I was watching my news feeds today, and one of the first stories I saw pop up was about how Obama had lied about staying a few weeks with his uncle.  What the article actually said was that Obama failed to correct it when the White House said that he hadn’t met his uncle.  This was headline news.

My first reaction when reading this was, “So?” My next reaction was, “I wonder how some of the Obama haters in my friends list are going to twist this into Obama being the devil.”

A few minutes later, I read that Nelson Mandela died.

Damn.

There are many reasons to respect Nelson Mandela, but the one I focus on was his ability to reject hate.  He had reasons to be bitter and angry and hateful, but he said that leaders don’t have time for hatred.  He was in jail for 27 years, and when he was sworn into office, he had one of his jailers present.

The timing of the news of Mandela’s death next to Obama’s “lie” drew me into making some comparisons.

I want to like and respect Obama as much as Mandela, but I can’t.  I don’t dislike our president.  I respect him, and I think he is a powerful speaker, and a good man.  I want more, though.  I want to see the measure of Obama’s convictions.  I don’t want him to sell his ideas to me, I want him to see his vision through.

Maybe the Republican obstructionist ways have been keeping him from acting.  Maybe he’s just one man, and I’m expecting too much.

Nelson Mandela was just one man, but when he stood for something, others stood with him.

I want more.  Maybe the healthcare reform is the thing, but I’m not feeling it.

The president is in his last term.  I want him to take a risk.  I don’t want him to try and do something popular, I want him to try and do something right.  I don’t know what that is yet.  Maybe if I figure out the answer, I’ll just go do it myself.

I’m a little late to this party, but I want to talk about Paul Walker’s death, and the reactions I saw to it in social media.

The initial wave of reactions I saw were mostly disbelief, or “RIP Paul Walker.” They were normal reactions, and similar to what I’ve observed when other celebrities have died.

The next wave of reactions were all about the driver.  The thrust of those posts were to say, “The death of Paul Walker is tragic, sure, but we should be remembering the other guy, too.” There was a kind of haughty smugness to some of the posts.

Those posts irked me.  I felt like they were berating people for acknowledging the death of one person over another.

The demonstrable truth is that it is normal for us to acknowledge or be impacted by the deaths of some more than the deaths of others.

If I were to tell you that Fred Smith died in a car crash this evening, how would you feel?  If we’re all being honest, we probably feel a little bit bad, if we feel anything at all.  Unless, of course, we’re Mrs. Fred Smith, or Fred Smith Jr., or any of the hundreds of people that actually knew Fred Smith.  Those people will be devastated.

(For the record, I don’t know any Fred Smiths.  If I coincidentally selected the name of someone that actually died in a car crash this evening, I offer my sincere condolences for you loss.)

I know how I felt when my Dad died.  I know how I felt when my Mom died.  I know how I felt when I found out that Paul Walker died.  I even know how I felt when I learned that someone died in the same crash as Paul Walker.  All of those experiences were different.

Here’s a breakdown of my perspective on the matter:

• Death is usually tragic.  I want to say that it is always tragic for those left behind, but I can imagine scenarios where death is a relief after a long period of suffering.
• Tragedies do not affect everyone equally.
• It is our connection to people and events that provide the weight and substance to our distress when we are faced with a tragedy.
• Fame provides a type of connection, usually unidirectional.  Your favorite actor may not know you, but you “know” your famous actor.

So falling back on the examples I gave, the death of my father hit me the hardest.  I was younger, and though he was in his 70s when he passed away, it happened suddenly.  He’d been healthy and vibrant a month before he died, and I wasn’t prepared.

The death of my Mom hit me pretty hard, but not as hard as when my Dad had died.  I had a different, more strained relationship with my mother.  She had been chronically ill for many years, and she really didn’t take good care of herself.  The death was not a surprise.  It was tragic, and I was sad, but it did not hurt me quite as much as when my Dad died.

