Tag Archives: schedule

Featured Fan: Kate Barkhurst

This is a fiction post based on info that Kate sent me in emails. (VERY FIRST FEATURED FAN POST EVAR !! ZOMG!@#$?!) I reserve the right to twist, manipulate, and mangle anything she might’ve said and to misrepresent her at least as much as my poor artistry necessitates, probably more.

To have a chance to get featured, join the group. Or wait a week or maybe a month: I plan on upgrading the group to a fan page soon, but I’m pretty busy for the next month or so.

**

Christopher, Christopher, Christopher, beautiful boy. I feel his breath moist on my breasts, his ear snug against my sternum. Gently, gently I raise my hands above the bed, place my fingers on the camera. Freeze: he fidgets, and my muscles tense; his head nuzzles and his eyes flutter, and then he’s asleep again. I feared that I had woken him.

I shift my pelvis to the side so that I can give the camera the best angle. My hair is still wet from the shower, and I’m unkempt, but I don’t care. My baby is adorable, beautiful, darling. No amount of photos would ever sate me. I love him, his little hand on my collar bone, his dreaming eyes, even the thin line of spit touching my chest. So many of his body fluids have touched me at one point or another that spittle seems insignificant, no, adorable, even lovely. I suppose that body-fluid comment works both ways.

Jack called and said he’d come home for lunch. It’s nice that his schedule it so flexible; along with Christopher, having Jack breaks the monotony over young motherhood. I love it, being a mother, but sometimes when Jack is gone and Christopher is sleeping, I feel so lonely. I know it’s not the case; I’m loved in ways that I would have envied even a year ago or been to ignorant to envy, but sometimes the sinking feeling comes anyway.

I put school on hold for Christopher. It was the right choice, I know it. Jack makes more than enough money for us as an IT consultant, and having the responsibility of running the business-end of his shop helps me to see that I’m important, that I’m involved. And my son is my priority, my first love. But school isn’t far behind, nor work, nor my dreams. I haven’t sacrificed them yet, no. I’ve put them on hold.

Christopher whimpers when he hears another shutterclick from the camera, so I put it down. I grab my phone off the nightstand and pull up Facebook. I play games, some simple and some complex. I can measure the degrees of my cabin fever by the number of eggs I’ve unlocked in the last week, but I never bother. I use the game to get my mind off of things; it would lose its point if I turned it into an issue.

People challenge me on my ability to follow through with my dreams when I’ve delayed my life to raise my son. They think I’m a cliche, that I’ll become some housewife and settle for doing Jack’s chores. But they don’t know me; they don’t know how broad these shoulders have become through trial; they don’t know the migraines or the father. And if they don’t know that, what do they really know about me at all?

Those fools don’t remember when I moved out of my parents house working at Cinemark as a ticket girl, minimum-wagin’ it without family support. I only had alcohol in my fridge because of a then-boyfriend who worked for a delivery service. I talked like everyone talked then, about success and chasing my ambitions and making my way. Who would’ve known I’d have been different then, if they had bothered to consider me? And yet I had to believe then that I was–different, I mean; that I was worth a damn.

So many of my friends went away to college while I stayed behind, unable to go on. So many dropped out, came home, chilled. I spent time with them, but also resented them, ones that had the ability to fulfill desires handed to them so that they could take it for granted. I guess I really didn’t resent them, but it frustrated me to have these dreams and see them squandered by people who didn’t, couldn’t, and wouldn’t share them.

But I remember Greg. Our friendship was always a weird mix of fun and awkward; how we maintained that for years I still don’t know except that we only saw each other occasionally through high school and his college. We used to drive around in his Trans Am, and he’d blast Savage Garden and we’d sing and smile. Our souls would dance on the T-bar. At the end of the night, he’d always ask me whether to turn left to take me home or turn right to go back to hang out at his place. I never did want to go home.

In 2004, he invited me one day to some alumni meeting, and I hadn’t had an excuse to dress up in quite some time. He picked me up in his truck and drove me out there, him in a suit and me in that black dress, my straight brown hair left loose over my shoulders. He smiled and I smiled, and we were awkward while the night was beautiful.

He drove me out to the Hilton at 635 and the Tollway. When we arrived, a string of old people and signs directed us to the meeting room. It was nearly an amphitheater, dark wood all around with plants in little rails, and all the old people, old rich people.

