Titles

Although I make a habit of studying the space and people around me, my eyes can’t help but stay locked on the painting in front of the dinner table.  The painting is a melancholy blue all over save for one small red box three inches from the bottom right corner.  With just two colors, and a terribly simplistic design, I wonder why would the management of this restaurant have chosen this piece to sell?

“Maybe I should start painting again.”  I say to my good friend Mindi who sits beside me.  “Even I can do that.”  I tilt my head in the direction of the art work.

She makes a comment in agreement.  

Over a cheap bottle of the house wine (which might as well be wine flavored water) the subject of my paintings is raised.  Mindi offers words of encouragement about restarting my hobby of art.  As usual, I take this opportunity to beat down not just my artistic pursuits, but all my creative endeavors.

“There was a time,” I begin to reminisce, “when friends would call me a painter, or at least an amateur one.  The same with writing; I was labelled a writer by some.  Now what am I?  I’ve lost my titles and I don’t know what to call myself anymore.”

Enter Mindi with her words of encouragement.

“That’s not true.”  She counters.  “You have a lot of great pieces.”

“Sitting in storage collecting dust.” I say.  “Most of them have to be retouched or done over.  So that leaves me with what?  Two?”

“Well you have friends who know you as a writer.”  She offers.  “You have readers on your blog-”

“You mean the one I haven’t touched in four months?  And how long before that?”

I can read disapproval on her face of my self-defeatism.

“Well then what are you really looking for?”  She asks.  “It shouldn't be about how many projects you complete.  It should be about the journey.”

I stubbornly remained unconvinced and let the silence that falls between us inevitably change the subject.  As I stare back to the plain blue painting, I think, maybe the piece is just a damn good conversation starter.

The Ten Minute Exercise

I was given a challenge by a friend and fellow writer, Kynzie Bair, to write for ten minutes straight without stopping or editing.  Although this is an excellent exercise to help inspire creativity, I deviated slightly and instead wrote a mini-story in the ten minutes allotted.


Signals

 She occupied her time examining the various wares as she waited patiently for her coffee.  She wore tight, black, athletic shorts with a plain tank top, a common outfit for the many young women who visited the shop.  Her straight, dark hair hung to her shoulders, drawing focus to her attractive face, but not taking too much away from her toned body.  I think I would have gone unnoticed had it not been for a patrons annoying attempt to capture the attention of a departing employee, whom I knew he fancied.  His noise in my ear was a blessing to my sight as her and I locked eyes briefly.  It’s never polite to stare, I thought to myself and averted my gaze.  Yet she made another attempt to connect with my eyes, and again she was met with success.  What had been only a moment before stretched to a full second, but felt more like a nervous minute.  By her third glance I had started to wonder if she was looking at me because she thought I was attractive.  I dismissed the notion.  Perhaps she thought of me as a creep, and was only curious to see if my eyes objectified her body, but her face wore no sign of disgust.  Had her opinion of me been favorable it wouldn’t of mattered.  I pretended not to notice her as I took a drink of tea I wasn’t thirsty for, and continued to type out story I wasn’t working on.  

Pardon Our Dust

11th of January, 2012

I had been sitting at my computer for some time, trying in vain to find inspiration for my latest blog post.  I read somewhere that when doing creative work one should never leave anything blank.  Whether on canvas or the computer screen, the longer you stare at the white, featureless space, the longer it takes to create anything of worth.  The empty Word document bled me of all creative energy and left infectious doubt.  I was left with enough strength to only write three words: “no, you can’t”.  In three little words, I had successfully obliterated my confidence.  Whatever precious little time I had set aside that day to write was spent in silence, save for my spoken reply:

“Maybe you’re right.”

Present Day

“180 Degrees of 314.00” has run it’s course; or, more accurately, sank on it’s maiden voyage.  I became bored and disheartened with my writing, something I now wish to rectify.

Enter “Little or No Filter”; a blog that focuses on my most important goal: becoming a better writer.  On this blog, I will be crafting posts without schedule or doubt.  Here, my readers and friends will watch me grow as a writer, and may even be entertained by a story now and then.  I am now free to grow without stress or pause.

