unsatisfied

I’m not satisfied with my performance. Obviously.

I’ve got several pieces that need to go out, but I can’t find the time or the energy to actually do it. I mean, it’s ridiculous that I won’t.

How the hell is anything going to get published if I don’t let anyone else look at it?

Also, I’m really unhappy with what I did today toward the novel.

I have this whole Grumpy Old Men concept breeding with a “state of politics” idea brewing, but instead, I wrote the main character as a stuck up ass-kissing effete.

He’s supposed to be modern liberal satire; a Democrat who thinks rules actually mean something to the boorish neighbour who has bought off the police and local government.

But instead, it’s shit; I have a feel for the character. What I wrote wasn’t it.

The only thing I can think of is to move on. Rewriting at this point is always an option, even if it’s not happening today.

Fuck. Today sucks.

Target: 1100 words
Written: 2545 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Ready Player One, Ernest Cline
Comics: The Maxx 1-3, 0.5
Music: The No Fun, Local H

conflict

It’s the basis of any good story, but it’s the bane of our existence.

How much nicer would the world be if we were all just a little… nicer?

Is that really such a hard thing to do, you fucking toddlers?

Target: 1000 words
Written: 256 words, Novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Ready Player One, Ernest Cline
Comics: The Darkness/Pitt 1-3, Darker Image 1
Music: No Exit, Blondie (ha!)

we begin again

While The Mungk was largely fatalist, and explored the beginnings of trauma without redemption more than anything (along with a slight dose of the mini-traumas that chip away as us piece by piece), this is going to be a vent.

I like funny things. I like humour.

I’m also obsessed with politics. Like, I don’t enjoy them; I just can’t look away. Motherfuckers run this world, whether that’s because they’re literal pieces of human shit (see Trump, everyone who supports him) or weak-willed do-gooders who still think that playing by the rules and taking the high road is doing anything other than handing our world to the forces of evil, who don’t give a fuck what road they take and ignore the rules, it’s largely irrelevant.

Bad Neighbours (the working title) is my way of expressing that. Of diving into ineffectuality, and how it completely fails to address the behaviour of those who could care less about custom, tradition or little things like “the law” or truth.

So, you know, going lighthearted with it, with a dose of fucking fatalism, wrapped up in barely concealed social commentary.

Fuck it. Why not?

Because fascists will hate me for portraying as the boors they are and liberals will hate me because of the mirror I hold up to their ineffectual weakness?

Fuck ’em. If the world is going down, I’ll go with it.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 979 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Radical Acceptance, Tara Brach (I'm not sure it's working, though I love the concept, minus the woo woo)
Comics: Pitt Crew 1, Pitt 17-20
Music: No Control, Bad Religion

incel

What is it about men that seems to engender entitlement when it comes to women?

Is it a cultural thing? If so, it’s permeated almost every culture since recorded history, regardless of their proximity to one another. Is it biological?

Why do we, as men, feel so entitled to women? Why would those of us who have nothing to offer feel entitled to women who offer the most?

Why does every pathetic, loser, “but I’m a nice guy”, fucking incel feel like they have the rights to every woman’s body?

I mean, come on. I’m overweight, average looking, I don’t possess any superhuman sex skills or attributes other than an open mind and an enthusiasm for the sport.

Why would I think that I’ve got any right to a woman that I haven’t earned? Why should the supermodels of the world be mine to do with as I please?

Why would they?

I mean, come on. You have to earn it. Get in shape. Take care of yourself. Make yourself interesting as a person.

No one’s entitled to shit.

You want to fuck beautiful people? Guess what? Fat, lazy slob in the basement with cheeto dust on his chin ain’t going to cut it.

Personally, I blame John Hughes.

Ducky ain’t it.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 1117 words, short story: Forest Edge

Read: The Oracle Year, Charles Soule
Comics: Pitt 1-4
Music: Nirvana, Nirvana

starting to wonder

There’s been a recurring theme in my work, mostly because as a plot device, it’s evil, but it’s always the same. I know, I know. It happens the world over, but maybe I’m utilizing it too much.

Men and women have always been a complicated thing, but the reality is that it’s not actually that complicated.

It’s the same as anything, really. Be good to each other, and things will be fine.

Unfortunately, it’s far too easy (especially these days), to be shitty to one another.

And as has always been, no matter the race, creed or culture, women take the worst end of it. It doesn’t matter what you are, if you’re a woman, it’s worse for you.

And that’s bullshit.

I mean, I lucked out, technically; I’m a straight, white male. According to most of what I see these days, I should not be allowed to comment anything on these matters, but Yes, Ma’am. I agree.

While that might sound like complaining, it’s not. I do agree, for the most part. I don’t want to mansplain shit to anyone.

I do want to demonstrate that I understood the lesson.