The hour-d’oeuvres tasted excellent, and Greg introduced me to a few unmemorable classmates before we sat down. I didn’t quite feel like a trophy while I stood there with Greg, but I wasn’t sure why he touched me on the shoulder every time he introduced me or why he bothered at all. His friends were all nice, everyone was nice, and then we sat down to listen.

The meeting started with a speech about finances that I didn’t pay much attention to and then a speech from Baylor’s president that I didn’t have any interest in. It wasn’t until the Q&A session that I saw something truly memorable: Greg stood up to ask the first question. He had said that was why the students were here, to spur conversation, and so he stood, announced that he was a Great Texts major, and asked something about Baylor’s new dorm rooms.

Before he could sit down, the president had him up there talking about Great Texts and core classes and who knows what else. The invitation for Greg to the front of the room took us both by surprise, but he handled it well. In fact, it was the first time I heard anyone I knew from school cover a broad range of topics with such knowledge and enthusiasm. I knew that Greg would go on to do great things in that moment, and that confirmed and comforted my ambitions, even when life had handed me several obstacles I wasn’t sure I could get past.

I did, though, get past them, and now I’m married to a wonderful man and I have a beautiful child, and somehow my dreams seem almost as distant as they did back then. But I know that they’re not gone; I know that I haven’t sacrificed them to motherhood altogether, only temporarily. The most important job I will ever have in life is to nurture and teach my child how to dream and pursue happiness in all aspects of his life, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll miss out on attending and graduating from Harvard Law School; it doesn’t mean I won’t practice corporate litigation for a prestigious firm; it still doesn’t mean that I won’t accomplish this particular ideal: all of this before I am 35. Maybe I can even see Greg when I move up to Boston, and he can meet Jack and write stories about Christopher, fun and immortal and pure. I can’t imagine anything better.

Christopher shifts on my chest, squirms, and wakes up with a small cry. The spittle snaps as I readjust and sit up. These days are difficult but so worthwhile, and the future is an infinite stretch of beauty and amazement. Happiness is a warm and giggly baby cuddling with you in the morning. As I settle Christopher in my lap, Jack comes in the doors, and our eyes connect and affirm our love. We smile. Christopher cries in earnest. I truly can’t imagine anythin better.

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Author: Greg Freed

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Starbucks: The third place

Dear readers, commentators, and friends,

I cannot begin to express my surprise and gratitude at the readership surge in this blog. I passed several important new-blog milestones Friday night, a claim followed by boring stats that you can skip past if not inerested: having more than a hundred visitors in one day and breaking a thousand views to the site total. Further, breaking one hundred in a day was itself a caveat: the highest day before had only seen ninety-seven viewers, and the day afterwards [sic] had seen just over sixty. Friday, though, I have one-hundred and sixteen views, followed by a Saturday of exactly one-hundred and sixteen views. Even on Sunday, with no new post for days and very little advertising from me, I reached what only a week ago would’ve been stupendous. Thank you, seriously, for supporting the effort.

I have spent so much more time developing this site than I thought I would, and I have so many plans now for the future, long before I ever thought that I would need them. Soon, though, you’ll see the first item on my to-do list, a Featured Fan story about Kate Barkhurst, an old friend from highschool and faithful Facebook friend. Thank you, everyone, and look forward to more stories from me, more guest posts, featured fans articles, and more… you know… as I get around to doing it.

My best,
Greg

**

They don’t understand, they haven’t listened to me. They called me arrogant. They’ve had all semester to see who I am, to see how I resent that label, and yet they called me arrogant. Not only said it, but spit it in my face, an accusation that seemed to say, “You can never succeed as a writer.” They read it, and they missed the point. All of them.

No, not all. There was Jenny. Jenny understood the torment of miscommunication; of course she knew what it was like to speak and yet not be heard. So sweet and so deep, she writes about moving from China to Boston as an experience of change, a flowing river of time and philosophy that soaks and bathes her mind. But writers as audience largely gloss over grammatical mistakes (as they should), and ink-on-paper doesn’t communicate in accents.

