Why Guys Don’t Buy Furniture

On August 16, 2021August 16, 2021 By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

For starters, it’s not because we don’t have money to buy furniture. At least, those of us who are still working these days and not just collecting Monopoly bills from Uncle J. Powell’s Magic Money Machine (the Fed) because our jobs got swallowed up by the Covid monster.

It’s not because we don’t enjoy using furniture. I love it, actually. There’s nothing better than going over to a friend’s house and quietly judging their marital relationship while seated in a plush leather loveseat or sofa on the other side of the room.

It’s not because we don’t know how to shop for furniture. These days, it’s easier than ever. You can furnish your whole house with just a few clicks on Amazon. Obviously, there’s IKEA, painted in that dark blue and yellow you can see from five miles down the highway. Even in small towns, there are usually a dozen furniture stores always having amazing inventory sales. Half the time you open your mailbox you’ll find glossy flyers spilling out, blaring about the Fourth of July/Black Friday/Christmas/Going out of Business sales coming up around the corner. We know all about the furniture world. We know it exists, how wonderful and comfortable it is, how we should get a protection plan for an additional $14.99, and how if we open a store credit card TODAY we can immediately get 15% off our purchase.

And it’s not because we don’t like furniture or have some sort of agenda against it. When I see a nice plush, fabric sofa, my brain goes “I like sofa. Sofa good.” Whether we’re talking the ornate Louis XIV silk museum pieces, or whatever wacky designs Tim Burton uses in his movies, we’re pretty open-minded about all different sorts of furniture styles. I’m somewhat of a minimalist myself, which certainly doesn’t mean “cheapskate” or “tightwad.” I like simplicity. Practicality. I want furniture that just shuts up and does its job.

Look, we all get it. You have a place where you live, you’re supposed to fill it with fabric and leather and other stuff. We understand the unwritten social rule. Here’s the deal though, at least for me until recently: We don’t care.

Guys are by nature Anti-Furniturian. Probably, like so many other guy behaviors, it has to do with our caveman roots. Who has time to lug an 80-pound chaise lounge out of a cave when you’re being chased by a saber-toothed tiger? For hundreds of thousands of years, mankind was all about the hunter-gatherer life. We moved from place to place looking for food, not hot deals on matching bedroom packages.

Now, I don’t pretend to speak for all guys. But I do know that for many years, as in for most of my adult life, I went without furniture beyond what was absolutely necessary: A bed, a desk, and a chair. I was an Anti-Furniturian without even realizing it. It’s only been very recently that I’ve started dabbling in the furniture dimension, slowly getting pieces for my apartment. It’s been tortuous, to say the least. Yesterday I agonized for hours over what reading lamp to buy until finally, my brow beading with sweat, I pulled the trigger on a black touch lamp with a white shade. Did I make the right life decision? Only time will tell.

So having just gone through this recent metamorphosis/conversion, I decided to reflect on my former Anti-Furniturian past. What prevented me from buying furniture before? Why is it every guy friend I’ve ever had either has little to no furniture in their apartments, or if they have any, it literally looks like something they pulled off a curb in Tijuana? Why will a guy spend $2000 on a gaming computer that lights up like a disco ball if they blow up a Nazi, but won’t even spend as little as $199 (plus free shipping) for a bare bones sofa so they can at least pass for someone who’s partially civilized? And why is it every girl I’ve ever known has had a fully furnished apartment/house that looks like the “after” photo from a home makeover reality show?

I don’t pretend to have all the answers. God knows the mindset of an Anti-Furniturian is rife with contradictions and self-righteous justifications. But I had my own reasons.

