...nothing.

My brother's Christmastime blog really deserves to be read. It says much more than I could say right now:

http://www.confusednation.com/

...everyday?

Write everyday.

I'm trying!

...again.

I haven't written anything since May 21^st.

When I say I haven't written “anything,” I mostly mean fiction, although obviously I haven't posted any blogs. Of course there have been academic articles aplenty, various class discussions on magazine journalism and essays on Shakespeare. I've put my signature down on some new paperwork, but I'm not quite sure if that counts.

Meanwhile I've half-heartedly fulfilled my resolution to “do more” this summer. Between my fantastic trip to Houston, multiple trips to Panama City Beach (which both rank well in my book), signing off on a new apartment, summer classes, and entertaining various guests, I've kept fairly busy. Many friends will soon be joining me in Orlando and frankly I'm giddy.

But this is brentWRITES. Where's the writing?

I think I may have found it. Somewhere between the lethargy and wackiness of my everyday life, it's there. I've been meaning to do this for awhile, but it just hasn't been in the cards. No, I haven't been effectively following Stephen King's four-to-six-hour rule. Sorry, Mr. King. I'll try harder.

Let's talk fiction.

Writing fiction, whether or not you ever hope to publish it, can be quite bewildering. For example, 110 pages and 30,000+ words is probably a poor time to realize that a story would probably work better in present rather than past-tense. Freewriting proves to be very effective on some days, on others I'm scribbling notes and outlines. New ideas are aplenty. Good, fresh ideas that are worth fleshing out are somewhat harder to come by.

Every time I polish something for potential publication, I'm quickly reminded of why I haven't submitted anything in many, many months. Because what's the point of precious “publication” when it feels like every other fiction blog and “literary journal”I find publishes little more than vulgar, minimalist depictions of one-night stands where the protagonist is chain-smoking electric cigarettes and lamenting how much they hate their parents, all the while the music of (insert trendy band here) plays in the background.

The good stuff exists, though. I've seen it. No, our generation of young writers hasn't been completely dismantled by awful, one-trick-pony shock authors. There's hope.

If nothing, the poor fiction I see floating around has managed to influence my editing ambitions. At this point I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with my own fiction, as it's been fairly all over the place lately. Some projects need tending to, and others perhaps simply need to be dropped altogether.

And with that, you know that I'm still alive and writing. Ideas for new blogs are indeed brewing.

Until then, be well.

...or not.

I promise once the semester is over I'll be full of juicy stories and insight. Until then I'm being pummeled by papers and experiencing the pleasure of the same old "end of semester workload" that everyone ends up accumulating.

...nothing today.

I've been busy.

Someday, though.

...a rant (of sorts)

I have a slew of topics I'd like to discuss (the criticism of criticism, the unwarranted hatred of Shakespeare, the evolution of children's films, the paradox of English studies) but since it's Monday I'll try to keep it light.

More overdone than that bad batch of cookies, it's a rant concerning “social networking” sites. I always found humor in giving such a fancy title to sites that are often riddled with glitter graphics and the latest YouTube video of some guy blowing himself with firecrackers. Well, okay, that's more targeted towards Myspace rather than Facebook. Actually, I don't have much of a problem with Facebook.

See, I don't want to say this is “a rant about Myspace” because we've all seen far too many of those, although they're often poorly written and hypocritical. Poorly written because Myspace breeds a sort of disregard for the English language, and hypocritical because nine times out of ten the people complaining about it are guilty of whatever hellfire and brimstone they're preaching.

This is more-so about the “facade” of one's Myspace.

Sure, I'll use myself as an example.

As you can see, I'm a pretty big tool. I'm fairly “in-your-face” about the whole “I'm an English major” thing. I've got all of my fancy quotes from dead (and living) guys, my neat picture of Bret Easton Ellis, my little biography thing. I have Patrick Bateman in my top friends. I've got my English major glasses on. I also have my cleverly placed “Slurms McKenzie” in my heroes to add a bit of zest and humor.

Although I more or less say what I mean and mean what I say on my fancy page, I acknowledge that I could come off as a pretentious dude. That's fine and I can accept that.

But more or less, there's no cryptic bullshit. It's all there in black and white. I don't do much, live with my girlfriend, go to UCF, major in English, write, play instruments. It's all on the table. No attempts to impress you or try to be “personal” or “deep.” All of that mumbo jumbo is saved for the blogs where it's coherent and not in the form of a clever list.

See, that's what I hate (strong word) more than anything about Myspace and the facades that people attempt to create.

