For the last two months, I\u2019ve tried to adhere to a cohesive writing schedule. 5000 words a week, of which only 3000 need to count, those being turned into front page posts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m calling this the \u201cvignettes project<\/a>,\u201d because that\u2019s the first word that came to mind at 4am on a Thursday morning after a champion drinking session with Bethesda\u2019s Fun Couple. This is the latest in a long line of writing projects, only some of which have enjoyed an outlet. Most end up supporting my dining room table. Well\u2026virtually speaking. Replace \u201cdining room table\u201d with \u201cexternal hard drive.\u201d What sad times we live in\u2026 Because now I have to actually fix my dining room table or print out another copy of The Boble<\/a>.<\/p>\n From time to time, I embark on these projects because I feel like I\u2019m wasting every single moment of my life. Even when successful, I feel like my life is being squandered.<\/p>\n When I really start to dwell on those thoughts during, say, a Netflix streaming outage, I catalog the things that I can and should be doing. Like ejaculating inside a beautiful woman who is very good in bed, exploring strange cocktails that annoy all my friends, baking my grandmother\u2019s alarmingly unhealthy dessert recipes, and writing.<\/p>\n That\u2019s really all I want to do and, even then, it\u2019s all to stave off the often overwhelming desire to marathon Space: 1999<\/em> again. And again. It\u2019s bad enough that I turn to a mega-marathon of Stargate<\/em> every couple of years with almost OCD-like ritualism. Talk about squandering.<\/p>\n The things on my list come easily. I enjoy fucking, drinking, and eating cakes that have 5 million sticks of butter in them. Who doesn\u2019t? Well, besides communists. And Mormons.<\/p>\n I also enjoy writing. Like I said a few days ago<\/a>, writing has become my sole cathartic outlet. At least, under the guise of \u201cNacho Sasha,\u201d where I\u2019m able to openly unman myself and act the goat. After a decade of Great Society<\/a>, though, I\u2019ve developed this fear that I\u2019m really just squandering again. That I have some sort of obligation to do\u2026something something. But how can I bring focus and constructive production to something I barely consider a hobby?<\/p>\n I\u2019ve never thought that my writing is good. Nor do I believe in any sort of training \u2013 classes, workshops, etc. You either can write, or you can\u2019t. Or perhaps it\u2019s more accurate to say that you either write or you\u2019re a writer. Because everybody can write. It\u2019s not a skill that really can benefit from education or training, beyond learning how to string all these words together.<\/p>\n The story part of writing \u2013 the narrative, both in fiction and nonfiction \u2013 comes from somewhere else. Some internal demon. What I believe to be a legitimate and diagnosable mental illness, actually. You write because you have to.<\/p>\n This demonic script is fairly common. It fills our diaries and journals and blogs and, these days, there\u2019s a fucking avalanche of self-published assholes filling up the Kindle store. Most people stop there because they figure they\u2019ve got it. They\u2019re in their sad apartments pounding out entire finished novels that will only ever be read by their small group of friends and family. Piece of cake! But, to become a writer (versus one who just writes), there\u2019s an even harsher task to face once you\u2019re done with the demon for the day.<\/p>\n The writing must, for lack of a better word, be sanitized. You can\u2019t write for yourself, or even your perception of your audience. In order to exorcise the demon, you have to get your message through in a way that can be absorbed by anybody. Not your circle of Facebook friends, but the random strangers as well.<\/p>\n Writing for the public requires a skill-set coming from the non-artistic side of your brain. You must turn your psychotic ramblings into something salable. Something (gasp!) marketable. The writer must \u2013 if only in a cursory way \u2013 respect their audience.<\/p>\n In short, the story is no longer yours as soon as it goes public. Sure, you have the copyright and all that stuff. But the spirit of the writing cannot be contained or controlled. The spirit of the writing spreads like an infection. Once you get into the minds of your readers, there\u2019s no taking it back. They will interpret your creation using their own points of view.<\/p>\n That\u2019s true for every piece of writing \u2013 from the work of a Nobel laureate down to the candy gloss Harlequin romances that might as well be written by machines.<\/p>\n But tackling that task is, most of the time, too much to bear for those who just write. Or too esoteric for an artistic mind plagued by demons.<\/p>\n But I\u2019m getting off track. Back to me, goddamnit.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve noticed, since junior high, that I can easily produce roughly 5000 words a week. About 99% of it has been and is complete garbage, but we\u2019ll not worry about that. I\u2019ve never really ever had writers block (something that does not, by the way, exist \u2013 again, you either can write or you can\u2019t), nor do I fear it. I\u2019ll be writing 5000 or more words a week till I die, even if it is only ever destined to vanish on an unreliable harddrive during the next electrical storm. It\u2019s the voice of the demon and, overall, I consider it a quirk, a funny little habit. Not even approaching the hobbyist level. It\u2019s just something I do to pass the time during my commute, or at work, or while I\u2019m waiting for death-by-chocolate to come out of the oven. But the sheer volume of all this shit gets the parts of my damaged brain devoted to publishing to whispering. Time to do something with it. Kindle Singles are cheap!<\/p>\n We\u2019re now in a world where publishing your shit doesn\u2019t involve any sort of commitment or cost. Something that, eventually, will destroy quality writing as every mad cunt who figures himself a writer self-publishes their 8000 page rant.<\/p>\n I try to walk a line between \u201cmad cunt\u201d and \u201cnot too terrible\u201d with my writing. That\u2019s the purpose of these writing projects. I feel, with production a non-issue, my only limitation is discipline. There are too many distractions keeping me from focusing on actually putting something cohesive and functional together. I blame Netflix. And also the fact that I work six jobs and I constantly feel like I need to sleep for a week. There\u2019s also the problem of incentive. When I just wildly careen through 5000 words that, for the most part, never see the light of day, that\u2019s no problem. But if I try to be constructive in any way I eventually reach a point where I ask myself, \u201cWhy am I working for nothing?\u201d<\/p>\n By the way, the only incentive I ever want is stuff from my ridiculously lengthy Amazon Wishlist<\/a>. Whenever some reader pays a penny to have a used book sent to my apartment, I\u2019m a pig in shit.<\/p>\n This latest project, then, is designed to try and put together some throwaway stuff that can go on Kindle at no cost and never sell. Even saying that I tried is incentive enough to inspire the discipline. Then I can join the masses of folks who \u201cjust write\u201d and have given themselves a voice. It\u2019s a new era, after all. There\u2019s no shame in publishing lengthy conversations with my penis<\/a>.<\/p>\n This whole article, by the way, represents a total breakdown in discipline. I\u2019ve produced nothing for two weeks and am grumbling about the fact that there\u2019s only a one week buffer of articles scheduled before the front page, once again, goes silent\u2026<\/p>\n But\u2026 We\u2019ll see.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" For the last two months, I\u2019ve tried to adhere to a cohesive writing schedule. 5000 words a week, of which only 3000 need to count, those being turned into front page posts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I\u2019m calling this …<\/p>\n
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