Decided to go to Collingwood for the weekend. Seemed like a good place to get away and finish that eighth draft.
So far, so good, in that the eighth draft is complete.
Target: 900 words
Written: 531 words
Read: The Happiness Of Pursuit, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 22-24, The Wicked + The Divine: 1831 1
Music: Uptown Avondale, The Afghan WhigsAnd being behind.
I let stuff go off the rails yesterday. I could have done better, but I didn’t.
Blame it on lack of motivation, lack of sleep (another storm, another night up with Sofi Jo), lack of willpower, depression, hopelessness, fatalism, whatever.
But I shit the bed on everything but writing and drinking yesterday, so here we are.
Behind. In pain.
Pray for me, children. This headache shall not last.
Target: 900 words
Written: 1023 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 4-7
Music: Up From The Catacombs, Jane's AddictionI got a little ahead of myself for a bit again, with the longer edits, but now, I’m back to having to meet actual targets again.
Hence the bump in target words.
I’ve been trying to build it like a muscle. Every once in a while, bump the target up, increase the reps, the duration, the requirements for the cardio and endurance and lifting power of the thing.
Hell, it’s everything I do.
Slow increase in exercise, in meditation, in the difficulty of the material.
More beautiful desolation. More tragic pathos.
More little nobodies, thinking they’re somebodies.
More me, thinking I’m not nothing.
Feeling empty and alone, the best and worst feeling in the world.
Target: 900 words
Written: 888 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Hilarity Ensues, Tucker Max
Comics: The Magdalena: Seventh Sacrament 1, The Magdalena v4 1-3
Music: Unreleased Album, Screaming Trees (so underrated, these guys - Lanegan's brilliant)Not only did I not get a good sleep, I got to feel super groggy all day.
Sleep is my enemy.
Is it the Mungk, after me in real world manifestation?
I think I might be losing it.
Target: 800 words
Written: 713 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your House, Jeffrey Cranor/Joseph Fink
Comics: Monster War 2-4 (ugh), The Magdalena/Daredevil 1
Music: Unplugged In Sweden, Chris Cornell (talk about albums that leave you breathless - after Nirvana's MTV Unplugged, the best acoustic album, possibly ever)Every once in a while, I like to go back and read old posts to see if I’m being a complete idiot or asshole or if there’s actual insight in any of them.
Reminders of when things were good or bad. Reminders that this too shall pass.
Instead, I’m finding typos and mistakes, like that classic MC5 song, Kick Out The James.
Because, you know, fuck James, I guess.
Target: 800 words
Written: 391 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: It's Just A Thought, Thomas Sterner
Comics: Ain't No Grave 3-4
Music: ¡UNO!, Green DayThis weekend, we’ll dive deeper on the whole “ask forgiveness, not permission” thing, but for now, today, it’s migraine o’clock with a full work day ahead of me.
The seventh draft begins, like a seventh seal broken, and things can only go down from here.
Target: 800 words
Written: 259 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Tao Te Ching (Ursula Leguin edition)
Comics: Middlewest 15-18
Music: Live Things, NirvanaListen, it’s not actually an issue. I don’t show up drunk for my niece’s recitals or sneak whiskey shots from my desk drawer at the office.
But it’s there.
It’s a part of life.
I likely don’t exceed a six pack a week, and maybe a couple of glasses of wine. Like, a drink a night (although a lot of nights, I don’t have anything).
But what I am struggling with is whether a seven year old would call Jim Beam Mr. Beam or mis-hear it as Mr. Bean.
But do I want Rowan Atkinson in this? I love the character, but the connection is incongruous with what I’m trying to do.
Mr. Beam, Mr. Bean, Mr. Beam.
Safer to stick to what you know, I guess, and Jim Beam ain’t it.
Nasty stuff, that. I’ll never understand Americans and their obsession with bourbon. It pales in comparison to true whiskey or scotch. Playdough to cement. Koolaid to an Old Fashioned. Sure, it’ll get you drunk, but damn, don’t you want it to taste halfway decent while you do it?
Target: 800 words
Written: 632 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King
Comics: I Hate Fairyland 15-18
Music: More Live Random, Guns 'n' Roses (you wanted the best, but they didn't make it... so here's what you get.)I’m looking forward to the end, I think. I don’t want it to come until I’ve met all my goals, but I think it might be a relief.
The hope is that I don’t lose the ability to do all this stuff before I go, or turn into some mediocre shade.
Or worse, give up.
Fucking suffering, fucking with a purpose. Endless pleasure and a cacophony of orgasm is the end goal, after we get through all the awkward and uncomfortable talk about whether it’s okay to kiss or hold hands.
We’ll get to the kink when it’s time to spice things up, I suppose.
Target: 800 words
Written: 191 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Brothers Of Earth, CJ Cherryh (I might even finish this, finally)
Comics: Bully Wars 5, I Hate Fairyland 1-3
Music: Random Covers, NirvanaIt stares at me. Dares me. Five drafts down, and still shit.
Maybe it will never be else.
Just a pile of runny diarrhea, not even kind enough to be cohesive, splattered on the floor.
How long is ten thousand hours?
Can I training myself in the art of creating shit?
The art of defecation on the page?
These are the questions that spit at me in the mornings.
Are you nothing more than a diarrhea factory? Leaky housing for liquid shit?
Ain’t I hot?
Target: 800 words
Written: 374 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Adventures of Captain Hatteras, Jules Verne
Comics: The Crow: Wild Justice 1-3, The Crow: Waking Nightmares 1
Music: The Undiscovered Numbers And Colours, Foreign ObjectsI’m increasingly beginning to think I’m playing lute for the damned.
The seemingly unstoppable march of fascism, climate change, gun violence, bigotry, overpopulation, war, fucking microplastics…
At this point, I’m thinking I could write humanity’s single greatest work of fiction, and it wouldn’t matter, because humanity itself will be gone before my lifetime is out.
My lifetime might be tomorrow.
Armageddon might be tomorrow.
I have works of staggering genius in me, but I fear that neither I nor anyone else will live to see them.
Nor will I ever get my head far enough out of my ass to complete them.
Is it still fatalism if it’s true?
Target: 800 words
Written: 535 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Adventures Of Captain Hatteras, Jules Verne (it's nice to feel cold in this heat)
Comics: The Crow: Flesh And Blood 3, The Crow: City Of Angels 1-3
Music: Undisclosed Desires, Muse (apropos, I suppropose) <-- that's the staggering genius I'm talking about.