Here's am example of the sort of biography I see constantly that boils my blood.:

-Outspoken

-I have the best friends in the world. If you mess with them I'll slit your throat :-)

-I live my life and don't let anyone stand in my way

-Menthols = <3

-Don't push your beliefs on me

-You don't want to meet me

Maybe it shouldn't irritate me as much as it does. I don't know. This is where the whole “lists are the laziest form of writing” thing holds water. This isn't an exaggeration, either. I've seen such things or variations of them many a-time.

I don't understand this facade. What's even more boggling is that people seem to cling to it.

In keeping up with the theme of my own Myspace and blog, I'll do the proper “English” thing and analyze it, line by line.

“Outspoken”

Response: Outspoken, but only on the Internet. Engaging in actual conversation results in a sort of “deer in the headlights” response.

“I have the best friends in the world. If you mess with them I'll slit your throat :-)”

Response: The first sentence, fine. The second? Insecure, sure, although it does coincide with the whole “outspoken” thing.

“I live my life and don't let anyone stand in my way”

Response: I live my life also. I affirm this by checking my pulse every now and then.

“Menthols = <3”>

Response: Congratulations, you're fifteen and you smoke. I'd give you a medal but then I'd have to give one to every underage smoker. I'm afraid, though, making umpteen million medals exceeds our budget.

“Don't push your beliefs on me”

Response: Great. Now what am I going to do with all of these copies of the Bible, Book of Mormon, The Watchtower, Dianetics, and the Qur'an I have lying around the apartment?

“You don't want to meet me”

Response: Congratulations. This affirms everything else I've read. Points for “tying it all together.”

I don't get it.

“People are just stupid, Brent" or "They're just kids and they'll grow up."

Yeah, yeah. I know. I would just love to know where we can find the source and unplug it, destroy it, whatever.

Finally, here's a quote from me, circa the beginning of last semester. It was written as part of a blog project in one of my classes. This particular post had to do with the “modern student” and the adverse effects of the Internet. I just found it relevant:

“Here's the truth: the Internet has fried my attention span.

For example, I'll have the honest intention of studying for five hours and put aside the time for it and everything. But then I realize four and a half hours later that I've done absolutely nothing and gracing my computer's screen to mock me is a blank Word document and the Wikipedia for "Waffle House" (or something equally pointless). I have no issues paying attention in class, but I believe that there is truth to the Internet having a mind numbing effect that plants itself in our heads during our youth.

It seems that as the years go by the quality of how we spend our time online only gets worse. When we were younger people used chat rooms more often and instant messengers to have at least somewhat intelligent conversations. As years went by we began to use Livejournals, Blurtys, and Xangas as somewhere to rant or vent, whether it was coherent or not. Then slowly it all disintegrated into Myspace, where the blogging aspect slowly became less important, and the bulk of importance was placed in commenting each other's pictures and profiles. It's strange how the trends go, and it seems as if this will have quite an effect on the students entering higher education in years to come. I'm guilty as charged for being part of the sites listed above. I am not holier than thou. “

-a slightly younger Brent Barnhart, August 29^th 2008

...on selling out (but mostly lord of the strings)

When I was a wee eighth grader I had the fairly common dream of growing up to be a musician. I carried this dream with me throughout several musical projects and prospects, including but not limited to The Concept, Dustbunny, Lightspeed Academy (as you can see its Myspace has become a sort of playground), and of course, Lord of the Strings.

Lord of the Strings was great because we were playing in a genre of music that didn't really care if you were good or bad. Therefore we were able to prosper.

However, my experience in LoTS gave me some insight in the subject of this post.

“Selling out.”

For those of you not familiar with Lord of the Strings, I'll be brief. In the midst of the hiatus of our “real” band, a friend and I decided to delve into the world of “Wizard Rock,” which was basically a genre of music dedicated to Harry Potter. We wrote our songs in about 15 minutes, recorded them on a computer microphone, and put them online. Slowly but surely we somehow gained a fanbase and played a number of Open Mic nights in which we were the main attraction. Okay, that sounds a bit self indulgent. But honestly, for a month or two we were a pretty big deal. I mean, I signed my first and only autograph. And for any good ol' fans from the Corner who may or may not be reading this, I thank you.

Ben and I had a pretty decent fanbase going with between the Internet and “real life.” It was quite humbling, especially since we were basically just goofing around. After a while, though, we hit a wall. Our number of fans (this is measured in Myspace friends, lame but that's how it goes) leveled off and it seemed that interest was waning. We attempted to analyze the success of other Wizard Rock bands and then assessed ourselves. Musically, we had a good number of them topped. Our lyrics were clever, our melodies were catchy, and Ben was our teenage heartthrob. Where were we going wrong?

And then the dark side of Wizard Rock reared its ugly head.

When you think about the “dark side” of the music business, you usually think of mountains of cocaine and people spraying their fans' blood on the wall and stuff. This, unfortunately, wasn't the case.

