journals, and sometimes food. “Non essentials” include the bar, the liquor store, Seven Mile Casino, and donating to the dog shelter no matter how tempting it can be. Just last week I did splurge on a “fair condition” leather recliner that doesn’t really go with the simply empty aesthetic and is bulkier than most small couches. But what really set it apart from the rest in the highly saturated craigslist industry of almost trash was the free shipping. I was not extremely inclined to borrow Matt’s truck for the third week in a row. But look, now I have this awesome recliner with two settings: 1) Leaning back normally, and 2) Feeling like you tried to do a flip on the monkey bars and got stuck.

There’s an indelible magic that resonates through the cracks of small homes. The magazines promise beauty, ease, yearning for a dream. A fool wouldn’t accept a bigger house, a nice kitchen island, a room for laundry. But somehow the ease almost makes it all forgettable. My childhood home has a massive wooden dining room table just about blocking the kitchen and was most likely meant for a mansion. And still, the inconvenience warmly pierces my memory forgetting the burden each day of squeezing past for breakfast. We joked that Dad bought it so that Mom wouldn’t eat too much, or if she did she’d be stuck in the kitchen forever.

Struggling to Scribble Day 5

I put my phone to the side, plugged in some wired earbuds to the computer, and took a new approach to story creation; a legal notepad & pen.

I dreamed up an entire plotline, created several characters, and events that I want to happen in locations on a timeline. I just wrote for like two hours so forgive me for not feeling like typing out anything more at the moment. I will develop the scenes and share them as they come to fruition, but for now you'll have to wait. Plus, why would I want to give the whole story away in one big summary, that'd be lame.

But here's a little piece of creative writing (not book related) that's just for jokes: 

The words oftentimes twirl me around or strum me as a fiddle, though the partner I seek I seem to never find. As I have learned, its best to only wait patiently for their return, as unexplainable as the summer breeze. My only wish is to catch the firefly and poke a hole in the jar, letting luminescence guide my hand, taking partner to my heart.

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