I sometimes wonder, while sometimes sitting alone in a room, perhaps my own, perhaps another’s, whether or not I have anything, like anything at all, left to say after having written one unpublished novel and an uncollection of short stories. I don’t have an answer yet, yet honestly, I keep writing and it seems to be going all right. Later on I’ll look at the next finished thing and just be glad that it’s over and then I’ll wonder if it says anything of value at all after a night of heavy drinking in accordance to celebration, waking up the next morning with a frozen reverberating pain as the soundtrack to my accomplishment. Couldn’t stop if I wanted to. I’ve found my calling. I’ve found my unreachable eternity whispering sweet nothings in my ear atop a mountain of blank stares and I can’t wait to scream those secrets with all the ferocity that my little lungs and feeble vocal chords can manage to menace with. It’s cold as ice so far. It only heats up when I light my own intensity. Not much really came before and not much will come after. Eternity. Time isn’t so scary. Time is all I have. The writing is more than the writer, with his nervous presentations, and the reader is an easily manipulated God, with their constant confusion and happenstance, deforming every master stroke and every deep plunge into mediocrity, while the story lives through history if luck and audience were to allow it. It’s all good. It all doesn’t matter unless they turn it into a makeshift golden calf of a babysitter program anyhow.
P.S. Can’t wait to finish the third season of United States of Tara. I hope it all pays off.
EDIT on 9/2/2016: It didn’t.