01.11.10

I had something to write a couple minutes ago, sitting on the toilet with a Bukowski volume open.

Now, I'm just going through the motions, keeping the fingers moving, taking a break from my National Novel Writing Month effort.

I haven't been blogging much lately because, once again, I've had nothing to say. What is there to say? What is there to read?

A lot of stuff, I guess, shallow humor, politics, advice. I don't have any of that available at the moment. There's a lot of experts out there to compete with, I'm not an expert at anything except trying half-assed and starting over again.

So if you wanna learn how to do that, pay attention. Otherwise, you're probably best served going someplace else.

It's November 1st, 2010, which can be a palindrome if you write it right. That's as good a day as any to start the first novel I finish. Any day is a good day for that, but today's the day it happened.

I'm good at starting, and being honest, but in all honesty, I have nothing to say these days.

One good thing about drugs is that they eliminate doubt. Not saying you shouldn't have a healthy amount of doubt in your mind when pontificating on an international platform, especially if you're high, just saying that when I'm using I have no trouble finding subjects to talk about.

But now that I'm not using, what is there to say? That I'm not using drugs anymore? That in another couple weeks it'll be six months since I took a drink, pill, smoke, or fix? That I quit smoking cigarettes a week ago? That I left my girlfriend and now she's running around with some hillbilly trick from the strip club?

This is life as I know it. Everything I've known has changed, and I have to change to keep up.

I can't tell you how I'm doing it, or if it's going to last. The thought of a 9-5 scares the shit out of me, and the pressure for income is growing. If I can't make a living with my writing, then I'm not sure I want to live at all.

But that brings me back to the original problem. What the fuck do I write about?

I've tried guessing what people want to read, and so far, I've been way off the mark. The stuff they have responded to is what I'm most afraid to share, and what I figure is least interesting.

So this is it, the naked Joannes. All pretense of art and authority stripped, a direct connect from my heart to yours. Taste the loneliness, fear, and hope.

Walk with me to the shelves or the grave.