I think, and the other students notice it, too, that her writing is permeated by beauty over frustration. She writes so well, one might assume because of passion and integrity. But I have passion and integrity, too, and where does that get me? Labeled as arrogant is all, and alone. I suppose it’s about as lonely and isolating as not speaking the language of the land you’re in, but you hope in that other circumstance there remains the mysticism of discovery, or at least the obvious route of escape. For me there’s only years of letdowns, my adolescence into my waking life, of conversational successes mired by literary failures.

The cold wind of Boston winters blows through the Public Gardens and against my wool coat. I can feel its malevolence despite scientific objectivity having drowned out the world; the wind wants to bite my skin, wants to punish me for protecting myself from its harshness. Nature wants, like all life, love, to receive love as it exists, to receive without bending. My coat speaks for me my refusal of the unspoken request. My hands hide inside my pockets’ cashmere lining, helping the buttons to hold the coat in place. I had felt so sexy the day I bought this coat, had looked at myself in mirrors to memorize the way it weight and thickness complemented my girth rather than hid it, the day I thought there might be something to expensive designer labels after all. I remember the deflation upon coming home, of Sarah meh-ing her apathetic approval.

The wind cuts through my khakis instead since they’re exposed underneath the three-quarters coat. I’ve worn my Starbucks uniform to class for the last few weeks, thin-material long-sleeved block polo with dark khaki pants. Since money from Fidelity finally ran out and Sarah started asking me to pay her back for mostly legitimate expenses—to which I did not contributing but neither, really, did she—I had to get the job, and now I’m at class and at work, never at home. Sarah misses me, comes to Starbucks sometimes to sit with me, but I’ve had years to resent her attention, loath her presence. The absence of both in preference to her laptop drove me into romantic despair. World of Warcraft didn’t help on that topic, though it did relieve some of the years’ boredom.

The reading of my colleagues has broken my heart. I take criticism well—I write and people talk about the writing, and I love them for pointing out errors and paths I haven’t noticed—but like lay readers, my fellows decided to psychoanalyze me. They had done it before, when I wrote about my relationship with Sarah, talking about how sad I must be instead of the impact of the piece on the abstract reader and how that impact could be improved. The saying goes that these days everyone’s a critic, but that’s not quite the case in my experience; everyone is a psychologist, everyone thinks that they understand you by slapping their archetypes onto you, especially the ones who tell you (not ask you) not to judge. Not “Please don’t judge me until I’ve told you the whole story, or perhaps until you’ve researched it yourself,” but, “Don’t judge me, you don’t know me!” Of course, the latter ones are right; I don’t know them and never will.

I walk under the monument to ether, the world’s first anesthetic, used first at Massachusetts General Hospital in 1846. “We have conquered pain,” it reads. If only the words spoke truth. The wind blows again, cuts again at my shins savagely like a rusted and knocked razor.

I want to speak with someone about the disappointment. No one thought the writing was poor; the professor spoke its praises in that regard. The students merely wanted to ask me who the fuck I thought I was, in the nicest phrasing possible. But on that ground, I thought the piece stated rather clearly exactly who I claim to be.

I can’t talk to Sarah about this. She’d listen, but she’s cold, lacking in empathy. Or she has empathy and doesn’t show it. In four years, or in six if I count our friendship, I haven’t figured out which is the case.

I could go to Starbucks. It’s almost on the way home, less than a block from Sarah’s Back Bay condo, but I opened this morning and sat at a table once I got off shift until I had to leave for school at five. I literally sat there all day, and now I’d go back to do what, to stew? After all, who would I talk to? I’ve been there three months, but I’m not really friends with anyone. I go to work, I do homework, I play World of Warcraft; that’s me condensed. And when I got home, what? Sarah will already have gone to bed, not that I’ve joined her in months, and I’d stay up all night—til four, maybe five, maybe six—playing World of Warcraft, trying not to talk on the microphone so that I can relish in secret human contact in my home.

The churches at Berkeley Street, the Lutheran one with the homeless person (gender unidentifiable; I default to male) in the wool coat that I pass every night as I sing along to my iPod, so separate from his condition and just as vague a character to him as he is to me—but I’m not listening to music tonight, fuming instead; tonight, for the first time, he watches me, but I don’t mind—and the other one with the largely ignored cement hole. Clarendon, the rundown yard with the painted-black metal staircase and the door to the garden. The Newbury Street sidewalks, bricks that speak of old money, the townhomes broken into condos that lament the money’s loss. The plasma screens, shining vibrant blues and greens off beige walls, reflected off faux crystal chandeliers except that one home with the library, the dusty old tomes and the ladder on the right side; their crystal shines legit, reflecting white light off white walls.

