My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

I just can’t get in any sort of groove. The story I keep mentioning hit me so hard, flowed out so easily, but that was it. I heard the words, it was so fucking clear.

Now, nothing’s clear.

So, my daily word count is off to a very rocky start. Still, I’m not discouraged. A few bad days don’t fuck everything.

So, I’ve fallen off my word count. Badly. Already.

So, I have more energy than yesterday, but it’s all nervous. I’m uneasy, I can’t focus on any one thing. I really hate days like this, I can’t think, or relax, or write anything worth reading.

So, I slept most of today. I feel old.

In the morning , I go for my four weeks trach (the little plastic tube in my throat) change. I’m not nervous like I used to get, I just don’t look forward to bow worn out I feel afterward. Worn out and lonely and uneasy.

Tattoo by Kyle, Doc Dog’s Las Vegas Tattoo, Ybor City

So, this tattoo, number seventy-nine, doesn’t follow my usual leanings toward song lyrics. Instead, I went with a book quote, a not-so-not-lengthy book quote. It’s from the last paragraph of Dermaphoria by Craig Clevenger. If you haven’t read either of Clevenger’s books. The Contortionist’s Handbook, Dermaphoria, you’re really missing something., they’re gorgeously sad books. I’m not at all ashamed to admit that the end of Dermaphoria had me crying at 4 am. Anyway, this is definitely my largest tattoo, it covers pretty much my entire right side. It’s there and almost nobody will ever see it outside of this post, but that’s not the point. It’s a memory made external, one that affected me so deeply that I want to physically carry it with me.

Again, since I’m running really low on space, it’s kind of awkwardly placed. It reads…

“…and in the moment

before the angels turn

off my universe, God’s

own clock quicksand

slows to an ice

whisper quiet and I

could sit here beside

you and watch the

twilight wither for

days on end.”

I don’t want to give away anything about what the words mean in the context of the book, but in the context of me…

No passage in any book has ever felt so familiar.

I was with someone I love, and we were lying together watching gorgeous twilight fade away, and I never wanted it to end. I never wanted to be without her, ever. Not ever.

So, I wrote this flash story, and I feel like it’s something different, like it’s one of the better things I’ve written. I’ve been tweaking it from a draft to something more like a finished story. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it yet, I’m still mulling things over. I don’t know why, I just feel really good about it. We’ll see.

I caught up on some e-mail… I’m really trying to be more productive. I’ve just been really nervous, like, all the time. I can’t get used to my new space, I don’t feel right here. It’s like, no matter how bad everything else felt, at least I had my room. I felt safe there, and it was mine. I picked the paint, the artwork, every piece of furniture, and everything was exactly in its place because I had it placed so. I built it with Celeste and Steven and Sarah and Katherine and Stacy, some of my best assistants, and some of my closest friends. They’re all far away now, but in that room they felt at least a little closer, and that felt good.  I made love to… Fuck it. What’s done is done.

Anyway, I’m reading these total cotton-candy books, light and fun, and no substance. I mean they’re not badly written trash, but they’re definitely not art. They’re based in the world of Diablo, a video franchise that is actually really spectacular. The games aside, the lore that’s the foundation of Diablo is intricate and well-realized, there’s plenty of material for decent fantasy writers to put out lots of fun books. Diablo’s been around since I was in high-school, and nerdy it may be, I’ve been a fan ever since. Technology has finally caught up to how detailed Diablo’s story is, so now we have gorgeous visuals that are fit for the story. For me, Diablo’s draw has always been the story. It’s set in a dark fantasy world in which angels and demons wage war against each other in the pits of Hell and at the very gates of Heaven, both sides using humanity for their own ends. It’s a world of powerful mages, humble warriors, once Holy Orders of Priests corrupted by demons offering immortality. It’s not Faulkner, but if you’re able to quote Faulkner, you can get away with reading a few Diablo books.

Okay, enough of me.

So, I’ve kept to my word count goal of 500 words per day. This post aside, today I hit 740, but they’re not quite ready for their coming out party,they need a little extra finishing.

I’m tired right now, and uneasy.

I subscribe to this blog, Ingrid’s Notes, she’s a writer, gives tips on craft and what-not. Today’s post was from a guest blogger trying to hawk someone’s book about how writers can boost their output to 10,000 words per day. Aside from that being deranged, the physical act of typing 10,000 words would take me most of 24 solid hours. I’m not buying that book. Still, the post was actually really… eye-opening.

The first half of the post discuses various writers’ average daily word counts. Stephen King puts out around 3,000 words per day, which is doable, but brutal. Ann Rice slams down around 5,000 words per day, totally out. Besides, the merits of monster word counts are debatable. Some say, if you’re putting down tons of words, even if they’re mostly trash, you still had a good day. Others would call such a day a waste of time, and it’s better to tighten your craft and focus on solid writing. I don’t really think there’s any right or wrong thought on word counts, it’s up to the writer and what feels best to them.

Personally, I’ve always been best at saying the perfect thing in as few words as necessary. So, what really drew my interest was one particular writer’s average daily word count, Hemingway. Ernest Hemingway averaged 500 words per day. Like his work or not, Hemingway is immortal, a writer whose name will live on forever, because ultimately, writing isn’t about word counts or unit sales, it’s about the quality of craft, of a finished story. If Hemingway secured immortality with something around 500 words per day…

Why can’t I? I know that if I create a daily routine and just fucking write, I can do 500 words easily enough. I’m no Hemingway, but I know I don’t suck either.