The holidays are over. I already miss 2019 as much as I missed the previous years. Where do the years go to, friend? One day you look in the mirror and you're old. I watch a lot of movies to help me assuage the passage of time. I think it might help me become a better storyteller. If nothing else, it provides me with lively party banter. And there is one more party left this year. New Year's Eve will arrive whether you want it to or not. It sort of makes me envious of people in insane asylums who are stuck in time. 

But let's talk about stories. They seem to happen to me all the time. I thought if I stayed indoors I'd be safe, but stories afflict me like a glass of absinthe in a Paris cafe. Why do I mention Paris? Well, I'm doing what most people rarely do: I'm adapting a screenplay into a novel. Why isn't this a good idea? Because screenplays typically are 100 to120 pages in length. Try selling a novel that's under 200 pages to a publisher. It's not easy. I'm on page 176, with three pages left in my screenplay. Should I hang out and ask random strangers about their misadventures in Paris? No, I know what I must do. I must extrapolate. This is a fun word that means go off on tangents that run on forever. Like two hundred pages more than they should. This technique is a useful one when a writer is bored, and is being paid by the word.

Recently I was invited to a party. It was slated to be a lesbian Buddhist party. It felt a lot like the tea party in Alice in Wonderland, with too many old Alices. I took two stories with me. I should have taken my guitar and sung a few songs; maybe Shallow by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper. It was sort of interesting. But bringing the stories was a mistake. There are few things straight writers can write that won't offend militant lesbians. So I offended the host, who touts herself as an old crone dike. Another straight woman there, (or maybe she's bisexual), read my story, How Does That Make You Feel? and said it was a stream of consciousness. She's a hack writer who left her husband for some guy from South Africa, and espouses to be part of a coven. I haven't talked to her about her new religion. Witches aren't my thing. This woman's poems have to do with feminist concepts that never seem to go away in Seattle, decorated with lots of profanity. Man Hating is a popular theme. The host objected to my How Does That Make You Feel? story because I'd had the audacity to go inside the head of a woman who was questioning whether she was a lesbian. My protagonist's head wasn't the only head I'd pried open in the story. I pried everyone's head open. The story is from the third person omniscient, in the Vonnegut tradition. I thought writers are free to write from any point of view, human or inhuman. I thought this was America where we're all free to fly our freak flags.

A RECENT SHORT STORY PUBLISHED BY RED FEZ.

The publisher of a recent story, Somnambulist in Love, was supposed to give me X hours to do edits. 

Nope. They published it with few modifications. Let me give you a summary: A sleepwalker in San Francisco is torn between two women. Until recently, he didn't know he was a sleepwalker (a somnambulist). It's laced with comedy, as most of my writings are.

https://www.redfez.net/fiction/sleeplessness-somnambulist-in-love-972

One of the rich ladies he's involved with has paid for the best neurologist-psychiatrist in S.F. The man must make a choice about being with Lydia or with Nancy. Or make no choice at all, and continue living a lie. It is comedic, but I'm sure it will offend someone. There is no escaping offending someone. But if they keep turning the pages and read until the end, how bad can the story be? I used to be a sleepwalker. I wouldn't know about it except my mother told me of my shenanigans. Undoubtedly she didn't witness all of them. This went on from age five to age eight. It might still be going on. Or maybe I just became an insomniac as I got older. Who knows? My son suggested I dust the floor by my bed with flour and check for footprints in the morning. That won't work because I am up and down all night. I'm doomed. All writers with active minds are doomed.

There are many reasons why people lose their minds. One of them is due to applying for jobs.