There was quite a bit of politicking within Wizard Rock, and we realized that we weren't playing ball. We didn't spout the whole “we're teaching kids how to read” business or the bleeding heart “fight evil” stuff. We were playing music to an audience and enjoying it. We wanted to expand our audience outside of Open Mic night, but couldn't bring ourselves to lick boot and whore ourselves into the Wizard Rock hierarchy. To do so would exert far too much energy and time, and plus it just wasn't worth it.

Plus, we wrote this:
“Gryffindor Party” (2006) Listen to it here.


I just got out of my second class
And I got about an hour or two I gotta pass
Run into the common room, this ain't no joke
I got a couple of pounds of gillyweed to smoke

Cuz my mischief is managed and my homework is done
so I gotsta kick back and have some fun
Harry Potter's in the next room eatin' some candy
Smokin' in the common room sounds just dandy

I pull out my pipe and I pull out my lighter
And everybody's faces get a little bit brighter
Reach my hand down under my bed
And pull out some stuff that I just got from Fred

And Lupin's in here, he's mixin' potions in the back
And I gotta make a deal with Sirius (he's) Black
Gryffindor party, reppin' red and gold
If you're in another house we'll leave you straight up cold

It's a Gryffindor P-P-Party (x a lot)
Cuz we gotta try and stay out of Azkaban

You call her Luna Lovegood I call her Luna Lovegreat
I know she's Ravenclaw so please don't hate
I'll make an exception for girls from Ravenclaw
But you ain't seen what I just saw

But that don't compare to Hermione Granger
In the common room she ain't no stranger
Classy and shy to the naked eye
But she don't mind seein' a naked guy

And poor old Cedric may he rest in peace
It ain't been that long since he been deceased
When them Slytherines don't want to behave
We beat them down infront of his grave

Cuz we gotta keep it real, it's the Gryffindor
Shuttin' wizards out from day to day
So pull out your wand, shoot a spell at me
Dodge, counter-curse, now you're dead (WIZARD PLEASE!)

It's a Gryffindor P-P-Party (x a lot)
Cuz we gotta try and stay out of Azkaban

So no, the cursing and sexual references didn't help our case. Not until typing out the lyrics did I realize how “naughty”/awesome that song was. We actually got to perform it, once. But I'll be damned if our rap wasn't brilliant.

And so when our beloved venue closed we faded into obscurity. It's funny, because no matter how you spin it, the whole “rise and fall” of a band is a pretty accurate archetype. When Ben and I attempted an open-mic night over the summer at a Borders, we could only recall the entire lyrics to one song. We were shadows of our former selves. Granted we never practiced (seriously, NEVER) and hadn't played our songs in something like a year and half, I suppose it was excusable. Although I can picture a similar situation with two guys in their forties with gray mullets, slurring their speech and unable to manage one of their songs before getting booed off the stage. It's funny.

I'll get to my point before turning this post into Uh, I Can't Remember the Words: The Uncensored Autobiography of Lord of the Strings and How We Almost Killed Ourselves, coming to a local bookstore near you, let me get to the point.

Back in the day I wondered how bands like Good Charlotte could attempt to spout that they were inspired by the punk ideals of Rancid and NOFX while they were center stage of the Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Awards. I always thought “Man, if I was a musician I would never sell out like that. Those guys are the biggest hypocrites in the world.”

But then I thought what if (and this is a big fat hypothetical “what if”) I was offered a big fat publishing deal at the hands of the same people who published the Gossip Girl books or something? Everyone wants to be the next Hemingway, sure. But when someone's waving real money at you in order to publish your work, could you honestly say no?

I imagine that comedy actors suffer a similar plight. They start out on the stage and wind up on SNL or something. Some can break the mold, sure. But other get stuck in those roles and just can't break them. They wind up having successful careers, but there's that big “what-if” they didn't take this role or that role? Of course there's the what-if of if not taking such a role meant they never got work in the first place.

It's a sticky situation, indeed. Contemplate that.

Sorry for making this ¾ about my glory days and ¼ about what I actually meant to talk about. I always think the Lord of the Strings story is pretty interesting, though, and one day I hope to write the whole thing out.

...a list

Yes, a list. Arguably the "laziest" form of writing.

Last night I was met with an assignment that talked about how important a title is to a work of fiction or art. We were then asked to name our ten favorite titles (literally the title, not the work itself), whether it be from books, movies, whatever.

This is what I came up with (in no particular order):

A Confederacy of Dunces (novel, Robert Kennedy Toole)

“The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber” (short story, Ernest Hemingway)

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (novel, Philip K. Dick)

“A Perfect Day For Bananafish” (short story, J.D. Salinger)

One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest (novel, Ken Kesey)

Pulp Fiction (film, Quentin Tarantino)

God Bless You, Doctor Kevorkian (fiction, Kurt Vonnegut)

The Big Lebowski (film, the Coen Brothers)

American Psycho (novel, Bret Easton Ellis)

The Rum Diary (novel, Hunter S. Thompson)

I tried to do as many as possible that were books. 12 Angry Men qualifies for my runner-up.

