The Summer of My Discontent

I’m rather a competitive person. I like winning. Like I really, really like winning. I wish I was one of those people who was satisfied with knowing they did their personal best, but I’m not. I want to be at the top of the list, because I know I can be there. Is that pretentious? Maybe. Or it’s just honest. I know myself. I know what I’m good at. I don’t expect to be the best at things I’m not good at (hello volleyball), but elsewhere there’s no excuse.

Maybe this is why I’ve always struggled to motivate myself where writing is concerned. It’s a solitary pursuit: just me and my laptop/notebook & pencil. There’s no exact measure for success for a long time. “Just write because you love to!” people always say, but that only works for a journal or diary setting. If you want your writing to be good enough to earn you money, you can bet there will be times when you absolutely hate it, but keep going. And that spark of competition is a great reason to continue. Because I may hate it at the time but by George I shall beat you.

I was channel flipping on Saturday and came across that Red Riding Hood film  that came out last year, the one directed by the Twilight director and starring Amanda Seyfried. It was one of those unfortunate films that seemed awesome in trailer form but fell apart when given 2.5 hours in which to tell a story. I have never actually seen it, and was half fascinated, half disgusted by the dire state of the story. Seriously, don’t people in Hollywood get paid to think about these things? Come on, people, there’s got to be someone out there who read this script and thought, ‘Hm, I like the style of your arc but let’s really work on these characters and make them actual people.’ The original fable is such rich ground to begin with—a children’s story about a little girl who has to chop her grandmother out of a wolf? Heck yeah! So down! Yet I sat there on my bed and watched Amanda Seyfriend, surrounded by ludicrously attractive men, frolic through a snowy and vaguely Norse-ish village and do nothing interesting. ‘I could do so much better,’ I thought.

And there we go. Motivation. From that simply thought sprang the framework of an entire story. A setting. A mood. A heroine. And enough authorial motivation to hopefully see me through a first draft. We’re in the early stages yet, but I DVR’d Red Riding Hood, and I’ll force myself to watch it again if I have to. I’m starting small, so I don’t psych myself out early on. The motto right now is, ‘Be better than what sucks.’

Yep. I think we’re going places.

Was supposed to look at two cars today. Found out one had already sold this morning, and the other one has not called me back. I moped for a couple hours, despairing about my ability to ever fully support myself or get a real job or achieve anything at all in life. Then Jesus and I had a conversation that went something like this.

JESUS’ WORD:Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care.And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. [x]

ARIELLE: So why didn’t you just make me a sparrow, Jesus?

JESUS: Hey. Next to me, you pretty much are.

ARIELLE: …Oh. Yeah.

When I got off work, I decided to actually do something instead of laying on my bed and watching five hundred channels of cable TV (house sitting for your professors definitely has its ups). Like maybe write. I love to write, but most of the time it’s easier to mess around on Tumblr or check my Facebook than actually open a Word doc or pick up a pen. I think this is the problem of every artist, really. It takes a base level of self-motivation to firstly make any sort of art, and then a second level to get anywhere with it. I like having ideas. If I could get paid for thinking of stuff, I’d really enjoy that. And a lot of the time I enjoy following through with them. But not often enough. If I actually kept all the scraps of paper upon which I’ve scribbled down ideas, I could probably reconstitute a good acre or twenty of trees.

My hard drive is full of half-started stories and plays and poems and NOVELS and everything else in between. I’m actually shocked that I’ve managed to post in this blog three days in a row. I’m hoping very much that this is a sign of change. I have all the other attributes of a starving artist: starving, just shy of homeless, working a dead-end part-time job. So let’s hope that the artist part is finally following.

My friend Ana accompanied me to look at two Civics today. Ana’s fantastic to do these things with: she’s no-nonsense, but with an awesome dash of humor. She also has bought all three of her used cars from Craigslist. We pull up to the first Civic and there it is in the road. Only it’s an Accord. “That’s not a good sign,” Ana says.

There’s also a huge crack in the windshield that goes straight across it. The guy told me $3000 on the phone, and the FOR SALE sign says $3500. “Someone’s dreaming there,” Ana says. Even I know that’s pretty ridiculous.

The Accordian guy is twenty minutes late to meet us. “I’m so sorry—I thought you said 5:30,” is the first thing he says. He’s so nice that I almost feel bad pointing out these unmentioned issues. “Well, the windshield passed inspection, and it should really only cost you around $100 to replace if you call around.” I don’t have to look at Ana to see that she’s entirely skeptical.

We take a look under the hood first. I read that you’re supposed to look before you drive and after. I’m not exactly sure what for. The extent of my look-over generally consists of, “Yep, there’s an engine in there.” Ana at least checks the oil and declares it good.

We head out on a test drive, and it’s pretty clear soon that everything’s not as shipshape as claimed. The engine stutters between first and second gear. The crack is exactly in my line of sight. The gas gauge is below empty. “Let’s head back,” I say to Ana. “Yeah. Let’s definitely.”

We leave the Accordian with vague suggestions of calling later. I call up the second Civic guy and check about coming over to see it.

“It’s gone,” he says.

“Gone? Like stolen?” This guy’s sparing use of words is becoming more apparent.

“No. Someone came and got it.”

“So someone bought it.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Great. Well, bye.”