The death of Paul Walker didn’t really hurt me.  I knew that he was an actor that played in action movies about cars, so the irony of him dying in a car crash wasn’t lost on me.  He was my age, and that made me think of my own mortality, and how it could have been me dying on the road in fire and metal.  It didn’t hit me on a string emotional level, but I felt bad for the people that knew him best, and I hope he rests in peace.

The death of his driver hurt me even less.  I read his name in one of the posts that seemed to be berating people for not remembering him in death, but I don’t remember his name.  I could investigate his life, commit his name to my memory, and invest energy in trying to get to know him, but what would be the point?  My only emotional connection to this driver that’s died comes in the form of annoyance for those people that want to use him as an excuse to berate strangers over the internet (I say, as I berate strangers over the internet in my blog).

The reality is that nearly 150,000 people die every day on average.  That’s a lot of dying.  Fortunately, we aren’t confronted with the deaths of those strangers constantly.  I think to try and mourn all of those strangers would be unhealthy.

Finally, let’s try not to get so upset when the deaths of famous people are acknowledged.  I look at that as one of the perks of being famous.  The famous are under greater scrutiny, are less able to move about freely, and are often expected to “perform” for perfect strangers on a regular basis.  The perks they get are not free, so let them have their death benefit.

Things have been a little quiet on my blog this month.  It’s because I’ve been focusing all of my writing energy on my NaNoWriMo project.  I’ve been doing a pretty great job with that project, and I’m really liking how the story is going.  I started off strong, meandered a little bit around chapter 6, then gained a lot of momentum after I had an epiphany about what my story was about.  Chapter 6 will get dealt with when I turn my attention to editing.

“Editing” is a good segue into another subject.  Specifically, editing myself.  Even more specifically, I’m talking about not posting stuff here, for fear of offending a new friend or two.

I made a few friends at Convolution that I admire and respect, and I value their opinions.  They are fantastic people, and I look forward to seeing them in person again, and sharing my work with them as it develops.  They’re great people, but sometimes they post things to Facebook that make feel three or four degrees short of uncomfortable.  Maybe that means the posts are effective, because I’m thinking about the subject material without feeling outright upset.

So now that I’ve spent three paragraphs on build-up, let’s get into what I really want to talk about: __________.

Damn it, I can’t even fill in the blank right.  I think I’m supposed to put in “feminism” or “women’s rights” or “gender balance” or something, but I don’t know which terms I should use, and which ones I should avoid.

I’m going to struggle with this topic, because I’m a straight white male in his 40s, making a decent living and supporting his family.  I’m the “privileged.” With all of the advantages I have, it seems like I shouldn’t have an opinion that counts for anything.

The problem is that I was born white, I was born male, and I was born straight.  I chose none of that.  And sometimes, when I read about some of the gender imbalance issues, I feel like I should be apologizing for these attributes that I was born with, and did not choose.

That is the root of the problem.  No one should have to feel bad or apologize for traits they are born with.  I try to live my life and make choices to the effect that no one should have to regret the person that they are.  I don’t know what it’s like to be a woman, or a gay man, or any race other than the one I was born with.  The struggles of other people can be described to me, but I’ll never know them.

But what about responsibility?  Don’t I have a responsibility to try and promote equality across the races, the sexes, and the genders?

I believe I do have a responsibility.  The way I address it is through respect, and to take no action to propagate the unfairness.  By respect I mean, I don’t presume to know something I do not know about someone else’s life experience.  I try to teach my children to respect everyone in the same way.  Maybe I am not doing enough, but I don’t know what else to do.

Now, at the risk of undoing any good that I’ve done with this post, I want to talk about something more specific: men objectifying women.

The main character in my current novel is a dog, and I don’t mean a canine.  He objectifies women.  He stares at their body, and isn’t uncomfortable with terms like “tits.” He’s in his early twenties, mostly broke, and basically just wants to have a good time.

Why am I writing a character like this?  Actually, I don’t have to answer that question.  It’s fiction.  People can write whatever they want.

The real question is: am I propagating gender inequality by writing this story, with this character?

