All In

All In

I’ve been on hiatus and now that I am emerging out the other side I find my mind is laser focused and my will is as sharp as a surgical instrument. I was lost. Now I am found.

So what happened out in that metaphorical desert? Allow me to explain.

My very first blog post was titled: Why I Can’t Call Myself An Author. It was my debutante ball, the first toe in the turbulent waters of media and exposure and it should have been obvious to me then but it would be the first crack in a growing divide. The clue is in the title. Tweet at me if you can figure it out before I tell you. Give up? I clearly don’t see myself as an author and in the post, I explain why but what I didn’t know was, in identifying myself as “not an author”, I was creating a crisis of identity.

Things were good at first, as they tend to be but as time went on and as I kept trying to press forward I began to notice a very serious pull back. I would sit to write and become very agitated, I would dive headlong into a YouTube or Netflix binge or just sit in the dark listening to music and wondering what the hell was holding me back.

This is going to require a little more context. Okay.

I’m a “wonderer” as I like to say — overthinker is the slur. But that’s my process. I remember my best friend would sit eerily still and flick the tip of his tongue up and down while staring blankly out to — who the fuck knows and just sit there. No fucking nothing. I would ask him what he was thinking and his response was, “nothing.” I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen but that ability is well beyond my scope. I can’t imagine a moment of blank.

So now that we’ve established I enjoy using the ol’ noggin’. At last, I can get to my point and it is: I have thought a lot about what it’s going to take to become successful, to be the person I want to be. I’ve also given serious thought to how I’m going to accomplish the “what it takes” and this is where I found my crisis of identity. The schism.

I have held the opinion that in order to pull off my rather lofty ambitions of becoming a professional author, stock market day trader, podcast host and owner of my own production company (as you can read, I want a lot). I must give myself fully to this process. Yet the few people in my life hold the opposing view. They feel my all or nothing approach is counterproductive and dangerous. I know they want me to be successful, this isn’t some frenemy, clandestine hater bullshit. These people care and want what’s best for me but they also want me to slow down, smell the roses, take time off for a trip to Vegas, hang out at restaurants and reminisce about the days they could have out drank the other. They want to include me, want me to be a part of the every day but I’m all but done with the “every day.” I don’t want to slow down, I want to speed up or truer still, I need to speed up. What I want is incredibly difficult to achieve. The life I want to create for myself is a long shot but I have to take that shot. I’ve boiled it down to this. At the end of the day, they, these wonderfully caring group of friends, they won’t have to suffer the consequences of my failing to reach my goals. They aren’t going to look back with regret for not having scratched and clawed and wrenched from life what was most important to them. I will. I will hold that leaded sorrow. They’ll go home, back to a life they chose to lead and I will be left draped in despair.

But before I give the wrong impression about the company I keep, in fairness, I wanted to believe like they did. I tried to accommodate the pace, the roses, the trips to Vegas and those overconfident challenges of who could have drunk who under what. (I could out drink them all!) It would be wonderful if I could achieve all I set out to do and not give up a single lazy Sunday. But that isn’t the way this shit works. I knew that. Deep down I knew I would have to walk away from everything and surrender myself, sacrifice upon the altar the person I am for the one I am to become.

This was the schism. My crisis of identity. The cognitive dissonance generated from knowing I have no choice but to go all in yet behaving like I could spare another week long trip to Hawaii was unbearable. It manifested in different ways. I was edgy. I remember skulking down the streets with my fists clenched, eager for a fight. I would go to bed and not sleep or oversleep and wake up tired. I felt a weight in the pit of my stomach, an anxiety I couldn’t pinpoint and a deepening discontent. My subconscious was pleading with me for reconciliation. I had to make a choice.

I’ve chosen to go all in.

I no longer have a conflict. My mind is at ease and my actions are in alignment with my desires. I get that I might miss out on some stuff, miss out on some people but it’s the price that must be paid if I am to pull this off. Is that unfortunate? Of course but to be able to look back and see a legacy I have built, it’s worth it.

Amateur Writing Tips from an Amateur Writer.

The following are in the order of how they happened to enter my mind.

• Allow your PC to install its updates.

