Early morning piles of vomit – 1
August 11, 2014 § Leave a comment
What shall I call this? Nimble entries. Thought dumps. Piles of Vomit.
Warm ups to get my fingers going before I tackle the monster of the novel I am currently working on. I should really just read good writing instead.
I’m putting this here, because this internet journal thing not being updated pricks at me. I’m not really worrying about making this series (if you will) readable. Fixing mistakes. Making it sound pleasing. I don’t care if anyone reading doesn’t keep going. This is more for me. It’s supposed to be raw. I want it raw.
Because I am so inconsistent, and cannot keep organized, I’m just attaching a bundle of days per internet entry. That’s about enough explanation.
Up since six something smoking, music, coffee. Fingers ready. Brain ready. Yes. Today will be a good writing day. I haven’t even made any typing mistakes. No little squiggly red lines. I keep worrying there’s no point. No point to either novel I have in the works. Yes, things are happening but what is the point. I’ve been thinking it was my need for…perfection-that moment when you think, this is it. But no, I don’t think so now. I think I’ve have trouble finishing both novels because…(have to stop and think-just had it) Oh, because I too often stop and say, wait-what the fuck is the point? What. Is. The. Reason. ? GRRRRRRRRRRRR!
(Of course I know there will be endless reasons, conclusions)
Late start. Hate these days. Someone’s already awake. Hate is a strong word. Woke up again. Always waking up again. Fingers aren’t quiet ready. Mistakes. Ah, mistakes. Just type whatever comes to mind is what I’m told. Don’t worry about mistakes. But I do. Fingers hit that backspace probably more than the rest most of the time. Do it naturally. I don’t grab the mouse but I backspace like cray-cray – Couldn’t have been a writer before computers. What would I have been? A homesteader I think. But nobody taught shit about homesteading, at least not in person so no computers means no knowing how to homestead, so never mind. A cook? No. I’m drawing a blank. Maybe nothing. Just a mom and a wife- not enough now in this age where there’s so much to do, so much to do, so much empowerment to be had. Saw another commercial about a woman saying she’s swearing off makeup for a year. Good for her, I guess. Women do not and have not ever had to wear makeup, so…I go most of every year without makeup. If Abigail Adams were alive, I wonder if she’d wear makeup? Hmm. susan b anthony: First known women’s rights pioneer and somewhat of a hero for me. First women to actually vote though she did it illegally. I’m always tearing up when I see a women accomplishing something she shouldn’t be accomplishing. Shut the patriarchy down, down, down. Alright-I’m going to write for real now. Tomorrow for you, finger and brain getting ready journal.
9:42am Still Friday.
Well, I’ve stopped to ask that dreaded question again. I hate it that every single scene has to have a purpose. I should just write soap operas. Now I’m paused, staring out the fucking window. I’ve tried plotting but…I can’t that deep into the story like that. It has to unfold. I should just trust myself. But I’ve done that before and it was a disaster. I’ve written thousands of pages just trusting myself, only to realize there’s no actual point. Arg! I should just write porn. I’m very good at writing porn. Erotica-is a better word, but it reminds me of Madonna-Madonna doesn’t get it done. Madonna-stupid name. Anyway – It feels great outside. Sunglasses, coffee, smokes, break.
Another late start. All is quiet though. It occurs to me quite often: I am killing myself stressing about what my stories, say, while fifty shades of gray and twilight are made into movies. Just recently read all three books by Gillian Flynn. GF is great with plot but her endings are…I don’t know, my brain isn’t sparking this morning. Great with plot. That’s my problem. Plot. I feel like every event in my book has to come back somewhere. Does it?
Late start: Hate these late starts. I’ve finished the first draft of part one of the novel I’ve been working on. I have two I’m working on. Now I have to think about describing scenes. I hate describing scenes. I hate trying to think about what kind of wood it is and what kind of stone. I’m out of tubes for smokes. See…my brain is shit. Even this stupid morning burn journal I’m trying to make interesting. What is my story about? Adultery, Civil Rights, western standards, sex, and do I dare say, love? I feel like any kind of love twist is going to immediately toss my book into the romance pile. That for many reasons bothers me. I want to be taken seriously. It’s not about money. It’s only some about money. Honestly, though, I could write the shit out of some romance shit. Some of the scenes in both books I’m writing make me think I should try and publish under a different name. I picture my dad on his couch on the river, his reading glasses, reading what I’ve written. No. My family may never know my accomplishments.
9:10am What is today? Oh-Tuesday.