One of the articles Juliette Wade (here’s her blog) posted on Facebook talked about gender inequality in terms of results.  The point was that when women objectify men, there are no ramifications, but when men objectify women, it results in continuing the inequality that is still present in our culture.

In my story, Mel’s objectification of women will have no ramifications.  Him staring at a model with lust in his eyes isn’t going to impact how much money she makes.  It’s a realistic depiction because Mel is one rung up the social ladder from homeless.  The real world would not care what Mel thinks of women.

But I’m adding this story to the real world, so what about my responsibility to adding to the culture?

Perhaps I’m justifying, but the view we’re getting inside Mel’s head is honest.  Men look at women in a lustful fashion.  I think women look at men, too, but having never been a woman, I have to take other people’s word on that.  Objectifying strangers happens daily.

We are animals.  I know that when I’m standing in line at Starbucks, I notice waistlines and breasts and eyes and slim necks.  My brain is constantly bombarded with stimulus, noticing what I’m attracted to, and what I’m not.  I want to think that every male has the same experience as me in this regard, and I also want to think that every female also has the same experience.

What separates us from the animals is how we act on the stimulus.  I acknowledge what I see on some level.  I even enjoy it, sometimes.  But I try not to act on it.  I try to treat everyone as equally as I can.  I try to be generous with people, regardless of whether or not I’m attracted to them.  I try to remember to smile at everyone, and not just the ones my body thinks would be good to press up against.

Along that line of thought, I don’t think my story will be damaging to our culture.  What we see of Mel is an honest depiction of what’s going on in that particular male’s head.  He’s a little bit of a creep, but he’s also young, which makes his behavior even more believable, if not acceptable.  I don’t think I’m promoting objectification as much as I’m acknowledging that it is a regular part of our normal lives.

I already wrote about my crazy schedule this last week.  In the Tetris game of time management, I wasn’t able to get all of the pieces of my life to fall neatly into place.  Or, maybe I did, but the lines didn’t clear out and leave room for other things.  I don’t know.  I’m still a little too tired to metaphor correctly.

My NaNoWriMo project was going really well until this week.  I was even managing to keep pace while at the convention, and again on Monday.  I only have a single hour free on Mondays, and I was able to fill it with about 1200 words.  I was kicking ass and taking initials; I didn’t have time to stop and take names.

Then, just like last year, there was some travel in the middle of the week, and my schedule went straight to hell.  I couldn’t write on Tuesday or Wednesday, and I was too exhausted Thursday and Friday.  That means that I need to write around 9000 words today in order to get back on track.  I have a hard time seeing that happening.

I’m not going to worry too much about the word count.  I’m actually not that worried about getting to 50,000 by the end of the month, though I still think it’s an achievable goal.  The writing is what’s important to me, not the quantity.  The quality is also important, but I’m getting better at leaving the first draft well enough alone, just to get through it.

I will spend a good amount of today with Mel Walker.  I’ve been having a ton of fun writing this story.  It’s been more fun than the fantasy novel.  I still want to tell that other story, but I’m realizing how good an idea it is to let it sit for a month.  When I get back to it, I’ll be better than I was when I left it, and I’ll be able to give those characters a greater treatment.

Before I settle into writing, I’m going to go help a friend move.  Someone once told me that if your mind is tired, go exercise the body, and if your body is tired, exercise the mind.  I’m still tired all over, so we’ll see what happens.  I haven’t told them that I’m coming to help yet.  I just know that they’ll be at their house with a truck in about 30 minutes.

After the move, I’m going to chain myself to a table at Starbucks and see how long I can sit and type.

I just finished posting my notes on Convolution 2013 under my Convention Notes.

In my last past, I’d given my first impressions of the convention, and I complained about some of the shenanigans that went on with registration.  I tried to state that the people running the convention made up for those shenanigans, but then I talked about the panels, and I think I might have given an impression that I wasn’t having a good time.

I had a very good time!  It was not perfect, but it was excellent.

I had a little bit of the blues throughout the weekend.  I wasn’t depressed or sad, but I kept feeling like I was on the edge of being depressed or sad.  I smiled and socialized, and I tried not to whine or suck the life out of any of the rooms I was in.  I think I did a good job, and I think people enjoyed me as much as I enjoyed them.

