Wednesday, July 19, 2017

To Complete a Thought...

 An established writer once instructed me to write everyday; a page, a paragraph, a sentence, a fucking word.  Most creatives have had similar instruction, or understand the basic common sense concept: to get good at something, do it, all the time, and even when you’re not doing it, think about it.  Easier said than done, but I have done it for over a decade the best I could, which is also the most that any good instructor would ask: do the very best you can; if it sucks, just keep doing it and you’ll get better.  “…fail again; fail better.” 
 The creative flow of the human mind does not allow that to happen coherently.  We are at such different places at each and every different moment of each and every day, that it is important to complete a thought, or that thought is gone forever.  This is the reason I’ve been starting the same chapters over and over again for over a decade.  Each time I sit down to write them, I have something entirely different to say.  In writing something everyday, all I have really accomplished is filling boxes full of journals that I don’t have time to go back to, because I’m busy writing everyday.  I can already tell you that most of those journal pages are full of me repeating myself over and over again, because I never really have time to complete a thought (chapter).   You tell me to write the book already.  Really?  Pay my rent and bills for a couple months, get me a decent baby-sitter, and distract my wife.
  I have completed a couple thoughts in these last couple months that are coherent and editable, id est usable, but the only way to truly accomplish something at this point is to lose a significant amount of sleep and risk pissing everyone off.  This is my life. I’m already pissing the most important people to me off without even trying, because I am so very desperate to accomplish something that I’m failing to human properly, which is arguably something I was incapable of doing far before I was ever here, being the high-functioning retard that I am.

I had a whole other tangent written out about overlapping journals, which included finishing a journal that I had started in 2008, childishly pining over the wife I was losing, but the journal losing to one entitled “Having Killed,” and the significance of my having to choke through these ten or so pages before finishing the pages with my current ramblings because I was out of journals and this one was basically empty, and an entire argument about the writer and artist conundrum, in which everything has been said or done before, which led to why I really loved photography,  but I would rather just give all of this shit up at this point.  I’m done with all the misconception and bullshit.  I’m just going to go be an emotional drone, and do what everyone else is wasting their life doing.

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