Yes. It has been two weeks. I have excuses: sick, new workings, writing, Punisher (which was and is a violent work of genius), furniture, projects. And this is all you’re getting after two weeks of radio silence. Give me a second. We’ll … I mean I’ll be back momentarily…
A friend of mine (one that exists outside of my head, for a change) is damn good at keeping these fingers going. I mean it has been mass genocide of the finger race the last few days. The word counts keep growing, everything hurts, I’m not sure what the hell I’m going to do when these fuckers fall off, because they will. Or just explode from overuse…
To all my writer brethren and sistren out there: This is not a job. This is pain. All pain. All the time. Forever. It’s the ultimate faction of suffering. Buddha would be proud… You know, if he could feel pride, or whatever Buddhas feel. NaNoWriMo has been forcing my fingers in the upright position, making my hands swell, bringing out the competition beast because I like to see my numbers get really big while my not head friend’s numbers also get big (but not as big as mine… for now). It pleases me, US. Pleases, us… Please stop hitting me. Seriously, put the brass knuckles away man. This isn’t the 40s! Stop!
And in other interesting news: Thor? Beautiful. Punisher? 11/17 – which is next Friday. And I’m still working on getting the Doc up and running but he’s coming along nicely. Just get your fill of the other two books while you can. I’m going to do that thing where you can totally still read it here for free, but you’re SOL if I forget to pay the bill or something. I’ll throw a link to buy (<– this word, always in your wallet) when I compile all three books. Figure, more bang for your buck. And if you end up hating one of them, well you’re stuck with it and I get to laugh at you. It’s a win win situation. For me. Not for you. At that point it’s more like a … win, win, lose situation.
Anyway, go read them. You’ll like them. And if you’re a fellow nutbag – get your ass over to NaNoWriMo and write some shit! Then go to ScreenCraft and write some more shit! One day, our favorite authors and movie people and television writers and comic crafters and all the writing people ever are going to die. Morbid… It’s Thursday. Everything is morbid. But when they go, no one will be around to write more things. So go and write all the things. Now. Or I’m gonna sick this crazy, violent son of a bitch on you and there’s nothing you can really do about it because she only exists in the realm of the nutters. Which you are.
There’s a feeling of idiocy when you go to the store to buy a container of coffee – we need coffee, and if you disagree, you are not what we are. You always buy one brand. It’s been a faithful brand. It’s been a glorious brand. It’s been the only difference between a peaceful acknowledgment of the noble jackasses (And not so noble ones) in the world and the death penalty. But you want to start exploring. Your reliable friend is no longer good enough for you. You want to taste all the beans. Okay, maybe you’ll stick it in the basket just for shits and giggles, and a backup… These new kids ain’t so good when it comes to summoning the awakedness sometimes…
You sit there and stare at them, thinking you’ve come to a damn good decision. You’ve read the backs of every bag in the aisle, bought a grinder, did your research while standing there, inhaling the fumes of the over-roasted beans for hours and you’re on the way to the front of the checkout line… Buuuuut you don’t want that one. Something about it isn’t right. So you turn around and run to the coffee aisle. There it is – the perfect brew. You grab your beautiful new beast. It was higher on your “must try” list. You put it in your armhole. Get back in the same line. The cashier stares at you like you have 2 heads and starts ringing you up. When the haunting thought hits you again. And you ask them to hold on. At this point, the poor cashier takes your items and puts them to the side, calling for his supervisor. The supervisor takes your items and the receipt and tells you to meet at customer service once you’re ready with your final purchase. You nod, thank them both, apologize to everyone and their kid fucking brother and run back to demon the aisle. You do this about five times until you look at the golden roast in your possession and go, “Fuck the new stuff. I like this one.” Welcome to NaNoWriMo 2017. So many goddamn ideas… And while we’re at it – Let’s go with ScreenCraft’s Short Story Contest. Even more goddamn ideas… Yes, we are busy writing a thousand things and still trying to do this “adulting” thing. Because life … and bills…. and pants…
We have been writing. Like five different … novels? Novellas? Short novels? Same thing. It doesn’t matter. We’ve been writing. I say “we’ve” because of that crazy woman sitting in the corner with the damn knuckles and her piano buddy. Seriously… they scare the everloving shit out of me. If I don’t do what they say, bad things happen… And apparently the Doc is loving this and talking… So maybe my fear can coax him into coming forward so I can finish his damn book and that damn series. Maybe he’ll be my shrink when this is all done because all the Heavens, Hells and in-betweenies know I’ve lost my shit.
