Irritation and frustration

Underrepresented in literature.  It's kind of funny, but it makes sense.  There's a place for literally just about every other emotion somewhere in the vast echelon of literature.  Most pieces out there can make you happy, or sad, or confident, or angry, or lustful, or confused, or even fill you with hatred.  The point is, these pieces usually do so with purpose.  That piece of propaganda was meant to make you angry at the injustices of the world; that bright little romance was supposed to make you feel happy, and perhaps a bit wistful.  But there are a few emotions that, generally, are avoided like plague.  Specifically, I'm thinking of frustration and irritation.  Most often if a reader feels these emotions while reading a piece, it's either because the author introduces a character meant to be a foil or a counterpart to the other characters, or (much worse) the author has unintentionally written something that genuinely irritates or frustrates the reader.

Now, I'm not talking about the kind of frustration that comes from short-term denial, like if two characters that are clearly meant to be together continuously find themselves in situations that push them apart.  It's just anticipation and denial, a common tool in the writer's handbook.  There's even something to it if the characters don't actually end up together for one reason or another.  This can be just as frustrating, but it's not quite what I mean.  The reader, despite their frustration, kept with the story long enough to see how it turned out.  Even if they don't like the ending, they were hooked, and looked forward to seeing how it would turn out. 

Similarly, neither am I talking about irritation created from poor or confusing composition.  If the reader has trouble with the story because of mistakes in the way the story is written, or because the reader has a difficult time keeping track of what's happening, it's only natural for the reader to become irritated.  But such stories, unless written improperly on purpose to prove a point (Flowers for Algernon, for example) are incomplete, and, I would argue, should not be judged against a complete, perfectly edited story.  The plot is lost in the mistakes and confusion, and the emotion is was meant to impart is poorly communicated if at all.  The potential, however, still remains, and a bit more work may reveal something new. 

No, I'm talking about a piece that is actually written with the sole intent of irritating the person who reads it.  Not accidentally, not subjectively, not improperly: just flat out meant to turn what the reader is currently feeling into unbridled irritation.  I wonder, what would such a piece be about?  Irritating people doing irritating things?   Nothing at all?  Is it even possible to get someone to read something irritating without the promise of something better to come?  And then, perhaps most difficult of all, have it be written effectively enough to rekindle these feelings each time it's read?  Could such a story even escape the comfort that comes from familiarity?

I mean, it's pretty clear why these pieces, if they exist, are rare.  Why would anybody want to read something like this?  Just about any emotion, any emotion out there, is preferable.  People don't want to feel irritated, so they lash out and get angry, or meditate to regain happiness, or avoid the source of irritation entirely.  It's not painful, or even really debilitating, but we just can't stand being irritated.  Frustration is a bit different since it necessarily carries expectations, but generally I think it works the same way. 

Well, enough rambling.  I've been trying to branch out in the kinds of emotions I try to evoke in readers, and it just struck me as interesting that, unlike just about every other emotion out there, there's little point towards evoking pure irritation in others through writing. 
Anyway, I'm still looking into it, so in the spirit of investigation, what about y'all?  Anything you've ever read that's just purely irritated or frustrated you?  Something that still irritates you even to think about?  

What's your writing problem?

This is idea number two, and one hour into writing this piece.

The first things I wanted to write about were creation and destruction, but as is often the case with this kind of thing, it got waaay too convoluted and stopped making sense.

It was crap, and I tossed it.

So, here we are.  I felt inspired and wanted to write a piece tonight, and once again ran out of fuel and enthusiasm. 

So, have a short story made up on the spot.

She woke up with a terrible headache.

...Wow.  You know, it's a bit disturbing how many of my stories start out with something like that.  I mean, in media-res, with a female character.  It's just what my mind defaults to, apparently.

Some of you know this, but for the rest of you who don't, I once created a character for a game my friends and I were going to play that had a background that was about ten pages long.  For a professional writer, I'm sure this is probably not particularly ridiculous; but considering that not only was this character only vaguely important to the plot, but also not likely to show up for more than two sessions at the most, this was the definition of overkill.  I started out writing a little chunk meant to introduce her (yep, her), and ended up writing well into the night.  Since I jumped back and forth between quick description and in-depth profile, and more than often dipped into narrative, it was pretty terrible.  Exhausted as I was, it was also completely unedited.

