(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.
One of the biggest hurdles to writing this memoir I’m cooking is unpacking my relationship with my dad. When he died about 5 years ago (right after I shipped off to exile), we hadn’t spoken in about 8 years. The years before that weren’t exactly full of quality time either. In fact, he’d been at a fair distance my whole life, and especially after I hit high school. Most of that was my doing, in the sense that it was my choice to shut him out of my mind and heart, so of course now that he has the ultimate last word (that of no last word forever), I can’t compare our memories of key events, or really try to understand him and his motivations and fears. It makes it really tough to find some truths about what made me the guy I am today. And it’s plain sad, too. Continue reading Ok, Getting Serious
So, lucky you. I’ve decided to try out some of the more difficult (read: juicy) bits of work my memoir writing has generated here in this safe, unread, anonymous forum. So. Without further ado, I present the time I became Justin Timberlake’s eskimo half-brother. Oh also if you’ve ever wondered what those phone chat singles hotline things are actually like, read on: Continue reading If once, then always