BlakeAtwood.com

I tweeted this yesterday:

Because the day before I felt like this:

While there are thousands of people much worse off than myself, part of my self-pitying ice cream coma arrived as a result of finally learning the answer to a specific job application process that’s lasted for the last three months. (The answer was no in case the picture didn’t clue you in). I drowned my sorrows in a PB&C shake from Cold Stone Creamery. It helped. A little.

But today, like every day, is a new day. Motivation has returned. Self-confidence, ever wavering though it may be, came back to roost. I have ideas for better utilizing my time. (I’ve watched the entire first season of 24 in about a week – thank you Netflix streaming -  and tore apart my defunct PS3, among other things). I’d like to help you, or your friends.

This is where you come in.

• Do you need a simple website?
• Maybe a brochure or newsletter or heck, even a magazine?
• An article written and pitched?

I can write. I can design. I can do layout. Yes, I will ask for a fee in return for these services, but it will be a mutually beneficial venture: inexpensive for you, experience for me. Pricing will be discussed up front, before any work is done, and will be on a case-by-case basis based on your needs.

So if you or someone you know is in need of a small website (I can host it as well), graphic design work, or copywriting, use the contact tab on the left side of this website to contact me.

I promise not to spill chocolate shake on your website.

[P.S. I am still looking for a full-time job in the DFW area, but plan to continue freelance work when a new gig is obtained... as long as the new gig is OK with it.]

I cannot fathom the lasting devastation in Haiti. I cannot understand the earth itself moving for a minute-and-a-half in Chile. These things, at their scale, are too vast for me to comprehend.

But I know what it means for the ground to shift beneath your feet, changing your world in a heartbeat, crumbling foundations you always thought were secure. You see, I’ve been divorced for six months. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, here, now, but it’s something I have to write about, and I’m tired of pretending as if the thing didn’t happen, or that it hasn’t deeply affected me.

While this divorce doesn’t define me, it’s left an indelible mark on me, it’s part of me, it’s changed me, and as the walking wounded in the scarred cityscape of my life, the words I etch onto cracked walls are sometimes the only things that keep me sane. Someone walking in the wreckage of their own life might, somehow, stumble across this and see that they’re not alone, the same way many others were there (and are still there) to help me.

I’m not to the point where I know how to articulate my experiences without divulging too much personal history. I don’t want to write to blame, but I do want others to be able to learn from my failures. I’ve experienced much personal and spiritual growth over the last year, in spite of going through an ordeal that nearly suffocated my faith in God, almost snuffing Him out like so much unsettled dust obscuring the sun.

But I’m still here, sand in my teeth, digital charcoal in hand, with an enormous amount of things to be thankful for. And even though I can’t fathom what Haitians and Chileans have to go through day by day (a constant reminder that helps me put my own life in perspective), an apt metaphor erupts from this broken ground.

In the wake of major devastation, they were brought back to the very basics – food, water, shelter – and they were incredibly happy to receive those items. While I am nowhere close to their level of physical need, I was brought to the same place spiritually through my recent past, broken down to realize my desperate need of the very basics – faith, love, hope – and I’m incredibly happy to see these abstract ideas become solidified, even if their shape is amorphous at best on some days, or in the slow process of becoming fully real, if that’s even possible this side of the Great Beyond.

In this city of ruins, where the cracks run deep and hope is scarce, there is much to be done, even though I’ve covered many miles already. What I write, I hope, will chronicle that journey, digital charcoal scribblings for all of us, because we are all too acquainted with brokenness.

We are all walking wounded; some are just more aware of it than others.

ScriptShadow is the brain-child of Carson Reeves (@scriptshadow) in which Mr. Reeves succinctly summarizes, grades, and analyzes upcoming Hollywood scripts, often including a link to read the script itself. It’s a fascinating look at what sells and consequently gets made in Hollywood. It’s an equally beneficial site for any type of writer. I only found out about it a few weeks ago, but became a quick fan.

At the end of most reviews, Carson tells “What I Learned” from reading the script. I was especially taken with his recent conclusion based off the script for Renko Vega and the Jennifer Nine:

What I learned: Is there a theme more powerful than redemption? I struggle to think of one. Maybe it’s the man inside me that feels stained, that feels like I need to somehow find a way to “right” things. I don’t know. Maybe it’s why I like noir so much. Characters trying to wash the blood from their hands, characters trying to balance a ledger that’s been corrupted by their own misdeeds and mistakes. I connect with these characters, and I love it go on the journey with them as they try to break through a wall and come out a more honorable person. It’s not only cathartic, there’s something about it that’s peaceful to me. In Renko Vega’s case, what’s so astounding to me is that he’s a character that re-discovers his own worth. He’s a character that learns how to believe in himself again. And belief, the ability to hope and to dream and to matter, that’s a powerful thing. I think, as writers, we shouldn’t be afraid to aim high. To dream big. Don’t be afraid. And writing about redemption, well, I think that’s as high as you can get…

I know that if I ever write something of worth, redemption will be the arc. What is it in that kind of narrative that is so universal? Why does it resonate so deeply within us? What is it about The Shawshank Redemption, Simon Birch, Gran Torino, A Tale of Two Cities, or Braveheart or any other number of films that allow us to glory in the death of a beloved character? Or that make us believe that wrong can be made right? And that death, in some form or fashion, is always a part of that equation?

