I like these kinda posts even though…but short message.
Nope. I don’t know why I even write this shit , probably somewhere in my brain lost somewhere I must like the act of communication and somewhere people are saying cool or whatever, ha, and so…Strange and so I have to finish a book. Well, I don’t really have to. I am THE MAN. But still, I actually have to fill some orders, did all this publicity and have a small book tour lined up. I’m kinda legit ( or people think I’m insane and helping me out). HA, What the fuck am I doing? Rule. No. Go. Get it done and keep going and this makes no sense to me. I dont know why, and What that means is what? I could sell enough books to be poor and I will never stop. It kinda sucks being at it alone all the time but when you choose art your life you go and hey man, maybe I could even buy a nice pair of slacks HA if I just sober my ass up and eat some canned ravioli and mentally prepare myself for an old school 15 hour straight word a thon (with small break of course).
I woke up at 9 pm after sleep for who knows. I sleep as much as I’m awake. I either think about writing, drink, write, or sleep or worry about the what-have-you. There is research showing that you can save sleep up, that you don’t need 8 hours a night, and thinking about this what a strange rule we have in society. So yeah, note to self, and work by five 15 I can make this happen, if I get my shit together right now I can begin this day and get the last draft done before I re read it couple more times on Monday. By noon, DONE. I can do this. My back hurts. lol. Nope. rock and roll man.
Couple more things
Went to the bar and was talking to a pal and he was talking about TV and shows and reruns and what not. Anyway, My life is so fucked up. No. I never knew this. In an episode of Seinfeild Jerry learns he has a fine on an unreturned library book from 1971, Tropic of Cancer.
This might be vulgar, and it’s silly and kind full of shit and what you would call, dramatic but:
and I hate to offend people with sexual metaphors. It’s not the kind of writer I am and that’s why I hardly ever write about it (because YOU KNOW) but finishing a book is the worst part. You drag it out. You drink. You look and mess around and you think and think… you hope for more. Even when it’s done you keep going at it, and what it is, well I’m sorry for my adult language, but yeah, finishing a book is exactly what it is:
it’s fucking without orgasm. HA! But maybe, there’s something to that. HA…oh man..
Adventures In American Writing 