Wednesday 1 July 2015

I'm finding it more and more difficult to not regret any word I write.  I keep feeling afterwards that the .75 millisecond anyone devotes to thoughtful reflection really means that nobody is able to get past their own internal shriek to hear much of anyone else's, and that perhaps it is easier to quite simply say nothing at all.

Of course it is.  I decided for a full 24 hours after The Monthly rejected the thing I'd worked on for months that I don't have the requisite skin to do this.  But then I do have the heart, and so 24 hours later I'm back on sending it out somewhere else.  What a fuckwit.  If I could work out something else I want to do I would do that instead and learn to forget what feels like vocation.

The world doesn't give a fuck about vocation.  Its dead eyes say that vocation is a childish concept for those who haven't yet learned the true way of things, but perhaps they just don't understand how you can float on a ball knowing it will one day die as your bones will turn to dust and that doesn't mean you can't try to tell the most beautiful stories possible of your shimmying on through.

And then in the shower - where else? The shower is a haven from this stupid world of beepery - an idea comes, and I desire to wrangle it and see where I can go with it. But who is there to play with that will pay?  Who wishes to engage when to do so requires an ability to not only engage with Not Me, to thoughtfully enter into another's world while being careful not to step on their floor-strewn stuff, pull down their half-hanging curtains, poke your finger to deep in their complexes, but to do so being mindful of the dwindled finances, the need for every word to soar high enough to draw the eyeballs, the ADHD-riddled eyeballs of the digital reader.

What the hell am I doing here?  Perhaps I don't belong here.  Maybe I don't have what it takes.

I don't much trust people no more.

The world's a little too full of thinking that emptiness is empty, and way terrified by the belief that fullness is only contained in the forward thrust to be much good for the kind of discussion I'm starving for. Too many zombie people keep believing this stupid story.

Still, amongst the rubble of the rabble there are still thoughtful souls afoot, and I'm gratified that some of those diamond souls even read here, and that I share my bed with one.

For all that though, I'm fucking sick of this story.  Its narrative is wholly unsatisfying.


  1. Replies
    1. Where's the alternate universe where it's culturally valued and supported? I want that Art Life

    2. its the only one weve got unfortuantely:) Take solace from bukowski, Van Gogh, David Foster Wallace, Annie Dillard and the millions of others that have laboured in vain

  2. Well thank you for writing this, anyway. I like how you write about not writing.
    I wanted to say I'd tried that Buteyko breathing method and like it A LOT. It's a little weird, as all the best stuff is. And it was excellent timing as I had a job interview this morning by Skype (business suit and slippers at dawn) and was calm and zenlike. So thanks for the info!

    1. You give the best visuals - business suit and slippers.

      Oh, I'm so glad it has helped you! Isn't it a paradigm shift. I'm quite amazed by it - I keep thinking about it all the time

  3. Two things come to mind. One is that you are maybe not well enough to be doing anything else to earn money anyway, so what the hell keep taking that gamble. The second is that, for me at least, my dogs, my husband and my writing are why I get out of bed, not necessarily in that order. It matters not that people read it if it keeps giving me a reason to live. Also, for me at least, thinking about what to write next is a way better obsession than the other things my currently compulsive mind can latch on to. When not deep in the throes of writing novel, as I am now not while getting a book ready to publish, I get tired to death of my stupid brain. When I am writing new work, it is much happier. In the end, there are more reasons to write than for money or even to be read. It's not like either of us could be out traveling in Mongolia or something instead. :)

  4. Oh and if your story is boring you to death, drop the non fiction and go for some escapist fiction. I just finished a novel where I gave the chronically ill character a new body and a new life of adventure on a different planet. Wish fulfillment? You betya! Totally loved writing it! :D

  5. Damn Blogger ate my comment! It was agreeing and wondering at how different one person's mind can be when they're doing something they're passionate about. The range is pretty wide - imagine if everyone was able to have time and energy to develop what they love? Bring on the universal basic income is all I can say. It will make life beautiful so that we will be allergic to austerity ideas.

    It's good to know what getrs you out of bed, isn't it. Those things give energy as well as taking it, after all

  6. Universal basic income is just so sensible an idea. I want that for everyone too! Makes me think of Star Trek of course, but also the old church living thing in the UK, where a vicar had a lot of time on his hands and a guaranteed income, and where many of them did amazing research, writing or art because they had that time. Yes writing novels gives me energy, and it makes my brain happy and stops me from writing lots of crappy stories in my head about the stuff going on around me, or as I call that aspect of my brain, The Letterwriter. How I hate The Letterwriter!


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