I was going to rant about how my work can’t leave me alone for even one day, just one goddamn day that I called in sick, the first in ages, so I can finish this thing called The Mungk, but fuck them.
The Mungk has owned my brain for the last three-plus months. Three months of spiralling down the drain into hopelessness, hoping that this thing is worthy of being published.
Trauma, microaggressions, the general malevolence of the universe, that’s been my focus for the past ninety-nine days, and it has taken its toll.
Add to that a hostile, abusive work environment, where the relief of getting away from those deceitful, lazy shits we had as contractors never materialized because head office couldn’t be bothered to follow through on replacing them, and you’ve got an interior that feels like it’s been scraped out with acid all of the time.
The Mungk is a manifestation of my worst impulses, my great fatalism. It is hopefully the first in a series of novels, each hopefully moving toward a life and canon that is better all the time, not just in execution, but in outlook.
I’m sorry if I bum you out. Life sucks sometimes. Life sucks a lot of time these days. The Mungk has me so often that it’s nightmarish and the relentless imposition and unwillingness to allow for any leeway of the people around me has me running for asylum (or an asylum, or a body bag). The pride I felt at finishing this, the joy of finishing it and letting go, completely overshadowed by the demands of assholes who refuse to listen when I try and set any kind of boundary.
Anyway, The Mungk is coming. Sell first, publish later, pray for enough revenue to leave this place forever.
The assholes don’t get to win.