I’ve got a box of old letters hidden under my bed. Ok, it’s actually in my closet. I don’t keep shit under my bed because I live alone, have a ton of space, and am a goddamn adult. Anyway, the box is one of several low priority items that live on a shelf that’s hard to reach. Stuff like the box my laptop came in lives up there. And a bag I bought to carry a vintage alesis drum machine I got when it was not vintage at all. Incidentally, I made some really killer beats this one hour back in ’94 when I managed to hook that thing up. I even saved them. I bet they’re still saved and it still works and I’ll be famous soon. Continue reading Secret Box
(WARNING: This post is boring. You have been WARNED)
So, clearly I’m writing this Other Man thing to explore some of the feelings and confusion I have about that whole episode, and possibly get some control back over how messed up I’m feeling these days. But the big challenge for someone who writes about messed up things in their life is keeping it entertaining and relatable (that word doesn’t exist, apparently), and above all interesting. And a big way to kill that is to lose interest yourself, as an author. Which I’m feeeeeeeeling about the topic. My friends know I’ve rattled on about that shit for FAR too long.
But does one lose interest because the material itself is dead, or is it more insidious? I think choice B. I tend to get suddenly turned off of writing projects after living with them as exciting potentialities for a week or two. I’ve got a couple half-novels ghosting around my computer that I’ve walked away from because they’re all just so fucking boring. And isn’t that just so fucking convenient? Fishy.
The easy part of writing, and a whole lot of other creative pursuits is a lot like the best part of romantic relationships. That hyper-focus rush of excitement and promise and butterflies during the first couple days. Or couple hours. Whatever fraction of the hypothetical whole we mean when we say the honeymoon phase. Personally, I feel more alive and just plain in control of my life when I launch into something that’s feeling exciting and important and difficult-but-doable-because-I’m-so-amazing.
But then that feeling vanishes for a couple of days. I’m trying to pay attention to when that happens so that maybe I can figure some shit out. I don’t want the easy answers (fear of failure, fear of commitment) I could pull out of the intercraps with like one google search. I want to FEEEEEL what’s happening inside. And work through it. And see what happens when I finish something that’s suddenly gone all stale and crusty. We’re now solidly talking writing project and not romance. Or whatever, I guess.
So, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m going to tell a story in pieces. This way I can get this motherfucking blog back into the swing of shit. This story is about a recent relationship, how it went wrong (or something), what I learned about myself from the experience (or something). And HOPEFULLY, someone in the same situation can read this and recognize themselves in it, and gain some tiny bit of comfort. Or maybe it’ll just quiet mah brain fever for a sec.