RIP 180

NOTICE!

Below lies the graveyard of “180 Degrees of 314.00”, a blog about completing 180 bucket list goals.

It’s dead.  Don’t poke it.

The posts are there only to demonstrate the progression of my writing abilities.

Old Sport

Of all of my 180 goals I want to accomplish, I feel I put the majority of my focus in writing and painting. With writing, I have been trying to better the areas that are my largest faults. One example would be the passiveness of my sentences, something a number of my friends have observed.  It’s been said that I have a tendency to sound too factual in my tone and not very passionate in what I'm trying to convey. To fix this, I've been absorbing whatever material I can that will aid me in perfecting my written English skills.

One way that I have tried to sharpen my skills is by investing time in my trilogy that I hope to one day have published. Though it has been a slow process, I'm very proud that I have found a way to turn off the over critical part of my brain and just write whatever comes out. Whatever I create will need to go through a thousand revisions, so it's important for me just to focus on piecing together an entertaining story.

As for painting, a few months ago, I met a professional artist (lets just call him SV) through a poker group I'm associated with. After talking in length about painting with SV, he offered to take me on as a student for free; naturally I accepted. Though SV and I only met one time for art lessons, I felt disappointed in the experience. SV is a very political and religious man with no filter in either subject. He seemed almost helpless to restrain sharing his world views which I felt took away from the importance of my visit. However, I can not say that my time with him was a total loss. There were a number of tips and techniques that I learned from him to help my paintings become more pleasing to the eye and profitable. I wouldn't mind taking on another lesson from SV, but for now I feel it's best him and I meet when there is a specific area in painting I want to work on.

P.S., I would like to share that I finished reading “The Great Gatsby”. I don't know what else to say other than I loved it and could see why it's a classic.

Leaving On a Jet Plane

Two weeks ago
It had been months since I last saw my Confidante. At first, work and hobbies kept me away from her, but over time reasons became excuses.  When we finally met, I shared a feeling that had surfaced while on a “staycation” in downtown Phoenix a week or so prior to us meeting. The feeling was one of helplessness and frustration at where I was in life. I remembered staring out of my hotel window saddened that my trip would come to an end, forcing me back into my ugly, crime-ridden neighborhood in Glendale. Away from the culture and fashion of the city life; Removed from the art district, museums, and galleries all connected on one short trip via the Phoenix Light Rail.
“I want to live in the city.” I confessed to her. “And I want to travel more. I want to visit France in five years time, come Hell or high water.”

As I divulged more details of my desires to travel, she shared her own personal experiences of visiting a number of European countries. When she did, I began to fantasize about myself in the cities she described. Eventually, she would suggest that I not just visit Europe, but that I should consider living there for a minimum of a month. In truth, the idea of being away from those closest to me was frightening. However, my time abroad wouldn't be permanent, and it wouldn't be for long.
I made up my mind and agreed with her suggestion.

I want my first new home in Europe to be in Madrid, Spain. I intend to live there for a couple of months, two or three years from now. Until then, I hope to have a better familiarity with the Spanish language, and some measure of savings to make the stay an easy one. After Spain, I want to do it all over again in France two or three years afterward.
I have no family, career, or great responsibilities weighing me down. As a man who has never lived in a home longer than two years since the age of fourteen, I have no reason to fear change. What I have is a burning passion for adventure, one fueled by the loving support of those closest to me.

Back In Black

It's difficult for me to pinpoint exactly when I lost the confidence to maintain my blog.

When I look back on a number of my posts and the struggle to keep my content new and interesting, I find that I was never happy with anything I wrote here. “180 Degrees of 314.00” had become a job; one that provided no financial incentive, fame, or enjoyment. After just six months into the blog, I had already lost faith in myself as an aspiring writer.
I was going about it the wrong way, and now it's time to get back to basics.
I want to be able to express my life goals and accomplishments on this site as if I was speaking to my best friends, not as is if I was writing a New York Times Best Seller.  I think a new post on the first and second Friday of every month will not be too overwhelming for me.  

The only way to improve my writing is to first acknowledge that not everything I create is going to be a masterpiece.
Fail, and fail often.
Through constant failure there is success.