January 8, 2021

Oh, look, another blog about my novel

It’s hard not beating myself up. I just went back and re-read some old blog posts, on a previous site of mine, and one of the posts was about whittling down my goals to just two. My logic (in this post) was that if I have just two they’d be easier to achieve and I would therefore feel as though I could actually accomplish something. The first of the two was, of course, weightloss, as that has become my forever journey. I have struggled with my weight since I was a kid and I probably will fight it until I die. It’s what I get for having an unhealthy apetite for sugar and a pension for overindulgence.

The second was to finish editing my book. At the time of the post, it had been only 5 years since I had finished my first novel length work of fiction. As of December 6th, 2020, it has been 11. Shoot me.

I do find it funny that I whitled this “list” down to the most daunting of all of them. I’m curious what the others could have possibly been, that these were the “easy” ones.

Much like my weightloss, I think my journey to finish editing my novel will be my white whale. I will sail the seas of my emotional instability until I can finally capture the “perfect” manuscript. Per usual pattern, I tried (once again) to wrok on it and I have become so saturated with that fucking opening scene that I don’t know if my dislike of it is my own irritation or if it is just genuinely a bad beginning. Considering I gave it to my husband’s boyfriend to read and he’s only two pages in… I’m going to assume it’s just bad. I’ve edited it countless times, it merely resembles the original one I wrote 11 years ago. For the better. And for the worst. Even if I wanted to writea new opening scene, I have read through the exiting one so many times the new draft would end up sounding exactly the same, starting in the same spot, and most likely carry the same bullshit and baggage of the previous drafts. God I hreally ate myself sometimes.

The problem with being a perfectionist is that I get so caught up in the “it’s not good enough” that I have wedged out the part of me that can identify what is and isn’t good writing. I fucking hate it. And myself.

The other thought that I have is that maybe my story just isn’t good and I’ve led myself to believe that it is. I had liked it when I first finished it, but now… I’ve changed so many things in my head or in the actual manuscript that I feel like it’s a mess. I’ve tried justifying or rationalizing charatcer choices and shoehorned other elements that it feels like frankenstein’s monster. (Ugh, enough with the metaphors, Josh.)

Part of me kind of wants to make a new outline, with the story elements, and do another NaNoWriMo style re-write of it. Worst case scenario, it’s as shitty as the one prior. Best case scenario… It’s better.

Yet even as I think of this I get lost in the technical aspect. Do I want to write it in first person, since it’s a young adult/new adult series and what I have discovered about the better selling series are typically those of the main character’s perspective. I don’t even know if my character’s personal voice is strong enough to carry an entire narrative… and if i feel that way now, doesn’t that lead me to believe that it’s weak? FUCK!

As you can clearly see, I tend to overthink and overanalyze things. It’s my blessing and my curse. Primarily, curse.

January 6, 2021

Too tired to care

I am almost certain that the statement I am about to write has been said or thought by most American citizens today: I am exhausted. It’s the kind of tired where it feels like every ounce of energy has been sucked from my body, and all that’s left behind is the weight of my flesh and bone. In addition, my mind is just as empty, like the water skin of a lost traveler in the desert. All I want to do is enter into a 3 year coma. I am that worn out. And for what?

Writing is near impossible when you have nothing on your mind. My eyes just glare at a blank page, the ceiling, the wall, my twitter feed, willing myself to write something. Yet there is no coherent thought in my brain. And Other than the obvious happenings in American politics, I have nothing of substance to ruminate. Instead I just have my exhaustion and hollow feelings.

So, in an effort to hold myself to goals I’m writing anyway. Despite my lack of topic.

I think one of my problems is I have tricked myself into thinking that my writing isn’t as good when I do it straight through the computer. What really gets the juices flowing is holding a pencil in hand and writing out my thoughts in lead. That will bring a spark to the process. But I know that that belief is bullshit. I’ve written countless blogs and even two novel length works of fiction straight on to the computer screen. This romance I’ve draped over the handwritten process is holding me back from achieving my goals.

But also… let’s not forget the exhaustion.

January 5, 2021

Perceived Insignifcance

It’s weird the things you remember. For me there are moments that, while they were occurring, didn’t seem like anything significant but in fact were. I’d even go so far to say, life altering. It was as if my brain operates on an entirely different wavelength and knows, without letting me know, that this is something worth retaining.

I vividly remember the day I met the man who would one day be my husband. I mean down to the tiniest of details. Yet, I don’t know what was so significant for me, because initially the only reason I was meeting with him was as a quick fuck. He was exceptionally desireable at the time because the man who had just dumped me was super into him, but because that guy was the polar opposite of my husband’s type he never gave my ex the time of day. I had decided (being ever the truest scorpio) to meet with my soon to be husband for a quick fling as an insult to my, then, most recent relationship.

