AhmadDarkside's Open Salon Blog

Why F.A.R.T.I.N.G too much can inhibit creative productivity

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 21:01:07 -0500

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Why F.A.R.T.I.N.G. too much can inhibit creative productivity…

Sometime last March, I woke up with an idea and a dream (actually the dream, led to the idea and so on, but let’s not quibble over semantics right now) and began the journey that was to end with becoming an author.

After the initial pen-and-pad moments, I then moved to laptop and late night writing mode. The specifics of how many nights, and the process will be discussed at a later date or maybe in my memoirs (if anyone evens cares to know that stuff), the eventually, it was all said and done. There finally came a day, after all the edits, rewrites, banging-head-against-wall moments, that it was finally time to release the beast into the land of the living.

On January 23^rd (or 24^th due to lag time in uploading) DARK SIDE OF THE MOON was published on Amazon and deemed (by the reputable publishing house of; Me, Myself and I) to be fit-for-consumption. This was for all intents and purposes, the most exciting moment in my very short, burgeoning writing career, but this is when the fun would really begin!

After doing the obligatory social media blasts about how awesome this book is, and how “you and your friends and family will thoroughly enjoy the read” and how it is a “must buy”, I began to really sink my teeth into the entire marketing/self-promoting process that any independent author must endure. It is what many in the literary-world consider the beast versus the beauty of actually creatively writing. This is where a writer takes a crash-course in trying to; understand your market; understand the demographic you are writing for; maneuver the vastness that is cyberspace in an attempt to get your product to where it will be received best.

The literary world is filled with huge pitfalls that can swallow up any writer, even those with the best of intentions and a genuinely superb product (not placing myself in this category at all, fyi). The current market for literary works (pick a genre, they all have basically the same ratios) is flooded with traditionally published works, as well as with the nouveau products being served up by the mavericks of the industry; the self-published author (yeah, that be me). It is because of this factor that all of “us” MUST, without fail; learn the business of not just writing for content and quality, but also the business of business. We must learn how to sell, where to sell, whom to sell to, and when is the best time to push a sale. Without true representation and a team of college and grad-school degreed marketing and publicity professionals, it is the responsibility of the independent author to get it done yourself. This leads to many hours spent on a variety of social media and literary websites, trying to glean any and every piece of useful knowledge, trick, advice, etc. about how to get the world-at-large to purchase, read, and fingers crossed, actually appreciate your work of art.

As any writer (be they world-renowned and successful or struggling and inexperienced) can attest to, the art of marketing is in direct opposition to the art of writing. The two should not cohabitate nor should they be on the same plain-of-existence, however, as I have explained, one is a necessary evil of the other; there is just no way around it. This is where the title for this post came from.

Farting is a word that makes most people uncomfortable when hearing it, even worse when they have to experience it in their olfactory. In real-world terms, farting is a normal, natural bodily function that is generally uncomfortable but necessary. It can often leave a bad taste in your mouth (depending on last night’s meal) and makes you self-conscious and uneasy when done around others. It is something most of us would rather avoid at all costs, however, try and hold it in too long and not release it, and see how terrible you feel then. It can lead to cramping, irritability, and just a genuine feeling of malaise. This is the life of self-promotion. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth, makes you self-conscious around others (especially those who know you and may have some modicum of respect for you), but if you don’t do it for too long you become irritable (especially after seeing less-than-excited sales results).

This is why I say; F.A.R.T.I.N.G. too much can inhibit creative productivity:

Facebook – The king of all social media (as demonstrated by The Social Network), I can spend hours checking status updates, looking at pictures of new babies; old babies; hot chicks that are friends of friends 15-levels removed from me, checking my book page to see if I have any new Likes or if anyone has left me a flattering comment about my work. Facebook exhausts me on both a personal and professional level, even though at times it can be a fun distraction, distraction, being the operative word though! [-4 ½ hr]

Amazon – The online giant that now controls the distribution of my baby. It is very easy to get lost on their, trying to check reports on how many books I sold within the last hour, 2 hours, 3 hours… you get the point. Then there’s the need to try and find comments about my work, hoping they will be both honest and complimentary. Both the hoping and the actual logging on and off of the author’s part of the site can easily swallow up half a day. [-4 hr]

Rhapsody – not my only music site (I actually now prefer Spotify) but one of the few I use to find just the perfect playlist in which to listen to during blogging, writing, surfing time. Music can be a great source of inspiration, entertainment and distraction during a long day of creation; distraction being the operative word. It takes a lot of valuable time to search for one song, much less a slew of songs you just remembered from your high school days or college or some other time of your life that has long passed you by, but that this one song will allow you to briefly relive. Then there is the rewinding to that favorite song over and over again, or the manipulation of the playlist to just the right sequence to allow for maximum productivity. If making playlist for writers an actual career option, I would be recruited by the best head-hunters out there. [-3 ½ hr]