These pop-ups are annoying and take up time, downloading, rebooting and what not, so fuck ’em right? Well, about a year ago I thought the same thing and when that little window sprung up on my screen I chose to pass. Big fucking mistake! I wrote until my laptop reached 5% battery life and at that exact moment the update I had rejected earlier decided to start up. I desperately tried to stall the update but it was too late. As I read the words Do not turn off while updating the battery died and I knew I was fucked. I had to wait until I got home to charge my laptop and as it booted back up, I knew something was wrong. All of my Word document icons looked strange and when I tried opening them my heart sank. They were corrupted. All. Of. Them. I damn near lost my mind. Denial solidified itself quickly. This couldn’t be happening! I couldn’t have just lost my life’s work! No, not possible! Then the anger, not at myself but at those stupid fucking updates. What the fuck do they do anyhow? After attempting to fix my laptop by smacking it, I did the unthinkable: prayed. I started bargaining with a deity I don’t believe in. Please, let the next Restart fix this! Once the scope of my IT knowledge was exhausted (Restart, Hard Restart, that’s it.), I fell into an abyss. I was legitimately heartbroken. I became rudderless, adrift in the endless bleak. My life had ended and suicide was now a viable option. (I’m exaggerating here, kind of but not really.) After a lot of time on YouTube and Google I managed to Reset my laptop, download Word again and fix the problem. Spare yourself the life shattering crisis and allow the updates to run as they come.

• Back that thang up.

USB Drives are your best friend. Keep one handy at all times and backup your work. You never know when your PC will take a shit. Also, I was recently turned on to Google Docs and I’m loving it. I’ve dropped everything in there and unless Google decides to go belly up, my writing should be safe. It’s also great to have access to my stuff on my phone, laptop or when I’m at work. If I can login to Google, I can write. It’s fantastic.

• Your Novel/Chapters should be as long as the story requires.

I’ve come across this question a lot in writer’s groups and while I understand why someone would want to know that the average novel is 60,000 to 100,000 words (I’ve wondered myself), it’s often misleading and counterproductive. I’ve recently read this question applied to chapters which, like novel length, can lead to some damaging practices. Perhaps I should insert an example. The question, “How long should my chapter be?” is unknowable. It’s like asking, “How big should my cock be?”, it’s subjective. Chapter lenght, like cock size, is a personal preference. Say someone comes across a big hulking Chapter One and thinks, “My God, look at that monster! How am I ever going to fit something so huge into my tight reading time?” A valid query. Yet, if that enormous chapter slams down in all the right places with a rock-hard introduction to our protagonist, setting up along the way the tone of the novel and makes people care about what comes next, the reader will be more than able to handle that colossal chapter. The same could be said of a smaller chapter. If it can rock a reader’s socks off and get them begging for more, it has accomplished its sole task.

Size doesn’t matter so stop focusing on it like a pubescent teen and while I realize the metaphor has become labored, allow me one final indulgence: If all you have is size to gauge what is “good” or “not good” then I fear your skills may be sorely lacking. It’s not a knock but a call to action. Take the time to learn, read and better your craft so you aren’t left so susceptible to something so arbitrary as Novel/Chapter length.

• Naming your characters.

What’s in a name? Everything!

So here’s the best advice I have ever come across on this subject, don’t know where I got it from so I can’t cite the source but just go with it. Utilize the name of your character, especially your main cast, to describe their purpose (That word is italicized because I’m reaching here.) within your story. Example: A while back I wrote a sort of play involving a young woman who is committed to a nunnery by an uncle in an effort to spare her the depravities of being born to a lecherous family. I named her Isabella not only because I think the name sounds pretty (It does and damn Twilight for having sullied it. If that offended you, we cannot be friends.) but because the name means “pledged to God”. That’s what sealed the deal for me. Likewise, I named my main character Daniel because he was a hedonist who believed, in a backward and perverse way, only God Himself could pass judgement on a person’s acts and morality so when I read the meaning of Daniel is “God is my judge” the choice was made. I really like this method because it adds a layer of depth and meaning to the character and if your reader is the curious type, they may look up the name and discover the connection for themselves.

There’s also the whole, “Don’t give characters similar sounding names” like, John, Tom, Dong, Delia, Cellia, you get the point. It’s confusing and lazy.

