Self-Impose

I have given myself until May 10th to have the rough copy of my next book completed. From that day, I have given myself another 6 months (November 10th) to have the second draft completed.

Some may be confused. If I am my own boss, for the moment; why impose restrictions on yourself? Why not just ‘go-with-the-flow’ and let things be done when they are done?

It’s a fair question with a simple answer: if left to my own devices, I would never complete a creative project.

I hear the questions already.
What about the All Cut Up albums?!
I played drums and mixed them. Yes, one could argue that I co-wrote them, but I was always convinced that it was Kevo’s project first. I wanted to release the best thing I could produce for him as fast as he would be happy about it.

What about the other projects you produced?
To reiterate, they were other people’s projects. As much as I would spend hours on mixing and leveling what I could, I just had to make it sound the best that it could. In a couple of cases, that mix was found very quickly. To continue to mix would risk ruining the end result.

What about the first book?
I am going to be doing a PodCast talking about that very soon actually, but I was aided in the fact that it was based in an event. I only had so much creative control when discussing reality.

So, yes: I will have a completed version of the book by November. You have until then to support me on Patreon to ensure that you get listed at the end. Just $1 a month is all I ask!

Reality

I have the strangest bit of writer’s block.

Well, to call it “writer’s block” is a bit of a misnomer. It is more of a crippling wall that I find myself behind.

Okay, let me backup a bit:

I am a fan of writing parts out of order. If I find myself stuck at an important part, I leave it alone for a bit, and move forward. I then go back to the part that I find myself stuck behind and hope that what I have done moving forward has either answered what I am stuck on, or given me an out.

The story I am writing right now involves a bit of physics that does not exist. It involves movement faster than light, which is empirically impossible (as of the writing of this journal) and shows no possibility of being conquered. So, in usual fashion, I started writing further into the story to fill out other ideas.

I wrote over 10,000 words when I hit another wall showing me that I need to, at least, fudge the concept into some kind of in-universe reality. The part that makes it so hard is that I am trying to keep the world that I have built at least KIND OF realistic. It involves science that does not exist: it involves science that we want to exist. This means that I have a lot of information that would not work, and what makes it MORE frustrating is that if I try to use the thing that doesn’t work, people will quickly debunk it and the story becomes tainted.

I know that I am putting too much faith into the reading community. I should just write something and stop worrying if it makes sense. I should just ‘yadda yadda’ the movement thing when it comes up in the future. I should have written something easier.

I is not that brite an’ is no gud at riting.

Unfortunately for me, and my back account, I am an arrogant fucker who wants to create something that warrants respect. I am sick of being the “guy who helps do stuff” and I want to become someone worth a damn.

Speaking of being worth a damn, did you want to be in the thank-you section of the book that I just spent the top portion of this post bitching about? Donate as little as a dollar to my Patreon a month, and that will happen! It also helps me keep this blog going for another year. I mean, it will anyway: the monetary gain just makes it worth it.

I’m Not Dead

I hope this is a good idea: I have this thought that talking about mental stress, in any capacity, is a good thing. If I am wrong, I will pull this down.

My thought process is that more conversation about anyone with mental issues will help everyone who deals with them on some level.

I have, for a very long time, dealt with my own mortality. I actually feel guilt for being alive.

Now, that does not imply that I am depressed. I actually feel this way whether I am having a good day or not. I am constantly thinking about how I am squandering aspect of life, even when I am doing everything right. I have released more albums in a period of 10 years than most people will in their entire lives. I have written a book. I do a PodCast, and I have produced a number of songs. I am married to an amazing woman. I have three beautiful dogs, and a cat that is amazing. Even this blog could be seen as an accomplishment, though even on paper, I don’t see it as anything special.

I feel constantly hounded by the fact that I am heavily in debt. Things I do don’t get the attention that I think they should. A large part of that is my examples are ludacris to live up to. I have constant reminders from other YouTube personalities, musicians, and writers who have great success and reach limits unheard of by history.

The biggest component is my health status. I get daily reminders that I am not walking. A close relationship tells me often how my seizures are self inflicted, and I believe it even though I know that they are not.

