NaNoWriMo’s goal is quantity over quality.  Just get it on the page.  Freed from the requirement of being “good”, words flowed out.  I also picked a genre, horror, that also allowed me to suck.  I mean, come on, it’s horror.  When I edit video, I am fully aware of the concept of the first draft.  The first draft is terrible.  Always.  It usually has no real resemblance to the final result.  Once I allowed myself to have a terrible first draft, writing became much easier.

I quit because I got tired of going to bed at 2am every night.  50,000 words boils down to 1,666 words a day.  Everyday.  Rain.  Shine.  Freelance Projects.  Blogs.  Pushing Daisies.  1,666 words.  It never stops.  So I quit.  I wasn’t emotionally invested enough in the plot to continue, but I don’t detest it.  Which is a first.

So, I’m looking for a new novel plot.  One that I want to write, now that I learned a few things more.  One that doesn’t have a 1,666 word a day requirement.  Help me out with picking a genre and I’ll even blog about my progress (just don’t expect 1,666 words a day, ’cause I’m not a machine).

How can you trust me, you say?  I’ve already quit once, you say?  I’m ingoring you, I say.

So, what genre should my novel have?

Note: Whatever genre I pick will likely be combined with comedy.  ‘Cause that’s how I role.

An individual entry on such a website is called a “post” (”entry” works as well).

Thereby, the statement, “I wrote a blog yesterday” is inaccurate unless, of course, you are talking about writing the entire site.

Please, spread the word (you can even use blog posts).

NaNoWriMo (aside from being awkward to type) is National Novel Writing Month in which a bunch of lazy bums who are incapable of doing anything unless there is a pre-established structure sit down and pound out a horrible 50,000 word novel during the thirty days of November.

Mine is a horrible horror/suspense set in Atlanta and Dauphin Island, Alabama.  Let the literary bloodbath begin.

Heather tagged me

1. I find installing computer operating systems to be strangely comforting.
2. I often run into things while walking and not even realize it.
3. I get nauseated if I stay up all night.
4. I hate sleeping with a pillow.
5. I get uncomfortable if everyone in a car isn’t wearing their seat belt.
6. I waste way too much time on internet memes.

I tag Abraham Lincoln, Barak Obama, Muse, G.I. Joe, and Your Mom.

1.Change a flat tire
Heck, yeah sucka.  I don’t need no stinking triple-a.

2.Tie a bow tie
So, apparently gentleman=dork?

3.Carve a turkey
Um.  I can make a paper one with my hand.  There are scissors involved…does that count?

4.Open a bottle of champagne
I can twist off the top of a bottle of sparkling grape juice.

5.Change the oil in a car
Yep.  I’ve done it a million times, but I don’t now because that is what money is for: having other people crawl under your car.

6.If asked, you know the name of a good barber
Crimpers on Monroe.  I guess they aren’t really “barbers” per se.

7.Have a tailor who knows your measurements
What about a “Taylor” who knows my waist size?

8.Tie a bowline, clove hitch, and a square knot
Tie your own knots.  What do I look like, Ishmael?  …From Moby Dick…fisherman…ties knots…

9.Chop wood
Always go with the grain.

10.Shoot a rifle
I prefer to watch violence on tv.

11.Make a dry martini
Dry martinis are for pansies.  And people who drink

12.Keep a checkbook balanced
What about keeping a Quicken balanced?

13.BBQ
Yes.  I’ve even worked in a barbecue restaurant.  Best Butts in T-Town.

14.Lay a fire
I won a contest once.  No, really.

15.Change a fuse
Or flip a breaker, when the crap was this written.

16.Polish shoes
I know how, but I choose not to.

17.The ability to read stock quotes in the business section
Sure, why not.

18.Keep score at a baseball game
Um.  Yeah, it’s not that hard.

19.Jump-start a car
Red is positive, black is negative….wait…

20.Know how to throw a punch
See #10

21.Own a tuxedo
So it can go out of style in two years?  No thank you.

22.Know how to judge a new wine
With about the same authority as a “America’s Got Talent” judge.

23.Do your own taxes at least once in your life.
Schedule C plus estimated taxes!  1040EZ is for wusses!

24.Carry a handkerchief

I actually did on my mission.  Then I realized it was disgusting.

I’ll try to keep my answer of “it was the night before the due date and I was tired” to a minimum. :-)

You know there is always that one testimony every month that makes everyone feel really awkward, avoid eye contact and makes everyone shift uncomfortably in their seat? Well, I decided to get that one out of the way early this month.

I just wanted to let everyone know why I am here.

My entire life, I’ve on some level known that I was gay. Growing up gay in the church was really hard. Living gay and active in the church can be really hard.