I also do my research and try to match a name to an ethnicity. I’m not going to name a Caucasian character Pedro, or an Asian character Stan unless there’s a very good fucking reason to.

I also like to research names by age. Example: If I have a young, twenty year old character, I am not going to name her Pearl which was only marginally popular in the 1890’s.

Lastly, give your characters last names. You may never use them in the story but it’s a comfort to know they’re there and (At least to me.) it lends to their credibility. Do your research. If a character is Russian, be sure to give them a Russian surname.

Maybe this is overkill but I love all the little people living in my head so I do my best to build their existence as if they were an actual human being. It takes time and can be annoying but I will never forget any of my characters names because they mean something to me and I think you would want your reader to experience the same.

• Write

Kind of obvious but you’d be surprised. I cannot speak for anyone else but I imagine if you’ve decided to walk down this meandering road it’s because you cannot not do it. I write. That’s what I do. You don’t have to pay me, no one has to read it but I have to do it. I have no choice. It’s automatic. So get out there and write. Doesn’t matter what and fuck the rules, fuck what you think it “should” look like or be like, fuck it all and just write. Put the words onto paper. (Don’t really, that was written for effect and believe me, writing by hand hurts. I would write in notebooks with a pencil and I damn near crippled my hand.). Enjoy what you’re doing. Love it. Believe me, first drafts will be shit. No question but that’s okay, better to hold the shit in hand than have it rattling around your head. We can work it once it’s in our hands, mold it, shine it, turn that turd into gold. (Went a little far with the poop, I get that but if it helps anyone reading this, even a little, it was worth it.)

That’s what I got for now. Maybe when I make my bones in this thing of ours I can come back and lay a few more tips and tricks on you.

Hitting The Reset Button

I like sticking to a plan. I put a lot of thought into them, examine the angles, read the terrain, make educated guesses based on statistical analysis (that’s what I call my bias assumptions) and line item my reasonable and incontrovertible conclusion. But then everything goes to shit and I have to hit Reset.

When I began chronicling my ascent toward fame, infamy or madness (time will tell); I believed I had a good, well-reasoned grasp on what I was attempting to accomplish. My objective was simple: get some practice in and some much needed real world feedback. But in my pursuit of that noble goal, I took a strange detour. I began obsessing over quantity, not quality. My initial posts came quick and easy. I had them loaded and raring to go. I was off to a fast start and then my momentum hit a wall. Now, this is to be expected but it ran up on me so fast that I began beating myself up over it and frustrated self-flagellation does not allow for inspiration to flow.

I was forced to make an uncomfortable choice. Scale back and lose face or dump out whatever half-baked idea just so happened to crawl into my mind at that moment and say, “Good enough.” It took a sadistic “pep” talk to get me to relent. Like I said, I really enjoy sticking to plans.

But I am nothing if not adaptable and though the sting of not meeting the expectation I set out for myself is significant, the adjustments I’m making will ultimately, I hope, lead to a more genuine and consequently, more rewarding experience.

The biggest obstacle in this was my raging Ego. I’m in perfect agreement with quality over quantity but as the missed deadlines began to mount, I became increasingly rigid in my thinking that simply ticking the box on the “To Do List” was more important than what I’m trying to accomplish, which is to come into my own, to be authentic. Fucking rookie mistake. That’s all it is. I’m a newbie who got caught up with maintaining the appearance of consistency instead of actually being consistent. These are the bumps in the road, the boilerplate pitfalls most novice dive headlong into. So when you fuck up; adjust. It’s not about being error free but about learning the lesson in each failure. If you ever find yourself in a position like mine, don’t hesitate to pivot and take a different approach. Our best-laid plans can propel us forward when all goes well or cement us in our current state when shit goes sideways.

As for me, I’ll keep plugging away at these keys and remind myself that no matter how difficult things become, I can always blow up my arrogant little plans and start over from a new angle.

Reset.

Leap

Why in the hell did I decide to follow my passion?

Oh, that’s right. That whole rant about my “sovereignty.” Well, that came back to bite me in the ass.