...on rejection (and how to accept it)

I had a sort of revelation whilst making my tri-weekly trek to Einstein Brothers' coffee to pay my $2.01 to Sarah (usually it's Maria) for a large coffee cup. I made my way through the physical maze in order to reach my brew, a ritual that has become sort of a skill, and was greeted (as I often am) by the spunky old guy patrolling the coffee area who constantly shouts “HOT FRESH COFFEE! COMIN' THROUGH!” It was (and still is) a day like any other.

The revelation (which I'll get to momentarily) was inspired by two things. The first being my completion of Stephen King's On Writing. The second was my recent rejection email from The Cypress Dome, which was similar enough to any other rejection email, reminiscent of a bottle-cap's infamous taunt of “Sorry, try again” spurred by yet another soda company contest.

I realized that no matter how much coffee I drink, no matter how many dead authors' names I casually drop, no matter how much classic literature I claim to read, no matter how much I tout myself as a writer, no matter how many English credits I acquire at UCF, no matter how much I brood about rejection emails, and no matter how many “favorite books” I have on my Facebook page, none of these things, or a combination of them, will make me a “good” writer.

The only way to get better is to write. Oh, and read.

Of course many of the attributes listed above are instrumental to what it is that I do. To me, “coffee” has become synonymous with “work,” and gets me “in the mood.” I have read a fair amount of classic literature, and I could have read much, much more, which helps me understand what I like and don't like and ultimately aids in shaping my style. My English courses are certainly helpful, and brooding makes for good ideas sometimes. These things are not bad things, children.

But why would I publicly proclaim my “failure” in the form of a rejection from The Cypress Dome? Wouldn't I just be better off keeping it under wraps, or simply saying something like “Well, uh, I was so busy that I forgot the deadline” and that's why you don't see Brent Barnhart's fantastic short fiction in the latest edition of the UCF literary journal?

No. You have to start somewhere, and you have to fail.

Today's topic is rejection.

Stephen King talks about as a teenager accumulating hundreds of rejection slips which he would tack to his wall. Every writing website out there with articles about dealing with rejection will tell you the exact same thing. That is, you will get rejected and you'll never make it as a writer unless you accept this. King ultimately says the same thing, and ultimately he's right.

Over the summer I went on a submitting spree, shooting out short fiction to random online journals and websites. Emphasis on "random." I received a number of rejection e-mails, actually, I was rejected from everywhere I attempted to get published. I was pretty bummed about this, although looking back on it now, it's painfully obvious why I was consistently being rejected.

It wasn't necessarily that my writing wasn't “good” (although I have polished and rewritten a number of the stories which were submitted) but that I wasn't reading the markets. I was, quite literally, shooting out my stories, but they were all shots in the dark. Also, I had this wild notion that I was above revision.

Yeah, I had no idea what I was doing. I was infatuated with the idea that I was a 19-year old writing prodigy that was ready to break onto the scene with his compelling characters and flawless dialogue.

I was so, so wrong.

Yet I managed to learn two very, very specific lessons that pertain to the art of writing as I know it.

Lesson 1: Never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never write something to specifically emulate a certain style that you think will get you published.

I did this, once. It was the first and last time.

After receiving my mass of rejections, I was determined to get published. Anyway, anyhow. I found a flash fiction website that accepted stories of 200-words or less. They also had a fairly high rate of publication and were known to get back the author within a day or two with a response. I wrote a piece about a boy who is infatuated with a piece of wood he finds while wandering around his neighborhood after a hurricane. I liked it.

But then I began reading other pieces on the website. They were “edgy.” Lots of cursing, risqué topics, juicy stuff. My story would not fly in the midst of this.

So I wrote a new story. This wasn't a big deal, at 200-words or less there isn't much love lost for the story about the boy and the piece of wood. I instead wrote a story from the perspective a young boy who is dared by his older brother to ride his skateboard down the steepest hill in the neighborhood without a helmet. The younger brother protests, yet the older brother taunts him, telling the youngster that “Helmet's are for faggots. You don't want to be a faggot, do you?” The younger brother goes through with the stunt, which we get no details of. The final lines of the story have the youngster tell the reader that, ironically, he in fact did grow up to be gay, with a “slightly noticeable scar under his right eye and no sense of smell.”

Edgy, right?

There was just one problem.

I didn't actually like the story.

