I keep waking up to look at the clock and see if it’s time to wake up. Great, right? Doesn’t seem to make a difference if it’s 1 a.m. or 7 a.m.; my body feels the same – tired, lethargic, already too achey and unable to settle down. Anytime past 5 a.m. and I’ll get up ’cause 5 a.m. is practically mid-fucking day. And 8 p.m. is the dead of night; my body tells me so. It shuts down every night at 8 p.m. If I’m sitting down, I’m falling asleep. That half-drowse that’s both satisfying and leaves you thinking, damn! I need more sleep. The dead of night lasts precisely one hour; 9 p.m. and I’m back awake, ready to watch programs or talk or whatever ’til whenever.
Sleep being the bastard that it is, I’m ignoring it. Mostly (you gotta say it with the inflection of the little girl in Aliens. Mostly).
There’s a mass of written words sitting in a file on my computer. I have no fucking idea if it’s really a story or not. Almost 4000 fucking words and I don’t know if it’s good or bad or just gets off the fucking subject, because I have yet to have a stretch of time long enough to even fucking READ IT THROUGH without being interrupted. Fuck. Color me frustrated. And don’t ask why I’m not doing it right now rather than blogging. We all know I need to do this first. And…okay, I’m a little afraid to open it up. It’s gonna take time and work. Thought. As usual, my opener is a gangbuster: strong, compelling. It’s the finish that’s weak. Honestly, I don’t know where to put the finish line for the story. It could come in three places. I guess that’s my problem. Where do I end it? Recap: this is the story I’m writing about a boy who gets bullied. It’s based on a true encounter in my life. I wrote the original draft past my meeting with the boy, all the way into his dream and subsequent waking. Little concerned I’m bashing the point home doing that. It’s well written; I just don’t know if it’s necessary to the story. My first cut took off the dream section and subsequent waking. That’s where it’s at right now, where I must read it again. If it’s still not right, I’ll try an even earlier cut, right at the end of our meeting. That punch has to come at just the right time, that sweet little last sentence that ties everything up and puts a bow on it.
No sir, I don’t like it.
One thing I’ve learned over the past several months of blogging is that I want to write everything in one go. Boom, der it is. I hate – HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE! writing in chunks. My flow gets mixed up, diverted. These little shallow pools of nothing appear. They’re lovely, those little pools. Circular poetry. But they’re not fucking NEEDED. Then I feel bad when I gotta go and edit them out. Don’t ask; I save the good ones for possible future stories. Got a lot of those, and I have yet to use any of them. Here’s one I cut yesterday:
The wall of silence between father and son was torn down. They held onto each other, each drowning a little in their sorrow over losing the woman they both adored yet feeling good that they were drowning, good that they were crying and hanging onto each other for dear life.
Nice little paragraph. I like it. But I can’t use it.
Hmph. I have a new email this morning from the music platform I’ve been trying to get out on. It’s telling me there’s nothing wrong with my files, I just have to check a couple of boxes. Yeah. I’m in no mood to believe them today. I saw no boxes to check. I DID see what the email is talking about: file options, but it didn’t come up in a manner to check any boxes. Just list form.
Well, I’ll put it on my list of things to do: go back out and give it another go, looking for the fucking boxes that are now supposed to be there. I don’t think I’ll get it to go through, not yet. Just like I don’t think my phone call later today to the counseling center will go through. I think I’ll get cut off or lost in the system again. Why? The wheel hasn’t turned enough. Not really something I can explain, just something I sense. My b-day is coming up next month, and things always go a little haywire in my life when that happens. A middle wheel moves, which means the big wheel is getting closer to moving. Stuff becomes unglued and uncertain. All I can do is persevere.
And tribe, I’m back to smoking too much. I didn’t think I was doing too bad, but the rate at which my bags are emptying tells me I’m back to full on non-thinking smoking again. *sigh* There’s also a slight possibility that I’m doing okay but the bags are just lighter. The place I like to buy from sells bags based on price, not weight. And price has risen lately. Still feels bad; still feels like I need to do better.
No. I don’t wanna. (She writes as she finishes her joint and contemplates breaking to roll another one right NOW.)
*double sigh* I did break and roll. Dangerously empty. I’ll have to head out later. But HEEEEEY! Break and roll. I like that; sounds tight. Can I say or do or hear ANYTHING and not think about writing right now? No.
Should I be afraid of the Hemingway Effect? I have this theory that writers and artists are more likely to over-indulge when they’re not in their native country. I know: I’m no expert in human psyche OR Hemingway. It’s just one of those things stuck in my head. But I can’t help but see it: the overflowing ashtray, always busy. The stuff piled around. The early hours. The mad typing. How did this happen? Six months ago I was the musician, immersed in music and sound. Now I’m the writer, and words are my world. The two are one and the same, yet I know that if I were to shift gears right now and start writing music the words wouldn’t stop. HOWEVER, when the words flow, the music stops. Does that mean I’m more writer than musician? Or am I just bouncing off the padded bipolar walls now?
And why is it so fucking important to identify ourselves with one profession? Why are we ever asked to wrap ourselves up neatly into one fucking word? Why must I so NEED a label; something to call myself even though I’m technically not supposed to work here. Can’t I just be?
Where, or where is that settled stone in the middle of a brisk stream now? How do I find my way back? Or am I still that stone, still settled and peaceful despite the rush around me? Have I just forgotten?