eighteen million days of writing a novel
Help me, dear reader. Help me balance along the thin beam of your interests and my own self indulgence. …Never should they cross and kill us all. My thoughts are dark, and jangly. If I can match them with the right music, I might be able to overtake them. Keep them from consuming me.
Ten forty-six in the morning is too early…to think, or drink, or carry on a written conversation. It is an ill time, not meant for vast tapestries of thought, but half-formed metaphors and similes. Such as:
–like a child, wearing gloves, where their fingers don’t reach.
See? What the fuck does that even mean? it just came out–I don’t know what it refers to. Besides the moods of my black & grey heart. Maybe we’ll find out together. If I keep typing.
The very best writers are the ones who combine a need to escape with a need to be understood clearly.
I’ve been writing. Saturday was spent in the only way which makes my heart sing–(eating cake for breakfast)–but afterward! After breakfast, I went to the library, and wrote my fucking ass off. If I knew what I was doing before, I was a fool. The more time I spend chasing letters and stringing them together, the better I get at it. I used to read about how writer’s could sit at a computer, or a notebook, and just Write for six hours. Bullshit.–I thought…
I figured out what they meant. I found the secret I was looking for.
The God Damned keys of El Dorado are sitting under my fingers now, a city waiting to be pillaged.
Sometimes when I listen to break-up songs, I think of my family.
Have you ever been driving? And suddenly, you don’t know how you got from one point to the other? Your pulling up to your house, and you just realize you’ve blanked out?
I’m learning how to do that with my Writing.
I spent so long carving each word into perfection. Placing them like gemstones. Now I’m learning…I can throw them down, and let them scatter. Letting things happen and watching with delight, as everything makes sense in some orgasmic understanding of knowledge.
You don’t have to feel like your playing along in a world that doesn’t make sense, like a child, wearing gloves, where their fingers don’t reach, because you have your own world, underneath those fingers, where you can figure out everything. How like a God.