I cannot avoid marking up a lot of blank pages with as many words as I can come up with on a daily basis. The urge to write inside of me is just too strong for me to avoid doing it regularly. I flip through all the other people’s stories I’ve got to look at, and all I want to do is make up more of my own work for the whole world to read. It’s not about anything other than my own health at steak here.
There aren’t enough stories in the world.
I scarcely ever strain to unleash my muse, to become a vehicle for her, to tell any old story she likes for me to tell. It’s hardly working. All I get is all this stream of consciousness writing, which tells the reader what I’m thinking about. I don’t really tell a story. What I do is record my thoughts.
If that’s all I have to do, I am nonetheless willing to continue doing it.
My stories are not really selling all that well, anyway. I don’t know what sells and what doesn’t, but whatever people expect they’re going to get from me, is hardly a salable quantity. I drop a single download of a story or two, about twice or three times per week, at least. Seems like more.
It’s not that I can’t rest my mind on a thought. It’s that I can’t interest others in what I’m thinking. I have no idea what goes on in other people’s lives. I’ve been a loner for as long as I can remember. I don’t mind. I’ve taken up blogging, so I’m not likely to end up making any money as a writer, and don’t care.
I’ll write anyway.
It makes me happy.
I sit alone in my man cave, hammering away at my keyboard, like I think I’m doing something special, and get a lot of insane writing like this thing that I’m doing here. It’s just plain being silly, that’s what it is. I used to sit down to tell a specific tale, but I’ve used up all the conscious tales I can think of.
All I have left is my thoughts.
I don’t mind sharing them at all.
I don’t know what to write about anymore. I don’t want to just stop writing, or say things that don’t make sense. I want to just sit down and write all the time I’m alone in my suite, wondering what my mind will tell me to say next.
I wonder how others feel about being alone?
I wonder how others do a job?
I wonder how Hemingway feels in Hell without his typewriter?
I’m so accustomed to being a loner, I’m uncomfortable around any sort of company whatsoever, except for a having a friend or family on the phone every now and then, or over the internet once in awhile. What I’m trying to do is become who I am, as an author, in an eternal void in this life. I’m succeeding at recording my thoughts, for perusing by anyone who wants some entertainment.
The eternal void is what I want to avoid in the Life to Come, but I seem to have to be in something like it, most of my life, anyway. There is no comfort for an old man anywhere he goes. I can’t think of anyway to become more mobile, except to get another driver’s license, and lease a car. I don’t know why I’m toying with a thought like that.
I know I’m too hurt to drive a car.
It’s not a do-able thing.
I’d rather go somewhere to be around people, but I don’t really have all that many people to be around, clear down here in Southern Virginia. I had to leave all my friends, all my property, all of my familiar environment behind to come here. So I just sit here and hammer away on my keyboard, talking about nothing to nobody.
My brother called me back today, asked me out to lunch. He pays for his. I pay for mine. It’s an equitable trade as far as I’m concerned. We get along just fine. I respect his tendency to want to be alone most of the time, and he respects my wish to go out to lunch every once in awhile. The time gets on, and then he’ll surprise me, and give me a call and an invitation.
Nice to have a brother close by.
Put a nick in the wall.
It seemed like he is a little embarrassed to have me on the phone with him or something, so I let him beg off, after about the third try he made to end the call. He wasn’t busy, just embarrassed. I can’t imagine how he can talk on his radio comfortably, and not be able to talk on the telephone. It doesn’t make sense to me. But that’s part of the way he is. He wants to be alone with his radios.
What else can I do but respect the man’s wishes?
I just don’t get it.
I’d like to think up some really great fiction, and slip right into writing that stuff, but it just doesn’t seem to happen with me all that often. I’d like to have somebody come over, or go over to somebody else’s place, but who that person might be, I’ve got no a clue. When I was up home, I was working on some really nice, budding friendships with people, but my overdose turned out to be too much of a sickness for me to be able to keep up the friendships I had in place.