I’ve taken my leap. Not a very high one and nowhere near the deep end but I’ve jumped. I’ve kept up with this blog (admittedly there were a couple of weeks I missed) and I just launched my first serial last week. Both of these ventures are a way for me to flex my writing muscle, get more practice in, experiment with how and what I write and to showcase a little of myself. It has been an incredibly rewarding process so far. The fact that I can see everything I’ve posted and get metrics back on how many people have read and liked what I’ve written is amazing. I am truly humbled and terrified at the realization that those numbers I see behind-the-scenes are actual, living, breathing people who took four to six minutes out of their day, their life, to read the silly words of some amateur. It is something I am still processing and something I don’t think I’ll ever really be comfortable with. (But thank you, thank you, thank you and know that I will do my best to honor your generosity by bringing as much value to you as my talents will allow.)

What I hadn’t counted on was the marketing part of all this. I knew from the jump I would have to market my own work. I get that traditionally published authors still have to do a lot of the marketing legwork themselves. I understand that this is the price of poker. But some part of me still held out hope that it wouldn’t be this much work.

What I’ve really struggled with is engagement. I’m on Twitter, I’m just not saying shit. (That isn’t fair. Let’s just say, not a lot of shit.) And this isn’t to say I haven’t made any progress, I have. I picked up several new followers last week. (Thank you as well. Your presence both invigorates and intimidates the hell out of me.) I just feel the whole thing is odd and I know that feeling is something I will have to overcome because I am not going to be making things easier for myself. No, no. That’s not how I operate.

I have plans, Dear Reader and they involve throwing myself out there even more. I intend to put out a podcast tackling a range of subjects in the near future and I’m looking forward to launching a YouTube channel as well. I’ve also been working on some marketing strategies that I am dying to employ once I’m ready to publish my first book.

The bottom line is this. Has all this been difficult? Yes. But at least I’m struggling for myself. This isn’t “day-job” bullshit, this is mine. I own it. My success or failure is a direct consequence of my action or inaction. Period. So what if it’s hard or it makes me feel uneasy? If there is one thing I know about myself, it is that the more pressure I put myself under, the more I fight to push through. Guess I’m just a masochist like that.

The Style of No Style

If it were up to me, I’d live and die in loose fitting jeans, a Pink Floyd tee-shirt, black hoodie and steel toe work boots. And yes, I have gone to the beach dressed like that. But this post isn’t about my complete and utter lack of fashion sense but about my lack of writing style. See what I did there? No? Me neither; it’s late and my foot hurts but follow me for a while.

My writing has always been off the cuff. Up until recently, I would write sans outline, typing by the seat of my pants, not knowing where I was headed or what I would find when I got there. It’s an exciting method but I would always write myself into a corner, get frustrated, scrap the whole bloody thing and start over. Thankfully, I’ve remedied this but my nomad system of writing has also informed my style or lack thereof.

The most accurate description of my style would be scatterbrain but I like to think of it as flowing. I like to move from place to place, weaving a tapestry. It’s probably an awful thing to read but there is just so much story to tell that I often go off on side tangents. It’s difficult for me to pin down if this hodgepodge of prose would really be that confusing since I haven’t written anything in this style to the end. For all I know, it might actually work.

I’ve been writing a couple serials to figure out if this drifting type of storytelling is as horrible as I imagine it to be. I’ve given myself free reign to experiment. I’ll be exploring my natural method, learning its tendencies, honing what works and overhauling what doesn’t. At the end of it, I hope to figure out what my style and voice actually are. It’s been an interesting process so far and it’s alleviated a lot of my perfectionism.

I’m not entirely sure what a “writing style” would be. I’ve read several books from the same author and each book felt different and unique. Anne Rice wrote both Memnoch The Devil and Christ The Lord Out of Egypt but I can tell you right here and now that each book has a vastly different style. Same with Mario Puzo. Mario wrote the masterwork The Godfather, which is one of my favorite books of all time. But he also wrote Omerta, which left a lot to be desired. Did Puzo lose his style? Or is style just some marketing term ascribe to the discernible patterns in an author’s writings? I think the subjective nature of storytelling is going to leave that one unanswerable.

So where does that leave me; the lowly aspiring writer? I don’t know. Maybe there’s no such thing as style and I’ve spent far too much time thinking about it. Or maybe my style will be whatever the hell it will be and that’s the end of it. No epiphany. No greater understanding of the method or how I came to the conclusion. Just one voice speaking clearly. And entertaining-ly.