“Wait,” he says. “I’ve also got a Subaru Impreza if you wanna look at it. Although it’s my wife’s daily driver and I don’t know what I’d do if someone came and took that too…”

I’m not sure what to say, but we end up heading over to meet him in the WalMart parking lot regardless.

The Impreza has purple flames painted along the front to disguise the restructuring from when it was in an accident, Mike tells us. He’s little and brown and his eyes are owlish behind his glasses. He’s much more loquacious in person and tells us all about his mother’s refusal to drive a car beyond 70,000 miles.

“I need a new car! I need a new car!” he squawks in imitation of her.

He comes with us on the test drive, and quiets down, enough that I can hear the steering wheel creak as I turn it. “I don’t know,” he says when we ask him why. “It’s always done that and I’ve checked it out and can’t find any reason for it.” “A steering wheel doesn’t creak for no reason,” Ana says later. “It probably creaks because it’s broken.”

There is, however, a VHS hookup to play movies for the backseat. Mike displays it proudly. “VHS?” I ask. My age must have been showing because Mike explains that you can also hook up a DVD player if desired. “For the kids,” Mike says. “I don’t have kids,” I say, which I kind of hoped was obvious.

We return from the test drive and I thank Mike for his time. I tell him I’ll give him a call in a few days, as I have a few other test drives scheduled.

“What’s wrong with my car?” he says.

“Uh. Nothing. I’m just really looking for a Civic,” I say. “We have to go now. Thank you!”

Ana and I jump back into her Saturn and book it out of there. “I think you can do better,” she says.

“I really, really hope so,” I say.

So along with moving to a real house comes transporting one’s self places. I’ve lost track of the number of Craigslist postings I’ve looked at and phone calls I’ve made in the last week. Buying a car is hard. Buying a used car is all-consuming. I’ve all but sold my soul to Honda at this point.

Everyone’s got advice for me. My co-worker recommended his friend who sells Saturns. “I’d really like a Civic,” I told him. “But remember, Arielle,” he told me. “You won’t just be getting a car. You’ll be getting a mechanic too.” I bit my tongue instead of asking if he would come with power windows as well.

Another co-worked lent me her copy of the used car Consumer Reports issue. At first glance, fantastic. Until I realized that the ratings only went back to 2005. I would like a car from the same millennium as I, but my back account would not be.

I love the internet. I am not a car person. But now I can be heard routinely asking questions such as, “Has your vehicle had its high miles maintenance? Have you replaced the timing belt recently? Are your miles highway?” It’s like in a dream where you speak a different language and have flashes of realizingyou have absolutely no idea what you’re saying.

Craigslist is a strange land of desperate people and poor punctuation. If you ever feel hopeful about the literacy of America’s youth, have a look at Craigslist postings. You’ll feel nicely despairing again. Here’s one I came across this morning:

Hi I have 1995 civic ex coupe for sale with (lost title) I just don’t have the money to do all the lost title crap an I have a 8 mouth old an I need to get in to sumthing I can get tags now so that’s why it’s so cheap an my mom likes her space lol.u can use it for parts but I would like to sell the hole car all together but i have white body civic ex custom interior blue an yello ,trany,sunroof,back window with the heat lines,the side back glass both sides , dash most interior is in there an the out side hood fenders side skirts power steering pump blet all that is there stock exost stock headers winshild doors an glass truck so pretty much the hole car is there cash or down for sum trades just no car an trucks i like electronics so u can call I work a lot so texting me would be better NO EMAILS TEXT or call with any ? text or call drew thanks

I don’t know. I really don’t. America, this is your public schooling. How’s that failure tasting?

So there’s weeding through these postings. Then there’s calling people. I don’t enjoy cold-calling strangers (does anyone? I’d really like to know), but it’s really strange when they ask for you to text. Ack. No. I don’t want to text you. That’s way too forward. I don’t even know what you look like. And most likely, if your posting is anything to go by, you don’t communicate terrifically by written word. Let’s try spoken.

I’m really hoping this is worth it. As in, getting a car out of it. That would be the best scenario.

A week. One week and that’s all. College. Over. Done. Kaput. The end.

That’s where this story begins: with an ending. Sixteen straight years of education—I’d say this is the biggest ending that I’ve seen in quite some time. Yet it happens fairly often: every year around this time the job market is flooded with hopeful graduates, full of the promise of their high GPAs and small ponds. You’d think everyone would be used to it by now. But no. “What are you doing this summer?” “What are your plans?” “What’s your next move?”

I have several stock answers that I like to give in return.

1. This summer I’ll be learning to read. I never actually knew how, so I’m hoping to overcome that obstacle in the coming months.
2. I’m going to move in with the Alaskan wolves. I hear they’re very hospitable.
3. Go away.

I tend to use the first two more than the last. And reactions tend to go one of two ways:

1. Wow, good for you. That’s a wise choice.
2. Good luck trying to support yourself doing that!

…

Okay. Hi. Yes. I see you passive aggressively challenging my life decisions. And I get it. It’s pretty crazy. It’s a little foolish. (Or a lot.) It’s maybe not exactly the most sensible thing in the world. I understand these things.

But. My idea of a life worthy of living has no place for simply supporting myself. It has no place for comfortable security and day-to-day predictability. It does not allow for complacency and lethargy. Yet these are patterns that I (and everyone else in Western culture just about) fall into easily.

No. Nuh-uh. No way, no how. That’s not life. That’s existence. No thank you.

Let’s try it another way. I have a year. After that, we’ll see what happens.