1408: An Allegory for My Own Private Hell

I don't know how many of you have seen 1408. It is an absolutely marvelous film, and you should go rent it immediately.

Please know, though, that I plan on suing the filmmakers. I am not entirely sure how they managed to follow me around and record both my day-to-day life and the inner workings of my mind, but they managed it and now owe me loads of money for stealing my life for monetary gain. What follows is each count of the complaint I am drafting. These counts clearly (pretty good, right Mechelle?) show that the parallels between this movie and my place of employment are too strong to be mere coincidence. Please feel free to offer tips for best organizing my argument and, if you've seen the film, let me know if I've missed anything. Also, please excuse any spoilers, but I am fighting for my good name here.

COUNT ONE

Every picture in the room is askew and ugly. Ditto the paintings in my place of employment.

COUNT TWO

The temperature fluctuates between boiling hot to freezing cold for no rhyme or reason. The scene where Mike Enslin (John Cusack) burns pages from his file to keep warm was especially powerful for me as I have often lit the contents of my recycling bin on fire in a futile attempt to save myself from hypothermia.

COUNT THREE

John Cusack and I are both remarkably good looking. And thin. They obviously chose the male equivalent of me to play me. For this, at least, I am grateful.

COUNT FOUR

At one point, Gerald Olin (Samuel L. Jackson) asks Enslin if he's a drinker. Enslin answers, "Of course I am. I told you I'm a writer." I have said this at least 15 times throughout my life and have witnesses to prove it.

COUNT FIVE

We both equate We've Only Just Begun by the Carpenters to some sort of death march.

COUNT SIX

Both Enslin and I are disgusted by the things we do to make money. He travels to hotels to listen to yokels babble about fictitious hauntings; I travel from desk-to-desk to listen to idiots create fanciful tales about why their computer isn't working.

COUNT SEVEN

Most obviously, there is no escape. Ever. **Spoiler Alert** When Enslin believes he has finally escaped from the room, he learns it was all a trick and he never really left. I wept during this scene.

COUNT EIGHT

For both Enslin and I, death is a happy alternative to spending one more hour in our own personal purgatories.

COUNT NINE

Finally, and most persuasively, the demons/evil beings/whatever seem to have a bone to pick with Enslin, and the viewer is never entirely sure what he did to deserve all this. There are vague implications that maybe he was a bit of a bastard and made some big mistakes, but I think we can all agree that this is hardly an argument for eternal suffering.

This is precisely what I deal with every single day. People yell, scream, throw things, try to toss me out of windows and why? Why do they do this? I don't know, but much like Enslin, I spend every moment of every day reliving painful memories in the hopes that something, anything, will help me realize what I have done to deserve this never ending suffering. And, perhaps, with that revelation will come some sort of escape.

IN CONCLUSION

All I ask in recompense is what is fair:

1. A public apology from Stephen King (even though I haven't read his short story, I am assuming that he is the one who followed me around) and Dimension Films.
2. A chance to meet John Cusack and maybe have a nice meal.
3. Either a job as a writer for Dimension Films or enough money in a cash settlement so that I can once and for all quit my job.

Process

My literary voice has been silent for awhile now, and I feel as if I owe everyone (or at least the three people who will read this blog) an explanation. To prove once and for all how absolutely insane I am, I will go through my self-defeating literary process with you all.

My most recent endeavor has been the zombie book. As yet (after a mere two years of piddling with the thing), it is untitled. But I digress (as you will come to find, this is problem #378). Let's look at how I have gone about not finishing this book:

1. Idea sparks from a series of nightmares I had through most of college and graduate school; nightmares that probably stemmed from too many hours spent in front of video games and horror films.
2. I develop idea into something people might actually want to read. I brainstorm ways to combine family strife (my own) with horrific scenes (not at all difficult).
3. I create an outline - something new to my process. In the past, I started writing without ever thinking through how I was going to end the thing. This lead to a lot of cursing and revisions. Not this time, though. Take that, ye gods who are against me!
4. I start writing. Everything is going great. The first 125 pages or so flow out of me. I am a fucking rockstar!
5. Shit. I'm stuck. In the early planning stages, I had written in a half-assed love interest (well, it didn't seem half-assed at the time). Now I can't figure out how to get this stupid, unconvincing narrative drivle to work.

This is where the proverbial turds hit the proverbial fan. Any reasonable human being would just eliminate this from the plot. It's not exactly hard to hit the delete key. However, I am not a reasonable human being (ask anyone who has known me for longer than 20 minutes). Instead of taking a breath, and changing courses, I...

6. Go back to page one and start editing. My words, which once looked so brilliant, now look like the scribblings of a first grader. I take out my pen and start hacking and slashing. I more fully develop characters. I add in interesting tidbits about peoples' furniture and cars. I fix misspellings. I'm no longer a rock star, but I think I can patch this sinking ship.

7. I edit and rewrite all the way to the troublesome section. It's still troubling. In the two months I have spent rewriting, I have not had a single good idea for getting myself out of this dilemna. Just delete this fucking character, I tell myself. But then what about this scene later down the road? Deleting this guy is going to change, well, everything.

8. I sit and stare at my computer. Jesus I suck. I bet Ernest Hemingway had the balls to delete something when it wasn't working. So did Kurt Vonnegut. Even Stephen fucking King cuts when the cutting is good.

9. I go back to page one and start rereading. It really isn't very good at all. Should I even bother writing any more? Should I start from scratch? Should I bludgeon myself with my very expensive monitor? I know. I'll check my e-mail. Maybe God sent me a message telling me how to get out of this.

10. A year passes. Absolutely nothing has been accomplished. I tell myself at least once a week that I really should get back to work because writing (even writing the nonsense trash that I write) is one of the few things I really love.

11. It's baseball season.

And that leaves us here. I swore to myself I will pull out the manuscript (tomorrow, dammit) and just start writing again. I'm deleting the love story. Maybe, just maybe, I can finish this book. Wish me luck.

Testing 1, 2, 3

My first post on a new blog. How exciting. Unfortunately, your feelings will likely not match my own as this will not be exciting for you.

This is a test. This is only a test.

By way of explanation, I am sick and tired of MySpace and its shenanigans, so I have decided to leave forever. I would not want to abandon my loyal readers, though, so I have moved on to other - perhaps grander - blogging pursuits. My only regret is that I will no longer be able to post a smiley face indicating my mood. Hopefully I can convey such with my words.