Nothing Much is Nothing At All

Nothing.  That’s what this weekend felt like.

While Saturday wasn’t that bad, Sunday was a total waste.  I was fighting an infection in my left earlobe, and this general feeling that nothing was right.  I was tired, because I wasn’t catching up on the sleep that I haven’t been getting down at The Undisclosed Location.  I ended up munching away on junk food when I pulled into the apartment, and I was up until midnight before going to bed.

And when did I rise this morning?  About 4 AM.  Finally got out of bed at 4:30.  Still the same.  Three, four hours of sleep, and a day full of exhaustion.

The worst was that yesterday, other than the blog, I wrote nothing.

It wasn’t just not writing–I didn’t feel like writing.  I thought about finishing off the scene I’m into right now, with Albert and Meredith in their game, whacking out aliens left and right.  I knew, however, if I did, I was going to produce some might crap.  Whatever was written was going to suck mightily, and that wasn’t wanted.  The idea is, when I write, not to suck, and if I’d written last night, it was going to suck.

Ergo, I walked away.  There was no way the story was going to get a crap section.

The last couple of weeks have been this way, a fight to get some sleep, get through the day, get through the story.  The lack of sleep is becoming an acute problem, because it’s affecting me throughout the entire day.  By the time I manage to pull myself through the day at work, it’s back to the apartment, eat, then try to write.  Sometimes I’m doing very well:  other times I feel the struggle to get anything done.

There’s no stopping, but there’s also the feeling that something is coming to a head, and it won’t take long to get there.

There is also the feeling I’m struggling with this story.  I don’t want to struggle, but it happens.  You work through it, make the words come out.  There’s the feeling I messed up the time line, which is possible, as I’ve thought about what should happen after this current part if finished.  Tonight I’ll fix this; I’m nothing if not anal about my time lines.

Too many things going on at once.  May was crazy; June is even more insane.  Who the hell knows what July is going to bring?

Something new and good is needed, and needed very soon.  For it does seem as if I’m working in a vacuum here all of a sudden, with no feedback, little human contact, and even less human touch.

It’s the feeling that I need some kind of confirmation that everything isn’t for naught.  That this is going to work for me, because . . . the alternative isn’t worth my time.  The alternative is The Downhill Slide–  I refuse to go there, however.  It’s never going to be an option.

So many thing happening at once; no clear resolution in sight.  It’s like life, only with a great emphasis being unreal.

We all know how much life can suck, even in the best of times . . .

Disappearing Realm of Real

This is a brutal morning.  I’ve been up and down all night, and right now my head feels like its filled with bees.  Nic Cage bees.  The kind that are asking you if you’ve seen their lucky crack pipe.

I’m expected to get things done in this state, and thinking is very much restricted.  Oi.  I deserve better than this, because when I get home I’m going to feel like falling asleep in a heap, and I can’t, because I have work to do.

This is a George Jetson treadmill if there ever was one.

I know what The Muse would say:  write.  Don’t spend your time chatting and wasting time with games and the such.  Write.  Write more after that.

At home that’s been easy–the Real Home, that is.  It’s been easy to fall back into the old habits when I’m there.  The moment I’m back at The Undisclosed Location, it feels like a struggle.  It feels like I’m cut off from everything.  It feels like things here aren’t real, that I’m trudging along in some approximation of what should be life, but isn’t.

I can’t complain, though:  I’ve had an amazing output here.  I’ve accomplished so much, finished things that needed finishing, started things that I know are going to be great, and the end result of those labors are out there, sitting in someone’s computer, waiting for a decision, a thumbs-up or down, and I’m sitting on pins and needles over the decision.

That’s part of what’s happening.  The waiting is hard.  Yeah, I know:  it’s only been one week in the case of my second submission, and I need to let that go.  With writers, the editors and the publishers want stuff now, but they make you wait to see if your tomes are good enough to see the light of day.  It’s part of the game, you know, and we play it willingly.  If we didn’t, then we’d just vanity publish all our stuff, then walk around with a bag full of books going, “Oh, look:  I iz uh writer!” as we handed out shit to passerbys.

Part of the stress I’m feeling is due to work; part of it is due to the writing; part of it is due to other factors that are just starting to make themselves known, and start beginning to grow large.  What does that last mean?  Change, baby.  It’s everywhere.  I got a little bit of change yesterday, and you’d have to see it to know it.

It’s a strange dance I’m doing right now.  Sure, “Stay Calm and Write Freakin’ Stories.”  That’s easy to say, not so easy to do.  I’m tasting the “What Can Be” right now, and I want more.  I’m working hard to get that, and I want it now. I want to put everything old behind me, and move on to what is possible.

I want the now real behind me; open up that chrysalis, baby, I’m heading into the new real.

Really.  Let it come.  I’ve been ready my whole life . . .