She's also almost, but not quite, the biggest Mary Sue character I've ever created.  (For an in depth description of what a lot of people on the Internet think a Mary Sue is, click here or here; for the moment, just rest assured that making one in a story is a very, very bad thing.)  It wasn't on purpose; it's just what ended up happening.  Thanks for putting up with that, Max.

Every single damn time I create a female character (which is a lot), she  pops into my head, and I go on a spree of furious rewrites and character examinations.  The result often turns out to be a character with too many flaws, who gets scrapped anyway.

Anybody else have this problem, or something like it?  Some problem that just cuts to the core of what you're writing, and makes you just instantly rethink the viability appeal of the entirety of everything you've just written?

I mean, I don't mind it.  It certainly means a lot less shitty work, or at least I'd like to think so, and I tend to be quite satisfied with the characters I create, gaming or otherwise.  There are common patterns and tendencies (tragedy and wandering, anybody?), but I still love them.  Without stopping for more than a minute, I could write a decent story involving literally any single or group of them right here, right now.

That's how much I like them.

In fact, "She woke up with a terrible headache" is a pretty decent descriptor of most of them.  Just switch 'she' for 'he' in some cases, and you get the whole travel-worn, tragic lot.  Repentance, you see, is a fascinating concept to me.

But yeah, anybody else have a common problem they find with what they write?  Even if it's more about grammar or spelling than plot?  I love talking about that kind of thing.

I won't leave you hanging either.  Have an actual chunk of a story I've been drafting lately.

"Black Out."  (Detective version)

I could tell it was coming, the moment her eyes went dark.  See, a lot can be told about a person from their eyes.  The lines and wrinkles around them; the shine and liveliness of them, and how healthy they are; the way they move when one lies, or cries, or smiles.  To a lesser extent, even the color and shape of a person's eyes can give you insight into what kind of person they are.  Learning to read a person's eyes correctly, particularly the most subtle nuances of motion, can take several years to master.  Some people, particularly those who know their own ticks and how to read them, can manipulate this eye-borne transference to their own ends. 

Sometimes, however, a person's eyes might as well be screaming at you.  I'm no coward, but the look in her eyes was something I had never seen before.  When her eyes darkened, mine went wide; for her eyes, once so kind and honest, now radiated malice unimaginable.  In this place, in the middle of nowhere, there was no chance of the authorities making it in time.  I do not know what he said to her, or what problems she had been dealing with to bring her to this place.  All I know is that, even as her hand moved to the knife on the table in front of her, I was had already begun running for the door.   This knowledge, gleaned from years of experience in criminal psychology, was the only thing that saved my life. 

The first chapter of this story is more or less already done, and I'd be happy to send it to you if what you read above has peaked your interest.  Or link it if you have a Deviant Art account.

Self-Help, among other things.

A young man, out of college with a degree in Environmental Ethics, writing from the warm expanses of rural Northern California.  Thanks for stopping by.  Call me koricature.  Nice to meet you.  Have some tea.

This blog was created with two major points in mind.

First, within the space of this blog, I hope to finally bridge that gap between being a writer and being an author.  Currently, writing is still just a pass time for me, and most of my characters and plots only passing interests.  As much as I care for them, most I could take or leave, and of the many I have created, I am proud of only a few of them.  It is a distraction, a fun hobby at most.  With practice, care, and, God willing, some criticism and feedback, I hope to develop something worthy of making me an author.  As much as I'd like to write for a living, I know the odds are against me, and while I don't think I'll ever give up trying, I don't hold any false hopes.  Doesn't need to make me rich.  Hell, doesn't even need to be circulated, much less published.  It just needs to be something of which I can be proud, something that brings even a bit of happiness to those who choose to read it.

Anybody can write a story.  Some can write it well.  Only a lucky few can instill purpose into the formless, and push it through into reality.

Second, just about everything I've written up to this point has been a series of short stories.  I don't really have a problem with this, but I think it's important to develop talents in both quick writing and creating a progressive plot, and I have been seriously neglecting the latter.  Similarly, I find that my writing tends towards the tragic.  While this is related more to personal motivation than it is technical skill, I still need to round out my abilities.  The process is easy enough; just practice until carpal tunnel and beyond, and swallow every bit of criticism I can prod and beg from you.

