August the First

So it seems like it was just two weeks ago that I sat down, frustrated, and wrote about how I couldn’t write, how it was too hard. Then I wrote, and finished two stories within a few days, and was feeling good. Now, though, I’m back; I’ve another story to do, to get back on schedule with the book, and it’s all getting too much for me again. Nothing’s happening. I feel overwhelmed. And though I come to the computer every day and think about doing it, I end up frittering away my time in other things. I’m a procrastinator. A waster. And I’m wasting my time.

I sent off some sample chapters of my hitch-hiking book a few weeks ago, and though some publishers and agents were quick to get back to me saying it wasn’t their cup of tea, one did show some interest, and ask for more, and apparently love it. Except, after reading the whole of Part One, and saying how well it would fit with their stuff, they said they’d already got an American travel narrative planned for 2009 and maybe if mine was more Mexican they could something, but otherwise…and that just filled me with sadness. I’ve been sitting on this story over six years; I finished Part One nearly two years ago. In the meantime, every man and his dog is putting out their travel adventure books and I’m seriously worried I’ve missed the boat. I mean, it’s twelve years since I went to New York. And, somewhat significantly, it’s ten years ago today that I had my life-altering epiphany in that Montana diner, around which the whole thing sort of hinges.

Ten years.

That sort of blows my mind. And fills me with sadness. And makes me want to cry.

I feel like a madman sometimes for wanting this. But I suppose I’ll have to carry it through to the bitter, bloody end, one way or another.

August the First, 1998 is the day/event I’m trying to recreate in my current short story, and it’s not going well. It’s not going well, probably, because it doesn’t sound like Raymond Carver, doesn’t have the hallmarks of the modern short story. Also, I think it’s harder to try and summon something up based on truth, rather than making it up as you go along; maybe I should stop doing that, I don’t know. And maybe it’s not as bad as all that; Perlilly read it and said it was really good, and I suppose I ought to trust that. But somehow I’ve given way to taking the easy way out – of losing myself in ridiculous facebook word games (about the only thing I’m good at) – and it’s just got worse and worse. Hopefully, though, I can just have a good old moan here, feel better, and then get it done; s’usually the way.

We’re quite a few paragraphs in, though, and I don’t feel any better yet…

What I really want to do is shout at something. What I really want to do is roll around on the ground going, “motherfucker! Motherfucker! Big bags of boiled fucking hen shit! Arse! Cock! Dickwad sucking bitch cunt whore!”

That’s what I really want to do.

Listen: I’ve got a brand new combine harvester and I’ll give you the key. We could go for a ride; we could go plough over some gypsies and use the children’s broken bones as wind-chimes, stand by the side of the road and sell them to passing drunken Indians (those dumbasses will buy anything) and then with the proceeds we’ll head on down to ye olde Tesco’s, buy a little bread and cheese, and picnic it up in an old man’s hat, swim with geese, smother ourselves in olive oil and roll in feathers and pretend we’ve just won a pair of Leeds United season tickets but watched them blow away in the wind without a care in our green-blue ears. Would you like that? Would you like to join me? Or would you prefer to sit around all day buttering toast and sweating into a cup, as if that’s gonna halt the plight of the rain forest/win you an Olympic gold at this summer’s games? I mean, I mean, I mean: the choice is yours.

Your brown-haired lover isn’t welcome here in my toothbrush any more! You’ve got a skidoo for a father! Your little tiny barn dance twin sauce hassle left and cornucopia of dribbled monkeys, forsooth! I claim umbrage for Constantinople; you, therefore, are not allowed to lick my shoulder. Come and have a goo if you fink you’re lard enough! Oh, fish tank! Oh, Carmen’s hairs! Oh, bubbles and chiclets in Mexico’s final countdown! This brown love of ours will never cease to amaze me; do please wrap me in your arms, and smooth my hair, and in whispers assure me that all is well, and all be well, and take away this pain of drain in brain, Wayne. If only Mercedes could come in and blast away at my little tooth! Then we’d be laughing.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Good night!