Hard On His Trail, One-Eye Drew From The Pack

Okay, strange title. Genesis. White Mountain. Trespass album. Go listen to it. Protean masterpiece, rough bits and all. Every track is lovely.

I’m trying to re-engage this novel I started. The idea is so shiny, I can’t put it away, but I can’t seem to figure out where I’m going with any of the parts. I figured I could get a little further before needing to plot it to death, but the fact is, I’ve started an eight act epic that needs some cues to get me working from. Frustrating. It basically means I’m not focussed enough. My mind is on other things. Nothing useful. Nothing helpful. Terminally distracted.

Part of me wishes I had someone with whom to share what I’ve done so far. No point in that, really. No one wants to read what I’ve got so far, and I haven’t written any sections yet that I really feel would draw them in. Maybe that’s the problem. I started with ideas that appealed to me, but that don’t feel attractive for anyone who doesn’t live in my head.

I don’t really want to simply rewrite everything I’ve got so far. I need to have more done before I can start throwing stuff away. I might have to throw more beginnings at the wall to see what sticks. So far, the first two acts start with two or three fairly unpleasant people. I think maybe the third act also has at least one person that some will find unpleasant, though I think she’s sassy and spirited. Others might declare her a slut. Shame. I rather like sluts. Love them, actually. They may be a little confused about so-called ‘healthy relationships’, but at least they’re not afraid to fuck when they want to fuck. I like that kind of honesty in a man or woman.

I hate shame. It dogs me like a shadow from a nightmare I’ve almost forgotten. I abhor regret. I’d rather make the connections I can when I can, than regret the ones I missed because I somehow thought it inappropriate to pursue them. All the old morality tales ring hollow in my mind. Knowledge is always better than ignorance. Always.

Ignore an old man. Musing in the early hours of morning instead of writing the novel I’m two months behind on is amusing, but not productive.

If I asked you, would you honestly tell me if you wanted to sleep with me? Or is it too soon to ask? Skip it.

Any road, the point of this message in a bottle is that I’m locked in a classic writer’s block of my own making, and desperately thrashing about for a way to break out of it and continue writing what I’m still hoping will be the most important story of my life.

So that’s where I’m at today. Yesterday I was painting. The day before, drawing. Today, attempting writing. Tomorrow, I’ll probably try writing a song. This is what I do. This is how I live, folks.

In other news, Deadpool was darkly amusing. I don’t know if I recommend it, but if you want superheroes and villains and action and naughty sex and love and violence, this is the one for you.

My cats are determined to be fed early. I must steel myself to the task of writing and ignoring their please for another half hour.

Thank you for reading.


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