I Am a Monument to All Your Sins

This is something I started writing some months ago, but I never finished it.  I’m just going to leave this here as is.

I had a dream where I was trying desperately and unsuccessfully to get Milo Yiannopoulos to keep his clothes on.

You know, I’ve never really had what I’d called a “Writer’s Block” problem before.  Sometimes I was at a loss for ideas, but I was always able to get things on a page.  But recently, just looking at my own writing evokes a preternatural terror I can neither relate nor understand.  To be honest, I don’t think this is something that others haven’t experienced before, and I don’t think it’s a phenomenon specific to writing; anything you do as your primary vocation might be able to elicit this reaction.  The really interesting question is “Why?”

I am so fucking far ahead of my work schedule, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.  I’m pushing two year’s of content completed that is completely unreleased.  There can be no anxiety about the deadline; I’m not even willing to consider that possibility.

I have been knocked down a few pegs.  A good part of my job is marketing my own work, and several of the platforms I had historically used to that end have shifted me off, leaving me high and dry and keeping my money anyways.  I still am unsure about how to deal with the marketing side of things.  Thing is, I don’t have any difficulty doing marketing research; so why would that effect my writing only?

I don’t know.  I feel like I am an unwilling explorer in the vast depths of human emotion, places most people in their lives will never go, long lost caverns littered with the scribblings of strange tongues.  I already knew that writers were unpleasant people, but I still refuse to believe it is a result of the vocation, rather that writing invites certain types into its fold.  I wonder how many such letters go forever unreported.

I was watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas again recently.  It’s a film I’ve watched many times–perhaps over a dozen.  I never got it, as a kid.  I wonder if I really should have been watching it, as a kid.  The loss of meaning is so tangible in characters that eke out a miserable existence in narcotics and alcohol and all the fury that entails.  It was a difficult watch recently, never was before.