Existential Wobble
"I'm lying in my bed, the blanket is warm, this body will never be safe from harm. Still feel your hair, black ribbons of coal, touch my skin to keep me whole."
Tired. Fifty-one Home Entertainment hours in six days. Still, it's definitely helping me adjust to life back in the real world, and that can only be a good thing. The pot of gold at the end of this particular rainbow is that I now have two-and-a-half days to do with as I wish, and I wish to party. To that end, tomorrow is going to be spent sorting out various practical concerns, whilst Friday night will be dedicated to the great god Alcohol and his many friends. I am passing Go, and I fully intend to collect my £200.
Other benefits? Well, the Home Entertainment People aren't completely evil. As well as many free rentals, I also get a 20% discount on pretty much everything, and the fact that it's sale-time in the HE world means that I can and did buy the special editions of The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly and Die Hard, along with The Goonies (how could I resist?), for a grand total of less than fifteen of your English pounds. A bargain? I think so. I could get into the film-reviewing again at this point, but I'm not going to. Suffice to say that - for various reasons - these are three more flicks that would find their way onto my all-time list.
But back to my week, which has been lengthy and draining and strangely emotional. As I'm sure you could tell from my posts of the 3rd and the 7th, I've had mixed feelings about both the blog and my writing in general recently. Regardless of the fact that pretty much everybody hates their job and yadda yadda blah blah, the transition back into work has been a tough one for me. To be honest, there have been times since I took the job that I've been on the brink of walking out the door in that way I'm so good at. Between Transatlantic relationships, the first real writer's block I've ever experienced, attempting to make some major changes to my lifestyle, and hauling my sorry arse back into a full-time job having spent nearly four months sitting at home procrastinating, I don't mind saying that I've definitely taken the time to feel a bit sorry for myself. Which is okay, so long as I don't start taking it too seriously.
What I needed, when I wrote the 'Hateful Little Word...' post, was for somebody to say something other than "you're very talented, you'll do fine" etc etc. In all seriousness, I don't need anybody to tell me that I'm talented. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone that has a higher opinion of my "talent" than I do. To a certain extent, that comes with the territory. If I didn't have the confidence, why the fuck would I bother trying? No, what I needed was a "shut the fuck up and get on with it, you're giving me a fucking headache." That was pretty much exactly what I got, so thank you to all concerned. You know who you are, and it's appreciated.
On the subject, it's been a busy few weeks as far as correspondence goes. Before I'd even thought about writing something following the death of Hunter S. Thompson, there was a deluge of e-mails from people wanting an epitaph or a tribute or...something. I don't know that what I eventually fired off will ever be included amongst my finest works, but I hope it did what it was supposed to do.
The second big mail day came when I was foolish enough to request abusive assistance in the writing of my second novel. Amongst the many finely-worded missives I received, I sensed a common theme of folks actually being bothered about me finishing this thing. In between falling about at some of the inventive threats (If I don't deliver some 60,000 words by the end of May, you can expect to see me sued, kicked to death, and then set on fire by cannibalistic dwarfs), I was both touched and motivated by that. Again, the relevant thanks are duly delivered.
Lastly, there was the response to the pity-post, which served mainly to make me stop worrying that I could write whatever I wanted here and everyone would still say I was awesome. It's nice to know I can count on a slap when I need one.
Anyway, this particular existential wobble came to a head a couple of days ago, when I got back from work and found that Jenn had sent me a mix CD. I dragged myself up the stairs to the Darkened Room, opened the case, and proceeded to get a little choked up at the short note I found inside. Feeling more than a little exhausted and on the brink of tears anyway, I was perfectly poised to notice the way the light caught the recorded side of the disc, revealing a thumbprint she'd left smeared along the edge, a thumbprint that had somehow survived all that time and distance. I couldn't help but touch it, couldn't help allowing myself to cry at a facsimile of the contact I was really craving. In those few moments, the misery and frustration was almost overwhelming. Writing, working, changing - all of those things seemed like more than I was capable of. I wanted to regress, to lie down and turn out the lights and live inside my head for a while, shutting it all out save for the music.
So that's what I did. And an hour or so later, I got up, switched on the computer, and started writing. That night and the one that followed produced the first chapter of Welcome To Forever, entitled The Mix-Tape Man. It's only a beginning, and it's only just nosing over the five-thousand word mark, but suddenly I'm feeling these stories again, and suddenly I'm getting antsy at work because I'm nobody's CSR. What I am is a boy with monsters in his head and a world in each fingertip.