But I have a friend at Starbucks, Ashley. But not quite a friend. She’s attracted to me, she told me so. Why would I call her? For an ego fest, so I can gain some pride off of how attractive she finds me? I don’t think so. I told her that rainy day that she walked me to Emerson that I wouldn’t turn her into a ’50s cliché, some girl hanging onto a man who says he’ll leave his wife (girlfriend) but never will, and I won’t. We had sat on the steps outside the piano shop, and she had told me that she couldn’t play the piano—not well, anyway. She had looked at me and told me she liked me, confessionally. She waited, seeing what I would do with it. I watched the automatic piano play a tune, and then I rubbed my hand down her cheek and told her that I wouldn’t abuse her. There she is; she is there.

She won’t be, though: she told me that the schedule marked her off at eight and it’s almost ten. She’ll have gone home, have left for the day, and I’ll be just as alone and just as forlorn as I feel now.

Call Mani instead. Call Steve. Call Justin and Mom and Dad. Consider calling Allison, and really feel like an asshole. Resent the way Murphy’s law applies to people answering their phones when you actually need human connection.

“Hello?” she asks.

“Hi, Ashley. I’ve got a strange question for you.”

“Yes?”

“You wouldn’t happen to still be at Starbucks, would you? I mean, I know you’ve probably left for the day.”

“No, actually. I’m here.” A thrill hits my spine between the shoulders and shivers its way down, the thrill of success; necessity or fortune falling into place I can’t tell, but it doesn’t matter and this is what I wanted, what I needed, to cut short the onslaught of despair. “Someone didn’t show up for their shift, and I stayed late to cover.”

Pause. Blink. Consider.

“I need—” But do I really want to do this to her, to rely on her when I don’t know how things are going to go with Sarah, when I can’t even pin down my feelings for a girl I just met at work, not to mention the girl I’ve loved for four years? Do I really want to be that asshole?

“I need someone to talk to.”

“I’m here.” She laughs, and weight falls away.

“Do you have anywhere you need to be? Do you need to go home?”

“No, I’m here, and I can stay. You should come. I want to listen.”

I turned left and walked down Dartmouth to Boylston, along the broad brick pathway of the private school, across the tree-lined Commonwealth Mall, and passed they dying Newbury Street. If I had gone to Exeter, Sarah might have seen me and asked where I was going. No, I turned left, kicking a pebble in the process.

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A Paradigm Shift in Project Management: Hierarchy to adhocracy

“Sharing power is not the ideal of some ‘utopian’ future. It’s the ground truth of our hyperconnected world.” – Mark Pesce

**

In my search to uncover blogs about copyright issues, I discovered The Human Network. Mark Pesce’s video presentation to the Personal Democracy Forum and transcript both struck me as worthy of the attention of internet community members and people interested in the new organizational structure we’ll see soon; a new structure seems a nearly necessary outcome to the victory of efficiency, a consistent human pursuit.

For example, the ideal corporate workplace is an hierarchy: you know via network or job title who is responsible for what and how they should be approached, and you also know to whom you and they are responsible. Therefore, when an assignment falls to you, you track down the people you need in order to complete the task under budget and ahead of schedule. You have to negotiate the political struggles that exist in large workplaces as people strive to either make their name or shirk any work possible without standing out as a slacker. If you do this successfully, your project will likely succeed. Situations of this type gave rise to my favorite capitalist maxim: Successful business is not about money; it’s about pooling together the correct assortment of talent to fulfill a need and the money you need to do that.

However, anyone who has worked in a corporation long enough to dry their wet ears and withdraw their big eyes knows that luck plays a larger role in whether you’re equipped to handle any given project than coordination and that the budget and schedule have as much tendency to be unmanageable as they have to be set by someone other than you. You also know that the larger a company is, the more difficult it is to find the person you’re looking for. Instead, you become complacent with your social circle within the company and rely on them to either help you complete your project or to put you on the path to a person who can probably help. Initiative, while praised, is your prerogative, and you learn thatmore often than not its only reward is hours spent tracking down a person who’s too busy to help you anyway.

