I am a frustrated writer. It’s the kind of low-level irritation that, if it were an audio frequency, would be carried for miles and miles by the perfectly configured woofer; it’s that bass frequency that you can hear from across the continent.

Here’s my frustration:

As a writer, I can churn out stories relatively easily (given the right circumstances and the presence of the Muse – more on her later). A fortnight ago I wrote 10,000 words in 3 days, which is pretty good given a book is on average 80-100,000. The muse was with me that night. She’s hanging around nearby but I’ve yet to get her attention; she’s a bit drunk on what looks like a quart of absinthe… yes, Absinthe, she just swigged the bottle and giggled, the bitch.

What I find irritating is that there seems only to be one way to get work “public” – to rely on publishing companies that are inundated with manuscripts, or to try to find a magazine that has a gap or likes your work.

I’ve whined about this issue to friends: artists have the option of galleries (and I’m not talking the major ones as they’re the equivalent of the publishing companies). Art is something you can look at, regard, like or dislike in a community setting. There are many different open galleries that can exhibit your work.

Musicians have a similar way of getting work out there. My fabulous housemate is at an open-mike night in Northcote tonight (I’d be there too if it wasn’t that I finished work only about an hour ago and was ravenous to the point of tears. Not going into that at present). A musician can stand on a street corner and strum. If I stand on a street corner and start reading, odds-on I’ll be heckled as a religious nut. Could be amusing though.

I’m aware this could be sounding like sour grapes. It’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to.

A writer is, by definition, a lonely person, slaving over a hot processor creating work of potential genius… for… what? Sure, we can submit work to competitions. We can try and get things published, but there appears to be no way to cut out the middleman and just perform the work in some way, get it out for general consumption without involving the money-men and what’s “likely to sell”. Publishing is, after all, a business.

Am I wrong? Have I missed something?

I just can’t find anything. Writers groups have meetings and chat about their work. It’s a community, sure, and by joining one I get a stack of magazines I’m not interested in, cheap courses that I don’t want to do, the right to go along to meetings (which is nice) and I can even get, in some cases, a professional assessment of my manuscript (for a few hundred dollars that I don’t have. I’m a penniless writer as well as a frustrated one). It’s like when I joined the Australian Society of Technical Writers; what did it get me? A place on a mailing list and nothing else in particular. I’m thinking in purely selfish terms here, I’m aware: the society is great for many people, as are writers groups. But I know (pretty much) how to write, and throughout my life — regardless of courses on offer, being told I should read a great big book cover-to-cover — I’ve learned how to do things by simply DOING them: Practice Makes Perfect. I’m simply not interested in courses on writing, in someone standing at the front of the room telling me “this is what makes a story good” and “this is what makes it bad”. I’m not for formula, I’m for innovation through experimentation. And I know this won’t necessarily make me a bucket of money, either. I’m in it for the enjoyment of the writing; I’m in it to see where the muse takes me.

So what’s the answer?

It’s looking increasingly like I have to get off my arse and just do something myself. Have duplex printer, will produce zines. The magazine I produced with good friends back in 2004-5 worked to a degree. The magazines certainly disappeared from their spots in cafes. And I even managed to sell some. Perhaps that’s the short-term answer to my bleating: take it to the people.

Opinions greatfully accepted at this point. Me, I’m going to eat my rapidly cooling dinner. Au Revoir.

I have a specific reaction to stress: itchy knuckles.

Contrary to the suppositions of people I used to know, this does not mean I need to hit something and that I have a lot of repressed anger (‘The teachers on Minbar said I had a lot of repressed anger.’/'And now?’/'It’s not repressed any more.’).

What it means is that I’m stressed. And this means I break-out in little milimeter wide lumps which, like mosquito bites, are itchy and need to be scratched, which results in cracked and incredibly dry skin.

The solution is that I need to work-out how I’ve gotten so stressed.

Exhibit A

Oh, the work I did last week. What a complete disaster.

Contrary to already established intent, I did not have Monday as a writing day, work 3 days, and have Friday as a writing day. No, what happened was that I got stressed about a job I had to do on Tuesday and did some of it on Monday. This irritated me no end, but I still did it. Then on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and — dammit — Friday, I worked. I worked Friday because I had a client meeting presenting a website and copywriting I’d done.

But, I thought, I’ll take most of the next week off.

I was supposed to write on Monday this week, but didn’t. Why? Because I thought that having four days straight of writing would be better than one day, then a work day, then 3 days.

I was wrong.

This week is proof that I have slipped back into work stress. And it’s really showing.