I thought the idea for the story, particularly the ending, was somewhat clever. Yet it wasn't something I was proud of, which is why I didn't post the story here. “My heart wasn't in it” and all that good stuff. More or less, I was prostituting myself in hopes that I'd a snag writing credit as well as get my name immortalized in a Google search.

“Purple Skateboard” was rejected, thank God. The rejection was personalized, and was quite polite, too. The editor said that he liked the idea but my “prose needed some tightening up.” I was relieved, as I didn't want something like that to be credited to my name nor did I want it to be my first publication. It was a miserable feeling, trying to write something to appease an editor. It's probably been the most the worst experience I've had in my brief career (if you want to call it that) as a “writer.”

So yeah, never prostitute your work.

Lesson 2: Despite my rejections, I learned that somebody out there, whether it be a disembodied illusion or crazed editor, actually likes my work.

In the midst of my rejections, I got a few personalized ones. I sort of mentioned this earlier. Stephen King mentions that personalized rejections are your best friends, more or less because you get some sort of insight as how you can improve.

I loved getting personalized rejections. I think I got three out of something like fifteen. The reason I loved them was because it felt like someone was actually reading my work. Most rejections, as I mentioned earlier, are copy-and-pasted from the editor. Basically “thanks for submitting, but we're going to pass.” I got a few that said to submit again, which is encouraging. These sorts of rejection are somewhat in the middle between personalized and generic, and while they still feel somewhat robotic in their approach, the whole “submit again” line usually means that the editor(s) saw some sort of promise in your work.

There was one rejection in particular that was a great deal of help to me. The response was something like a paragraph long, explaining to me what they liked and didn't like. I was quite grateful and utterly surprised that anyone would take the time to let me know exactly what they liked and didn't. Most editors seem like they're too busy to do so, that or they just like to put up that illusion.

The editor basically told me that they couldn't sympathize with the main character of my story. I reread the story to see what he was talking about and realized that my protagonist could easily be mistaken for an antagonist (especially when the character of the actual antagonist is a writer, therefore an editor would be more keen on sympathizing with her). So yeah, I kind of screwed that one up. I've since edited the story and now it makes considerably more sense.

Yet aside from the criticism, I got a compliment. This compliment has stuck with me, and I've gotten a similar compliments from professors, peer editing sessions, and friends alike.

Here's what dear editor had to say:

“I liked all the dialogue very much (you have no idea how many writers simply sum up events without any conversation at all).“

If you want to make my day, don't compliment my glasses or new business card. Compliment my dialogue. Maybe I'm riding my high-horse here, but writing dialogue is probably my favorite part of writing my respective stories and it seems to be everyone's favorite part of reading them. The knowledge that this editor enjoyed my dialogue, despite the rejection, is affirmation that I'm doing something right. Not only that, the editor also implied that I could do something better than other writers could.

The point is, rejection is healthy and in the end I've found it to be motivation in disguise. Try again. Try harder. Do better. You probably can.

And as lame as it sounds, as least I can say I tried. I'm still making my attempts, slowly but surely. You could be the best writer ever, sure, but that amounts to beans if nobody is reading your work.

Either that or I could always take the Salinger approach and lock everything I write in a safety deposit box where it shall remain until my death.

(And if you're reading this J.D. (and I know that you are), you know that I love you. I hope you never die, really. At the same time, I'm one of the many among your legion of fans that wants to get my grubby mitts on the rest of your work. It's a serious love-hate relationship.)

But yeah, rejection. Love it, hate it. Embrace it.

...regrettably (or not)

(This post began as a four-hundred word diatribe about broccoli. This has been omitted, however, because I realized that it had NOTHING to do with what the bulk of what this post was about. Rest assured, I'll save it for another day.)

Everyone has regrets. I'm making a generalization, sure. But first, let me explain.

I thought about the word “regret” a few days ago (during a spell of brooding, I assure you). Immediately I recalled two very different songs of very separate time periods. The lyrics are as follows:

Regrets, Ive had a few;
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption. - “My Way” (Frank Sinatra, 1969)

Maybe I've forgotten
The name and the address
Of everyone I've ever known.
It's nothing I regret. - “Regret” (New Order, 1993)

I enjoy both songs immensely, although I think I'm partial to New Order. However, I'll give Ol' Blue Eyes his due. He admits that he's had his regrets. New Order frontman Bernard Summer, however, seems to assert that he doesn't have any regrets. I find that hard to believe.

There's a philosophy that gets thrown around a lot, especially by famous actors or musicians. It's the idea that one has no “regrets” because if things happened differently, well, they wouldn't be the successful fatcat that they are today. Basically it's the whole “butterfly effect” business.

I used to subscribe to this, and to an extent I still do. A sour friendship or poor decision makes for great writing material. Without my various mistakes, mishaps, and setbacks, well, I would probably be lacking a good number of words to fill the proverbial page.