What are some other films worth watching with redemptive themes? Why do you think they resonate?

For as long as I can remember, I believed that biblical humility, i.e. putting others before yourself, meant downplaying your own talents and abilities. In some strange way, I believed that thinking I was better at something than someone else, and rightfully asserting as much, was an undesirable character trait for a self-professed Christian. I never wanted to be seen as arrogant, or selfish, or condescending. Granted, I can be all of those, and have been, but I far too often erred on the side of false humility. It was this false humility that led to a lessening of self-worth, as if I consciously desired to increase my insecurities.

But the revelation I had is that my false humility is actually grandiose arrogance, hubris in its highest and most deceitful form. In declining to assert my talents, I’m essentially telling God that what He’s given me to work with isn’t good enough. Or, like the third person in the parable of the talents, I’m too lazy to make use of what’s been given me. If I agree that God’s gifted me in some specific way, then I have to hone that skill, and honing takes daily, dedicated work. If I agree that there are a few things in life that I’m good at, then there’s a mounting inner pressure to do something of worth with those gifts.

So if I seem a little more prideful, take me to task and ask me exactly how I’m exercising and using the talents within me.

By the way, what keeps you from fully utilizing your talents?

{This post is indirectly descended from The War of Art, an excellent book by Steven Pressfield, in which he more fully describes the exact things that prevent us from using our talents}.

Broken-hearted and bewildered, she stares at the sky, at the stars she’s seen a thousand times before, the very stars that have constantly reassured her of an other-worldly Presence that has always been for her, and she wonders… Why?

Why did this happen to me?
What did I do to deserve this?
How could you let something like this happen?
What’s wrong with me?
What’s wrong with You?

And the stars twinkle, like they’ve always done, silently.

{——-}

My past year can be defined in three words: A Devastating Tragedy. Currently, I’m not prepared to publicly elaborate on the specifics of my Devastating Year, but those close to me know that I speak honestly when I say I’ve been through hell. (And to those people who know and who might comment here or elsewhere, please retain my confidence in you and refrain from divulging any information until I’m able to speak of it more publicly).

I apologize for the lack of details, but the specifics are not what I care to talk about today. I’d rather ruminate on the perpetual question asked after experiencing tragedy.

As a child, and even into early adulthood, I never thought my life was hard. I never felt like the world was unjust or out to get me. I never thought a soul-searing tragedy would ever strike me. In some ways I felt invincible, whether that was naivete, faith, or just childlike belief in the goodness of the world.

But as sure as death and taxes, tragedy comes for us all. My first brush with tragedy (death’s first cousin) occurred when I was only eight. My grandfather died of a brain tumor. An incredible man of God, the patriarch of my family, was taken away from us, before I ever really, truly, got to know him. In some ways it defined my passage from childhood to adolescence. Life became much more precious to me. As a result of my grandfather’s example and questions I had after his death, I became a Christian.

The second great tragedy of my life occurred over the last year. It has marked my delayed passage from adolescence to adulthood. As a result, I have come to know myself and my dreams much better than I ever did before. I’ve come to experience my relationship with Jesus in a very real way that I never had before, despite being a lifelong church-goer.

In both of these situations, as countless millions have done before when tragedy strikes, I’ve asked Why? a thousand times. My mind yearns for a simple answer, whether it’s to help assuage my guilt, or “justify the ways of God to man,” or simply so I can stop asking the incessant and eternally annoying question of Why?

And in my trying times, I hear from friends that are going through their own Devastating Years, and it makes me weep. Friends that believe in a just and loving God. Friends that don’t know how they got to where they are. Friends that also want the answer to Why?

And it’s not enough to proof-text the Bible to them, or myself. Just read through Job. It turned out well for him. Sure, that can be comforting in some ways, but it’s not the real answer we’re looking for. That’s a story, and it’s somewhat like my story, except the only difference is, I don’t know how my story ends.

And, to me, what makes a Devastating Year so devastating is that there is no answer to the question Why? It’s possible that many years from now one might be able to look back and see “reasons,” but even those “reasons” won’t provide an all encompassing answer. There will be no all encompassing answer until we experience the final tragedy.

Yet, how I believe, it’s the final tragedy that brings us into true reality.

To the place where stars sing.