Exhibit B

My lovely housemate “C” has moved out. This meant much of last week, and all weekend was really taken up with moving which, as wiser people than I have pointed-out, is one of the most stressful activities a person can do to themselves. This, presumably, is why god invented moving companies who do it all for you.

My lovely new housemate, “E” is in now, and we’ve added a few pieces of furniture to her room. She’s really great, but as I say, the moving experience of others has probably rubbed off onto me, resulting in itchy knuckles.

Exhibit C

For reasons I have yet to ascertain, I am storing and holding my body up with my shoulders again. This is, frankly, a near impossible feat, but still I do it.

Ultimately, I have slipped back into old habits. It could be because I relate to the desk in my room, set-up pretty ergonomically, as a “workplace” rather than a “computer place”. This being the case, I write on the computer in awkward positions, on the lovely little table in my room — designed for eating off, not typing on — and the table in the back yard, similarly designed. I also have — until recently (when I realised I was going through $20 a day in cakes and pots of tea) been using the tables in nearby cafes to write the splendorous stories to which many have become enthralled on the daisydonnie site. Again, the height of the tables — designed for the consumption of foody goodness, is not ideal for typing out prose of any nature, unless you’re taller than I. So my shoulders unconsciously (well, they’re not conscious of course) rise so I don’t get RSI of the wrist.

Of course the rising of the shoulders means the stress of the rising is stored in said shoulders and thus I become stressed.

And my back hurts.

Solutions

Well, as exhibit A proves, I should bloody well stick to what I said I was going to do (and really enjoyed) and do Monday and Friday for writing, and tuesday to thursday for work.

End of story. No negotiation. No exceptions. Just Bloody Do This!

Exhibit B will sort itself out. The lovely “C” has gone to her new home, and I really hope she loves it there. The wonderful “E” is here, and we’re getting along really well. This is good. No more stress there.

Exhibit C is rather simple: I just need to build a bloody bridge and get the fuck over it.

See how writing sorts my problems out!

I’m working quite hard on another blog at the moment. It’s nothing personal.

The blog, called daisydonnie, is for my book, “The grand adventures of Daisy Donnie”, as the former 20 or so posts attest. I’ve got ping somethingorother working to distrobute links here, there and everywhere.

I didn’t realise it was *just* a link though on this site. Mia Culpa.

But now I’m back, I’m intending to stay a while, and will start updating the blog on at least a weekly basis (time permitting).

The issue over the last few months has really been one of general contentedness. It’s hard getting pissed off with your employer and the work when you’re the boss and you get to choose the jobs you take.

I have had some minor annoyances lately, one with a client who just kept asking for more, due to a different interpretation of the quote I gave him. Won’t make that mistake again.

And then there was the sudden realisation — I think last Tuesday — when I realised that *again* I wasn’t making any headway with my writing; the ultimate reason I now work for myself. However, this was soon solved by my decision to take two days out of the working week for writing, editing and working on the Daisy Donnie blog, and the other three for “work” work. I’ve got enough work to justify this level of commitment, and while at this point, Daisy Donnie isn’t paying me anything, it will long-term.

So, I hope you will give the site a visit and (hopefully) enjoy the stories on some level.

Click to visit The grand adventures of Daisy Donnie – indie/alternative online fiction with a twist of quantum!

Holy crap.

In answer to the question “should I do the testimonial”, I got the following card on the osho zen tarot site…

33. Fighting

Commentary:

The figure in this card is completely covered in armor. Only his glare of rage is visible, and the whites of the knuckles on his clenched fists. If you look closely at the armor, you can see it’s covered with buttons, ready to detonate if anybody so much as brushes up against them. In the background we see the shadowy movie that plays in this man’s mind – two figures fighting for a castle.

An explosive temper or a smoldering rage often masks a deep feeling of pain. We think that if we frighten people away, we can avoid being hurt even more. In fact, just the opposite is the case. By covering our wounds with armor we are preventing them from being healed. By lashing out at others we keep ourselves from getting the love and nourishment we need.

If this description seems to fit you, it’s time to stop fighting. There is so much love available to you if you just let it in. Start by forgiving yourself: you’re worth it.

My horoscope said there would be more change between now and December. My initial reaction was “bloody hell, not more, howsabout some quiet time for me to regroup”… but then, as my housemate commented “not all change is negative”.

She’s a deep one.

How to begin?

At the beginning?

I’m at the other end of an experience where my sense of self was questioned. But it was an aspect of myself; that I am a writer.

A series of statements were made about a piece of writing I’d done. What was perceived by the other person as simple questions and statements, criticism and banter was taken by me as an attack because of the manner and approach. I reacted to the words that were said, took them to heart… and things went downhill for a while.