However, when I look back at my high school junior self I have an immense regret. I more or less flipped the bird to Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mark Twain, that chick who wrote The Awakening, and numerous other American literary authors. Now here I am some three years later, kicking myself in the head because I'm ironically majoring in English Literature and have admittedly have a very poor foundation of “classic” American Lit. I instead opted to focus on Lightspeed Academy (band), cookies, and professional wrestling. I regret not paying attention and basically wasting possibly one of the most important academic years of my life.

But do I? What if that energy I spent writing that riveting bassline (please, smell the sarcasm) was spent on The Scarlet Letter? Do I want to know? Would a song not have been completed which would have impaired us playing a show which therefore impaired the progress of the band which would have led to an early breakup? Would I still be friends with my former bandmates had I not?

Like I said, it's that butterfly effect business.

The fact is, though, that I do regret it. I can twist it all I want with all the “what if's” but the fact is that I really would be better off now had I tried harder. In reality I could have easily managed both, but I was lazy.

(Although I do get a kick out of that time I got an 8.5/10 on my essay on Ethan Frome with no knowledge of the book other than a word of mouth summary. I really do empathize with the people who actually read it and did worse, because I now know the feeling and it's pretty terrible.)

Listen. People will constantly say whatever they can to justify their position in life, whether it be their happiness or choices, as long as it's in their favor. Nobody wants to be wrong or admit that they might be wrong. These people, I suppose, do not have regrets. Is this a good or bad thing? I don't have the authority to judge because I tend to be one of those people to tries to constantly justify their shortcomings. Yet I've also come to realize that the whole “admitting you have a problem” business perhaps isn't all garbage after all.

So I suppose whether or not you have regrets is completely up to you. I guess that's what I'm getting at.

The real question, though, is whether or not Mark Twain will ever forgive me.

...the Internet (yes, I wrote it)

One of the first things I recall learning upon entering the collegiate realm was that “Internet” is a proper noun. Simply writing “internet” generates that nagging red line that Microsoft Word (or OpenOffice) loves to taunt us with.

I also recall an anecdote from Mr. Cobb concerning the Internet. He claimed that his father didn't use the Internet simply because he had “no use” for it. If he needed to know or remember something he would ponder it for a few days, and if that didn't produce results he'd make his way to the library.

It's a simple little story that's probably not uncommon among older generations.

Yet the tale of the elder Cobb crosses through my mind often, usually while I'm browsing Wikipedia. It's funny how Wikipedia has become the “dirty little secret” of the college classroom. You dare not speak its name while discussing research, that is unless you're prepared to endure the cries of “IT'S NOT AN ACADEMIC RESOURCE ANYONE CAN EDIT IT” from students and professors alike. They're right, too. Conversely, we all use it on our own, non-academic time. I don't know exactly what I'm getting at here, I guess it's just an observation.

Now, back to the Internet.

There's a fairly famous article out there that is common in Composition classes about how the Internet has “killed” academic research. I would agree, to the extent, which is why the Wikipedia tangent is somewhat relevant. I truly hope that the current slew of high school English teachers are beating kids over the head with rulers, or at least are beating the one's that try to directly cite the holy entity of Wikipedia. I also have faith that it's been beaten into the heads of our current Education majors and future teachers.

Otherwise, the future could look like this:

My Report on Barack HUSSEIN Obama (by Timmy the 9th Grader)

Barack Obama was born in Honolulu, Hawaii (Wikipedia). He is the 44th President of the United States (Wikipedia). He secretly hates America (HowBarackObamaWon.com). Also, RON PAUL RON PAUL RON PAUL (RonPaulRevolution.com).

You get the point, I think.

I guess what I'm getting at is that the Internet is a big fat love-hate relationship.

By the way, I hate referring to the Internet as the “Internet.” Isn't it eerie that we have to remember to capitalize “Internet” sort of like we're taught to always capitalize “God?” Maybe it's just me. But it has become it's own deity, hasn't it?

I guess it's ironic that I'm bitching about the entity that allows me to post what I'm writing and allows you read it. That's fine, though. That's the “love” side of my relationship with the Internet.

I sort of had an epiphany today concerning the information superhighway (wow, I'm genuinely surprised “superhighway” doesn't warrant a spell-check error). I realize that books will most likely suffer the same fate as music at the hands of the mighty Internet. Depending on how you look at it, the Internet “killed” the music industry. Some might say was “revolutionized.” I see both sides of the coin. Album sales are abysmal, yes. But touring is where the money is at, really.

Although I still can't fathom why you'd buy a CD through iTunes opposed to a hard copy. It destroys the entity of the “album.” I want my jewel case. I want my cover art and my booklet (the Alone II booklet was practically an autobiography). I want something tangible. I want to have memories of my sophomore self, giddy with excitement, riding in the car with my brother to Best Buy to purchase our separate copies of Antics. I want to call my mom while at work asking her to check to see if K-Mart has Icky Thump because apparently nowhere else has put it on the shelves yet.

