"Blame me,
Save a prayer for those haunt you.
There now,
I don't mind if you still love me." ~ Jerry Cantrell, "Leave Me Alone."
The world is a lot smaller than I previously thought.
A good friend of mine invited me to a book release party last night. So a hearty 'howdy' to Joe and Brett, who were great company. Oh, and Katie too. I also managed to get talked into cooking again by my boss, but that's another story for another time.
I had a fucking blast. I got to meet the author. I'm sure it's no surprise to any of you how much this meant to me since my one goal in life at this point is to finish my book. I don't even care at this point if it sucks, I just need to get it done. Oh, the book.
"How to Fail: The Self-Hurt Guide." The author's name is Aaron Goldfarb, and I have to tell you, I don't generally like anyone, but this guy was really nice. He took time out to say hello and say a few encouraging words, which is incredibly cool. His blog is funny as hell too. It's located here. Give the guy some love, anyone who's written a book deserves it, because it's fucking hard as hell.
How do I know this? Well, as I said, I've been writing a book which is responsible for my lack of attention to this blog, among other things.
I started out writing a book with the working title "Fucking Mexicans." I actually had 90 pages finished, then in a fit of rage (which when it comes to my writing, is not rare, for instance, I have about 40 posts for this blog in queue that I will never post because I can't stand to read them. That's right, the shit I put up is actually better than the shit I don't put up, so you can thank me for that later.) I deleted it. All of it. Character sketches. Outline. Treatment. Every last fucking word. Enough self loathing for you?
So what have I been writing? You may ask. You may not care. I wouldn't blame you.
The haunting. It never leaves me. There's always a look, a place, a name, a girl. It all factors in.
And with no further ado, or any at all for that matter, the current project is called "Old City Stories." It's a collection of short stories about the places I live and love. A bit of back story is necessary at this point.
As you all know, I used to practice law. "Practice" being the key word. After much soul searching and discussion with my wife, it became apparent that I couldn't do it anymore. I've lived too much of my life for others, and at 38, for the second time, it is time for me to live for me. Typing those words is weird. Anyway, back to the book and my life.
I've been holding out on you all. I'm actually training to be a bartender. And I love it. It's so nice to actually have people come in and be happy to see me. For ten years, I would pick up the phone and the person on the other end of the line was dismayed. Now, when people see me, they're happy. What a change. I'm sure it's the booze, but I'm ok with a little self delusion.
Anyway, one day I was sitting in the bar, waiting for my first customer, and I thought "Hey, fuck it, I should write a story about this." I don't know what inspired me to think that, but there it was. So I started writing notes. A Conflict arose. Characters entered next. The scenery was already there. And so it goes.
It gets really difficult to write. Some days I stare at the computer screen and I want to scream. Nothing comes. It's all around me, the inches I need, but they don't cooperate. Why anyone would choose this life is beyond me, but that's a continuing theme in my life. The choices just seem to happen without any regard for my tastes. So I slog through the best that I can.
That's what haunts me. The knowledge that it's all around me, and I just can't seem to find it. It's like being blind in the spring. The beauty is all around you, but you can't see it. Torture. Degradation. The half an inch you need, just out of reach.
And isn't that really the basis of failure? Reaching for something that is just a half an inch out of reach? You strain, you feel the arm muscles tighten, you look at the raised fingers, but at some point, you just know.
It's not enough. Your best just isn't good enough. And that's what writing is for me every single fucking day. So why do I do it? I don't know. Compulsion? Perhaps. Crashing by design? Most definitely.
So I've promised my wife that I wouldn't delete anything anymore. Hopefully, I'll come out with something cohesive and serviceable, but even if I don't, at least I'm trying.
And isn't that really what you can do? Try? It's all I've got left, and who knows, maybe I'll actually be successful.
More to come.
Oh, why is the world smaller than I previously thought? The editor of the book by Aaron Goldfarb is a girl named Amy whom used to be a waitress at a lunch place I used to go to back when I was an 'important person.' It was good to see her again, and I'm glad she seems to be heading in her dream direction.
