how do i sell myself to you

It’s a question I’ve wrestled with since the day I decided I wanted to be a writer.

I want to be authentic. Open. There should be nothing between you and my thoughts but the desire to keep other people’s secrets secret, because they’re not mine to expose.

Of course, we all present ourselves through a filter, either by intentional omission or unconscious deceit (or vice versa – intentional deceit and unconscious omission.)

I don’t like to do either, but at the same time, I don’t want to be a martyr anymore than I want to be a charlatan. I’d like to write for a living, but there are two non-negotiables:

First, what I write is what I want to write. I hate the idea of being tied to a particular genre, and I don’t want anyone else to dictate the content of my stories. No Hollywood motherfuckers who think they know better or need to “sex it up” (although I am heavily fixated on sex, so that seems like it might not be an issue), or publishers/editors who want a happier ending or something more “clever”.

Save me from clever art, as Palahniuk would say, while being weirdly over clever, yet somehow, managing to hold that instinctual, emotional raw nerve. (It is a brazen and wondrous talent, those who can do this, and I am in awe of it.)

Secondly, I don’t want to be someone I’m not. I’m not perfect; if anything, I’m terribly broken, complex and boring, typical and atypical simultaneously; unique, in the worst and most generic way.

I am a work in progress. I’m an ugly piece of granite, in the process of seeing what’s underneath.

It might be a toad.

It might be Psyche.

I don’t know, but I know what I’m trying for.

How on track I remain will determine whether I’ve the smooth and incredible detail of a Cellini or the clumsy stack of a inukchuk (although, given the spiritual connection to the land and to honouring what is, in nature and spirit, that is totally cool). Maybe shattered gravel would be a better metaphor.

Or a pile of crumbling mud.

Anyway, how to tell the world of what I’ve written, while not compromising my self into something I don’t want to be?

I want to be honest, in work and in life.

Anything else isn’t worth it, and bullshit.

Target: 700 words
Written: 98 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The $100 Startup, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Saga 49-52
Music: One Fierce Beer Coaster, Bloodhound Gang

slight improvements

Well, I mean, it’s eight more words, so good, right?

How many hours is it to mastery?

Ten thousand?

So, roughly, at the rate I’m writing, about 15 million words.

I’ve written just under a hundred thousand this year thus far.

I may need to speed up, if I want to be a master before I’m dead.

Then again, I could die any second, so what’s the use?

Life is a series of bludgeons, slowly reducing us to mush.

Target: 700 words
Written: 26 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Just A Geek, Wil Wheaton
Comics: Saga 41-44
Music: One By One, Foo Fighters (the last great rock band - unless you count Jack White, which I don't after the White Stripes ended)

return to work

Ugh.

I feel mostly like I need another three or four days (or forever – can someone just pay me to sit and write, or do nothing at all, drifting through life like some kind of modern age guru or witless Dude-like bum?)

Anyway, body sore, brain dead, somehow making this all function. Part of me is praying for heart failure.

Part of me is always praying for sudden death.

Target: 700 words
Written: 628 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Saga 9-12
Music: Omerta, Royal Crescent Mob

escape from new york

Such a long, delayed flight, we didn’t get back and to bed until after 2AM. I am dying.

Too much walking. Too much heat.

Too many people for my introvert heart.

I am turning inside and finding only discomfort, tightness and pain.

Would that I could stand sensory deprivation, but claustrophobia’s a real bitch.

Target: 700 words
Written: 854 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Through The Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
Comics: Saga 5-8
Music: Old Plaid Shirt, Mudmen

i think i might be dying

Scratch that. I know I am.

We all are.

But I think it might be more serious than that.

I haven’t slept properly in weeks, if not months. I get lightheaded regularly. Every joint hurts. I have frequent headaches.

Something is always sitting wrong in my stomach.

I think it’s weight, but I can’t lose anything, even when I’m properly dieting.

I feel like a few days’ sleep would do wonders for me.

What I wouldn’t give for a week long coma.

Target: 700 words
Written: 136 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Desire Map, Danielle Laporte
Comics: Danger Girl: Viva Las Danger 1, Danger Girl: Delusions Of Grandeur 1, Batman/Danger Girl 1, Danger Girl: Back In Black 1
Music: Off To See The Lizard, Jimmy Buffett

gettin’ on wid it

I think it’s time for the whinging to stop (I know that’s not the spelling of whining, but it’s like the British insult version to me).

Whinging.

Win. Jing.

Alrighty, movin’ on then.

Target: 700 words
Written: 152 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales (I think the utter lack of cohesive plotlines or thoughts is driving me insane; even a fairy tale should have a logical flow.  How did this ever become famous?)
Comics: Danger Girl 4-7
Music: Odelay, Beck (the jet fresh flow... wait... get fresh? I like jet fresh better)

all i’m saying

Is when you’re talking about suicide, depression and mental health around others, be aware that there may be sufferers nearby for whom your demonization or minimization of their struggle has a negative impact, reinforcing the very stereotypes about themselves that may be keeping them in this state of diminished being.

Your words could spiral someone who was teetering, and you might not even know it.

Leave the place better than you found it. That’s all I’m saying.

And for Pete’s sake, if your only contribution to empathy is a social media post or bluster to friends, stop pretending you give a shit, so everybody can know what an asshole you are, and not only those attuned to your hypocrisy and bullshit.

(Also, who’s Pete? Why are we doing things for Pete’s sake? Is Pete depressed? Should we be worried about Pete?)

Target: 700 words
Written: 41 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales (so.  goddamned.  long.)
Comics: American Vampire Second Cycle 11, American Vampire Anthology 2, American Vampire 1976 1-2
Music: Ocean Of Confusion: Songs Of Screaming Trees 1989-1996, Screaming Trees

empathy-less

A guy we don’t know through some people we don’t know through some people we do know killed himself recently.