Episode One of my first serial will be posted February, 15th, right after Valentine’s Day. So if you’re sick and tired of your sweetheart and want to jump in on a quick tale, drop on by.

Bird in a Blizzard

It’s faint at first. And random. That’s the best feature. I never know when a story is going to start. I could be walking the streets of Downtown Los Angeles or stuck in its endless traffic and a voice will begin, faint at first, to tell me of a strange occurrence or confess something it dares not utter to anyone else or explain to me how what went wrong wasn’t their fault. But it’s always a whisper. Never much more than that at the start.

Then the chase begins.

If I absolutely cannot pull myself away from whatever bullshit I’m doing, I’ll jot down what the voice is saying and come back to it at a more appropriate time. This always sucks because I can lose its cadence altogether by the time I arrive at a suitable writing surface. But I’ll follow its remnants in the swirling of my mind, like listening for the chirping of a small bird in a blizzard. It’s a difficult task but once I’ve located the sound of that fleeting murmur I can begin to transcribe its words. It’s here when I’ll discover if my pursuit has been in vain. These voices can be so compelling but the majority lose their strength as I sit alone with them, as I ask them questions, the who, what, when, where and why. It’s natural. Not every voice should be given life. And some come to tell a fragment of a much larger story, one which will require many more voices to complete, while others only speak up to remind me that this, the sound of an unfamiliar revelation, the thrill of the chase, the speechless confession, is why I love writing.

This is the only process I’ve known. A process I didn’t choose for myself. I find it wonderful. To take in hand such a fragile form and grant it absolution with every keystroke. If only everything else in life were as simple.

Writer’s Blocks

I’m sitting in the living room with some of the worst writer’s block I’ve ever experienced. I usually throw my hands up and shut down my laptop when it gets this bad but I’ve decided to press through the congestion in my mind. I don’t intend for this to make sense nor do I think the following will be worth reading. I just want to spite my writer’s block.

As I stated above. My normal response to this much noise in my head is to disengage. I’ll meander on to YouTube and watch some videos. Nothing specific, usually Fail Army. That’s always good for a laugh. Or I’ll play some video games. Grand Theft Auto is a favorite. Always a go to distraction when the wheels grind to a halt and I can’t string two words together without feeling like an abject failure. I’m listening to Bach but it isn’t helping much. I’m getting a sort of hodgepodge of prose. Very disjointed. Still better than the stalemate. I feel like taking a drive to clear my head but I’d probably end up in Omaha, Nebraska. Sleep. Sleep is always good.

I wonder where this comes from. I could say it’s out of the blue but I doubt it. It’s obviously a mental state. A lack of flow. (Hence the terribly jagged sentences.) I’m going to go out on a limb here and say one of the factors is pressure. Pressure to produce, to be good, to make sense, to know what you’re talking about. Nothing is good enough right now. I’ve been flirting with the delete button way too much lately. I want to start over. It’s strange. I feel it’s a bit immature. Like a child flipping over a board game just before losing. It’s not that what I’ve written isn’t good, it’s that my mind simply cannot accept its current grade. Who knows. Maybe I should throw everything out and start over.

I think a good night’s sleep will help. Some coffee in the morning.

This couldn’t have come at a worse time. I need to stay on track with my writing. I’ve got goals to reach this year. And maybe that’s all of it. The severity of my success or failure. Maybe this is me freaking out over that realization. The further away I push my thoughts the longer it takes to produce and the safer I am. No exposure. The words I bleed out onto the page are spared those prying, judgmental eyes.

Here’s my conclusion. I’m going to look at this as another obstacle to overcome. The words have always dried up here and there. That’s nothing new. My real concern is the pressure. Which is probably the least of my worries and I should focus on the lack of confidence in my abilities.

I have to forgive myself for sucking. We all have to start somewhere. Zero is where everyone began. Take it easy.

I hope to look back at this one day and feel tenderness for the person writing it. We’ll make it through ol’ chum. By wit or grit. We’ll make it through.

Creativity stifled is torture.

A Year in Review: 2016

I know I didn’t expect to be here. Oh, allow me to explain.