I ended up having to bail out of my whole life altogether, and move away from those two kids who were probably going to kill me to get more money for their heroin habit, from my will, as if they could have. It wasn’t going to work for them. I took them out of my will. They would have gotten themselves into an awful lot of trouble if they’d have tried it, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
How many heroin addicts can actually think rationally enough about anything, anyway? My future has been a lot more secure down here in Ginger Beach, but I have all these profound revelations to be writing down about people I’ve known, to read all the time. It helps me get more healthy. I find that if I write daily, as much as I can, I’m a lot more healthy both mentally and physically.
The whole world leaves me alone, anyway, like I do my brother.
I just get discouraged about life sometimes. If I can’t keep friends in this life, how will I have any in the next? Where is my life headed, anyway? I’d like to know. I’ve spend my days in a stupor, trying to wake up from my nighttime medications, by the time it’s always night again, before my mind ever clears up well enough for me to get anything done.
This place is called assisted living, but it seems like assisted relaxation to me. It’s only early evening, and the place is as quiet as death. Well, I don’t need to think like that any longer. If I’m going to pick on myself, I ought to stop writing like this. Nobody wants to go to somebody else’s pity party. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself and think about positive things.
There was always someone home when I was young. We were a family of seven or eight, counting mother, and then there were all those old ladies, making the count larger than five people altogether. I used to get along pretty well with all the old ladies in the house, but the time got away, and they all died. Old ladies don’t mind talking to a cavalier young man.
They seem to enjoy it.
But even mother and auntie died after awhile.
That’s the thing that those two kids were banking on, with all the hype they were giving me about how much they cared about me. It was all a lie. My elder relatives were dying, and therefore I was worth a lot of money to them, according to them. They even tried to get me to die on an operating table, with a DNR order on my chart. Well, I caught that trick before they put me under.
The ultimate insult to them was that I survived the operation.
Heck, I don’t want to think about those heroin addict kids.
I enjoy a lot of advantages in life. I have three meals a day fixed and cleaned up after, for me to simply eat and enjoy. I live hundreds of miles away from all the trouble I almost got myself into too deeply. I’m free to come and go as I please around here. She contacted me on FB, trying to get my mailing address, and I had the backbone to avoid giving it to her.
Those kids don’t even know where I am anymore, and I don’t want them to know.
I like going on with my solitary life. It’s one of the most natural things I can think of to do. I just really enjoy taking blank pages and writing on them, in my word processing program, of course. I’ve grown accustomed to using a word processing system when I write. Writing on paper with my pen annoys me no end. One of the things about hip replacements are that you can’t touch the floor.
So, of course, I had to pick something up off the floor twice or three times today.
Word processing solves a lot of problems for me I wouldn’t be able to solve otherwise. For one thing, having a text editor involved in the creation of stories I tell is a big Plus. The world can just lump it that I don’t struggle without having a text editor. Another thing is that I’ve given up on full-length stories, after getting a lot of false starts.
I’m in the process of picking up on those and finishing them, as an ongoing process.
I couldn’t manage that trick without a computer, you know. All the false starts on stories are stacked up in my documents folder. I never did delete them. This way of writing seems the most natural to me, even if I’m not really saying much of anything of importance. It’s all one big misunderstanding. I’m writing and writing, and avoiding going back over things very often.
I find I’m exercising liberties I didn’t know I had. That’s always an exciting thing to do, to find I can do something I wasn’t certain I could do at first. My project of finishing off all false starts of stories in my documents file, has turned out to be a good project. The false starts are easy enough to find. One just looks at the number of KB in the file, and if it’s under 25, that’s a candidate for a story.
I’ve gotten proficient at doing 2.5, or 3.5 page stories, mostly at random.
I’ve taken up so many blank pages, having a page that is not quite blank when I start writing, gives me a boost. I like that. It used to be I’d have to give myself a boost some other way, but I’ve become proficient enough at fleshing out a small story, from almost a beginning to a more definite end, in the shorter format, it’s easier to finish one than it used to be.
It’s grand the way I’ve been able to teach myself how to write without much prompting. Once I’ve focused my thoughts a little bit, I’m into some free associations for whole mornings or whole evenings altogether. It’s a privilege to be able to sit quietly in my own space and write down the random thoughts and musings of my mind.