And while sometimes it’s assumed that the smaller the company the more efficient because people do more tasks than their job title allows, there are obvious flaws that small businesses constantly evidence. Job-title creep breaks the ideal of division of labor and results in shoddy jobs that require more time than an expert would take. In addition, sometimes the relevant expert simply isn’t available, and the financial position of the company makes tracking down an expert either impossible of futile.

Even in the best of all corporate hierarchies, when we let go of the fallacies and human error that plague all communities and look at them at their most sublime, politics, ignorance, and misinformation exist as constant variables in the equation of efficiency that downsizing attempts to get around and networking tries to nullify. Yet they persist.

Adhocracies are communities whose networks are far less structured than hierarchies and yet are more capable of sustaining efficiency for several reasons. Examples include Wikipedia–where a crowd (hence the term crowdsourcing) generates information that, through editing, supposedly reaches an unbiased state–and open source communities such as SourceForge.

First, unlike the top-down hierarchical structures of corporations whose efficiency depends upon the trickling down of responsibility and the ability of the lower castes to find proper function-matches within their own castes (about as reliable as Malcom’s demonstration of water falling down your hand in Jurassic Park), adhocracies post jobs and users volunteer. Whether or not the job gets done on time and according to parameters is guaranteed only by the community’s ability to organize itself around a set of priorities, which, since their communication tool is the internet, specifically their website and whatever design functions are built into the core site, users tend to fulfill reliably.

Second, the pure universality exposure of posts and searchability of online communities resolves the hassle of finding the right member with the right skill set to complement your project. Rather than your cubemate Bill telling you that Janice from tech support might be able to assist you, plop your requirements into a search bar and go–as any seasoned HR personnel can tell you, if you have a specific problem and need a specific skill, you’ll find everything you need is hotword coded, thereby searchable–or let the talent pool come to you.

The end game of adhocracies is a more dynamic community layout able to complete projects more efficiently than hierarchical structures. Some problems will remain.

First, and most obvious, is human error on a small scale, including typos and erroneous information or algorithms. It exists and can only be mitigated by assuming it will occur. Wikipedia, for one, has this angle covered in more ways than by reminding you that they make no claims of accuracy. Many of the tools they have on their website including a cache of previous pages, editor tracking tools, and their editorial team all work to mitigate human error from their site. Also, the flexibility of their project (due largely to their disclaimer about accuracy but also to the community’s commitment to accuracy) allows them to update pages long after a corporate campaign would have to have moved on.

Second are the major snags that that bog down all projects. Scope creep will not disappear due to a more efficient allocation of resources. Volunteers or even whole communities biting off more than they can chew due to ambition or greed cannot be wholly mitigated.

Therefore, what’s truly at stake in the discussion between hierarchies and adhocracies is the way in which projects are managed. This situation is not, though I enjoy Mark’s rhetoric, a meeting of the finite and infinite, but rather a clash between an old paradigm and a new one where the business world is awaiting a widespread shift from one to the other. If we assume that these stated management problems will continue even after the widespread adoption of the new project management paradigm, are we left with the cataclysm Mark discussed in the linked entry? No; rather, we’re left with an old question which wants to guarantee security in an endeavor (That is, Who is responsible for completing the project?) to a question that seems to have less though actually implies more security (Namely, Can the project be accomplished?).

Having said that, I must admit that I see the inherent power shift to which he’s referring, and I must assume that those in power will resist the necessary transference. For all the badgering about Communism that techies and internet junkies receive, the paradigm into which we’re moving is community-based. However, when you hear about the power of communities to organize themselves and complete a task, do not think about Stalinist Russia, which was in itself an hierarchical power structure where responsibility trickled down from, well, Stalin. Instead, imagine a thousand separate and independently functioning Craigslists where DNSs define the national lines and Google checks all the passports. Somewhere in one of these communities, someone posts, “I need y” and a multitude responds, first from within the community and then from without, “I can supply y” and the poster is left to pick out of the responses who he’ll trust to fill his need including but not limited to accepting all offers for help.

Money, along with other project limitations, will and must exist and sets limits to the amount of effort a community contributes to any particular project. For nonprofits, which most adhocracies are today, the community acts on passion and does all things at all times. As the paradigm shift occurs, however, money will become a prime concern for adhocracies as people become professional rather than volunteer, as we can see occurring with Amazon‘s Mechanical Turk and on Craigslist itself. In these instances the efficiencies of adhocracies remain and yet the community’s desire to do all things is severely limited by their desire to eat and to guarantee such necessities as housing.