I’ll skip all the boring resolutions I may have made (may have because I honestly don’t remember if I had any) back on Friday, January 1st and delve right into the good stuff.

On September 25th I recorded my first ever podcast with the Cinema Bushidoboy’s Matthew Whitaker and Mr. Lee Van Cleef in which we discussed the groundbreaking film that is Deadpool. (Sidebar: Give a listen to ’em boys, they’re doing it right) At the beginning of that episode (which never aired since we rerecorded the podcast) Matthew asked for my social media information as part of my introduction to the audience. I had none. Which was embarrassing. But I pressed on and though I was very timid to speak (which if you met me in real life you’d know isn’t how I actually am — I gnaw ears and pussies off), horribly unprepared and full of self-doubt and loathing, I came out the other side grateful for the opportunity to sound like a jackass. It was great and I am truly thankful to Matt and Lee for having put me on the spot. At the same time, I felt my lack of social was such a missed opportunity so I set out to do something I never wanted to do; join social and engage.

On August 8th I joined the “Big 3” Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. I stepped into the jam-packed arena that is Twitter with my first tweet: “One more baby step toward the future I want.” at 1:04 p.m. It garnered 84 Impressions and 14 Total Engagements, whatever the hell any of that means. On Instagram, I posted my first photo:

with the caption: “Goodbye Corporate America!” I was off to the social media races, full of piss and vinegar. Slowly, this newfound moxie waned. These arenas boomed with the sound of so many voices. I felt disorientated and with nothing to say. I still struggle with this. Maybe it’s my generation or the fact that at my core I am a very private person. Yet I’m here. Out in the open, exposed to the elements, willing to put up a fight.

On November 7th I posted my fist blog on Medium. After having read so many articles I decided that I should try my hand in this arena as well. Lord was I wrong to do that. My first post: Why I Can’t Call Myself An Author received 12 views and 4 reads. A meager ratio of 33%. I knew I had to take the hits so I posted a second blog a week after titled: Time. The One Thing You Have Too Much Of. 2 views. 2 reads. Ouch! But at least my ratio was 100%. Tiny victories. You’d think by now I would have given up but I am a complex human being (by which I mean stubborn of course) so I followed my abysmal numbers with another blog entry entitled: Too Stupid to Quit. 25 views to 2 reads. 8% ratio. I think Medium wants me to quit but if it had read that blog post it would know that me quitting is not an option for I Am Sovereign. Still, this experience of sharing the dank labyrinth of my mind here has been a kick in the teeth. A kick I desperately need. I’d never allow numbers and ratios to determine whether I continue something or not but I do respect them. I am fully aware that they have something to teach me and if I hope to survive in this space, I must decipher their language.

Enough dates and facts, let’s pontificate.

2016 has been a milestone year. These accomplishments may seem insignificant to others but they are huge for me. Had someone told me at the beginning of the year I would be active on social media and writing blog posts I would have, characteristically, denounced them as crazy. But as I read that previous statement over, I can’t help but think it’s self-doubt disguised. I would hope that I’d believe the very best of myself but perhaps I’m not there yet. Believing in oneself is, at times, a difficult proposition. It’s why I’m writing this post and will continue to do so year after year. It’s a chronicling of sorts. I’m able to log my progress, my thoughts. I can revisit them at a later time and see, in detail, how far I have come.

I’ve fought hard. I have moved forward. But this battle has no end. It will continue so long as I do. The face of the Enemy will change from season to season but my Enemy will remain constant, steadfast as I do. But as this year closes around us I think, perhaps there is no virtue in winning our war. Perhaps the only virtue we can hold to our heart is having had the courage to fight our war at all.

Too Stupid to Quit.

I am an exceptionally stubborn man.

Sicario, which is still very much a work in progress, is a story I have worked on for years. My best friend and I came up with the idea back in high school. I had just been cheated on by my girlfriend and he was finally ending a short lived but very toxic relationship of his own. We were newly liberated singles out to make villains of our exes. He and I drafted G-Brothers, a title that to this day I haven’t the slightest idea what it meant but it would be our first foray into creating a comic book. At its core, the story centered around our fictional personas and took on several versions, with some being funny and others carrying a much more serious tone. We added characters, mainly girls we liked and as it progressed from its laughable beginning, I grew to like my little characters.