I did get tired more quickly than I normally do, and I wound up going to bed early both evenings.  That was too bad, because the Goblin Ball was really neat.  I loved the costumes, and the performances that I stayed for were really well done.  I wished that I had done something a little more on the costume front myself.  I had borrowed a jacket and a hat from Michael, but it would have been more fun to have gone all out like some of the other people had done.

I would have posted these notes sooner, but then I got really busy.

Mondays are always busy, and the Monday after the con was no different.  It was a very long, complete day.  Tuesday, I had to get up extremely early so I could get to work extremely early and get some work done before heading to Albuquerque.  I got there in the evening and went to dinner with the other guys that had traveled with me.  I foolishly had a beer, so when I got back to my room, I was just a little bit too tired and fuzzy to get more programming or writing finished.

Wednesday morning, I got up around 4, managed to get some last minute programming tweaks done, and then we were off to Sandia Labs around 8:30.  We worked all day.  There were some bugs in our system, and I worked through lunch to get those taken care off.  Then it was back to the airport for our trip home.  I got to my house around 11:30PM.

The Thursday was upon me, and I went in to work at 8:00, as usual.  I wound up working until 6:00PM, because there was some stuff I really wanted to get finished.

So, tonight was my first opportunity to get my notes and final thoughts on Convolution posted.  I wish I’d been able to post some other stuff sooner.  Someone had noticed my previous post and had linked to it, noting that not everyone enjoyed themselves at Convolution.  On the one hand, I hadn’t meant to give the impression that I had a bad time.  On the other, I’ve never had 170 hits on this blog in one day before.  So maybe I should complain more often?

I’m in Birlingame, which is near San Francisco, attending Convolution 2013.  I picked up Michael early in the morning, and we enjoyed a leisurely trip West, stopping along the way to pick up a jacket from Michael’s Mom, and a brief tour of San Francisco State University.  It was a really pleasant way to start the weekend.

Once we were checked in at the hotel, we went to check in to the convention.  Michael is a special guest, so he wound up going some place different.  I got in the back of a very long line, and started to feel my first misgivings.

I don’t want to speak ill of the convention, but my first impression of it had me worried.  They were having some severe technical difficulties getting people through registration, and it looked to me like there was a single point of failure.

When they called preregistered people forward, I went, stood in another line, and then discovered that while they had me on the list, they couldn’t find my badge.  It was starting to get precariously close to the opening ceremonies, and I didn’t want to miss it because I wanted to give Michael my support.  He is the toastmaster, after all.

The convention staff redeemed themselves by taking my phone number, and offering to print me a new ticket and deliver it and my badge directly to me, wherever I was in the hotel.  That was very nice of them, and they did deliver.

I think I managed to not be a dick to them while they were floundering around at registration.  I was worried and upset, and I think I expressed that without being too acidic.  I’m pretty proud of myself for that.

Opening ceremony turned out to be a very brief affair.  After that, I went to a panel with Effie and Arley, a couple of writers I’d met at Westercon and seen again at LonestarCon.  The panel was about “Show, Don’t Tell” as it pertains to writing, and some of the ways that “Showing” can go horribly wrong.  It wasn’t anything I didn’t already know, but it was interesting and well presented, and I took some good notes until my laptop battery died.

After that panel was another one in the same room, about storytelling and teaching culture.  This panel I found fairly painful.  The conversation was interesting, but I didn’t see much that I could apply to my own writing.  Also, there was a vibe that we shouldn’t write about cultures that we’re not a part of.  It was more complicated than that.

The day isn’t done yet, but I’m already feeling pretty tired.  In a little while, I’ll head to the Guest Meet and Greet, and then probably head off to dinner with Arley and Effie and some of their friends.  Looking at the schedule, Michael is stuck doing some kind of special Bingo event.  I don’t think I want to attend Bingo tonight, so he’s probably going to be on his own for that.