I’m missing my early starts. Should go to bed earlier. Where are the words? Had a dream about finding access to a room that takes people through time at hyper speeds. Not really back in time, just to another time. There was-I needed this blue statue- lifezize-that I was dragging around. And then something else, and words I’d found in a book. All four of us could go at once but my daughter and me were going often on our own, like we would with a car. I was worried about something happening to her, perhaps complete obliteration. We all had seats. We put a car seat in place for our youngest, I suppose we were wobbling around while waiting to be zapped, blasted off. Which I don’t remember-a blastoff. Went to see mother and showed her, then went to see sister to tell her. Believed me at first then talked shit to my mom like, “Show me this time machine.” which pissed me off because my was like, “I don’t even believe it.” and I was like, mom, mom, you saw it yourself, “I’m from…the past.” I remember I didn’t know in the dream, where I’d come from, past/future? She said, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. Sister was cocky. I was dragging my blue statue away. Couldn’t find the words in the book to get me out of there, so I was stuck there. Then I awoke.
Fucking 9:43am Wednesday.
I don’t know what the fuck happened. These late starts didn’t happen until I started this journal. I think I need to set a new ring for my alarm. Anyway. I’m smoking too much. I’m wheezing, coughing a lot. Know what’s good for a cough? Fresh lemon with raw honey and ginger, dump it all in hot hot water. It’s a beautiful day. Not too hot yet. Forgot to water my plants last night. Need to do laundry, clean this dump we’re living in while waiting to get the house were trying to buy. Goin outside to smoke.
Tune playing: From eden by Hozier
Long day so today should have been the day I sleep in but such is life. I like it like this. Brain jog brain burn my fingers can usually do it. Like my mirror years ago. I deslisten sits in prison chivalry and lonely son. I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. Abby Oliver Josephine Carol Megan Jack Jude Mazzy Tula Vivian Chess Jim. Vitoria secret push up bra deli meats t shirt bra less is more let us surprise you. The new look of sexy. Tune playing Academy by Holopaw. I hold the atch and shuffle. Love from me shuffle? Just need to write Tune playing red eyes by war on drugs. Come my sweet. Something something. Beat it down to get to my soul against my will anyone could tell you she’s coming. Baby don’t arrive…something. Hah hah hah Call right away. It’s easier. Surrounded by the night.
Haven’t been journaling but have been writing. Writing, writing, writing. People call-wanna do this? Wanna do that? Said I had a migraine-I was really writing. Said I was spending the day with my dad-I was really writing. Said I had to clean house-I was really writing. Said I was still in bed-I was really writing. Why not just say, no thanks, I’m writing. I don’t know. Sounds pompous or something. Ashes spill. Guy on my porch telling me I’ve saved his life because I got him a lighter looked like someone I used to know. Sometimes you meet people that jar you, rattle you. Others pass on with the breeze. Reading Mockingbird by Chuck Wendig. Quick read. Not a huge fan of his writing. Seems like a first draft. Just reading it until I find something more interesting. Fuck. Have a headache. A real headache.
Today I was the last awake. Headache. Half cigarette I’d lit at three am but no lighter. Can the stories I write be just good reads? I don’ t know who my audience is. My audience is me. I write what I would want to read and I can’t be the only one out there that likes to read what I like to read. I have to keep telling myself this. I have to keep going. Plenty of conflict- but I don’t know what the reader is learning from it. The novel. It’s about adultery, mainly. I’m too stupid to be a writer. Meaning, I don’t know enough words to describe what I’m trying to say. I have a real problem with people sighing and shrugging in my stories. No one sees that because I always go back and change those words. Kids are screaming. Kids…
Nothing measures up to my standards of perfection.
I did write Wednesday through Friday, just didn’t journal before. Previous two days had to do a few things for friend. I am not a good friend. I’m not good at it. I’m not a people person. I don’t usually like to socialize because more people are not on the same tangent as me. They can be on whatever tangent they choose I’m just bla when someone is on another tangent. I can only do so much. Friends want you there all the time. They want you on the phone everyday. They need to know you’re still friends. If they’re forced to go two or three days with no word they say, “Did I do something wrong?” or “Are you mad at me?” AGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No! I have other shit to do. No. I need my time. I need time. I can’t be there all the fucking time. This is why I’ve only kept a few closer friends at a time. The kind you talk on the phone with and go places with. Dinner and play dates and all that shit. I can’t handle too many of these people. Cuts into my me time. My husband says, It’s amazing you had any friends at all when you were young. I guess it is. ( I don’t think I wanted them, even then) People just don’t get the hint. They just want more and more and more of me. Why? So I can sit there and nod and listen to them go on and on about their lives.
Stiffer and stiffer as I get older in the morning. Stop fixing mistakes. Little red lines. Dogs need out. House needs cleaned. Music. Where is the music? Morning burn morning burn.
I’ve actually been up since six. Spent that time working on getting school together. We’re starting sept first so I’m running out of time. Less time to write. Can’t write well in the afternoon. Brain doesn’t work after six. Getting too old. Getting too old. Trying not to doubt myself. Everyday it’s a struggle. Have to tell myself-Too many pieces of shit get published. Your stuff is golden. It’s hooking the reader in the beginning I often worry about. Once your in it your in. I worry there isn’t enough conflict I have to keep myself from killing everyone immediatly. Writers Rule: Don’t fall so in love with your characters you have trouble fucking up their lives.