Writers are supposed to be confessional. We’re not really allowed to keep secrets. It’s the nature of who we are. As such, I think that we do not like secrets either. I know that I don’t, despite being a mysterious person, shrouding a lot of my true self in a loud and obnoxious shell that repels people away. Yes, I do this on purpose. Though these days it is just second nature, as apparent to me as tying my shoes.
I have spent the last few days of my life working on what I certainly hope is to be my first novel. I’ve wanted to write novels since I was eight years old. I loved Judy Blume as a kid. That was where it all started for me. As I have have plowed through nearly twenty thousand words in the mist of scary heart palpitations and the agony of knowing this is not my life at the moment, but a temporary reprieve from the horrible day job I endure, I think I’ve worn myself into a fretful, anxious state of panic. This is the only ticket out of this mundane life I have. And to me, I find it bitterly ironic that my first great story is about the psychological insanity of the mundane western life.
So in the spirit of confessions, in the spirit of pushing myself I am going to use this ridiculous public space to open up. I have been using this ‘blog’ (I hate that word, like most self righteous writers do I am sure. A blog? What kind of stupid bullshit is that? It doesn’t even mean anything.) as an avenue to write about music. I want to and will continue to do that. I love music. I love talking about albums and my relationship to them. But I intend to tell more stories. They will be partly fictional, or my veiled personality and psychosis wrapped up in my experiences. But today I am gonna lay some shit out on you. It feels good for some reason. So here it goes. Enjoy watching someone prostrate themselves in public. This is what “blogs” are all about right?
One of my biggest fears is that I am a fraud. Any one who has remotely kept tabs on this blog can attest to the fact that my use of this language is a far cry from structured. I can’t spell to save my life. I have a sneaky suspicion that I have some sort of dyslexia or other odd brain twitch (when it comes to language. This can probably be categorized and filed next to all the other brain twitches that I have). I once tried to get tested, being utterly paranoid about it when in High school. But I was assured that I was too good a student to possibly have any kind of learning disability. Most people chalked it up to laziness. And while I agree that I am a lethargic human being, resembling more sloth like features then those of my fellow Homo Sapiens, laziness is not an adjective I like to use to describe myself. So as I write a novel, which is the use of a lot of words strung together in very long paragraphs and pages over several chapters, I worry that it’s never going to see the light of day because I am bound by this unending struggle I have with structure, in this case with English. Yes, I do have a degree in English. Yes, I did pretty well in my English classes and mediocre in college (for several reasons that I can talk at length about if you want). And yes I truly believe that I will suffer for this defect. At least I am afraid I will.
Today, is the first day of a new year. I spent the morning writing. I was able to get out a good number of words on one of the last chapters of my book. This was important to me. Though I had hoped to be done with the manuscript this week, heart palpitations aside, I wrote a good twenty thousand words, finished four chapters and began one more. Though I already have ideas for the second draft, I look forward in the next few weeks of finishing this opus. I wrote some stuff I really enjoy, probably some of the first for the book (aside from the massive chapter on Ape Shit the clown. I don’t think I will ever write anything as good as that.). Then I went to a new French Bakery/South Indian restaurant. I had Masala Dosa for the first time which was amazing. While I was eating I also read the first story from Jhumpa Lahiri’s Pulitzer Prize winning book Interpreter of Maladies. While eating this food that was awesome and reading this story that was awesome I realized I need to learn how to write about food. Food doesn’t really show up that much in my book, but I realized that for the next novel I have planned (yes I have two more books already planned and I am more anxious to complete these then I am the one I am working on now) I want food to play a very prominent role. In fact food memory is something very important for this next book, as it is in life. Further, I have day dreams of Jhumpa Lahiri; rock star worship type dreams. Which for a white male that lives in the suburbs of Washington D.C. and has a corporate job probably are not that healthy. The women writes like I hope to. When I read what I write I feel like a failure next to her. Sometimes I wish I had never heard of her. But whatever, she’s amazing. You should read her books. Now.
What is interesting about all this confessional noise, what I think inspired it, is a book a friend of mine lent me. If you are familiar with The Howard Stern Show at all you might now about his funny man Artie Lang. Well a buddy of mine lent me Too Fat to Fish, a quick, somewhat broken memoir. It sort of reminded me of Scar Tissue by Red Hot Chili Pepper’s Anthony Keids. There is a lot of self loathing drug usage in it. I’ve never been a huge fan of drugs personally, and any dabbling in toxicology I have engaged in is surely stupid. And so this self loathing drug binge behavior is a bit hard for me to understand, despite the self doubt, depression and anxiety that drives people to it. That I seem to have a handle on. Anyway, I enjoyed reading Artie’s stories, the confessional tone, though he skipped a bunch of shit about getting on the Howard Stern show. That would have been a good read.
Well, my parents just called me from an Irish Bar in the panhandle of Florida. I think they are drunk at three in the afternoon on new years day. Good for them. I wish everyone the same fortune that they have, it’s a lot of work and a lot of years and a lot of lean times, but to see them at this age doing shit like drinking at Irish bars at three in the afternoon in the swamplands of our most southern state makes me happy.
So stick around for laughs and joy and me falling on my face. Also reviews of records you don’t care about. And what ever other shenanigans I get myself into. Peace to you.