Let's say I've dipped my toes in some strange swimming pools. If there were wrecking yards for jobs, I've found them. But wait, let me back up here. Most people are not creative. They are seemingly content to do ordinary, rather boring work their entire lives. The jobs make them feel secure. Most of these jobs are very low wage positions. The scariest ones pay huge salaries. The same effort is put into applying for most jobs unless your boss is a relative. The employers of generic jobs want people who will stick around. Forever. Thus, they take one look at my resume and say to themselves, 'This guy is way too creative. He might have ideas about our business. We know what we're doing; we don't need trouble-makers.' Why do I even bring this up? Because somebody needs me; somewhere in the world. Right now, even as this blog is read, by you or people like you, some overworked HR Director is sweating profusely, overwhelmed by the process of saying yes to some and no to others. They are weary of playing God. They have mortgages, and other financial obligations.

Even God is weary of playing God. If you want to pity someone, pity God, who has the worst job in the known and unknown universe. Nobody wants God's job. But I digress. We are not god-like beings, and Lord knows, HR Directors are not perfect human beings. No one is having a perfect, wonderful life on Planet Earth. You are not alone. Follow the light. No, not that light, the other light. There. Let me tell you about my recent misadventures in Job-Land. Not long after arriving in this town, slightly north of Seattle, I began a creative flurry of writing. My plan was to sell one of my screenplays, write new ones, do big paintings, talk a publisher into publishing my novels and short stories, play my guitars, eat good food, shower regularly, maybe hit a few tennis balls, wear clean clothes and good shoes, fall in love, raise a family, and retire in Key West or Santa Barbara. The raising a family part is a fib. I've already raised two children. They graduated colleges, got married, and moved far away. My ex-wife has moved on to other married men. No, I only fantasize about starting a new family. Fantasizing is what writers do. We invent other realities.

The most recent ludicrous job I've applied to is with the Census Bureau. I thought it would be a plausible way to get through the winter. But the government and I will never have a close friendship. I have tried. We dated a bit, and the chemistry wasn't there, so I told the government not to friend me on Facebook or other social media. They texted me day and night. I had to block them. No. Can you spell convoluted? That's the process of applying for government jobs. First, they skewer you, then they slather on the barbecue sauce. Then, just as you are led to believe the job is yours they forget you've applied. Because I write comedies, this should have made me smile. Probably if I ate green cookies everything could be a comedy. But who gets anything done while they're high? Answer: Most of the people in Seattle. Listen: The Census Bureau is run by numbskulls. The Three Stooges were rocket scientists compared to this wing of the Federal Government. The Census Bureau HR people directed me thusly, via a weird phone calls and equally weird emails:

1. What is your name? No, your full name. Huh, that's a funny middle name. Is it your real name?
2. What is your social security number? No, I'm sorry, that's doesn't agree with our records.
3. Yes, that about does it. We'll send an email confirmation, so you can go online and fill in our form. You say you've already filled in the form and submitted it? Sorry, we can't find it. Try again.
4. Upon receipt of the completed form, we will run a background check. We're sorry, you don't exist.
5. We received your application. Great! Now you'll need to go to a MacDonald's at the corner of Third and Furniture, to be fingerprinted. Yes, by the Big Mac machine. We're not sure of the address.
6. Please don't ask me any questions. Just fill out the dang form. I'm a volunteer, okay? Jeez.
7. We're sorry, if you don't return the form within the next week we'll shred your application.
8. Welcome aboard! We're so pleased you're a patriotic American. This census only happens once every ten years! We will carve your name on the trunk of a tree somewhere. Congratulations!
9. What is your name? No, your full name? What's your favorite color? What sign are you?
10. We checked your fingerprints and don't believe you're part of the human race. Goodbye.

I swear, it's a true story. Madness is the norm in the world. Meanwhile, I have begun looking for another part-time or possibly full time job. Possibly teaching English in Siberia or North Korea is for me. If there is no comedy involved, I don't want to waste my time or your time. I will bring my own straitjacket. And my own fingerprints, or someone's fingerprints. And how many people are living in this household? Uh-huh. And, where do all fifty of you sleep? Ah, I see. Is there someone else here I can talk to who speaks English? Are the other people living in this household invisible? I see. You're all fifty of those people? Okay then. Good day to you sir, and madam.