Thursday, November 16, 2006

Perception is Reality. I am not.

Fear not, I have a story in final revision (I actually made it to a seemingly satisfactory ending, so that is kind of a big thing. I just need someone else to review it and let me know if I am wrong before I reveal my veins to the masses.) so it shouldn't be too long before I get back to business as usual. At which point I will break with tradition and do something else. Unless I am too busy finishing up those dangerous and potentially life threatening applications.

In the mood for damn near anything, I am drinking a stirred martini in a rocks glass, listening to Lil Jon because for reasons beyond comprehension I just needed to get crunk, and learning about heavy metal and what life was really like when I was in first grade from the sage Chuck Klosterman, and I needed to write. I am often so compelled. I have always found it best to yield to the temptations. Besides, what else was I going to do? The Office isn't on for more than an hour.

I know that I write in what has come to be a rather noticeable and definable idiom. I call it "love and alcohol" because, well, I think that it sounds good. There is more to my personality, to my thoughts, wishes, and dreams. There is, as I often write (though usually in stories that never make it past the first or second draft) such potential. In me. There is such potential in me. I don't just write about twentysomething degenerates with an artisitic bent and a penchant for rampant boozing. I just find most of what I otherwise write lacking in what can be best termed "believability." I can't write about success or life in an office or 13th century poverty because I can't picture myself in such a situation. And I have a difficult time writing as someone else. I am incredibly vain, it almost always a bad thing for me. There actually are a few rarely seen examples of my extention beyond the world of my understanding and my own severely claustrophobic experiences. And included in those passages are what I at times consider some of my best writing. Unattached to my own fears and insecurities, the stories take on a character from a deeper and more dangerous portion of my unconscious. Unfortunately, they are the main set of writings that I cannot figure to finish. I don't know where the story goes and the characters are either unable or unwilling to tell me how their stories end. Ideally, this is what I would learn from grad school. Ideally. But fuck if I know that it will work or not. As the due dates roll ever nearer I become less and less sure of my worth...

Do my fears and insecurities come through in my writing?

I think I had better stop now. If I keep going, I am pretty sure that I am going to get too drunk or too lonely and start begging someone anyone to make my life better. And that is the last thing I need. I need to work through this on my own.

The Universe is dying of boredom. Scientists call it heat death. I know better.

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