Wednesday, April 15, 2015

No Time For Showers

I’m supposed to be getting ready for work, but I don’t feel like it. If motivation were currency, my bank account would reflect that of a man so far behind and so deep that suicide would be the most appealing and (seemingly) logical of conclusions for how to get out of his current plight. It’s ugly. I’ll go to work today, unshowered and at the mercy of whatever body odor I produce in the 3.2 miles from my apartment to the job. Best not to think about the odor that’ll come from standing by the oven all night.

But fuck it, it’s not the real job, is it? Not the one I care about. It’s just the gig that pays the bills and puts food on my table, Books on my shelves and liquor in my gut. The real job, writing, is what matters. And I’m in a rut with that job, the rut being that I simply don’t want to right now. I’m on vacation, which many literary types would consider to be sacrilege, possibly even an act of domestic terrorism on literature itself. But who cares what they think? Literary is just another word for boring and elitist. You can’t trust anyone who uses that word and means it. Just smile, nod, and step back slowly towards the door, where freedom and a lack of dull idiocy await.

I’m done with the book, and right now it’s in the hands of others. One final proof reading is underway by a trusted source, and the cover art is in progress with this lovely married couple I begged to give me something that wouldn’t embarrass me. What did I say on Facebook? Oh, right:

I don't feel like writing. This happens now and again, and most days I tell myself to shut the fuck up, quit being a whiny little shit, and fill up the god damn page. But not today. Or yesterday. Or even the days before. I've been giving myself a break since the publication date is so close. I feel like an expecting father, just waiting for the word that it's time to rush to the hospital. I don't want to focus on anything that will distract me. I'm playing the waiting game for the final pieces. So for now, no work. Only patience

It’s true though. I’m just patiently waiting on others and so I’d rather take the time to give the brain a chance to relax. Why force myself to work on something right now? I could be called to work on the book any moment now. So screw it, a vacation it is. Maybe all writers need a vacation from the work. Many will disagree, as there are so many twats out there who preach writing daily as though it’s the dogma of the Church of Literary Practices, a religion to which I am a militant atheist. Maybe more on that to come. The clock is ticking, and sooner or later I really will have to get out the door. I’ve already sacrificed time to shower. If I keep this nonsense up I’ll be sacrificing time to eat. And then where will I be?

So here you go. Have a nice day, full of peace, love and the macabre. But no edits. There’s no time. I need to get ready for the day job to help pay for the art. Cover art and proofreading cost money, you know. So adieu to you and you, but not you. You can piss off.


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