Really Real, Real

Before I sat down at my desktop tonight, I was thinking of posting about accomplishing goals. My second paperback just came out. I wanted to write about the ups and downs an artist experiences. Neither of my books have sold a copy in a long time, though. There’s this realization, when thinking about accomplishments, that my story never goes anywhere. I can’t write about accomplishing anything. My story is that dark, Lynchian road. The recurring shot he uses of the road speeding beneath the camera in the black of night. That’s where I’m at. It’s where I’ll always be.

Watching Lynch’s shots, I don’t think that road ever truly ends. All you ever really get is more mystery. My road, my mystery, they do end. With any luck, I’ll finish a few of the novels I’m thinking about right now.  I’ll be proud of my work and I will be crushed that it is ignored. I haven’t finished them, yet. That’s why I can’t write here about “getting shit done” or “taking care of business” or give advice on whatever it is people think they should be telling you about.

I’ve typed this specific paragraph a few times now. I wrote something about my friend and I drunkenly arguing about the intentions behind creating art. Next, I wrote something about working on poetry. My thoughts are scattered because I don’t really know what to say about writing right now. In thinking about it and trying to stay on track, the darkness around my road is disappointment. I don’t know what the light would be. When a friend recited a line from one of my poems back to me, that was a pretty light-filled moment.

But, I’m about to get really real, real. One of my new biggest pet peeves is when someone pretends to support you as an artist. I’ve been at parties where people bring up the fact that I write. It makes for great conversation. The folks who bring it up haven’t read my books. What is that? There are the “Oh yeah, I’m picking it up when I get paid.” folks. My ebooks cost less than a lighter. My paperbacks cost as much as a beer. Do you know that I see detailed reports on my blog visitors and book sales?

I get it, though. This is really just me rubbing salt into self inflicted wounds. Even though all of this has been going on in my mind until now, I’ve felt as though I should apologize to people on many occasions. There are many kinds of support. I am glad some people are helping to spread the word. No one has to buy my books. It’s not like I’m going to live off of that. The reason for my frustration is that I want to share an emotional connection with people. I want my thoughts to be accepted. It would be nice to discuss with readers what I was thinking or feeling when I wrote something. How it made them feel when they read it.

At the end of the day, I just needed to get some of this off my chest. It’s the struggle we all go through. I apologize if you know me and read this and I was a dick. These are all just insecurities floating around in my head, causing bad chemical reactions. This was something that had to be done to keep me sane and chugging along.

Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all for any kind of support.

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