But no matter what I want to be true, no matter what I hope to be true, no matter what I think to be true, I know that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true. It’s a knowledge that is impossible to take away from me. (I’ve tried.) I know President Monson is a prophet of God. I know the Book of Mormon is true.

I don’t say all this to solicit pity (although I do enjoy a good pity party), guilt, or to shock. I say this because no matter what our individual situations, the church is amazingly, frustratingly, inconveniently, wonderfully true…so what else matters?

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I walked passed the bishopric and the stake president (of course he would happen to be there) and down the aisle back to the chair section. A third of the way there, I realized that I was looking down. “Pick your head up!” I forcefully told myself, “You are not ashamed!” I held my head up as I walked back to my seat. When I slid into my chair, one friend put his arm around my shoulders, another smiled at me through teary eyes, and another turned around and gave me a smile and a thumbs-up.

So why did I out myself to my entire ward on Sunday?

1. To let other gay Mormons know that they aren’t alone.
   I don’t know if there are other gay members of my ward, but if there are, I wanted them to know that there are other gay members out there, doing our best to live the gospel. Loneliness and isolation are the kryptonite of the gay Mormon.
2. To help remove some of the stigma associated with homosexuality.
   I didn’t plan on it, but I was asked to help bless the sacrament yesterday. I wanted to be the first one to bear my testimony (rip off the band-aid) and before I went up, I realized the significance of what was going to happen. I was going to stand up from behind the sacrament table and, in front of the bishopric, the stake president, and my ward, reveal that I was gay. I wanted to help dispel the myths that simply if you are gay you are a sinner (well, no more than anyone else at least) and unworthy of participation in the church. I wanted to show that gay people aren’t disgusting pervs. I wanted everyone to know that you shouldn’t be ashamed, and I am not ashamed, of being gay.
3. To raise awareness.
   I’ve had people tell me that they thought I might be gay but dismissed the idea because I was active in the church. I wanted people to know that gay Mormons are out there. It’s a lot harder to hate a group of people when one of them is sitting next to you in Elders Quorum.
4. To bear my testimony.
   I wanted to come out in testimony meeting because I wanted everyone to know what I believe. Plus, a lot of my testimony was built while I was sorting out my sexuality. It is a part of my testimony like my mission, youth classes, and everything else in my life.

For further reading:

God Loveth His Children
Most recent pamphet of the church addressing same-sex attraction.

Helping Those Who Struggle With Same-Gender Attraction
Ensign article by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland (October 2007).

Elder Marlin K. Jensen Interview
Segment on “The Mormons” PBS documentary.

There were many reasons why I didn’t identify with those around me.  My dad was a native Alabamian but my mom was from Idaho (they met during Chemistry class at Ricks College).  Instead of picking up my dad’s southern drawl, I spoke with my mom’s more Midland accent.  Except for the occasional “pie” (paai) or “nine” (naaan), most of what I said was fairly accent free.  This, coupled with my taste for overly complex grammar and unnecessarily long words, served to draw blank looks almost every time I opened my mouth.

My unfortunate obsession with khaki pants didn’t help matters either.

But what really sealed the deal for most people was the fact that I wasn’t on the football team.  With the exception of only a handful, all the boys at Catherine Academy from the seventh to the twelfth grade put on a football uniform at 1:00pm every school day from August until November.  I had never enjoyed football.  The only time I had really given it a shot was an exhibition pee-wee game when I was in the fifth grade.  A couple of juniors were put in charge of dividing us into teams and attempting to teach us plays.  Our pee-wee game was played during the half-time of one of the high-school’s games.  After five minutes of me standing on the field completely unsure of who to block, who to tackle, or even who was on my team I was informed that we had lost.  And then I cried.

I was a sensitive child.

Considering I had committed the unpardonable sin of not playing high school football, I sought to lessen my condemnation by playing basketball (the only other option being baseball – which I saw as only slightly less deadly than football).  So, in the seventh grade, I put on high-top tennis shoes, a t-shirt, and shorts and walked onto the court for my first basketball practice.

I was terrible.

Not just terrible, I was a disaster.  But, then again, I was only in the seventh grade.  Then again, I was only in the eight grade.  9th… 10th….  By the time I was a junior, I had accepted the fact that I was never going to be good - or even decent - at basketball.  But I continued to play anyway.  I enjoyed practice and prided myself on not holding back during scrimmages.  My cousin and I would compare our legs after games to see who had the most abrasions and bruises after fighting with the other team for possession of the ball.  Not that I played much in games, I was usually the person that was sent in during the third period to give one of our temperamental forwards time off because of foul trouble.  I was fine with it.  Even though I wasn’t very good, the other players (most of whom were football players that weren’t really into hunting and didn’t care about missing deer season) seemed to respect me for at least being there and the effort I gave.