As it turned out we didn’t even do anything sexual. All we did was kiss and I left that night (abosolutely convinced) that I would never see him again. This is why I find it odd that I even retained any of the pertinent details of the story. For all I had assumed, it was over. So why take the time to commit it to memory?

The same could be said about the boyfriend. Again, it was an assumed “limited moment.” Yet, despite my then belief I have held onto the details of our meeting. The same cannot be said for the countless other chance encounters. The moments were had and then they moved into the darkest parts of my memory, never to be seen again.

Is it something where we keep every memory inside of our minds and when these things begin to transform into something significant that it grows into an entirely different brain cell? Like we remember getting that coffee a week ago, but because nothing happened we just just store it in some mental drawer? But, say the barista who happened to grab and hand me my coffee turned out to be the man who would save my life, would I remember the mundane meeting?

It is probably different for everyone. Most don’t have a sharp memory that (more often than not) is observing and retaining that which they experience on an insane level. (Well, when I’m not in a mental fog from emotional trauma.) It’s odd, because every one of my home inspections, I remember. Like if I look at the photos in my workfile my brain will run a mini film in which flashes of the full inspection will play like a film.

I’d like to pretend that I am some kind wunderkinde, but I’m most likely not. My mind just tends to dwell too long on the past, the present, and the imagined future. One time someone described me as being “cerebral” and I don’t think any truer statement had (or has) ever been said to me.

January 3, 2021

Superfluous Drivel

With every new year, we all settle into what we think is a “new age” unbound from our previous life and experience. As if by the stroke of 12 we will magically jump through a portal and enter a completely different reality. The only problem is, as we jump into this new time, our ankles are tethered to the past and we bring with us the same bullshit and baggage that had previously plagued us. We attempt to change this by making resolutions, as if these statements of absolute change will be keys to unbind us from the shackles of the past. It’s the optimistic spirit of humanity, I suppose. We want to believe in abrupt and resolute transformation.

As I stare down into the valley of a new dawn, I know that it will be much of the same as before. Only that the landscape is entirely different and it will be far worse. My life isn’t really on any path to a brighter tomorrow. The one I tread is only taking me further into the darkest of woods, in which I will discover who I truly am, through tests of emotional fortitude.

Like the title of this blog says, these posts are the entries of the journal of a jaded josh. I am not here to offer any real optimism. If I alluded to that I sold you false hope. I will try to bring some light into the darkness of the woods I journey to and through, but for the most part it will always be an unaltered, unfiltered view.

I write all of this as a mental exercise for my “writer skills,” the abilities and “talent” that have long languished in my apathy. I have goals and aspirations to one day be published. And I very well can’t get there unless I fucking write something. Want and action are not the same, as much as I want them to be. And despite my jaded perspective, I am still human and therefore an optimist. I enter into this with the same hope as all the others.

Despite knowing that there should only be one, I have two New Year’s resolutions. The first is for my health, even though I secretly wish for my own death most days. However, the thing in which I want to stop isn’t going to be a quick trigger. It will most likely be a long and painful demise, as “god” likes to bestow upon those in my life. Therefore I am going to stop smoking. My last cigarette was on December 30th. I knew that if I even purchased a pack on the 31st I would drag this bullshit into a New Year. So I started this one a little early. So far… It has been successful, as most of my previous attempts have been. Well… that is until I broke beneath the weight of my emotional turmoil and decided to purchase a pack of smokes.

The second was hinted at earlier and (I’m sure) has since been guessed: I want to write more. Initially, I had this grand scheme of writing every single day from a book of writing prompts that “Writer’s Digest” had provided me, after purchasing a subscription. I had attempted such an endevour in the past, however by day 3 (or 4) it petered out and I was left feeling defeated. In an effort to stop anymore feelings of failure (of which I feel daily, regardless) I decided to simplify my task. By committing to “write more” I give nothing to measure my efforts, but a general benchmark that was better than last year, and that is somewhat measureable through blog posts and stats provided to me through wordpress. And that’s the best I can hope for.

To help facilitate my goals, I’ve decided to set aside the hour between 10 and 11 P.M. to tapping out some kind of bullshit for public perusal. Or I might even finish my fucking novel, which has sat unpolished for 11 years now. It’d be ironic if I completed my edits by year 12. (Twelve is my lucky number for those not in the know.)

So even though this new terrain looks ever more terrifying than the one I leave behind, I continue on this “new path” just as jaded, but with a glimmer of hope. I want to switch the addiction of puffing on a cigarette to punching these tiny keys. There is no shortage of keyboards to achieve my goal. I carry one in my very pocket. Letter by letter I can possibly piece together a better future for myself, and wind up more skilled than last year. And maybe through the written word I can handle the emotional turmoil that I am most certianly going to see in this coming year.