This is gonna be one of those throw away rants that I will likely be ashamed of in the morning. And since, at this moment, I have no idea which direction I might take, there is a possibility that I might delete everything I have to say. But if it is only an attack on myself, on this self-important blathering I use to make myself believe I am somehow in touch with the world, then here it stays, a damnation, something not worth the algorithm this is wasted upon.
Anyway, I sit up here every night, late into the night until usually daybreak morning, writing something or other and I must admit to the pleasure of having finished the first draft of a novel about twenty-five minutes ago (from the time I am composing this). This is a passion project, that little thing I formed a dream about when I was young and thought that somehow I might become famous. This is, of course, far from the first novel I have completed (there are four entirely finished, this being number five, with two sequels to this one, a second in its epilogue, the third about halfway. I have been doing this fanatically since I was nine years old, when I wrote some nonsense I remember very little about). I have written numerous short stories–a handful of them published, and wrote comic books for about a year and a half way back in the early to middle 1990s. I co-wrote two screenplays, damn fine works too, that I never even bothered to send to anyone because depression and desperation and the actualities of having to live life can so often take over your dreams and reduce you to a miserable, struggling fuck-up pretending happiness in order to get by in a chaotic world.
But this is where I am now–middle forties, still writing fanatically, and focusing mostly on these three projects, as well as this, my baby, my Recording Editorial History. I am so self-satisfied, thrilled with the title of this thing, this rarely read self-destructive narrative that has very few followers and that this one, no doubt, will annoy or bore enough people that they will stop reading well before this point–
There is something deeper, however, that urgent stride towards self-therapy that a sick person must undertake if they ever hope to get better. I am 46 years old and my chief accomplishments in life have been to rush my way through four careers, experience the birth my two wonderful children and to stay in a struggling marriage that is permanently on the rocks because my wife and I cannot help loving one another. I have otherwise accomplished nothing–perhaps taught a few things to a few people back when I pretended to be a teacher. I knew enough, was quick enough, that I could get by just like a lazy student going through the motions for a ‘C.’ I fucked around with every serious job I ever had and pretended like I was a sociologist studying the behavior of those I was responsible for because I had a need to turn them into art.
This is still a need and this is still an excuse I tell myself when I needlessly provoke already anxious people just to see how they might respond. I tell myself that I am digging for the truth when in all reality what I am doing is being an asshole. It is easy to get someone to react to an asshole. I mean, they’re an asshole and nobody likes assholes. Even the assholes.
And so I tell myself I am an artist and I sink into a jigsaw puzzle of words, trying to cry myself out of this terminal pain. And sometimes it works. Sometimes I feel better. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes you complete a project and expiate several of the demons from your soul.