Anyway, without further ado, a short piece I wrote not long ago as a sort of stress relief exercise.  It's only partly autobiographical, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't have some of my daily life in it at all.  Enjoy!

"Self-Help" (9/22/11)

While I was driving to work today, slightly late as per usual, I noticed the large SUV behind me was not tailgating me.  I raised my eyebrows in surprise, but nothing else.  Beside me, my computer played a song called Dissociative Identity, from an old game I love.

After I arrive, I think about ways I can cover up my being late.  I remember it was recycle day yesterday, and walk back to the entrance of the parking lot to start wheeling in the big blue canisters.  I find myself biting my lip.  Above me, a crow looks down inquisitively, and comments on my progress from the telephone lines with a caw!

I make it a point to greet everyone as I come inside.  All of them respond, many with a smile.  They know me as a happy person, a good worker.  Those that don’t smile have their own ideas.  But this is not my concern, and I only turn away with my smile intact.  The radio is only a hiss of static at this point, before anyone has tuned it.  No one has touched it since last night, when it was working perfectly.  What has changed?

Later, the phone rings, and I am the closest to it.  I pick it up, with the programmed welcome I have memorized as per the manager’s request.   The woman on the other end is very polite, and asks if we take doors.  I have no idea, but I know from experience that it is better to accept.  As long as they are in good shape, and have all of their parts, I say.  She assures me that they are, and we hang up. Something I don’t recognize is playing on the radio, which has been set to a modern pop station. I wonder what all the elderly volunteers are thinking as they hear it.

The first car arrives soon after.  It is an old beat-up van.  I walk towards it, and it stops about halfway down the back drive, fairly far away from the table where I sort through the donations.  It stops, and a man with a mustache turns the car off and steps out.  I greet him enthusiastically, and he responds in kind.  I am happy that he is in a good mood.  It makes it much easier if I have to turn something down.  But he only has a few bags of household goods.  He asks for a receipt as I ask him if he wants a receipt, and I leave to pick one up.  He thanks me as I thank him, and he pulls away. I look at the dishes in the garbage bag he gave me.  Some of them are quite nice.  I wonder who bought them, and why. His breaks squeal loudly as he stops to pull onto the street.

The older man who works outside with me is working too hard again.  He was injured earlier this year, and had to miss work for over a month.  The administration has said in no uncertain terms that he should not work outside, and under no circumstances is he to do any serious lifting.  He is putting together a bed frame out on the concrete, which the sun has already pushed above 100.  I worry that [The Manager] will be angry with me for not doing the work instead of the old man.  Then I catch myself.  [The Manager] wouldn’t do anything like that. Beside me, the powerful old radio we always have on outside starts playing Crazy Train.

Later, the older man tells me a story.  He’s on his break.  I’m not, but I stop working to listen to him.  He talks about a house he used to own, somewhere in California.  He assumes I know the place since I went to school near there, apparently.  The story ends with him divorcing his wife.  By my count, this makes two, maybe three.  Behind him, I hear his dog panting in the heat as it chases after something in the dirt near the old televisions and egg crates. 

The furniture outside in the front of the store is filthy with road dust and dead bugs, especially what was left under the lights.  A few swipes with a cloth make a big difference.  I stop when I feel a familiar light brush over my face near the exercise equipment. I step back carefully and look up.  The reaper in yellow and green looks back down at me.  She is no threat, but she is big, and she must go.  I wrap her in a paper towel, gently, and carry her through the back passage so as not to frighten the volunteers.  Inside the store, I hear them talking happily about the things they found.  I make a mental note to stop by the front soon.

After lifting a recliner into the back of an old woman’s car, I returned to the back to find that my place has been filled.  The man greets me enthusiastically, and I return the greeting with a smile.  He is wearing a policeman’s uniform.  He is a good friend, and I know him well.  But it is only with dismay that I see him begin to work.  He is much faster than I am, and I will need to find something else to do for a while.  As I turn to go back inside, I hear him curse loudly as he trips over the wrinkle in the rug.  I wonder where his temper comes from, and hop that none of the other volunteers complain it.