I don't want songs. I want an album. Yes, there's a difference.

Regardless, I fear that books will suffer the same fate. I will be the grumpy old man who spits on e-book readers. However, in this “green” age I understand that books seem somewhat impractical when the text could easily be put online (in Stephen King's On Writing he jokes about people complaining that the publication of one of his novels amounts to the demise of a small Canadian forest). Understandable, yes. Although I can't stand reading long fiction on a screen. That's my problem, though, and I'll have to come with terms with it in the future. That's the direction we're going in. It'll take a while, sure. But slowly we're seeing literary journals and periodicals making the transition from print to exclusively being online. I imagine the catalyst for all this will be when Apple and Microsoft invest go head to head in the e-book reader battle. I'm sure they will if they haven't already begun.

Although I must admit, I love me some Project Gutenberg.

Perhaps movies will be able to fight the good fight. Sure, streaming and downloading and piracy runs rampant, but I can't imagine it amounting to sustainable losses. That could just be my naivety, though.

But yeah, I don't know where I'm going with this. You've created a monster, Al Gore.

...an apathetic account (on apathy)

I wrote my fair share of articles during my brief stint as editor-in-chief of the Arnold High School Hook. It was a floundering publication to say the least, and by the time it flopped it's way into my arms there was little I (or anyone else) could do to save it. Being editor was a bittersweet chapter in my proverbial history, party because everyone felt the paper was doomed to fail, but also that my tenure as editor did not live up to the greatness of my brother's reign alongside the much wittier class of 2005.

(That being said, those of you that stood by me and made my last semester at Arnold High School a memorable and enjoyable one, I thank you. I couldn't have done it without the seven or eight of you who actually had their junk together. Hell, I'd even thank those who didn't care whatsoever. Your charm overshadows your failure as journalists)

But this is not the point at all.

I distinctly remember writing a particular article, an editorial, about apathy. It was very broad and all over the place, I attempted to emulate some sort of Vonnegut-esque critique of the world and basically rambled how nobody cared about anything. Pretty general stuff, although I'm sure at the time I found myself to be fairly profound. Regardless, the article ran and nobody cared. Is that the definition of irony?

No, because the article really wasn't that good to begin with .Sadly the paper was dead, article or not. Nobody had any reason to care about my little rant. Although it is sort of funny when you think about it.

But once again, this is not the point.

I watched the inauguration yesterday, just like you probably did. I stood in front of a random television in the University of Central Florida student union, surrounded by my peers and the like. Together we nodded and clapped and sneered when appropriate. I saw people of all ages, colors. It was a sort of celebration that can be usually found at the end of your feel-good ABC Original Movie.

But hey, look. It's Obama. I voted for that guy. He's President now. My weekly rituals of debating and Chris Matthews and worrying about Sarah Palin actually feel like they amounted to something. It feels good.

There were still a good number of people pushing through the crowds of students glued to the television. “Excuse me” and “Outta my way” and all that business. I pondered why they couldn't stop for a second and smell the roses. There's a new President. His last name is Obama and he's black. It's kind of a big deal. This is the sort of thing you'll be able to impress your grandkids with while you're wheelchair bound and eating mush.

I watched Obama talk about “change” and hard work. Sacrifices. The sort of stuff that most of us know little to nothing of. I thought about how apathetic our generation is (this is nothing new) and how I'm just as guilty as anyone else as being part of the “lazy” masses. Of course there are those much lazier than myself, but that's not the point.

Here's the big question:

How do you appeal to people who just don't care about anything?

I realize that “anything” is a broad term (in fact, if you picked up a thesaurus you'd probably find them in the same category, so, in a sense, “anything” is the broadest term on the block).

It sounds difficult, but I gave it a decent amount of thought. To appeal to the apathetic you must fight fire with fire. Or in this case, apathy with apathy.

We're a generation (or perhaps a society) that loves the “slacker.” We can find hints of our introverted teenage rebellion in Holden Caulfield. I compel you to find a Myspace page that doesn't have Fight Club under “Favorite Movies” (or books, sure). Beneath the flannel jacket, strapped to the chest and closest to the heart of every chain-smoking, acid-dropping college student that looks like they may very well be homeless is a dog-eared copy of On the Road.

But yes, the slacker. We root for him, cheer for him, we want him to get his way and find happiness without lifting a finger.

This seems to be the new American dream.

I'm not saying that this is a good or bad thing, either. I personally wouldn't mind it, and I can't decide whether or not that should scare the hell out of me. I'd love to to think that if I came upon infinite riches I'd continue to try the whole “writer” thing out. Another, darker side of me thinks that I'd probably wind up eating Turkish delight until I exploded.

