Not Titled for No Reason
This is grass. It could be argued this is not grass.
I am flapping my wings and going nowhere, and that’s just fine. I am putting out things I know I will not like in ten years. Or maybe I will. I do not care. I just wanted to write stuff, make a thousand words fall out of my hat, and then call it a day. This is not where I want to be. This is not the end of my skills. I have written a few things that I am proud of, and quite a few more that I am not. I keep writing however, because it is the only thing that makes sense to me in america right now. I have said some things awkwardly. I have said some things beautifully. The truth of what I have done is probably somewhere in between.
In May I started this with no purpose in mind. I still have no purpose in mind. I was just going to work on chucking out about a thousand words a blog, and well… I have succeeded at understanding what it takes to chuck a thousand words out in a blog. I feel terrible when I write terrible, but not so terrible I can not enjoy a very decent BLT sandwich. I feel good when I write good, but again, not so good I will not eat a BLT sandwich. I have discovered I am addicted to writing however, and that seems to be… well… an addiction.
I quit smoking yesterday. Smoking is an addiction. Now writing is my addiction. I feel bad about substituting addictions, but at least writing may pay the bills one day. Writing does not pay the bills today however, nor in the near future. When I say near future, I mean like, a year or so. Not like, geologically, 12 million years. I am wondering if my addiction will lead to a better keyboard, because I like playing PC games, and they work better with a better keyboard. I still have a cheap crappy mouse however.
I can sense a rhythm to my writing, and wonder if I should actually write everything in my first book as an epic poem. I wonder if that would actually intrigue people to read it, or if it would actually encourage people to bypass it as white elephant. My rhythm is off this day. I feel like a young Jack White, but without the talent. Staccato is fine for now. I like short phrases. Conversation is stunted, but communication is clearer over time. My patience is also stunted. My writing feels like I am not smoking.
Yes, this piece was a release from the frustration of quitting. No, I am not interested in ever using it again. I am not fond of over simplicity. My brain feels like it is arguing with a 4-year-old who wants a cookie. That four-year old has not eaten its broccoli. I will insist that the four-year old eat its broccoli or go to bed. My brain knows it is not a four-year old, but instead is an impatient bastard. The impatient bastard has stated fair and clear to fuck off, and go find a way to sleep, or it will make me twitch.
I have no original ideas this time. I rarely have dreams. My dreams will make it into books. I do not intend to write books until I am safe and sound beside my beautiful Queen. I never knew love could change me so much. I wish my mother and step-father had loved me, not in some teary eyed manipulative way, but with support and advice. I probably would be a great writer already. I do not know that for sure. I might have sucked.
I like to tell stories. My stories are fun to tell, but they can be rough to the ear and the eye. I am sometimes afraid of being a great writer in america, because I am paranoid about censorship. I have every right to be paranoid by the way. One day, I will tell that story. My personal story may never be fully told. At least not until I am safely out of the country. I am not going to get into selling pirated movies, so hopefully I won’t have to pull a Julian Assange.
I am going to cut this short. I have packed a lot in for under 800 words. I do not intend to write a thousand today. I did that to be different.
Dare to be different.