Firstly, I moved around a lot. I hate moving. Having lots of furniture makes moving suck even more than it already does. So by having as little as possible, I’m guaranteeing that I’ll be less-stressed in the future when I inevitably move again. I know we’re all hunkered down in our homes right now because of the rona, but it feels like these days people move around a lot more than they did in the past. The days where you’d “settle down” in one town forever to work and raise a family are pretty much gone. Everyone’s restless. It’s not unusual to pick up and move across the country for a new job. Even with today’s technology, video conferences, and such, I don’t see that trend changing. Who wants to live in one area forever? Things could be so much better in that cul-de-sac, or that street, or that neighborhood, or that other school district, or that place by the new Starbucks. It could always be better somewhere else. But you know what doesn’t make it easier to get to that other, better place? Having furniture! Who wants an oak dresser or recliner weighing them down and killing their wanderlust vibe? Not me. Plus, it’s expensive to move. So not buying furniture, and then not having to pay for it to be moved is a double savings.

Secondly, indecision. I can’t even begin to describe the complex decision matrix that forms in my head when I start thinking about furnishing my apartment. If I get that piece, will it “match” that other piece? What does it even mean when something “matches.” Is it by color, style, or “feel.” What if I get one piece of this set, but when I go to buy the rest later it’s been discontinued and I’m stuck with an orphan piece? What’s in style these days? Modern? Retro? What is bonded leather? Leather’s leather, right? Yeah, but faux leather looks the same, doesn’t it? Will people notice the difference? What if I get this set, then I buy a house, and I need to get a bigger one? I’ll just be buying a set that’ll end up in my future basement, so why bother even getting it at all?

You know that scene in Fight Club where the Narrator is pondering what sort of “sofa defines him as a person.” That’s basically what’s going on here. Going furniture shopping is like taking a journey into your own psyche.

Thirdly, the realization that most furniture sucks unless you spend a lot of money, and even then it’s probably a rip off. Having worked briefly in a furniture store, and made my fair share of deliveries, I can say with certainty that for the most part, whenever you buy furniture, you’re being totally screwed. Furniture these days is not furniture. Furniture only looks like furniture. Sure, it has the veneer of something you can sit in, lie on, put your feet on, or throw your jacket on when you come home from work. But furniture is fake news. It’s cheap. It’s compressed particle board. It’s something a factory spat out in 35 seconds. It’s something that might have shipped in a box that you have to assemble yourself. It’s a mirage made of wood, fabric, some metal, and maybe glass. It’s not that there is not good, quality furniture out there. Sure, everyone’s grandma has that one table built by Abraham Lincoln himself. It’s that the stuff produced for the masses is mostly overpriced junk. It’s junk! Even worse, it’s junk that they’ll try to get you to finance with a store card or line of credit. So you end up paying real interest and real money on make-believe furniture.

Fourthly, and this goes along with the “We don’t care” reasoning posted above, it just never fit into my budget. It just didn’t compute. Even though you can reasonably furnish a whole apartment with as little as $1500 (more or less), and even though I make a decent salary, have good side income from investments, and can certainly afford to adequately fill my whole abode with all the bells and whistles like a normal person should, every time I got paid or made money, I just never made that critical, pro-furniture leap. And I honestly don’t know why. It’s just not something I ever cared to put much energy into. I don’t have a wife or kids, so I don’t need to be “domesticated” in that sense. It’s less for me to clean. It’s less for me to think about. Every time I made money I’d think to myself, “Save, invest, or spend on stuff?” and almost always I went with the first two options, unless I needed to pay bills. Not having furniture didn’t inhibit my life in any way. It’s not so much about minimalism–I think minimalists are really just lazy–it’s that when it came down to it, I’d rather buy more Bitcoin, or stocks, or put my money in a savings account for use later. Spending money on furniture, as opposed to a car, clothes, kitchen stuff, and other things, feels like such a waste because I don’t really “need” it. A bed, yes. A chair, sure. A computer desk, why not (though I used a kitchen counter for years before getting one). Anything else just feels excessive. I recently got a TV for the first time in almost 15 years. A TV that sits atop an entertainment center (!), which is something I’ve never had before.