Oh well… time for Coffee (<– this is a proper noun as of right now.) Possibly Asgard’s own
blonde bombshell. I mean Thor. Thor. that’s what I said. Ignore that other part about … Good job Disney — MARVEL. Marvel… Good job Marvel. You guys tell good stories. But for real though. Their character development is … incredible. And if you don’t believe me go watch all of the MCU flicks and tell me there’s no character arc. I might cut you if you say that. So tell me carefully. Or just don’t tell me. And we’ll pretend to be in agreement.
Really should have taken her a little more seriously. Didn’t. And she made me quit. Ohhh, that voice is a forceful one let me tell you… But now I have all of this free time for … stuff. I mean bright side, NaNoWriMo is next month. Maybe I’ll finish the Doc’s Tale’s by then. Maybe. Hopefully. Fingers crossed that the drunkard in my skull can coax the drunkard in the pages to keep talking. If not, maybe they can share a drink and discuss the existential crises that is existing. Sounds like a conversation based in the wild throws of weed, but -tsk tsk- it’s the bottle what’s bringin’ about these thoughts and discussions between myself and my imaginary friends.
Brilliant side to insanity, you always have some form of material to coincide with your prenatal psychosis. Downside is the self-doubt and crippling thoughts of inadequacy. But once you get through that, you’re pretty much a god. Then, when the thoughts creep back in and you fold to them, eventually scouring Indeed to find the “right job” that you can hack while you entertain your imaginary beasties, the rocks start plunging their old school fists into your guts and you close the computer like, “eh… fuck it” because you remember that crazed lunatic in your skull, tapping her bat against the walls and giving you the stink eye – considering she only has the one eye to give it to you with. Don’t ask about the other one, she’ll show you how she got it t do its disappearing act. In fact – she’s giving me the glare now, while the new on in the Zoot Suit plays some daunting tune on the random piano in my skull, puffing on a stogie and what she calls a “bread knife” sitting on the top of the baby grand next to her brass knuckles…
Shit, I’m about to get my ass kicked…
P.S: Prose writing. Ain’t it great? Grammatical Rules of Grammarness be damned! Well. I mean… Like… To an extent.
So, you know that moment when you sit at your desk, couch, Polish sausage making station and you decide – “Hey, I think it’s time.” And you write. And write. Get the gall to tell your job to leave you alone and walk out the door. Those sausages smell good, be they made of meat, tofu, children’s tears… And you’re feeling pretty damn decent about your life choices to pursue your dreams. Your career goals. Your “you”. After all, you can’t fully explore the glory that is sausage making and writing while your head is full of someone else’s problems and your ears bleed from their inability to use a cellular device… or a key pad. When the tiny voice on the other side says “press ‘1’” you don’t have to keep pressing it six, seven, eight, a hundred times. Just once.
You’re feeling pretty good about it. Even so good as to look in your inbox to see what lovely modicum of hope has made its way to your tiny glowing screen… Rejection. But that’s okay, stiff upper lip, that wasn’t what you wanted anyway. You keep plugging along, still feeling good about your abilities, some faith still lodged in your cortex that everything will work out for the better. You’re good at what you do, right?