Because adhocracies will accomplish tasks more efficiently than an hierarchical management structure, money will become an issue. I will not engage in the folly so early on as to think that such communism will mount outside the bounds of the internet; we have seen that it will not. Also, such communism is not done in the name of communism as an ideal but rather, as it stands now with nonprofits, for passion, and later, as corporations adopt adhocracy as a management style, for money.

This exact issue will demand the power shift that Mark mentioned, a shift of power from the hands of managers into the hands of the community, or, for rhetoric a lay readership may more readily appreciate, a shift from facetime to efficacy. The community will demand and have the power to secure absolute transparency within corporation as they have with the current nonprofits, especially when their efforts are combined with other communities whose sole stated purpose will be to establish said transparency; the adhocracies currently in existence have already set the tone for what users will expect from new communities in the future. The power and efficiency of adhocracies come from hyperawareness and hypervigilance spawned by a community’s open access to all relevant information, keeping account of all aspects within a company; thus, force will shift from the hands of managers, who for the large part will cease to exist, into the hands of the communities crunching and reviewing the numbers.

I have no doubt, as we have already seen, that managers will fight the elimination of their class at large. However, the shift of business from a worse to better solution will facilitate the shift over and despite their moaning. But don’t get me wrong: I don’t begrudge them their moment of complaint. Managers are people who have spent their entire lives developing a set of skills that in one fell swoop will become obsolete, and I pity the frustration that moment must cause. But happen it will, if only in the pursuit of efficiency.

I expect a class of community analysts to rise up in place of managers. Their main function will be–rather than spurring workers to get the project done, for that will happen of its own accord do to the nature of an adhocracy–to make sure that the resources are available within the community to solve the problem put before it. This will not be a source of governance but rather a source of publicity, or rather of recruitment. Multiple communities with the same aim already exist, and competition between online communities will rise as management structures shift into the new paradigm. Community projects will be posted and completed with little or no oversight, drastically reducing the overhead cost of corporations in addition to the simple benefit of efficiency increase brought about by shifting from an hierarchy to an adhocracy.

What will happen to governmental hierarchies… well, that’s another fun question. But that’s for another time and another post.

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Hello world! [sic]

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!

**

It’s only fitting in the Age of the Rant that I start my first blogging post with hate-filled bile, isn’t it? Google, sweet Google, get your Sites act together plz. No native vistor-comment tools? No integration of Google Docs with websites that have decided to use your tools on websites other than sites.google.com/a/etc? No feedback or assistance outside of 2+2=4 and other user-generated semi-tech garble that only apologizes for your lack of sophistication with ass-backward hacks? Not gonna fly these days, my corporate friend. I guess that’s not the business you’re looking for, since you haven’t updated your tools since 2007, but it’d be nice enough if you wouldn’t tease me with their phantasmal existence. Also, give me GregFreed.com back without a fight, plz. kthx.

That said, let’s discuss the focus of this blog:

First – Creation: I will be putting writing samples and ideas in this blog, including fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. I’m currently enrolled in Emerson College’s MFA in Creative Writing, where I focus on nonfiction, especially memoir. Please do not reproduce them for profit without permission, and if you do use or reproduce them, give credit at least and let me know.

Second – Criticism: I will focus on the media I consume (old books, new movies, and modern rock music), the establishments I frequent (restaurants and hang-outs), and ideas I come across. I will also focus on the cities I have lived in (Dallas and Boston) and those I visit. I cannot promise that all of the critiques will come in the straight-forward prose we’re used to; in fact, I mean to take the practice in a bit of a different direction.

I hope that with a scope as broadly focused as my life, this blog will come to represent me in some small way. I suppose in the an era defined by self-engrandizement, that’s no new task, but I also intend to capitalize on the talent I see in myself and that others have recognized; my first desire is to have my voice escape myself.

I’ll start with a mild update schedule of Mondays and Thursdays just to make sure I can locate or generate the content necessary to keep a blog going, something I’ve always doubted. At this point, I’d like to shut my trap and see some thumbs-up from friends and potential readers. First post Monday!

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Filed under Criticism, Statement of purpose