writing

Today, as a writer views it.

The new plant in my office brought a few bugs in with it. I’ve been sitting
here smashing the little dudes for three days. It’s always dark in here, so I’m
hoping the strip of LEDs is enough for the plant, but not enough for the bugs.
Either that or I’ll smash them all at some point.

That’s what I do, come in to do whatever it is I do, taking breaks to smash
bugs. While taking those breaks, my mind tends to wander towards writing, which
is what I’d really like to be doing, day in day out. I’d like some day to be
sitting at home, with a dog and my wife, neither of us working, me writing.
Maybe that day comes when I turn a thousand years old. Maybe it never comes.

Most of my posts are about content. My novels that are in the works, my poetry
collections that I’m throwing together, that stuff makes it in. I want to get
back to writing these about the stuff surrounding that. Every aspect of my life
is rolled into my writing. The cheap watch I’m wearing today that looks nice,
but ticks too loud, that’ll make it in somewhere. I promise you’ll see
something about the bugs I’ve been smashing in a piece other than this.

But, really, I sit back and think about the long haul, the big picture. My
first novel was published at twenty-nine. I’m hoping to have one out a year for
a long time. That’s about twenty. If I keep going into my fifties, who knows
what will happen? Day-dreaming about success sometimes, I imagine that slows
down the whole process. Readings, traveling, talks, that all takes up time. I’m
pretty sure that’s not what I want out of this. I’m pretty sure all I want to
do is create art.

I’m glad that art is writing because it makes more sense to me than other forms
at the moment. My ears are shot, so I haven’t made any type of music in years.
I do still enjoy playing guitar while my wife sings. It sounds like this post
is becoming retrospective, when really it’s supposed to be me looking at the
future. Like the gorillas, though, the future is behind me. I’m walking
backwards. A few months ago, I had everything figured out. The further I get
from that point in time, the more nervous I am about continuing this path.

What I’ve learned about myself this year, is that all I really want is for
Katie and I to have a garden, and to be able to lay down without constant
ringing in my ears. Writing is important to me, and I enjoy it more than a lot
of the things I’ve done in the past. What’s really important to me is creating
art, but that I’ve known for years. I’ll always draw my stupid circles and
write poems. Writing novels is something I’m not sure I’ll always do, since I
think you need a really good idea to write a novel. Those things are running
out. I’m squishing them like I smash these bugs. One day, I hope the ideas run
out, too, because then I know I did everything I possibly could to say
everything my mind could possibly say.

The new plant in my office brought a few bugs in with it. I’ve been sitting
here smashing the little dudes for three days. It’s always dark in here, so I’m
hoping the strip of LEDs is enough for the plant, but not enough for the bugs.
Either that or I’ll smash them all at some point.

That’s what I do, come in to do whatever it is I do, taking breaks to smash
bugs. While taking those breaks, my mind tends to wander towards writing, which
is what I’d really like to be doing, day in day out. I’d like some day to be
sitting at home, with a dog and my wife, neither of us working, me writing.
Maybe that day comes when I turn a thousand years old. Maybe it never comes.

Most of my posts are about content. My novels that are in the works, my poetry
collections that I’m throwing together, that stuff makes it in. I want to get
back to writing these about the stuff surrounding that. Every aspect of my life
is rolled into my writing. The cheap watch I’m wearing today that looks nice,
but ticks too loud, that’ll make it in somewhere. I promise you’ll see
something about the bugs I’ve been smashing in a piece other than this.

But, really, I sit back and think about the long haul, the big picture. My
first novel was published at twenty-nine. I’m hoping to have one out a year for
a long time. That’s about twenty. If I keep going into my fifties, who knows
what will happen? Day-dreaming about success sometimes, I imagine that slows
down the whole process. Readings, traveling, talks, that all takes up time. I’m
pretty sure that’s not what I want out of this. I’m pretty sure all I want to
do is create art.

I’m glad that art is writing because it makes more sense to me than other forms
at the moment. My ears are shot, so I haven’t made any type of music in years.
I do still enjoy playing guitar while my wife sings. It sounds like this post
is becoming retrospective, when really it’s supposed to be me looking at the
future. Like the gorillas, though, the future is behind me. I’m walking
backwards. A few months ago, I had everything figured out. The further I get
from that point in time, the more nervous I am about continuing this path.

What I’ve learned about myself this year, is that all I really want is for
Katie and I to have a garden, and to be able to lay down without constant
ringing in my ears. Writing is important to me, and I enjoy it more than a lot
of the things I’ve done in the past. What’s really important to me is creating
art, but that I’ve known for years. I’ll always draw my stupid circles and
write poems. Writing novels is something I’m not sure I’ll always do, since I
think you need a really good idea to write a novel. Those things are running
out. I’m squishing them like I smash these bugs. One day, I hope the ideas run
out, too, because then I know I did everything I possibly could to say
everything my mind could possibly say.

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