Last night, I was really inspired to write a post about CM Punk and all the complicated feelings surrounding the idea of quitting something you’ve dedicated virtually your entire life to being good at, and then I realized I’ve been working on my book so diligently that I’m sick of reading my own writing.
I recently found my old “one sentence a day” journal, which was neglected sometime during my ugly spell with depression last year, and I’ve been looking through it with increasing regularity over the past few days, not really knowing what to make of my psyche via these quickly written snapshots. Here are a few for reference:
05/01/13: Super-rare steak for lunch like a pair of caged lions.
05/04/13: I hope everybody gets drunk and lonely and makes mistakes.
05/08/13: I’m a good person I suppose, but I’m a deeply unreliable son.
05/10/13: I alternate between feeling guilty for being a shallow aesthete and fully embracing it.
05/17/13: A ghost came by my house to deliver my friend’s jacket. The note was for me.
05/18/13: Not enough artists have the gumption to be self-indulgent.
05/20/13: I’m having fun because I know I’m on borrowed time I’m not expected to pay back. I’m in on the joke.
05/21/13: I use this stylish, cool demeanor as a safeguard against this earth-shattering sense of romantic loneliness. I pretend I’m too cool for anyone to have me.
05/26/13: When ordering bottomless mimosas, you should never, ever drink just one.
05/30/13: Is there any form of punishment worse than black jelly beans?
06/04/13: Stoned in the same clothes I wore last night, having an out-of-body experience in the sun.
06/14/13: Everybody has a complicated relationship with their family, because family are the only people who really know what you used to be.
06/17/13: Street smarts are more beneficial when people don’t think you have them.
06/22/13: People always think they were more precocious than they actually were.
06/23/13: It’s funny how, when you have a bunch of sexual energy with nowhere to go, it manifests itself in sex dreams about your friends.
One thing about writing long-form fiction that you have to learn for yourself is in what ways your story gets better as it moves along. That makes me wonder if the first two or three chapters of this book need to be fine-tuned in a way that explains the characters more creatively or if I’m just being hard on myself because the other chapters are so much better.
The notion of masculinity is funny, especially the notion between macho dudes that if you’re not all the way masculine, you’re all the way feminine. I’m beginning to realize the most valuable lesson I’ve learned in life thus far is nobody’s all the way anything.
I really want to write a long post on the experience of writing this novel — the things I’ve learned about my writing and writing in general and myself in general — but I feel like it would bore everybody to death. I feel like coming from me, that would be a boring thing to read.
there are serously people in this day and age who do Not Tip, they say “oh i don’t tip” like it’s a charming character trait. don’t talk to these people. dont look at them. these people should be required to tell their waitresses that they don’t tip before service starts. let the chips fall where they may
"I don’t tip. I don’t believe in tipping."
This debate always reminds me of the opening scene of Reservoir Dogs, which always inspires me to think to myself, “What kind of asshole won’t fork over a few bucks to someone who depends on that extra money because their wages are slashed in anticipation of it? What kind of asshole talks about tipping like it’s Santa Claus or Bigfoot?”
Hopefully every creative person has periods where they feel what they’re creating is dreadfully cheesy, because I’m sort of struggling with that mind state going over what I have written for my novel right now.
Listening to a song called “I Can’t Live Without My Mother’s Love” late at night a little over a month after your mom has passed away is a truly devastating experience, if I can be terrifyingly obvious for a minute.