The event is over now; apologies made, no ill meant… but I’m still interested in the way I reacted. 

It began as feeling uncomfortable and escalated into horrible depression (sort-of a contradiction in terms of course as depression is felt to be down and escalation is more of an up-word), terrible sadness… my confidence disappeared, I felt like I had been stripped bare.

Uncomfortable doesn’t even come close.

And now I find myself feeling uncomfortable once more.

I’m sitting here watching an episode of The Prisoner, called Schizoid Man.

In summary, it’s where The Prisoner — number 6 — is brainwashed into thinking he’s another person. This new person — number 12 — is to put “number 6″ (the real replacement) off-balance and replace him. The story revolves around identity, an identity which the man who is labelled number 6 has resisted since he was kidnapped.

Long story short, I find much of this episode unnerving. As I do with anything I see or watch that revolves around identity and having it removed, ignored or forcibly changed.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve had such a difficult time with identity for much of my life, I find any challenge to the person I define myself as very difficult to bear.

I define myself as a writer; professionally-so for 10 years, personally for longer. It’s the one part of myself that’s remained clearly defined in my own head for the longest time. Other than my gender of course — but that’s another story that I’m unwilling to speak of (the reasons will become apparent one day).

But I think the whole “I am a writer” has become the overriding identity, simply because it’s remained consistent.The gender stuff… well, those that know me will know that it’s not that simple.

So when my identity, my writing which I identify myself with so much, is challenged, I…

Well, looking back, the reaction was much the same of the ill-fated Prisoner. I was off-balance, my sense of self and my identity questioned, it set my mind off like dominoes falling, one knocking into the other.

Who was I? Why wasn’t my friend accepting what I was saying. This IS me…

…isn’t it?

Identity is a funny thing. I can define myself as “A” or “B” or even “C” (sorry, another obtuse The Prisoner reference) but am I really any of these things?

Personality, like so many other things, is a continuum; changeable given the right circumstances. This leads perhaps to the question: “who am I not?”

Not even a good question unfortunately. At this point, I can no more define myself that way as I can in the more obvious.

The ultimate question then:”Who am I?”

And I don’t think I’ve ever known that.

I’ve tried defining myself as a gender, but that’s not worked. I am that gender, but it’s only one dimension. I define myself as a writer, but that’s a passtime, a job, a love.

A good person? Well, mostly. No, that’s not fair to myself. I have moments of instability, but then don’t we all?

I aspire to better myself. Now I’m quoting Star Trek.

A geek? Well, I use technology to achieve aims and goals… and it interests me to be sure.

A vegetarian then?

No, defining yourself by what you do or don’t eat is as pointless as the rest.

A happy person? Bland but true. Mostly. Unless my identity is challenged.

But seeing as I’ve now identified that I don’t know what my identity is, can my identity can ever really be challenged?

It’s a circular argument, with no beginning and end; a moebius loop of black nylon, stretching and twisting but never going anywhere. It can no more be challenged than a flickering flame can be extinguished by a glance. It is but what it is is not defineable. I think therefore I am.

And where does that leave me?

It’s kind of odd now I’ve identified the underlying issue, and I realise now that perhaps not knowing who I am gives me the very freedom I’ve craved my whole life.

I don’t have to be what you want me to be. I don’t have to be what society wants me to be. I don’t have to be what work or play or custom make everyone else. I am fluid and can be whatever I need to be depending on the moment.

There are two things to be careful of mind you: first that I don’t just change myself and my mind to suit others or circumstance, and second, that if my awareness of this slips — if I forget — then I may land where I did with my friend: fixated on a single aspect of myself which is being questioned.

As with everything though, awareness is the key.

Things to do for next version:

1. Assess and clear the database of excess learned behaviours implemented to please other people. The database is nearing collapse and the energy needed to remember all these things is causing issues in other areas.

2. Get a social life. Working from home is making me even more of a hermit than I was.

3. Eat properly. Not chewing, what I put IN to chew.

4. Get to POL.

5. Allow other emotions time in the air.

6. Allow myself to stop.

7. Create my own positive personal and financial reality.

Oh yeah, another point of irritation: the Airport card in the MiniMac turned up its feet and died on Sunday.

On calling the supplier I was informed that the mac was still in warranty — good — and that there was a 7 day wait before the service dept could get to look at it — bad.

Means I’ve got do to Yet Another Fucking User Transfer onto the laptop. Thankfully I’ve got the big screen now and so can plug it into the laptop…

The bonus here is that I can find out if it’s the screen or the logic-board that’s busted on the laptop, which has left me with an odd pink vertical line about two thirds to the right of the screen.