...satire (or something like it)

Your typical English major is a pretentious creature. We are above your books, music, clothing, lifestyle choice, sexual preference, wallpaper, and favorite flavor of jellybean. You probably have your own stereotype in mind, and the truth is that it's probably true enough. “Art emulates life” and all that Oscar Wilde mess, you know? See what I did there? I just name-dropped a famous Victorian author. See what I did there? I just name dropped a famous literary time period. Holy shit. I am English major, hear me write. Fear my diction.

Our entitlement to being above everything comes in the fact that we read books, or rather, we still read books while the rest of the world sits in front of their television sets or whatever it is that normal people do. Yes, we read all the time. All the time. For us, there is a very limited set of activities to partake in outside of reading.

There's writing, of course.

If we aren't busy scribbling our rants against humanity or our free-verse poetry, we're most likely making and/or drinking our coffee that gives us the fuel that we need to take our cigarette breaks that give us our best ideas like writing that story about that time you were at social event X and all your friends were having a great time except for you because you're the only one who understands how the world is such an awful place and can't comprehend how anyone could smile or laugh when things are the way they are.

We have no aspirations. We don't really want to be in college at all, because it's full of phonies. We don't really need higher education anyhow, as we already read on our own and write better than everyone else we know. In reality we'd rather be having our Kerouacian adventure somewhere else. But we'll get our fancy schmancy degree so mom and dad don't totally disown us. We acknowledge that a degree in our field is completely useless and have no qualms with floating around doing “whatever” after graduation because the world doesn't understand us, degree or not.

Let me break the fourth wall for a moment. Why am I writing this?

Good question. I think it might very well be some sort of therapy. I find solace in my ability to laugh at myself and believe that somehow that makes me a slightly better person/ student. Day by day I find myself surrounded by people who take themselves far too seriously, sincerely believe that their personal tragedy trumps your personal tragedy, and are just plain annoying. I try to keep myself in check and reassure myself that I'm not going down the path which transforms me into a pretentious tool.

I was slightly inspired by this, as well.

(Plus, Stephen King suggests 4-6 hours of reading/writing a day. I've discovered a newfound respect for Mr. King, but that's a whole new post in the making, folks)

Wow

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L8uw6D9nTPY

Because William Dean Howells, Christine de Pizan, and E. M. Forster aren't giving me much time to say anything else.

I got my domain.

Isn't it nifty?

Brent pokes at Pier Park

I'm meeting my "writing quota" for the day with all of this.

I considered writing a rant about Pier Park as a piece for the News Herald, granted they'd publish it. But alas, no such effort was made until now and I'm back in Orlando. That's right, I'm back (for whomever it may concern). There's no particular event that occurred in Panama City Beach that I'd like to discuss or dwell on. Conversely, there's nothing I expected to happen that didn't happen, mostly because I've come to know what to expect.

This isn't my "stake in the heart" towards PCB. This isn't a "my brain is bigger than yours" or "my city is better than yours" rant. The reality is that PCB is my hometown no matter how you twist it, and it's where I grew up. And thus there is an inevitable love-hate relationship between us.

Speaking of love-hate relationships, let's talk get down to business. Pier Park.

I (once again, inevitably) spent a good chunk of my time during my break at Pier Park. It's nice to have a place to go and simply walk around (awkwardly running into people) and enjoy the weather. It's truly impressive to see Pier Park come to fruition and become what it was meant to be.

That being said, why does it feel like everyone there is staring holes through you? What generates the hostility that oozes off of any given passer-by? I suppose that Pier Park isn't the ideal stomping ground for the lone, white American introvert. I was hard-pressed to find someone who didn't look like their intention for the night was to look like they were among the most important group in the city.

Borders was my saving grace, naturally. A bookstore/coffeehouse combination is ideal for your typical reading/writing type. But even then there were droves of people with their proverbial noses in the air, ordering their lattes and gossiping their lives away. Hell, even your token redneck has become victim of the latte plague. They sort of just sit around, awkwardly watching others around them making sure they're getting their sipping patterns just right. Sorry, I'm just not a latte person. I'll take the classic stuff any day. It's cheaper, too.

So why didn't I just send my time doing something else? Because nowadays if you're not at Pier Park you're either working or getting drunk. That's a joke, folks. Well, sort of. Pier Park is what it is, and it's not going to change for me. It's serving its purpose.

It seems like this rant is asking for trouble or a rebuttal. But really, I'm not complaining. I had fun during my break, actually. More fun than I expected.

But there's nothing quite like coming home to a city that has a Wal-Mart with more than one open line and delicious Jimmy Johns' sandwiches.