I worked on POS till after midnight, making notes about ideas for the first part of the story and couldn't get to sleep once I finally quit and now I'm having a flareup of an old problem and have to see the doctor about it and go on Cipro, again, and suddenly I feel like a very old man who's about to careen into his whiny world, once more.
I don't remember being such a grouch, before, but maybe I was and nobody bothered to slap me down over it. And now I'm too acutely aware of my mood swings and I'm close to being an irritant to one and all. The one positive thing about today is, I have enough credit left on my card to pay for the meds I'm about to have to shell out a nice little co-pay for thanks to my piss-ant health insurance that the GOP just swears is the best I can get and fights any sort of reform in it at the same time they fight regulating the credit card companies that blithely double your interest rate even when you're current with them and pay way more than the minimum just because they can and I'm now careening into a tirade...like some dyslexic old fart on a soap box railing about humanity and all its evils.
I actually think POS is helping me cope with this, to an extent. Even as it causes some of it. But the fact is, I get so lost in the story I lose track of all the pettiness and crap that comes from my current situation and can gain a sense of balance...if I'm left alone. That's the only rub. And it's weird, but I get the sense from this story that my own personal reality is limited -- which it is, in truth -- but that doesn't matter so long as I keep myself open to witnessing what I am offered by whatever muse it is I follow. Facts are easy things to deal with, even when they contradict each other; it's the emotional truth that matters. It's what lies not behind the eyes but behind the soul, hidden, fearful, hopeful, dreaming, destroyed. POS is leading me to understand -- and accept -- this. And see this is what I've been working towards
You know, my first three books easily fall into the category of rough gay erotica. I joke about them being porn but I do so gently, because I don't see them as that even though their titles come across that way -- "How To Rape A Straight Guy," "Porno Manifesto," "Rape in Holding Cell 6"...I can't exactly see those on a shelf in Barnes & Noble's. And yes, they've got some very raw and brutal sexual encounters in them, but each book is rooted in the emotional reality of the character. Even when they go a bit crazy in the plot area, it works within the character's truth. Even moreso in "Bobby Carapisi," which is nowhere near erotica. And I'm proud of what each book accomplishes -- straddling the prurient world while still reaching for the sky and telling a story that needed to be told.
But I'm proudest of my novella -- no, that's not right. I'm JUST as proud of "Perfection" as any of my other work; but it's the one that closest follows my reaching for that inner core...because that's exactly what the story's about. And it does not have any actual sex in it (focus on the word "actual"). So it rests next to my heart.
It's funny, the things a writer needs to keep himself moving forward. And I'm sure some of them appear like madness to others...but without them I'd be lost. I'd have surrendered to my doubt years ago. Never have reached the point where I can sit down and accept a story about a world completely alien to me...and yet so real to me I can't picture it as not honestly being there.
Hmph...went off on a ramble. And it was pleasant...like a walk through my own little garden. Grumpy is gone.
Which is almost to bad (emphasis on the word "almost"); he was my favorite dwarf.
If this has typos or crashes into nonsensical, live with it. I'm not going back and changing a thing.