This line will apparently cost me a fortnight’s pay to get fixed, which apparently is pointless as it’s the same cost as the mid-level MacBook.

So, I’m keeping the data backed-up and will run it into the ground… figuratively-speaking that is… until it finally turns up its toes and dies and I can justify a replacement.

I saw one of the OLPC machines riding home last week and thought they were pretty neat, especially since I only use a laptop for email and pushing out new stories (albeit infrequently these days) and a big honking great mac, while pretty and drool-worthy, is total overkill for that sort of job.

Oh yeah, two other things which might be getting on my goat are lack of sleep and some arsehole reversing every hour last night.

The reversing began at around 10.30. And it kept going… then stopped… and started again… and stopped… and started again…

BeeeBeeeBeeeBeeeBeeeBeeeBeee…Beee…BeeeBeeeBeee…Beee…

Silence…

Silence…

Nodding-off…

Beee…BeeeBEEEBEEEBEEEbeeeBeeeBeee…Beee…Beee…

Silence…

…etcetera

Sleep was affected by this. But it was also affected by my mindset and thrashing around internally over a bunch of stuff which won’t be discussed in this blog.

My sleep was also affected by next door neighbours having an argument this morning. Must have been about 6am when I heard a woman yelling on the street, an argument, a slam of a door, then as I began to drift off again, a heart-rending guttral screeching sound.

Very off-putting.

And since I was wide-frigging-awake, there wasn’t much else I could do but lie there wondering what to do next.

This question was answered by R who texted me asking if I’d like to ride to work with her.

Award for the biggest dipshit has to go to a mutual friends boyfriend who — after about 7 or 8 years with the friend K, an affair and a fucking obsession (read it twice, you’ll get it), has announced that he now wants to end the relationship in favour of taking lots of drugs and shagging anything with two legs and the right bodily orifices.

How old is he, was my first reaction.

R agreed.

He should have gotten that out of his system in his twenties for fucks sake.

Honestly, there’s no accounting for brain power, especially when we’re talking about the effects of hormones.

What a knucklehead.

Bleh.

It’s been an annoying and underwhelming week. I don’t know if I can lay it all at the feet of the new moon which is chucking all sorts of amusing energies around the place, a case of partial malnutrition due to a lack of money (and — obviously — food), a terrible spot to sit at work (right beside a major highway), the weird weather (last week, freaking freezing, this week, mid twenties), the constant chatter of geeks around me getting on my goat, Sysadmin buggering around with my computer or Microsoft products.

I’ll take the twin powdery lines of least resistance.

Last week we had the “new product launch” thing here at work, and my desktop image was hijacked by Sysadmin. Their reasoning was that Marketing should have checked it with everyone, but all I found was that it was irritating to have something changed on me without telling me, and — goddamn it — I don’t like being advertised at.

So I trolled the interweb for a hack, and managed to get into my own registry (as it had been disabled by the aforementioned twonks in Sysadmin) and dug through layer-upon-layer of MS contortionistic bollocks until I found the particular key; which I changed.

I had to keep changing it daily because those wacky Sysadmin guys had worked out that the easiest way to piss me off was to push updates through to the computer when no-one was looking.

Fortunately, they weren’t able to stick advertising on my desktop, as — thanks to the help of a co-worker — I’d disabled sysadmin access to the folder on the local computer which acted as suppository for said marketing crap.

But that, unfortunately, isn’t what’s annoying me.

Today I had to fight with a WindoZe 2003 Server. That was fun.

It’s hosting the TWiki instance which I’m working with, madly converting existing and creating new user documents for the happy little proles in the call-centers. I don’t know if they’re happy, I’m making that part up. They could be mad as a dozen jihadists on a party line; they could be as nutty as a conkertree, what do I know?

Anyway, I was finding the computer was running morbidly slow.. the sort of slow that indicates something is about to go “ping” within the black svelte Dell — Hell — plastic box. So I wandered over to it…

…I haven’t said that I dont’ work ON the server physically. I link to it through a web connection and through a Run window if necessary to do Jiggery-Pokery…

… and found there was no keyboard or mouse.

Fucking thieves.

So I tromped downstairs, found the guy who has a box full of keyboards and mice and asked if I could get one of each, please.

These items of dross thus obtained, I returned and plugged them into the server machine, to be greeted with two messages asking if it was okay to restart the computer because new software had been installed.

I restarted.

Then, while the Dual processors churned away happily, with all the expertise of a cheesemaker in a particularly well lit barn, and the dulcet tones of another worker’s music trilled away happily in his absence (what’s wrong with bloody headphones? What IS it with people?!), I waited for the machine to restart.

