Does This Count?

I wrote yesterday. But I didn’t blog. I didn’t write today…well, I journaled, and I keep saying I shouldn’t discount my journaling as writing but honestly it just feels like shitting to me – I sit down and it comes out (some days more easily than others). I don’t agonize over it. But I don’t get the same joy that comes from when I write fiction, the joy of making stuff up. Journaling is more about recording, for me. I have stacks of journals. I have this idea that, before I die, I’ll travel around the country and just start leaving volumes of my journals in various thrift stores. I mean, what else am I going to do with them? I like the idea of someone finding them, this little slice of my life, then maybe searching out others. But, on the other hand, fuck legacy. Let it all burn. Dust to dust.


Stuffing It In…

…wherever and whenever I can. Meaning: I woke up, my bed felt way too comfortable and the dreams were swimming through my head. So I didn’t get up to write, I just enjoyed the sweet heaviness of my somnambulant body for a while then went straight to my job. Work work work. But driving home from work I got excited to write, so I hopped to it at my desk and got a few hundred words in here and there in between doing a load of laundry and heating up dinner and cutting my hair. And wouldn’t you know, it was a fun and productive little sesh. But I probably would have skipped it if this blog wasn’t keeping me honest.


Apocalypse, Apocalypse

At the gym, I imagine an active shooter situation. It has happened. What would I do? Just run? I’m sure I’d have to rely on the people around me to some extent. That my safety is dependent on whoever is around me at a given moment is a hidden thing. The power of crowds is something they don’t want us to realize. I want to be aware of it always. Safety in numbers. Trust and communication before suspicion and estrangement.

Nuclear war is my greatest fear. A comment I read under the above video (All Hail Contrapoints. Seriously.) said the result of climate change won’t just be a refugee crisis due to the displacement of hundreds of millions of people, it will be widespread total war due to that refugee crisis. That felt real.

I swear all of this has to do with the five hundred words I wrote today, though I don’t want to explain how.


Sick Daze

I started feeling crappy on Tuesday and haven’t left my bed much this weekend. For two days I haven’t written anything, but it’s encouraging that this feels out of the norm. I’ve definitely been writing more since I’ve started posting here again. As scared as I am of the internet it’s always been an outlet for my writing, a thing that inspires and motivates me.

Eating food, watching trashy old movies on Shout Factory TV (free and highly recommended, if only they had subtitles…), going deep into Michael Jackson abuse lore, enjoying Vic Berger‘s work, jerking off…did you know the Nifty Archive has a lovely search function?  Today I took a walk; it’s close to sixty degrees which feels good on some level and is disturbing on others. There’s lots of disturbing levels making themselves known lately – maybe it’s my birthday, maybe it’s the winter…maybe she’s born with it.

The image is from Tumblr, which I sort of still use and basically don’t care about. It was fun while it lasted. I never really used it to jack off. I liked the writing community there but the whole “caption story” thing wore itself out, at least for me.


Cold, Anger

I’ve had my mornings off from work due to the weather, which gives me time to write – a good thing, as I’ve been feeling shitty both health-wise and emotion-wise the past couple days and can use the extra time. I’m not going to go into the emotional stuff, but as far as writing: I do it. I journal before I write fiction and that, lately, takes up most of my time. When I’m upset I write it out. Today I think I busted out seven pages, that’s front and back. This makes it seem like emotional turmoil has a silver lining, but I’d rather not be filled with rage, thanks.

No songs, no pictures. Feel the austerity.

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Diversifying My God-Forsaken Brand

Francisco Goya, Witches’ Flight

Took off work for

My 40th Birthday

The coldest day of the winter yet. I wrote from home this morning and while I kept getting distracted I eventually worked on the novel and the porno story. Neither felt effortless which wound up making me feel good about things – like subject matter doesn’t matter so much, when it’s difficult it’s difficult.

I journaled about my insecurities. On my thirtieth birthday I set a chimney on fire.