Hours pass, and a large truck pulls up.  A woman steps out, and, before I can greet her, she says she has some doors for us, and that someone on the phone said we would take them.  My smile widens, and I move to the back of the truck.  The doors are in awful shape, and none of them have all of their parts.  I carry them one-by-one over to the table, where I lean them on a metal rack.  I ask the woman if she wants a receipt, and she says she does.  She thanks me, sincerely I think, and starts her truck.  As she pulls away, I hear the rack behind me collapse under the weight of several doors.  Oh no,  says the older man working on another bed frame, Right through [The Manager’s] windshield!  Despite myself, I snort in laughter, and say something back.

The table is empty.  My friend has cleared it out.  The older man is putting together a large hospital bed.  I have nothing to do.  There are bins inside to sort, but one of the none-smilers is there.  I start dusting the higher shelves inside the store, the ones only I can see without a stepladder.  The framed art is up there, away from destructive children and glass-smearing fingers.  I clean each piece, and run a wet cloth over the shelf underneath them.  Startled dust bunnies make a desperate dash for the ground, and I sneeze once, twice.  Behind me at the counter, the kindly old volunteer at the checkout counter says, God bless you!  I don’t know a thing about her, but I know the days when she is supposed to work.  She is one of the smilers.

The shelves and glass display cases are clean.  I start to work on the counter tops when the other woman working at the checkout counter asks if I can cover for her.  She is nice, a smiler also, and I agree.  She tells me she has a doctor appointment, and that she hopes to be back by the time we close.  I nod with a smile, telling her I don’t mind.  The checkout counter is a nice place to work.  There are a lot of people to talk to, and it is air-conditioned.  The time goes by fast in the front of the store. As I sit down behind the counter, a young boy looking at costumes shrieks at his brother while wearing a werewolf mask.  I wonder what it would have been like to have an older brother.  My smile widens.

I am needed in the back again, and another volunteer takes my place at the counter.  It is time to move the hospital bed to the front of the store.  I will need to wheel it around the outside, down the street, then back in through the front gate.  It has it’s own wheels, so I need to be careful going down the hill and over the potholes in the road.  In the front lot, a nurse from administration next door offers to help me.  I politely refuse with a smile, and she helps me anyway.  Along the road to my left, a fire truck blares its siren as it passes by.  My smile fades slightly. 

An hour later, my good mood has collapsed.  I’m not sure why.  The day hasn’t really been much different than any other.  A few more donations come in, including one with several large kitchen knives.  I enjoy looking through knives, for workmanship, quality, and sharpness.  One of them is very good.  As I suspected, it is from Japan.  The best knives I find always seem to come from there.  I cover the edge with tape, and take it inside.  My mood does not improve, though nobody can really tell.  A toaster being tested on a nearby counter pops up with nothing in it.  My smile does not change.

It is almost time to leave.  There is a half-hour left before I will be needed at the front counter. I am working on the bins inside, with the none-smiler.  Silence reigns, as per usual.

I close the car door, and simultaneously place and turn the key, pull my seat belt on, grab my computer from the back and open it, and roll down the windows.  Don’t ask me how I do it.  I have no idea.  I turn to look over my shoulder to back out, and see one of the volunteers in her car getting ready to pull out.  I smile and make exaggerated hand movements, and she waves at me and continues to back out.  The back window of her car is covered in bumper stickers and decals, all of them either patriotic or Christian.  She finishes backing up, and carefully pulls forward to move through the back gate. I like her.  She is a smiler.  The older man sits down on his motorcycle with a See ya later, and starts it with a roar.

My check is deposited. My shopping is done.  I back into my usual spot in the driveway.  I don’t see any cats, which is a surprise, even though we only have two.  I turn the car off, and open the door, my arms full with my keys, my groceries, and my open computer.  It is still hot, and my mood hasn’t improved.  I lean against my car briefly to catch my balance.  My computer is playing one of my favorite songs, from an anime where young people kill each other from their paranoid delusions.  My smile widens.

I turn off my music.  I walk inside, my parents’ enthusiastic greetings in my ears.  I greet them back, and sit down on the couch.  They seem to know something is wrong, and do not speak much.  They know I like my silence, especially when I am in a mood.  They are wonderful people, both smilers.  Dad only asks me if I’d like to help him cook hamburgers in an hour.  I nod my head, smiling lightly.

I begin to type.