Twitter – If I ever thought Facebook was tough to leave, holy cow, Twitter is the evil emperor of time wasting. It can literally suck all the time out of a writer’s day. I currently follow: 186 people, groups, organizations (all related specifically to writing or the literary industry) and have 70 followers myself, and between reading random, nonsensical tweets, actual messages of some value, clicking on the links encompassed within, and trying to understand and learn the new language that is Twitter (very much looking forward to the class on social media/understanding twitter being given by @rachelintheoc) I can spend an entire day just on that one site. In the 40 or so minutes that I have been writing this, I have missed: 119 tweets. Now it has taken me 40+ minutes to write this because I am so locked in to this service that I have been alt-tabbing back and forth constantly on the off-chance that I may be missing something time-sensitive and crucial. Now, I will give it its fair due since I have learned and gained a lot from some and I stress; SOME, of the messages on there (shout-out to @frellathon) who has genuinely been a huge help to me recently, but on the whole, it just consumes valuable creativity time and hinders the creative flow. [-8 ½ hr]

Internet Research – Is so big for a new writer. Limited by time and resources, the internet provides a type of; one stop shop, for finding new avenues of promotion and help. The problem is having 50 pages open all at once (because each is equally as important as the next) your computer begins running super slow, and then your time is further wasted trying to figure out which ones to ‘X’ out of and which ones you cannot live without! It also provides a nice distraction throughout the workday, but distraction… well, you get the point by now. [-4 hr]

New anything – New stuff (contacts, websites, emails, tweets, pictures, music, articles, books, etc.) comes at you all day long. There is a constant influx of the new throughout the day, and all of it manages to whittle away at any productivity you may or may not have been capable of in a given day. [-3 hr]

Google – More than just the internet research, now there’s Gmail which receives my emails from about 20 different sources, and Google Friends (which I still don’t know how to use, but sure as heck I click the ‘add’ button on every site I enter). I need to correspond with people in my community and elsewhere, but reading and answering email, searching the web, and all else that is done using Google definitely detracts from an already tight schedule. [-2 ½ hr]

As you can add for yourself, that is a deficit of 30-hours a day (give or take, mostly give) and as we all know, there are only 24-hours in any given day. Notice there is no time allotment for writing, reading, eating, sleeping, or the actual necessity of farting in real-life.

As a self-published writer, it is very crucial to understand how to manage your time, to maximize your exposure and get your name and work out there for all to see (and hopefully purchase); like farting, it is a genuine necessity in life. It can alleviate some stress and allow you to relax afterward, however it certainly can and does inhibit a very integral part of being a writer, and that is; the actually writing of something of substance.

P.S. 194 missed tweets and counting...

Racism alive and well...

Sat, 28 Jan 2012 00:01:30 -0500

On my way home from a friend’s house early this morning I pass by the local 7-11, bright lights shining onto the street beckoning me to come on in and get some cheap, delicious, probably out-of-date and potentially toxic treats. Well as any other red-blooded American, I had to stop in and partake of the stale goodness. I mean, the smell of old coffee, blue raspberry slushy, and week-old hot dogs on their 1,000^th rotation in their lukewarm rotisserie is far too enticing to pass up.

As I already stated, it was pretty early (or late, depending on your particular point of view) and I had every intention of going home and straight to bed, so I didn’t want to get anything with too much sugar or caffeine or that would not sit well with me and might impede my ability to enter the sandman.

After walking up and down each aisle at least 3 to 4 times, perusing the multitude of tasty treats designed to grab the wayward travellers attention after a 15-hour drive from Tacoma to Mobile (exact travel time NOT verified by Google Maps), I decided on 2 1-liter bottles of Lipton’s Brisk Iced Tea and 2 frozen burritos (cause that isn’t too much sugar or gastrically impairing horse meat for 6:30 a.m. at all).

Well my picks complete, I make my way to the register to complete my purchase and meander home for a quick snack, then bed. I step in-line behind 3 gentlemen and wait my turn as has been common custom for a few millennia. Now it is at this point that my rudimentary tale takes its much expected turn.

It is important that I mention that each one of the persons in line in front of me was dressed slovenly, much as I was. There was not much difference in myself or these individuals (attire, height, gender) except for one simple and obvious discrepancy… skin color. Each of these men was of the white persuasion, while I am not. I’m basically what I like to call; coffee and milk, color. Now I know race is still a very sensitive subject, even in our modern, homogenized times, it is still a subject of soreness for many individuals. I also know that this blog may bring out some terrible memories or invoke painful feelings for some of its readers, but just because you don’t talk about something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. That being said, I continue.