Then my best friend decides to up and die. Cunt.

I was left with these tiny people in my head who could steal away my thoughts and lead me down the broken paths of their sordid little world. They grew beside me, maturing into three-dimensional characters with their own strengths and weaknesses. I was always working on them, even when I didn’t write a word. This cast of five characters became my darlings. Developing their life story, figuring out the nuances of their personalities and trying to pin down what motivates them has been a deeply rewarding process and I’m proud of how far they’ve come.

I’ve often said, I’m just too stupid to know when to quit. It’s the truth. When presented with a circumstance in which any other rational human being would throw their arms up in the air in sensible surrender, I simply squint my eyes, grit my teeth and attack it from a different angle. Obstacles are an affront to my sovereignty. That’s a highly arrogant statement but it is one I believe. Had I not this single-minded, dogged determination to trample all opposition underfoot, I would have abandoned my dream of becoming an author long ago but I cannot forsake my darlings.

I often wonder if this resolve is actually helping or hurting.

One could argue that I’m beating a dead horse. That I should cut my losses and take whatever sliver of dignity I have left to my grave and call it a lie lived well enough. Even if I finished their story, there is no guarantee those tiny people tumbling around my head will be read by anyone. Maybe this is as far as I get. Perhaps that grand divide is too wide. It could be insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different outcome.

But my sovereignty.

Read me out here because this might be as beneficial to you as it is to me. I say, fight on. Fight because, at the end of it all, you are going to die. And all those people whose life you’ve touched, they will also die. And there will come a day when the fact that you existed at all will be ground up in the endless churning of time. Fight on and take solace in the fact that one day the sun’s corona will consume the Earth in fire and its gravity will rip each atom in two. Understand that the universe is tumbling toward entropy and all which it contained throughout the ages will dissipate into cold nothingness.

I’ll end with this.

There are no alternatives for me. I must continue. If I can beat down that wall, my pigheaded obstinacy was a blessing of a sickly mind. If I cannot, then it will have been a curse. I look forward to the challenge and patiently await the day when I will know which it was.

Time. The One Thing You Have Too Much Of.

I will never be capable of completely explaining this but when it came to writing, “I’ve got plenty of time,” was my mantra.

From a very young age, I’ve felt time was on my side. Throughout my life I have been a great proponent of patience, of understanding the value of delayed gratification, of stopping frequently to smell the roses and stare off into the distance. I muse; tirelessly. This too, what I’m currently writing and what I hope someone out there is reading, same as above, one more pause of quiet contemplation.

This philosophy of endurance has served me well. It’s kept me out of trouble with the law by curbing every spasm of rage I suffer, taught me that singledom is simply waiting for my best possible partner to come my way, to use three forms of contraceptive no matter how hot and heavy things get (if you don’t have ’em, suck dick and eat pussy kids, it’s good for you and if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re lying) and to not take life and its setbacks too seriously.

It has been a wonderful way of living but the era of time and its infinite length came to a close when that same passive voice reversed its position. Now was time for action.

And I have acted. I have begun to take my writing seriously and have come to the understanding that my success as a writer will directly impact the quality of life I will lead. I don’t mean this in a strictly financial sense but in a very profound and personal manner. For me, to write is to live. It is my purpose. Through the word, I hope to connect past the grand divide which isolates me, to posit ideas into the collective and perhaps, have an impact on this grand experiment known to us as life.

To all those who may feel ensnared by lethargy, that believe they have lived much and accomplished little; be compassionate with yourself. You have got plenty of time. There are no minimum age requirements, we don’t have to be first and we certainly don’t need to apologize for having taken the long road. In fact, perhaps the only prerequisite is that we endeavor at all. Try for as long as it takes and try as hard as you can at any given moment. You will fail. Accept it. Look forward to it. It will sting and when it does, take some time to heal, to sit in reflection of the injury but be sure to get back to the business of attempting and failing. So long as you are actively pursuing your dream, it doesn’t matter if you took the long way round.

Time. It’s the one thing you have too much of so expense it wisely, forgive yourself when you don’t and always follow your passions.