Several hours go by, you’ve pounded your fingers into calloused anvils, and you’re more tired now than the time your crazed PE teacher made you run through the entirety Presidential Fitness Test in the third grade. Another blip on the screen. A little dingle and a dangle. The notorious email envelop with its bouncing number jumps around, trying its hardest to frantically notify you that someone wants to communicate with you. “Rejection”
It’s been three weeks and an inbox full of “Sorry but you suck.” You haven’t written anything in days. Your finger tips are soft like a new born calf’s hide, and you have all but forgotten what a comma does in sentence. Even if you were writing you’d barely know what it’s supposed to do, but at least you’d make it look fancy.
You pray to whatever god you believe in – be it the enraged psycho in the “Good Book” or the relaxed elephant carrying a hatchet and giving you a doped out nod. “At this point,” you think aloud, “Who gives a fuck? Might as well go all out on the crazy train.” You don’t have much else to lose. Your self worth has jumped ship. You remember why you went back to the craze of a shit-stained 9-5. And yet, for some unforeseen reason, you are refusing to settle back into the heavenly crap shoot that is the modernized, yet so outdated, workforce. Bills be damned.
Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. And so on and so forth. Until…
In the mind of this writer exists three people – sounds crazy and boring, like everything everyone else has ever said about anything. Yeah, maybe it is, but sit the fuck down and listen.
There’s the beaten down, postgrad student (PGS) who works a shit job, taking shit calls and pretending to give a fuck, all the while hating herself for ever agreeing to do this customer service bullshit in the first place. Remember, “It’s just a job. It pays the bills until you do what you want to do. It’s not fucking permanent. Just the beginning of you life.”
And while some of the above horseshit may be true, it shouldn’t be used by the “Hippie Love Child” that exists in here. She would be number two – in all fucking facets of the goddamn phrase. She fucking “understands all problems and everyone’s issues.” She is the reason for the rocks filling my gut and sinking me. Honestly, she’s the one who goes, “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine. We just need to rest. It will come to us.” Which sends the PGS up there into a fucking frenzy. She’s just the fucking greatest. She sits on her ass and watches T.V while sipping on God knows what shit drink and goes, “That’s gonna be us one day. But it takes time and right now we just need to relax.” I can’t begin to tell you what that does to Me.
She drives me fucking nuts. I swear to fucking Christ she drives me up a goddamn tree, strings the noose and lets me swing. Dumb bitch forgot how to tie the goddamn thing though, and there I go. Falling from the tree, snapping an ankle and going after her like she fucking stole something. Which she did, if you think about it. She stole fucking everything… Except my box of matches. My head is full of fire. I am the one who has the desires, the wants, the twisted notions of trampling vast majorities of people and making the world a better fucking playground for me and people like me. I’m the one who sits up until 4 a.m. and writes words on paper that don’t make any sense, and force my fingers to slip and fall across the goddamn keys. I’m the one that wants to take the fucking Hippie Love Child out back and beat her within an inch of her existence and then swallow that existence, feed my soul a little bit and stomp out her ideological horseshit!
She sends PGS into fits of, “I can’t do this. I’m gonna fail at everything. Maybe I should just give up and quit. There have been hundreds before me. Millions. I’m not an original–” blah blah blah. And then I have to sit in here, and listen to that bullshit. I’m not like the rest of you who can walk away from the computer, close the window, stop listening. I’m fucking stuck in this skull. Constantly talking her off a ledge. Trying to help her gain her confidence back when that dumbass Hippie opens her mouth and tells her that it’s okay if she doesn’t make it. The fuck it is!
Listen, PGS: You’ll be broke, working nowhere if you give up on this. Since you seem to need the motivation to keep it rolling, let me give it to you. I will make you quit your shit job and put a pen in your hand and make you write through the tears. All the while, you’re gonna feel like shit because you’re not pulling your weight, because you have no job, because you pissed me off. See how it’s a vicious cycle? So get your shit together, woman up and move. Seriously. I dunno when the fuck we invited that Hippie shit into this war, but she shouldn’t be here. Fist fights, bloody mouths and screaming Leprechauns for all, but none of that “what will be will be” shit. This is your goddamn life. Fuck her and get it done.
Head full of fire.
Oh, this sucks…