found_drama

At just under 300 pages, I keep asking myself: “How much longer until I finish out the rough draft of this damnable novel?”  I’m convinced that every would-be novelist hits this point sooner or later.  Especially if s/he is working a full time job to pick up what non-publication leaves behind.

I’m convinced that it’s as simple as my battery being drained at the end-ish of the day.  While writing is not the end-all-be-all of my job, it’s a pretty big component of it.  And especially recently, where I had some heavy-lifting to do at the keyboard.  That’s it right there then?  I suppose that I must assume so.  The holiday season takes a lot out of a person and seems to have its own hang-over that stretches through to the end of January, for the most part.  Add a layer of intense work stuff as the powdered sugar on top of your already icinged cake and I think that about sums it up.

The spiral notebook comes with me pretty much everywhere that I go.  I’m never more than an arm’s length away from jotting down the next phrase or paragraph to spark off the beginning or close to a chapter.  That’s a lesson I learned a long time ago.  Just the same, the material hides sometimes.  I’ve given up on the romantic idea that authors just sit down and pour out words onto paper.  The existence of creative writing classes, books on “how to”, and lectures by Arthur Golden where he basically admits that Geisha took 7+ drafts and a whole lot of support from family and friends.

Not that I ever thought that writing took place in a vacuum.

So to anyone that was counting on me to have a first draft ready for shredding by the end of January: I’m sorry about that.  I haven’t given up.  I just need a few more days.

So is anyone else just plain sick and tired of this freakin’ story? To me it’s just another chapter in the s/he said s/he said po-mo mythology of who said what when why where first and whether or not it’s all that original and/or (re?)mix-worthy in the first place.

Statement one: [tag]The Postal Service[/tag]’s video is just a white-tone rip-off of Kubrik’s [tag]2001[/tag] shots to begin with. Clean-room bunny suits? Bullshit, that’s Dave’s space suit.

Statement two: They’re just bitter because their work tends to be mediocre and requires remixin’ to emerge as any kind of stand-out in the first place. (Admit it, you too gave up on Give Up after realizing that [tag]John Tejada[/tag] was the reason you thought liked this band. I believe your words were: “Oh that’s what the original sounds like…?”)

Statement three: [tag]Gibbard[/tag]’s statement is a fishing expedition. To see if [t]he[y] can get from [tag]Apple[/tag] what [t]he[y] got from the mailman.

Additional thoughts: Now that I think of it, this really is the defining post-modern beyond-the-grave revenge of [tag]Stanley Kubrik[/tag].

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UPDATE: Seems [tag]Gruber[/tag] got the same impression I did re: the whole [tag]HAL9000[/tag] death scene thing.

Somehow I’ve come to meet up with an old friend who lives in a part of town (some vague post-industrial city) that is less than savory. I’ve parked a few blocks away, met up with him, and followed him the rest of the way to this, his apartment. The apartment itself isn’t all that bad; I could see it being nice if he’d just clean up maybe. Kitchen with a pass-through to the living room, bedroom and bathroom just off the living room, and a nice balcony; almost reminds me of my place with A. in Baltimore.

But my friend isn’t there much. Almost as soon as we get there, his cell phone rings and he takes the call. He disappears into the kitchen, has a quick chat, gestures to me that he’ll be right back, and disappears. He’s gone for 30-45 minutes at a time. And he does this over and over again. Outside, the sun goes down. It’s getting aggravating. Him and I were never close but we did have something to talk about. And now I’m late for other things and I’m hesitant to go back to my car. I’m not sure I can find my way back and I’m even more hesitant because I don’t feel safe in this neighborhood.

I fold out the couch to sleep, still frustrated.

I wake up with the taste of metal in my mouth. Someone’s kissing me. I can’t make out her face. It’s wrong and we both know it. She’s insisting. I make for the balcony, the only way out.

And when I jump, gravity fails. Gravity gets all wrong. I don’t quite fall. At first, I come down. But slow and it’s as though I can get foot holds on individual oxygen molecules and propel myself back up. I start to float down through the neighborhood. After a few minutes, hovering three, four, and five stories up, I figure out that I’m headed in the wrong direction for my car but I can no longer get turned around. I’m headed toward the docks, drifting out to sea, gravity getting weaker the whole time.