My junior year the school hired a new basketball coach who I was pretty sure was Hitler raised from the dead.  After only a week of practice, most of the team wanted to quit…several did.  He was insulting, foul-mouthed, and was yell at us for any infraction – real or perceived.  I began to wonder if it wasn’t time for me to quit basketball as well and I hated him for making me consider it.

But then we started winning games.

You see, I was terrible (just awful) but most of our team wasn’t very good either.  And for us, winning became like a drug.  We would spend most of the week in mental and physical withdrawals admitting we were powerless over basketball and only a higher power could restore us to sanity (some of us were on the verge of making a list of wrongs done to friends and family), but come Thursday night all of that would be forgotten as we looked at the scoreboard and realized we were ahead when the buzzer went off.  We weren’t used to it.  Hate him or hate him, our coach was making us win (it also helped that that year we had a 6-foot-7 350-pound center named Buford who would camp out under the goal and just nudge the ball in after we’d lob one pass after another to him).

Even so.  We were winning.

I didn’t get much attention from the fuehrer for which I was grateful.  The one aspect of my nonexistent game that he did berate me for was my free throw shots.  Like every other aspect of basketball, I wasn’t very good at free throws, but he pointed this out in such a passive aggressive…really not passive…mostly aggressive, way.  I started staying after practice and shooting one free throw after another.  For weeks I would do this and over time, I actually got…a little worse.  Not much, but yes, a little worse.

We eventually made it to the first round of the state championship.  We had managed to win all of the regional games necessary to take us there.  Things were going fine until our forward’s tempers got them fouled out in the third period.  After some quick shuffling of positions, I was put in at guard.  Those two fouled-out forwards were the only two on the team that had any real talent whatsoever.  Even after I went into the game, we weren’t winning, but we weren’t losing either.  We always managed to stay within a few points of the other team.  It was amazing. (The fact that Buford was still camped out under the goal didn’t hurt.)

The problem really started when the crowd started counting down from ten…nine…eight…seven…we were down by two…six…five…four…and I had the ball!…three…two…ONE!

I was behind the three-point line when I shot.  I didn’t even have time to think…which was too bad because I didn’t even hit the backboard.  Luckily, an overzealous guard on the opposing team fouled me, causing me to fall on my butt.  (I wasn’t going to show my cousin that bruise.)

Since we had ten fouls in our favor, I was placed on the free throw line with three shots.  Me.  The kid who was publicly mocked by his Nazi coach for having the worst free throw shot on the team…a team that included seventh graders.  The ridiculousness of the situation put me in a semi-delirious state.  I laughed maniacally as I looked up in the stands where my mom had her hand over her mouth in shock.  My sister-in-law had her hands over her eyes. The game hinged on my free throw shots and I was laughing like the Mad Hatter in nylon shorts.

I turned and saw the look of panic and confusion on Adolf’s face.  I could see his thoughts: Why him?  The referee nervously gave me the ball.  I snapped it back above my head and quickly released it.  It flew through the hoop so cleanly that the net barely moved.  The players on the bench were beside themselves.  They leapt and cheered.  My crazy laughter continued.  This is insane, I thought.  I cocked my arm back and let the ball fly again.  A perfect bank shot.  The crowd roared.  We were tied.  And I had one shot left.  I could win the game!  Like the others before, this shot was done quickly and without thinking.

Brick.

We were in overtime.  I was exhausted by this point and just wanted the game to be over.  I didn’t even like playing in basketball games anyway.  I enjoyed practices but games were just the stress-filled nights that got in the way of me trying to pick up the WB on my sister’s 15” black and white TV.  Once again we weren’t winning, but we weren’t losing either.  And again, the crowd started to count down.  10…9…8…7…we were down by one…6…5…4…oh, come on!…3…2…1…shoot!  Brick.  Butt.  On the line.

We were down by one and I had two shots.

What if I was in a time warp or something?  Some sort of high-school “Groundhog Day” where I was condemned forever to take buzzer shots in a never ending cycle of overtimes and fouls?  I fired off the first shot.  Brick.  I shot again.  Swish.  Second overtime.  Of course it was.

This overtime was different.  Instead of staying a couple points behind we actually maintained a small lead.  We were even ahead by a few points when the crowd started to count down again.  10…9…8…7…just in case, I’m going to pass…6…5…4…3…2…1.

Where should I go?

Sometimes it’s not what’s in the Dark, but simply the Dark, itself, that we fear.

I regret nothing.