I can feel it pulling, as the traffic is a vein of progress the city's heat and substance is draining.
Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to be here. Most of what I write won't apear as such, but it's observation that gets people down, subconsciously in most cases.
So, the red wine helps to write and when you get up at 8:30 or 9 a.m. contact to the outside world, aka EST peeps is skewed, so it gives you limited time to interact before divulging into the world of no touching or talking.
Today I've made some progress; praying before work, eating a breakfast bar and organizing my thoughts for what looks like a week ahead of business if I allow it to be. My room is trashed and most of my favorite shirts are dirty. I nearly lost Mr. Red when The Road to Serfdom, teaming with Dramatic Opinions of G.B. Shaw fell and toppled the innocent bobblehead.
Lately I'm doing what I didn't want to have to do, by avoiding people. I wait for silence and then I spring to the kitchen and back, as if this is college and I'm trying not to awaken my roommate. The problem is, I worried little about that when i was 19 years old, living in the dorms and my writing was a modern-era horror. Seriously, i go back and read things I wrote a few years ago and what little I've produced in that time, has at least refined the ability to use punctuation. And, the topics are all void of cerebral balance and observation. It's sick to read and makes me depressed to think it was me, quill in hand and handicapped by my own in-development.
So, I'm on a confidence building train, today. I need to work on my idea for my novel, so I can make $1 million and call it a day. The story would be about me, as I've learned that's all i know! The majority of people in my life the past 10 years have either let me know of this fact through their actions or, in very rare cases, told me bluntly. Therefore, in the order of all things great I shall begin composing a mockery of my situation, my characteristics and take notes in the meantime.
Check back in in a few months, I'll be working on it.
Seriously.
This week I need goals, and not like silly attainable goals; goals that are intent to not-be-reached because those are always the goals I daydream about. We all know I dream little at night and what I do dream about, are longings and I thank God I can decipher this fact and recognize the problem.
So, I want to create this outline of what i'm set to tell through this so-called novel. Full disclosure is the name of the game, and although i've yet to start, I feel I may have to move toward anonymity and say that I never produced the novel at all, pull up to your house in 'my' brand new Mercedes convertible and say that it's for a missionary with very little luggage; never acknowledging that the NY Time best-seller is my own under an alias of some Portuguese. recluse. Therein lies the problem of creating the next great-American novel. I suppose I'll disclose that in my memoirs, to be released and dedicated to said Portuguese-recluse posthumous to both of us. And there being just, me.
Tonight I'll do what I do. Probably walk to the liquor store, buy the cheapest Carmenere or Malbec, walk back and read one of the toppling books for 15 minutes or so and then play words with friends. Some life I've.
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