And I'm coming to get you.
Tired. Fifty-one Home Entertainment hours in six days. Still, it's definitely helping me adjust to life back in the real world, and that can only be a good thing. The pot of gold at the end of this particular rainbow is that I now have two-and-a-half days to do with as I wish, and I wish to party. To that end, tomorrow is going to be spent sorting out various practical concerns, whilst Friday night will be dedicated to the great god Alcohol and his many friends. I am passing Go, and I fully intend to collect my £200.
Other benefits? Well, the Home Entertainment People aren't completely evil. As well as many free rentals, I also get a 20% discount on pretty much everything, and the fact that it's sale-time in the HE world means that I can and did buy the special editions of The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly and Die Hard, along with The Goonies (how could I resist?), for a grand total of less than fifteen of your English pounds. A bargain? I think so. I could get into the film-reviewing again at this point, but I'm not going to. Suffice to say that - for various reasons - these are three more flicks that would find their way onto my all-time list.
But back to my week, which has been lengthy and draining and strangely emotional. As I'm sure you could tell from my posts of the 3rd and the 7th, I've had mixed feelings about both the blog and my writing in general recently. Regardless of the fact that pretty much everybody hates their job and yadda yadda blah blah, the transition back into work has been a tough one for me. To be honest, there have been times since I took the job that I've been on the brink of walking out the door in that way I'm so good at. Between Transatlantic relationships, the first real writer's block I've ever experienced, attempting to make some major changes to my lifestyle, and hauling my sorry arse back into a full-time job having spent nearly four months sitting at home procrastinating, I don't mind saying that I've definitely taken the time to feel a bit sorry for myself. Which is okay, so long as I don't start taking it too seriously.
What I needed, when I wrote the 'Hateful Little Word...' post, was for somebody to say something other than "you're very talented, you'll do fine" etc etc. In all seriousness, I don't need anybody to tell me that I'm talented. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone that has a higher opinion of my "talent" than I do. To a certain extent, that comes with the territory. If I didn't have the confidence, why the fuck would I bother trying? No, what I needed was a "shut the fuck up and get on with it, you're giving me a fucking headache." That was pretty much exactly what I got, so thank you to all concerned. You know who you are, and it's appreciated.
On the subject, it's been a busy few weeks as far as correspondence goes. Before I'd even thought about writing something following the death of Hunter S. Thompson, there was a deluge of e-mails from people wanting an epitaph or a tribute or...something. I don't know that what I eventually fired off will ever be included amongst my finest works, but I hope it did what it was supposed to do.
The second big mail day came when I was foolish enough to request abusive assistance in the writing of my second novel. Amongst the many finely-worded missives I received, I sensed a common theme of folks actually being bothered about me finishing this thing. In between falling about at some of the inventive threats (If I don't deliver some 60,000 words by the end of May, you can expect to see me sued, kicked to death, and then set on fire by cannibalistic dwarfs), I was both touched and motivated by that. Again, the relevant thanks are duly delivered.
Lastly, there was the response to the pity-post, which served mainly to make me stop worrying that I could write whatever I wanted here and everyone would still say I was awesome. It's nice to know I can count on a slap when I need one.
Anyway, this particular existential wobble came to a head a couple of days ago, when I got back from work and found that Jenn had sent me a mix CD. I dragged myself up the stairs to the Darkened Room, opened the case, and proceeded to get a little choked up at the short note I found inside. Feeling more than a little exhausted and on the brink of tears anyway, I was perfectly poised to notice the way the light caught the recorded side of the disc, revealing a thumbprint she'd left smeared along the edge, a thumbprint that had somehow survived all that time and distance. I couldn't help but touch it, couldn't help allowing myself to cry at a facsimile of the contact I was really craving. In those few moments, the misery and frustration was almost overwhelming. Writing, working, changing - all of those things seemed like more than I was capable of. I wanted to regress, to lie down and turn out the lights and live inside my head for a while, shutting it all out save for the music.
So that's what I did. And an hour or so later, I got up, switched on the computer, and started writing. That night and the one that followed produced the first chapter of Welcome To Forever, entitled The Mix-Tape Man. It's only a beginning, and it's only just nosing over the five-thousand word mark, but suddenly I'm feeling these stories again, and suddenly I'm getting antsy at work because I'm nobody's CSR. What I am is a boy with monsters in his head and a world in each fingertip.
And I'm coming to get you.
posted by Michael at 7:56 PM
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