So I got in, and the frigging change password message came on.

Now, there’s a lot of things which are irritating and boring, and one of them is this sodding message.

Your password will expire in 14 days. Do you want to change it now

Fourteen fucking days? Half a bleeding month? What the F*ck is that all about.

Oh, again, it’s the wacky fun-loving guys in Sysadmin having fun with everyone.

No, I said, and clicked the appropriate button; then waited for another few minutes while the rest of the system updates were finished off.

If I’d had any money, I’d have wandered off and had a crafty Chai. Not the stuff downstairs, which is like drinking hot water mixed with a quarter cup of sugar and a pinch of cinnamon; what’s THAT all about?! No, I’d have walked a couple of blocks to where i can get a decent cup of — albeit pre-brewed in a bottle – chai.

Perhaps that’s one of the things bugging me. No, not the bloody chai. The money. Probably. Comes from being constantly whacked over the head with “you need money” from my father for twenty fucking years… my brother believed him and got money obsessed, I took the other route which occasionally leaves me in the shit, but on the whole removes the whole fear-factor of financial ruin. I’ve been penniless in France and Australia; it’s hard but I’ve worked through things like that, as I’m working through them now.

So the computer started up again, and I tried out the wiki… except it took Freaking Ages To Load. Even got a warning message saying “a script is taking longer to load than expected, do you want to abort”.

No, I don’t. I want to get to the bottom of why this Server with not one but TWO processors is grinding to a halt like it’s been dipped in a bath of Golden Syrup.

There’s a funny memory – I used to eat Golden Syrup on bread as a kid.

No bloody wonder I can’t handle sugar now.

I started uninstalling things; Google Desktop was the first. That was an utter bag of powdered offal if ever I saw one. When I was running it on twin displays it crapped-out like it was the victim of a dozen cases of salmonella.

I progressed to windows components that weren’t useful; easy done and happy to remove them. I had to restrain myself with my desire to frag the whole OS; unfortunately I don’t know enough about Linux to install it, and would have had to spend a couple of days reinstalling TWiki.

And I restarted.

No, I Don’t Want To Fucking Change My Password.

Churn…churn…churn…

Right, up it comes again.

Silly me, let’s try it in Internet Exploder.

A message came up talking about PHishing and whether I’d like to enable or disable the filter, or be asked again next time until I caved-in and did what the heathen gods at Redmond want me to do. Never!

Only I couldn’t do anything. That’s because the damn thing had locked-up. IE, already low in the opinion scales, in the same way that chewing my own elbows off is, had disappointed again.

I killed the process and tried again.

And killed the process after chucking the mouse at the screen, while uttering “fucking Microsoft Crap”.

I tried again in Firefox, and got the same error (the one about the script).

I tried the defrag…but it conked-out at 3% and didn’t move again — even though there’s hardly anything on the bloody computer.

I think it’s going to kark it. I should get it changed-over.

*sigh*

What else is irritating me? Could be a conversation I had with a friend yesterday… could be emails from over the weekend…

Could be I need something to eat. I’m down to Very Fucking Little at home, but thankfully am being paid tomorrow. This means there will be much rejoicing and a big breakfast out to reward myself for my hard yards in the malnutrition department.

I might even do a Bikram class; I’ve been too shagged this week to do one… especially after the hardcore coding I did over the weekend.

But you’re a writer I hear you say… go on, you can do it.

Yes, comes the answer… but I’m branching out for the sake of my sanity into other areas: web design and pinching other people’s CSS and Javascript to name but three.

And seeing as the first time I actually used JavaScript was in the wiki at work about a week and a half ago, the things I’ve achieved in the site I’m putting together are nothing short of Bleeding Miraculous.

However, the site isn’t quite right yet, and lacking the years of experience in web design that most people who happily use that moniker share, I have catching up to do.

Doing my best is sometimes all I can do… but again, I am tripped up by the vampiric hordes of Redmond with their twin abominations, Internet Explorer 6 and Internet Explorer 7.

Render a website one of you.

Why won’t you do it properly.

You are doing it properly?

How come your distant cousin Firefox, and the grrl down the street Safari can do this.

Oh, it’s because you’re the mutant offspring of your ex CEO and new CEO.

And you try, and I understand that you do… the issue I have is that your creators can actually fix you both up, and refuse to do so, that’s what I find so awful.

Really.

Can someone explain to me why IE6 and IE7 can’t be patched to render pages in Exactly the same way as every other damn browser on the market?

Is it some kind of perverted weird-arse Holier-than-thou, we’re-bigger-than-anyone, 90% market-share arrogance of their cross-eyed knucklehead management?

Someone? Anyone?