I’m just starting to wonder about how things seem to go in my stories, if I’ve actually taken the lesson to heart.

It wasn’t part of The Mungk (except for maybe the hints of shrewishness in Diana), but it played a big role in Get Back Again, and in my recently written, but not yet published Western Cradle series, and here it is again, in Forest Edge.

Am I really learning?

Something to think about, going forward.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 343 words, short story: Forest Edge

Read: The Oracle Year, Charles Soule
Comics: Preacher 64-66
Music: Ninety-Nine-Double-Oh Demos, Local H (most underrated grunge band ever?)

regrets

I’m thinking a lot about what’s evil and what is not.

I’ve just written a four issue comic series, a western based on revenge, which begins typically enough for the kind of spaghetti western I’m basing it on, but takes a wild turn at the end of the first issue (unrevealed future plot twist).

I’m a little worried it pushes me into territory I’m not comfortable representing.

That is, like Get Back Again, I’m concerned some right wing fuck is going to take it and construe it as pro-bigotry or worse, in this case, pro-life.

But that’s not what it’s about (and I’m very pro-choice); it’s similar to The Mungk in that it’s about trauma, and how it can shape us for the worse, until the evil that’s been done to us becomes us abusing ourselves, and maybe others, in ways we never would otherwise.

It’s also about whether evil can be used for good, sometimes?

It’s about guilt and remorse and self-hatred.

Because listen, I know more than a few women who’ve been through it, and despite what the right wing would have you think, most of them did not behave as though they were tossing a used Kleenex.

Most of them were genuinely distressed, upset, even traumatized by it. Not one of them didn’t have strong feelings about it, even if they didn’t want to say it out loud. It was clearly visible on their face and in their eyes.

The other thing that I know about it is that not one of them has ever said they would make a different choice. They don’t regret the choice, even if there’s still remorse.

Like putting down a terminally ill pet; it sucks, you hate it, it makes you weep for days, but even years later, if asked, you’ll say it was the right thing to do.

Anyway, thoughts and feelings on this day; I can’t imagine what the poor women go through.

Even if this case, it’s a little more… extreme.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 720 words, comic: Western Cradle #4

Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 57-59, Preacher: Tall In The Saddle 1
Music: Nimrod, Green Day

no time no time

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Did I mention no time?

Target: 1000 words
Written: 607 words, comic: Western Cradle #4

Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 53-56
Music: Night Time, Killing Joke

back in the office

It’s been five weeks since I was there, and it still sucks.

Man, do I ever prefer my cozy home office. One can practically feel the stress melting away when I think of it. Plus, I can get more done on breaks and lunches; I don’t have to try and jam it all in before I leave for work or after I get home. It’s like gaining an hour a day.

My writing only takes roughly that; it’s a great time to do laundry or dishes or prep a meal.

Why anyone would ever want to be in an office in this day and age, if they didn’t absolutely have to…

Fucking ridiculous.

(Plus, I’m actually more productive at home; I’ve too much social anxiety to like sitting in a crowd all day).

Target: 1000 words
Written: 370 words, comic: Western Cradle #4

Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 45-48
Music: Night Crawlers, White Zombie

slept in

Until EIGHT. In the AM!

Crazy, right?

I haven’t had more than about six or seven hours of sleep in months, without being ill.

Of course, I’m ill today, but fuck it. I am using this downtime to push forward hard on the things that I love – writing, reading, comics, with a side of meditation, exercise, cooking and music.

That’s pretty much the sum total, although I think travel, sex, video games, and various other sundry storytelling mediums also play a part.

What else could you possibly need? A greater purpose? People who love you? Righteous vengeance?

I don’t know, but I’m feeling better, anyway.

Still sick, but hell if I couldn’t use eight to ten hours every night.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 2575 words, comic: Western Cradle #2

Read: The Autobiography Of Malcolm X, Malcolm X/Alex Haley
Comics: Preacher: Saint Of Killers 1-2, Preacher 17-18
Music: New York, Lou Reed

happy fuckin’ new year

I can’t complain. We had a good time last night. I stayed sober enough to drive, which was fun.

We played the Game of Death, which is always a good time. Nobody got radiAIDS this time, so I suppose that was a win.

(RadiAIDS = AIDS + radiation poisoning. I mean, come on. You have to laugh.)

I feel like I need to go into full retreat now that the holidays are ended.

New Year’s resolution? Sell a book, write a book.

Keep on keepin’ on.

Do better today than yesterday. Start cutting out the toxic bullshit.

No more evil in my life, by my action or another’s, sanctioned by my silence.

Write. Write more. Read. Read more.

Fuck. Fuck more.

Lose some goddamned weight.

You know, the usual.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 263 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Autobiography Of Malcolm X, Malcolm X (like it would be written by anyone else)
Comics: Preacher 5-8
Music: New Times, Violent Femmes (indeed)