The Joy of Not Giving a Shit

Yes, I torture myself. Is it good enough? Is it even good? I don’t want to empower that voice, but it’s inevitable. What’s also inevitable is the joy I feel – if not while I’m writing, then afterward. It’s an important part of my life, my own little world where I can do whatever I want. It’s my respite, it’s my vacation and vocation. It feels like all I need. It’s also communication; I want people to read it. So I’m conversing, but really only with myself; that’s when things get confusing.

Driving to work this morning I cried listening to Sunday Morning by the Velvet Underground, a favorite since high school. On the eve of my fortieth birthday I felt the weight of it: my youth, people who aren’t here anymore, places and times I’ll never see…layer upon layer of nostalgia. Watch out, the world’s behind you. Life is frightening and I’m so lucky to have it.

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Doing the Work

I leave early for work to 1) beat traffic and 2) get to the coffee shop so I have an hour and a half to write. Today I woke up with a massive, stomach-turning headache. I didn’t want to be in bed but I left my house too early – the coffee shop wasn’t even open. I sat in my car, listening to music. I got breakfast at McDonald’s. When I finally got down to business I didn’t write any more than I normally do. Three pages in my journal then five hundred words of the novel, where I wrote some scenes of a breakup. It’s not the most fun thing I’ve ever written but it’s telling the story, which is what I need to do to finish.

Ted Bundy documentary – maybe for the first time I heard that familiar refrain “But he seemed so normal” as what it really is: white/class/male privilege at its most insidious. The fucking shit that dude got away with astounded me. How much do I get away with as a person who as access to a lot of the same privileges? What kind of shit do I not have to deal with on a daily basis?

Above: the joy of discovering a great Abba track you’ve never heard before, followed by the pain of having it obsessively run through your head for hours on end.


Goof Around Day

What’s the title of the incest novel? First it was Taboo City, but I don’t think it’s that anymore. Dad’s Sad was one I batted around, and more recently A Manual for Faggots, but I’m not sure where that one is coming from. Before it gets a title it needs an ending, and I took the day off from working on that to relax and goof around with a porno story – the one about office mates who find a guy to rim them. I had the characters get into some workplace shenanigans and it was fun to write.

There’s a question surfacing about what it means when writing is fun versus when it feels like work. I think both modes are useful.

I didn’t read any of the Samuel Delaney novel this weekend. I watched Kimmy Schmidt and Ted Bundy, but I’m not putting up a picture of either of them, so here’s a photo of model Bob Kolinski. I don’t know who took it.


Doubts Creep In

Wrote a thousand words today which is higher than average, but still: What if it’s bad? It felt kind of boring to write, maybe it’s boring?

Okay, think of one good thing you wrote today without going back to look at it… They go to the park on [protagonist] Bart’s birthday and get high with the hippies on the hill, then hit on one of the older hippie guys and make him so uncomfortable that he leaves.

Well that’s a little triggering – like, they made somebody uncomfortable then laughed about it. And wait, what are the politics you’re presenting in this book, anyway? It’s an incest fantasy but incest hurts a lot of people. And you’re an approaching-forty (in just a few days, people!) dude writing about a sexually-precocious teenager and isn’t that a little irresponsible? Someone could use your work to justify their violence or ignorance…

Maybe, and that would pain me. But to address the first charge: the characters are teenagers, and teenagers do mean shit. I’ve done mean shit. It’s my fiction and it’s my truth. I have legitimate and even painful reasons why I write and fantasize about incest, and writing about it makes me smile and will probably make other people smile and/or get hard and if I hurt somebody, maybe they’ll tell me and I’ll understand and maybe it’ll change me, but until then I just do what I do…

And that’s as much “talking myself out of holes” as I’m going to do today.

Above: The song of the day has just got to be Dead of Night by Orville Peck which my friend just introduced me to last night. Gothic Lynch Lana Americana, pierce my vein and flood it in, baby.