There are few things in life of which I am certain of. Thanks to the events way back in November, I'm forced to make several hard decisions about what I plan on doing with my future. This blog of mine has had its ups and downs but it has never come close to the display of wit that I bestowed on past forays into writing online. And I realized, I just didn't care. It felt pointless, as if I was masturbating before a live audience just to see what their reaction would be. Thanks to my keeping this blog a quiet affair among myself and a small number of people, I no longer have an audience of millions in which to entertain with crass anecdotes of bad sex and general ribaldry.
But I think maybe I should get back into writing more seriously, its easy to become complacent and to let my ability slide over time, maybe if I were to try and push myself into writing on the blog, I could rekindle the love affair I once had with words.
One of my goals at the moment right now is to write a definitive version of what happened in November of 2006. It is by far and away the craziest story I've ever heard and I'm fortunate to have played a starring role in it. Well, not quite fortunate depending on the perspective used to look at it. Whatever the case, the events yielded me a hefty amount of material in which to draw from. This was my story, and I'm going to try my hardest to tell it.
I have problems with motivation. I've always been dutifully complacent and lazy when it comes to putting real effort into something creative. Ironically, I've always wanted the one monument that will end up being the legacy of my skills as a writer but could never settle on any one idea to see from conception to completion. The only single complete story I've ever written was this comedic piece of first-person drivel that involved my borking some girl with a foot long dong :P somehow I don't think thats what I want my kids to end up reading later in life, "look kids! daddy's a writer!" (hands out manuscript)
So my present dilemma is this. To write a fully detailed account of my experiences but without the expense of hard work. I admit it, I'm a wuss. So far I had managed to get it up to around forty pages of original material with many more in a rough, unfinished form but its hard to keep inspired throughout. I realize I'm the type of person that needs strong encouragement and a lot of prodding to get things done, self-motivation can only last for so long. If someone were to put a gun to my head while writing this, I would still drag my feet throughout the process and make excuses. Thats how difficult of it for me to keep a strong focus, even if I essentially have most of the story details worked out. I am part of the ADD generation, always looking for the next shiny thing that captures my attention.
Obviously I need to somehow convince myself that I can, and will write this book even if it begins to feel like work. For a long time, I would only write when 'inspiration' struck and even when it did, I often didn't bother to try and put pen to paper to immortalize my thoughts. As a result, my skills as a writer took a severe beating in the last few years as apathy set in. Maybe my mistake was giving too much credit to inspiration as being a necessary prerequisite for anything that I planned on writing. Maybe to help keep me focused, I could set the small goal of just writing something, anything, at least once each day.
I'm reminded of Hubert Selby Jr. each time I think about my problems. Hubert was a lifelong user of painkillers and heroin due to his diminished lung capacity, as a result, he remained bedridden and unable to work for much of his life. Much like William S. Burroughs, Hubert realized his desire to write, and used his experiences with drugs to craft cautionary tales which earned him a reputation among his peers. One of these tales was "Requiem for a Dream" which ended up being a pretty good fucking story, at least from what I saw in the movie. Whats worth noting is how Selby set out on the path of becoming a writer, a quote of his echos the thoughts at the time:
"I know the alphabet. Maybe I could be a writer."
... and off he went. Without any formal training. Selby analogously was a man claiming, "I know a few words of Spanish, I could be a translator." His dream of writing a book in order to make a living for his family arose from such an innocent and naive view of the English language that he ended up creating his own style and from there, became a bona fide author with several published books and short stories. He proved to me that if anyone wants something badly enough, they can get it, but only if they invest in it proportionally to what they expect to achieve.
While Selby's life eventually ended tragically admist periods of depression and addiction, he had finally conquered the demons that haunted him for decades. He passed on April 26, 2004 at the age of 72, not bad for someone who was once told that he wasn't expected to live for more than a year after being diagnosed with tuberculosis. He was fifteen at the time.
For those interested in Selby and his works, I suggest to check out the interview that is on the Requiem for a Dream DVD. The impression it left on me hasn't faded in the three years since I first watched it.
As for me, its time to stop doing fat chicks and to start writing. I can only hope it will all work out somehow. *crosses fingers*