So, what prompted my big change? How did I finally turn away from my Anti-Furniturian past and see the light? I can’t point to a singular Road to Damascus moment. I just woke up one day and decided enough was enough. I’m tired of living this way. Though admittedly, it was a creeping sense of social pressure. I too feel the need to fit in by having sufficient quantities of faux leather, microfiber, and particle board in various states of compression, assembled in aesthetic shapes in my apartment. It’s society’s fault. It’s your fault. I blame you entirely. I hope you’re happy.

Furniture is an inconvenience. It’s a hassle to shop for, even online. But especially in person. Has anyone ever gone into one of those furniture stores and actually had a good time? I worked in one and hated myself every day. I can’t even imagine what my poor customers were going through walking in those doors.

Furniture sucks. I won’t say I’ll never backslide into my Anti-Furniturian ways ever again. But for now, bring on the particle board.

Five Reasons Why Editing a Novel Can Be a Struggle

On August 10, 2021 By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

Editing a novel, or screenplay, or even short story, hypothetically, should be easy.

I mean, most of the hard work is already done. You’ve created the world of the story. The main characters. The central conflict. The secondary threads. The theme. And likely had a hell of a time writing out some of the best scenes in the story.

But why is it that editing a story, trying to get it to the “next level,” can sometimes be so hard?

This is something I noticed when editing my “first” novel Nemesis.

Nemesis was not my first novel. Way back in 2007 I wrote a lengthy door stop of a novel. A thriller, of sorts. A kind of Chuck Pahlniuk-inspired messy tome about an office worker fed up with his bosses, who discovers he’s a part of a secretive organization that runs the world. Kind of like a half-assed Matrix. Or like a less sexy, less exciting version of the graphic novel Wanted.

It was a disaster, this first novel of mine. And not just because of a problematic narrative and witheringly boring characters. But because after I’d finished writing it, I sat back, and realized all I had on my hands was a giant compost heap of words with little connective tissue binding the Frankenstein thing together.

It demoralized me. So, I stuffed this embryonic mess into a plastic Kroger’s bag, all 500+ double-spaced pages of it, threw it into a big plastic bin, where it remains to this day. Sometimes I pull it out. Blow off the dust and cobwebs. Glance through the hastily typed sentences, only to stuff it back into its sarcophagus once my eyes begin to glaze over.

If your writing bores even yourself, you’re really in trouble. I mean, how the hell are you ever going to convince a random stranger to buy your book if you can’t even motivate yourself to read it?

My first novel was a failed experiment. But not a wasteful one. It taught me a lot about writing. About the importance of having a good outline (either written down or kept in your head). About staying focused. About keeping a steady pace, rather than trying to smash everything out in frenzied all-nighters. It was strange how obsessed I became writing it out. Imposing a completely unnecessary deadline for myself, as if believing I had to finish it before dropping dead.

I’m proud that I finished it. I suppose that was the real goal all along. Just write out something long and detailed. Like straining to lift a heavy weight at the gym to impress no one in particular. Maybe you throw your back out lifting it. But so what? You lifted a giant weight you never thought you could. That’s got to count for something, right?

Years later, having self-published my first “real” novel. At least, my first fully completed one. And now editing my “second,” I’ve found the rewriting/redrafting process slightly easier. At the least, I’ve gotten over the self-doubt and emotional immaturity that plagued me in my first attempt. I’m convinced all the struggles associated with writing are psychological, and can be mitigated by discipline and form. It’s a craft, after all. Not alchemy. Not magic. Though it feels like it is sometimes.

I think editing a novel can be a struggle for several reasons.

The first has to do with the quality of the manuscript you’re working on. How much precision and clarity you’ve built into it from the beginning. The more knots you leave behind in the first draft, the harder it is to untangle them in subsequent drafts. It’s easy to be clipping along, and think, “I’ll deal with that incongruity later.” But what happens when the potholes become gaping sinkholes? Have you ever seen a construction crew just randomly throwing bricks together into a pile, with the intention to fix it later once the structure is complete? Ridiculous. They operate based on a blueprint. A set of plans. Even a committed Anti-Outliner has at least some kind of vision for his story.

