Trying to finish my novel just so I can get back on Facebook is a fairly sad display of addiction. I predict I’ll finish by Saturday. I finally feel like I’m in a groove brimming with self-confidence, inspiration, and delusions of grandeur. How can I go wrong?
Do my social media friends miss me? I thought what we had was real.
* I’ve dulled my hand at blogging, it seems. Self-exiled from all social media in order to finish my novel and accomplish other tasks, I decided it would be all right to keep “bloggeneringing” because it requires writing that was a bit lengthier, more thoughtful, and challenging. So lengthy, thoughtful, and challenging, my muse treated it as if she were attempting the King Pigeon pose.
“Wr-wr-write? Extended entries? I can’t be done! It shan’t be done! It negan’t be done!” she shrilly shrieked.
Then I recalled that during my Live Journal days I usual wrote in short bursts: longer than a tweet, shorter than a Facebook post.
* Like Sinistar, I live. When I handed off my passwords for Facebook, Twitter, and the rest to my friend Kathy, life didn’t stop. I’m still raising two lovely kids with my wife (no, really, they are quite lovely; the loveliest things ever), still punching the clock in the morning and evening, and still frittering away what little free time I have on writing, art projects, and my son’s increasingly esoteric requests (“Daddy, can you make me a ray gun that shoots a blue laser that makes elephant beans furious?” He didn’t actually say that, but sometimes the box cars in his train of thought are filled with oddities. I suspect Phineas and Ferb and Mythbusters have been strangely altered through his mind filter).
The baby girl sleeps longer during the night, but still wakes up at about 4 a.m. mewling for formula, striking the wife and myself with insomnia and, in my case, daytime hallucinations. I occasionally see black cats whipping by in the corner of my eyes. Good thing I rarely drive anywhere these days.
It is a good life, but…
* The novel isn’t finished. I wanted to finish it two weeks after the password hand-off, but certain circumstances whereof I cannot speak without getting ticked have emerged. Also, my writing hours are now confined to 12:30 to 1:30 p.m. during lunchtime and about 9:30 to midnight when all are asleep, and after the dishes are put away, the toys are picked up, the laundry is folded, and so forth. Not having social media to play with has freed up some time, but I still find myself frittering minutes away at this or that site when I should be writing. I’ve made progress, finally exiting a chapter that seemed inescapable and ever-growing, for instance. I’m risking similar literary quicksand in chapter 20 too, but I’ve slogged on, reaching for branch after branch and vine after vine overhead until I yank myself gasping back to dry land.
I recently read an interesting statement from a writer on another blog (I should have written down his name, sorry). He said something like, “Can’t bring yourself to write 1,000 words a day? Write 2,000 instead and edit them later.” Which reflects on a Wm. S. Burroughs quote I frequently drag out to prod myself into action: “The biggest obstacle for any writer is the knowledge of the amount of bad writing he’ll have to do before he creates any good writing.” I have produced a great deal of bad writing lately, I am proud to say.
But it’s not finished, and I’m still tormented (yes, genuine torment!) over the likelihood that the novel will go no further than my printer (or maybe lulu.com). Very well. On the day I write the final word, I’ll print out the entire book (I already printed out section one), photograph myself holding it and post it here, shove it into a large padded envelope, and then stick it on the closet shelf for a month, pretending it is dead. DEAD! For laughs, after I finish the final edit, I may set the first draft on fire in the backyard. CATHARSIS, I WORSHIP THEE.
* More later. maybe.
We are awake because daughter needed a 11 p.m. feeding and son needed 12:30 a.m. reassuring because his stuffy nose is making it hard to sleep. Also, he required a medicinal snack of club crackers. I hope the crackers do the trick, because this house has been under a fucking plague for what seems like weeks.
Generally, I’m still trying to finish the novel, which involves prolonged periods of talking myself into it even though I know it will all come to naught, because it is growing increasingly diseased and boring simultaneously.
Oh, but at least there’s the satisfaction of a job well done.
And my reward in Heaven.
The Heaven where the angels are stupid enough to reward talentless, over-the-hill hacks with hearts full of hate.
But what I’m REALLY looking forward to is the common refrain of “I don’t get it.”
Essentially, chief, it’s a heartwarming tale of revenge.
No wait, it’s a horror story without any common horror elements.
No wait, it’s garbage.
More pleasantly, I did get to see a few new buildings with strange tales today. Watch Steppes of Chicago for the subsequent post.
I am as bitter as bitter coffee filled with Angostura Bitters.
…are the same people behind everything popular? Did I miss registration day?
Every episode of Downton Abbey starts with a shot of a dog’s butt.
A friend at work just passed this along to me. She worked as a designer in Toronto for a few years, and ended up toting it back to the states, where it remained wrapped in plastic until she thought, “I know! I’ll give it to the word nerd at work!” (She didn’t really say that.) It’s fascinating to read a book written in your own language yet which seems slightly “off”, owing to subtle variations in spelling, definitions, and the like. I’ve had that experience in many a dream, though the reading usually ended up summoning some eldritch horror. I find it heartening as well to see that the Oxford folks took the time to include entries on Canadians-Prime Leonard Cohen and William Shatner.