So the first man in line pays and gets his goods bagged and exits the store. The 2^nd man then pays for his items, gets a bag and leaves as well. The next man steps up and; 3^rd verse, same as the first. Well its then my turn to finish my transaction. I place my 2 beverages and 2 burritos on the counter and wait to be rung up. Beep, beep, beep, beep; ‘$4.19 is your total sir’ is what I am told by the store’s clerk. Pretty decent deal I must admit. I then pay the man and make my way towards the door to leave, when suddenly I am approached by another man who has been standing around the entrance, not shopping, but basically looking over everyone in there for the past 15-miuntes that I was there. ‘Hey buddy, come here’ he calls out to me. Ugh, unfortunately this is where the obvious (by the title of this entry) racism kicks in (close your eyes if you’re squeamish)…

‘Hey, you got a dollar man?’ the man asks me, under his breath, as if it was a huge secret he was pan-handling for cash. ‘Man, I’m 75¢ short, you got a dollar bro’?’ he continues, trying to assuage my obvious look of disdain over the obnoxious intrusion. ‘What? A dollar? From me? What happened to those guys that just left? How come you didn’t ask them for your 75¢ or dollar?’ I retort, meanwhile I’m still handing over my currency cause I’m far too altruistic if you ask me. And here comes the twist folks; he then gives me a wink, and says; ‘Aw man, come on. You see them; you know they ain’t gonna’ hook a brotha’ up like that’. A ‘brotha’’? Really?!? Does he mean brotha’ like black-people say it cause it’s more important that way (see Zoolander for reference).

So as I’m leaving the store, an extra dollar short, I think to myself; he only asked me and not them cause they were white and I was coffee and milk… That’s straight-up RACIST! Like, WTF?!? You’re poor enough to beg, but not poor enough to ask whitey for a hand-out? I think every Caucasian out there should be pretty pissed off as well. That is a direct condemnation of your ability to support the disadvantaged, the disenfranchised, and the disillusioned as has been your birth-right from jump-street.

As we enter February and Black History Month, I think it’s time we get back to days when the poor only interrupt white people’s days and not just any ol’ person, and certainly not another ‘brotha’! Reverse racism is alive and thriving in our nation and I call upon all my white brotha’s and sista’s to stand-up and demand that you are still worthy of being harassed for your loose change like the rest of America!

Every time a Possum dies, an angel gets his wings...

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 01:01:48 -0500

We (my two roommates and I) live in a nice green area of south Florida, nice lawns and backyards, golf course directly across the street and palm trees up and down every block. Quite aesthetically pleasing most days and very nice at night when the stars are out and the air is cool and clean.

Well having grown up in an urban part of Brooklyn, NY (well all of Brooklyn is urban actually) I consider this type of living a definite treat for all the senses.

Apparently though, nature and wildlife have a true appreciation for the lush foliage that is my immediate outdoors.

During the spring, when the coconut and mango trees are flourishing and their fruits are in full bloom, you can hear nature encroaching upon our habitat with birds, squirrels and mice foraging around in the trees enjoying the fruits of their labor (yes, mice. Apparently being so close to water they are permanent residence of this area of town). You can often sit out back and watch mangos fall to the ground with bite marks and whole chunks chewed out of them and hear the pitter-patter of tiny feetsies running from branch to branch engorging themselves on the abundant free meal. Even during the winter you can see a few trying to crack open old coconuts and partake of random seeds and plants that grow all around (since there is very little winter here something is always growing year round).

Now last year I sent my roommates are picture file of a very frightening and less than frightened of me raccoon that was sniffing around the yard. I can still his big, bulging eyes staring intently in my direction trying to determine whether I was one of the idiots that will set out food and even try and hand feed these wild beasts in their own yards. I certainly am not “that guy” and immediately ran my arse back in the house. Many who have known me for some time will make fun of my fear of animals (no matter the size or species), I mean it took me years just to get used to their dog who is a sweetheart, but with long teeth and a menacing bark, can intimidate even the most avid dog-lover, but in the case of the raccoon I think my fears were well warranted. While they may look cute (not really up close) they are the farthest thing from a pet and I don’t need to be reminded of that.

Well the tale of the menacing raccoon stalking our backyard spread very quickly in our local circles and I took my fair share of ribbing for that.

Well here is a tale of the monster possum that I won’t be apologetic for either.