This is where discipline comes in. It’s better to spend time getting 500 words mostly right then banging out 1,500 words of utter gibberish. Dean Koontz writes this way. He doesn’t move on until he gets a passage right, rewriting as he goes. Considering that he puts out about three to four (or more) books a year, that strategy must work pretty well. He’s a machine. Danielle Steele likely has a similar method, as she pumps out 7-8 books a year these days. You write until it’s right, then move onto the next passage.

Secondly, rewriting, or editing, is more a passive experience than the actual writing is itself. When I write, I feel like I’m in the driver’s seat. I’m in control. I’m the ringleader directing the various acts in the circus. But when I edit, it almost feels like I’m just watching TV. Even though I’m reading, because it’s my writing, it’s like a switch gets turned in my head. Sit back. Take it easy. Go with the flow. It’s a conscious effort to break this urge, and tweak stuff on the page. Making matters worse, ironically, is spell check and grammar check. It can make the whole editing process feel rote and mechanical. Just click “fix” on each error. Then onto the next.

Thirdly, the work feels “written in stone.” It’s not always easy to determine whether a passage is where it needs to be. That takes a neutral third party. Someone not afraid to tell you, “Hey, this actually kind of sucks.” It’s much easier to just glide on by, assured in a chapter’s “greatness.” Is rewriting this scene really going to make much of a difference? Is it really worth my time to dig deeper into this character interaction? Nah. Besides, I cleaned up the grammar and misspellings. Good enough for government work.

Fourth, as hinted at above, you simply don’t know how something comes across to a reader other than yourself. A passage may feel perfectly logical to you, but is unintelligible to someone else. You simply don’t know what you don’t know. Or maybe a certain scene felt inspired and necessary to you, but confusing and boring to another reader.

Fifth, and by no means final, is perfectionism. You start rewriting one passage, which only leads to having to rewrite another one. And then maybe you realize it’d be really cool if you just added a little something here. A line of dialogue there. Before you know it, you’re taking the whole scene in another direction that will force you to rewrite everything else to fit this new “vision” you’ve just had.

So, what is a solution to avoiding some of these editing pitfalls? I’d say the best thing is to follow the Koontz-Steele Method: Put as much effort into the first draft to avoid complicated editing maneuvers later. This may require constructing a better outline.

But what if you don’t outline? Or what if you use a light outline, letting yourself freestyle as needed? Then understand the genre you’re writing in well enough to know the kinds of conventions and expectations. I think this is the secret to Koontz and Steele’s longevity and prodigious output. Koontz mostly writes thrillers, dovetailing into other sub-genres as he chooses. Steele has cornered the market on romance for decades now. Both writers know their genres inside and out, and know their audience. And because of that, it wouldn’t surprise me if when they write, a lot of the plot is already mapped out in their heads. I mean, in a romance, at some point the two lovers are going to meet, they’re going to break up, and they’re going to get back together. Not necessarily in that order. But the Love Triangle is almost certainly going to make its presence known. For thrillers, you generally open up with a crime, especially a murder. And it’s a given that someone close to the hero will betray him. There’s a high probability of a final showdown involving guns, or threats of death. The hero wins by the skin of his teeth. You get the idea here.

Does that make all writing just a structured process? For the most part, yes.

“But that doesn’t sound creative. That doesn’t sound fun.”

Actually, I disagree. It gives you a set of rules to play by. But that doesn’t mean it has to be boring. Ever sat down to play Monopoly with three good friends or family members? How often does that become a boring event? Almost never. And Monopoly has plenty of rules.

Think about the book The Shining by Stephen King. It’s basically a haunted house story. Nothing new there. Richard Matheson did his own haunted house story with Hell House, another horror classic. The difference is that King took a familiar blueprint, and applied his own voice and style. As did Matheson. Editing should be less about the mechanics of writing itself. It should be more about making sure your voice is on the page. Your uniqueness.