My Dad died on Halloween in 1988.  It’s been 25 years, and I’d still give a great deal for one more day with him.

There’s too much that I don’t know about him.  I know that he was in the Army, but I don’t really know what that was like for him, or how his experiences would compare to mine in the Air Force.  I know he was married before he married my Mom, but I don’t know anything at all about those relationships.

My Dad was born in 1914, so he was 59 when I was born.  He was from a generation that I didn’t get to know when I had the chance.

My Dad took care of me and my Mom.  He’d wake me up every morning for school, and he’d drive me, even when the school was only a few blocks away.  He was the stay-at-home parent.  There was never any doubt in my mind that he loved me.

My Dad wasn’t perfect.  He was an alcoholic most of my life.  This led to some car accidents that I didn’t need to be a part of.  It also meant that some of the meals he’d fix for us were extremely adventurous.  To this day, neither my sister nor I can eat baked chicken.

There were a few times that my Dad said some things that were not particularly good for my self-esteem.  I can recall him calling me stupid or “ignoramus” several times.  At the time, I didn’t really think anything of it.  I don’t hold it against him now, either.  It’s just one of the ways he wasn’t perfect.

I miss him.  I really wish I could introduce him to my family.  I know he’d be proud of them, just as I am.

It’s actually called The Ultimate Blog Challenge, or something like that.  The idea is to post 31 entries in 31 days, and you’re supposed to tweet about it with #blogboost or something like that.  My goal wasn’t to increase my blog traffic, so I didn’t do the hashtags or get into the promotion of it.  I just wanted to see if I could do the daily posts.

This is number 30, and I know what I’m going to be writing later today to make 31.  I can safely say… I’ve done it!  I reached the finish line!

I found this whole experience to be very positive.  I’ve dredged up some stuff that I carry around with me all the time, and I dressed some of it up to be publicly visible.  I’ve stood on my little soapbox and prattled on about whatever topic crossed my mind.  It’s been therapeutic.

It’s also given me a huge boost of confidence, because I’ve been able to keep up with the single post a day schedule.  I didn’t write any of these posts in advance.  I found the time, even on Mondays, to get myself in front of a keyboard and push something onto the server.

After today, I won’t be posting everyday.  I think I do want to keep a schedule, though.  Penny Arcade posts on a Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule.  I might do that, with an additional Saturday or Sunday thrown in.

For those that have been coming and reading my posts, thank you.  For those that haven’t, you aren’t reading this, so I can say whatever I want about you, and you won’t know it.  So I’ll say: you’re still a lovely person, even if that dress does make you look FAT.

Happy Halloween!

I stirred a minor hornets nest with last night’s post.  I imagine this one is going to kick over an anthill.  I’ve been thinking about it for a while, though, and it’s something I want to talk about.

I was Facebook friends with the remote girlfriend I mentioned in the last post, and not too long ago, she removed me from her friends list.

It was a completely appropriate thing for her to do.  We weren’t really friends anymore.  We hadn’t spoken in quite some time.  I think Facebook reminded her of my existence and she deleted me.

I had a little bit of an emotional reaction when I realized it.  I didn’t have any inappropriate feelings for her anymore.  Melissa and I have been happy together.  It still hurt, though.

If all that remains of us on Earth after we die are the pictures and memories we leave behind, someone on the other side of the US was making sure I was eradicated.  Whatever impact I had on her was negative enough that she needed to cut me out, like some cancer.

It sucks, but it’s probably what was healthiest for her, so I can’t begrudge her for it.  All I could do was reciprocate.  I made sure all of my computers and devices were scrubbed clean of her presence.

Deleting this person wasn’t easy for me.  It would be difficult for me to remove anyone; the difficulty wasn’t specific to this one individual.  I cling to my memories like a hoarder packing their garage.

Now that it’s done, how do I feel?  Should I remove other people from my life, like plucking a stitch out of the tapestry of my life?

I feel okay.  I don’t want to go through any of that relationship again, and I don’t want to go through excising something like it from my life again.

I don’t think I need to make anymore huge adjustments in my life right now.