Sunday evening as one roomy was coming in from walking his dog, you could hear him calling out to the dog very loudly to ‘come inside now!’ As they entered and he slammed the door behind him, the first question was; ‘what’s going on buddy?’ He then opens the curtains to the front window to show us the very large, very dirty, very disgusting looking possum that had parked itself on our front porch. Well after I let out a very loud noise of sorts (maybe a scream or wail or some type of less than manly noise) we all sat there trying to determine what its state of being was. Was it dead? Was it sleeping? Was it playing possum (yeah, you saw it coming folks)? None of us were about to brave enough to step outside and find out. Well after a few more minutes it stood up and meandered off into the bushes just next to the front door. Now, ,over the years, from time to time, if you were up very early or coming home very late this same possum has been known to cross your path. We had determined that this creature had been taking up residence under the front porch for at least the last 2 years, maybe longer (no idea of the life cycle of a possum). Well once it moved from the porch to the bushes we all assumed it was finding its way home.

Fast forward to evening when one roommate comes home to explain to me that the beast was still in the bushes just off the walkway, and most likely dead. Ugh, is all I could say. ‘We have to get it out of there soon’ was the next thing he said to me (and knowing his thought process the proverbial ‘we’ really meant Me!) Well if I wasn’t clear earlier, Ahmad no likey the animals, much less the nasty, feral, probably disease-ridden ones that lurk in the darkness of a Florida evening. Well once roomy #2 came home we all made a determination that ‘as a family’ we were going to wake up super early, grab the shovel and drop it off on the golf course across the way. Plan sounded good ‘til it came down to execution. No one woke up with any inclination of bringing this plan to fruition, so the carcass stayed put.

Fast forward even further to Thursday evening. 3 ½ days of rotting and now the odor around the front door was more than palpable. It was nauseating. Well roomy #1 comes home with a declaration that ‘we gotta’ get that thing out of here soon, it stinks in here!’ So we decided to try and implement the original plan of shovel to golf course immediately. So as I put on a crappy pair of shoes, grabbed some gloves and basically prepared myself for a biological disaster site (think government issued bio-weapon suits and the movie; Outbreak). So as we approached the now maggot-covered corpse, the smell itself almost took us both out of commission. Drawing the short straw I was commissioned with shovel duty. Now most of you out there probably think what is the big deal. Dead animal, long handle on the shovel, scoop and move. Ha! Wait, I say that again, HA!!! You don’t me that well… homey don’t play ‘dat! Dead or not, I can see it turning to try and spread its vileness all over me (I’m cringing even writing about it). So it’s me, roomy, flashlight, shovel and our deceased squatter all in the moonlight trying to get this done.

Attempt #1: I walk back and forth several times trying to figure out what was the best angle of approach. Nothing happens for several minutes.

Attempt #2: With strong chiding I am directed to ‘come from the back, scoop under, lift and walk across the street’. Long story short, didn’t even get the shovel on the ground.

Attempt #3: After several minutes more of just laughing and then being serious, I get the shovel into place. As I am digging into the ground behind the body, I hear; ‘you’re still a foot away dude. Not even close.’

Attempt #4: I psyche myself up, pound my chest, and admonish myself to nut up and do this.

Attempt #5: My roommate, obvious frustrated with the lack of testicular fortitude I possessed, finally grabs the shovel from my hands and moves it. He gets in under the body and begins to extract it form the bushes. Yeah, only half came out. Ugh!!! ONLY HALF! Needless to say terrified screams could be heard miles away I’m sure (I won’t who was screaming, but his name sounds like Ahmad). So at this point, with half a carcass we have to figure out what to do. We determine that it would not hold up being transported the 100 or so steps to its final resting place, so we got a garbage bag to dispose of it. Sounds reasonable I’m sure, only one problem though. I had to hold the bag. F’ that is basically what was running through my mind. Way too close to my body. Well again I am chided to man up and get it done. So I close my eyes and allow ½ torso to plop down in the bag (cue more screaming and jumping around).

Attempt #6: The front end, including the ugliest face on anything ever seen, comes out on the shovel and I’m again demanded to hold the bag open. Plop #2. On this one I genuinely jump high in the air and dance around as if I was being attacked by the surplus of insects chewing this thing to pieces. I don’t know what I used to run the 40-yd dash in during my athletic years, but I’m pretty sure I could’ve tied or beat those times this evening, as I streak around the side of the house and to the trash cans in the back.

I then washed my hands and arms for the next 15 minutes trying to scrub away any remnants of the odor, the sight, the thought of how disgusting this thing was.

Well, now we are possum free (hallelujah) and hopefully the smell and bugs will be gone come morning. My message to readers out there, if you’re outside this evening, and can see the stars in the sky, look very closely. Just out there, in the northern sky, that one bright new star, the one that looks like it has rabies… that’s angel being born from the death of this vile creature.