I’m sure it’s not that uncommon; I suspect many unexpected deaths that they don’t list causes for in the newspaper are suicide-based, more than we care to admit.

What bothers me is the response.

The condemnation of this fellow is unanimous – what an asshole for leaving his wife and children, and in his own home!

This, from people who will advocate for nearly anyone who has a “disorder”, as long as they don’t know them personally. The homeless are just broken. Oh, you can’t hold them responsible for that. They have anxiety, and get this, DEPRESSION.

And yet, the condemnation of this poor fellow is ASSHOLE, LOSER, IDIOT, MONSTER.

I don’t know anything about the situation that led to all this, so I don’t know the man’s motivations or the attitudes and behaviours of those in his life, but I suspect if he was willing to go that far, his thoughts about himself probably ran much the same.

ASSHOLE, LOSER, IDIOT, MONSTER.

And as someone who has lived with depression since I was twelve and thought about snuffing it more times than I can count, I can tell you that someone showing a little empathy, some care and concern, could very well have turned it around.

My go-to is “this too shall pass”, which reminds me when I’m feeling like that just to keep moving and the situation will change. Sometimes, that takes days. Sometimes, it just needs one other person to say something nice, or to engage you in something that takes your mind off of it.

Writing helps. Better out than in.

I don’t know anything, again, about the man or his wife, his kids, his job, whatever. Maybe he just found out he had stage 4 cancer and didn’t want to put his family through that. Maybe he was into some shady shit and his whole world was about to blow apart. His reasons might be entirely different from my own.

I don’t know if she was supportive and he was suffering psychological issues beyond what she could deal with, but from the sound of it, it was fairly unexpected, so who knows?

Either way, I think some empathy is due. He felt enough pain to make the one choice that truly abdicates one’s responsibility toward this life in which we live. That, in itself, should trigger questions as to why, not condemnations. That solves nothing, and for the other people in your life that may suffer in depression, and may be thinking of self-harm, it sends a clear message – what a worthless, idiotic, monstrous asshole you would be for committing such an act, and by extension, even considering it (which we sufferers inevitably do).

I can guarantee, because the thought was my own, the reaction for those hearing about this and still suffering was “they don’t understand the pain”, followed by guilt and a further spiral of anger, as again, the world proves it does not care about us, that it devalues us, that we are worthless, idiotic, asshole losers and now, yes, MONSTERS.

Of course, these same people show empathy when all it requires is meaningless words to people not involved or a post on social media, but when it comes to supporting or sympathizing with someone in reality?

That’s how you know these people are more interested in status and reputation and not in empathy or helping those who suffer.

So, sorry, guy I didn’t know. You were suffering to the point where you felt leaving this life was the only reasonable choice. You didn’t have (or didn’t know you had) people around you who would support you, who would help you and you made the ultimate choice.

And while we can debate endlessly the nature of the act – cowardice and irresponsibility versus relief and the end of suffering – we can spare a minute to think of the pain of those left behind and the departed.

He made a bad choice, driven by bad feelings, caught in the tunnel vision of despair, in which one sees no options and none are presented.

Perhaps if someone had taken the time to pay attention, and provide an option or a shoulder to cry on, instead of ASSHOLE, LOSER, IDIOT, MONSTER, he might not be gone at all.

Target: 700 words
Written: 63 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales
Comics: American Vampire: Second Cycle 7-10
Music: Ocean Mist, Sublime

responsibility

I think I’m sick of the lack of responsibility and accountability in this world. From millenials and Gen Z blaming all their woes on whatever psychological issue that they have or fucking Trumpers assuming they can commit literal crime (up to and including fascism or hate crimes) with no pushback, I’ve just had it.

Take some fucking responsibility, goddamnit.

If you really want freedom, you have to understand, that the more freedom, the more responsibility. The more responsible you are for your own behaviour.

You don’t get a pass because you’re white, straight or male.

You don’t get a pass because you have generalized anxiety disorder.

I’m all those things and I feel responsible for everything. I know my choices are my own. I know my depression is just a thing I deal with, not the thing that runs my life.

I make my own choices.

Are they always good? Nope, but that’s the point. You fucking learn from the bad ones.

You are not hopeless. You are not powerless.

You are not able to do whatever you want without consequence.

These things are true.

So suck it the fuck up, take your lumps, and BE. BETTER.

Target: 600 words
Written: 123 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales
Comics: American Vampire: Second Cycle 3-6
Music: The Observer (Single), The Strokes

derailed

I hate in-office. There’s so much extra (unnecessary) shit to do. And there are things that you have to be in the office for, but honestly, so much of it could be automated, or done by the group that is in office all the time, and with what they’ve assigned me this week, there is absolutely zero reason for me to be there.

It’s just so goddamned unnecessary – a time suck, a morale suck, a tension raiser because I don’t like being around all those people (I’m not a crowd guy). I work less efficiently, it raises my stress levels and the extra time I need in the morning, afternoon and lunch to travel, get lunches, get things ready for dogs, cats and whoever, the whole fucking week just becomes a drag, literally, slowing down any momentum I might have had with the extra time and energy I have from a work-at-home week.

Any why? Because they want federal employees to stimulate the economy by spending money on gas?

Polluting the fucking planet when we don’t actually need to?

It’s so goddamned irresponsible, fiscally and morally, and as human beings.

Ridiculous.

Target: 600 words
Written: 60 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales
Comics: American Vampire: The Long Road To Hell, American Vampire Anthology 1, American Vampire: Second Cycle 1-2
Music: The Observer, Bjork