I am trying, but I feel as though that I have done this all to myself. I then start to feel horrible because there are people (friends and otherwise) who have died before they could do anything eternal. I feel as though the system wasting it’s time on me is for not. I am literally living my life because other people want me to for them.

That is something never talked about: how we don’t get reprise from life. Even on a day off, we have to make sure that we do X and Y for ourselves so we can get back to doing things to “better” humanity. It does not help that, because I am over 30 years old, I have signed a collection of confidentiality agreements to prevent my doctors explaining certain things to family and friends.

Couple this exhaustion from life with my disdain for existence, and I am having a hard time. I AM NOT DEPRESSED, but I am feeling trapped and pulled thin. I make morbid jokes because I find them hilarious. I talk about killing myself, NOT AS A CRY FOR HELP, as a way to express emotions at that time and date.

I tell everyone that I love them, because I genuinely do. I am going to start signing off every PodCast with “I love you” because I don’t hear that being uttered enough.

I know I said that I am taking a break, but I really needed to get that out.

I love you.

My Question

As my previous post announced, the 12th was my birthday! That makes me 32, according to when I was actually born in ’88. That part I am not disputing, as it would be very silly if I did!

My question lies with the fact that they pulled life support back in 2013 on my birthday (mildly poetic) and I was supposed to die that day. I think of that often, and now get reminded every year because my oldest friend’s fiance gave birth on that day to twins.

They are both quite lovely, by the way.

My question is simple: am I 32 or 7?

My good friend Chrissy reminded me that it would not be fair if I became younger than her. I really do have to question why anyone would actually want to be younger than they are? I take great pride in the fact that I am the age I am. My wife is two years older than me, and the changes in pop culture that we experienced are amazing.

I am now going to tangent, as I often do. Is it not strange and awesome that humans are the only species that I know of (leave examples of me being wrong in comments) that keep track of age? We have birthdays, anniversaries, laws and regulations around what you can or cannot do, and competition to see who is the oldest in some circles.

Maybe I’m just thinking too much about it. Maybe I’m onto something interesting. Maybe you just caught me writing another blog to delay writing my next book because I am actually intimidated to screw something up so to avoid doing that, I am just waffling until it mysteriously finishes itself.

mad

I am too angry to write.

I don’t have a reason, and this is far from a cry for help. I would blame anxiety or depression, but I’m not sad.

I crave to scream at something, I think? Or maybe, just maybe, I feel like I don’t deserve something? I have no clue. I don’t know why I am this way right now. It might be reading the headlines from our neigbours to the south, or it might be this feeling of being trapped in a world of hate and malice.

Either way, long story short, my birthday is Thursday. I will do the usual hiatus from the twelfth to January, with a Christmas update in between. I am 10,000 words deep into my latest book. I love what I have written so far, but I have been to… messed up?… to write anything for about a week now. I voiced a fear of hating what I have written to a friend of mine, then read it over again and felt better.

I hope I can do a more interesting post before Thursday.

Hiccup

I just moved again. I cannot find my monitor.

Sure: I could use my TV, but focusing on text is too difficult on a screen that big.

(My eyes are annoying)

I’m writing this short blog post from my phone, which is not good for my usual ramblings. Links on this though possible, are annoying to implement.

My humble ask is that you come back when I have everything set to continue, again. I miss writing, in every capacity.

A big plus for the break is that I figured out a plot issue with my book (in regards of how to fix it). Reminder that if you want your name in the Thank You section, donate to my Patreon. The help would be much appreciated!

The Mistake…?

I was on fire the other day.

I got writing my next book, and had this strike of inspiration! I have been sitting around 5000 words for the last couple of months: I knew where I wanted to go, just not how to get there. I had figured it out the other day, though. My Glob, I had figured it out!

I had a very sterile ending, that works brilliantly. Jay sandard, which translates to “everything you just read was so much worse for the character than you originally believed”. I had this one event that I wanted to happen. I showed it to the beautiful Patrick, and he pointed out how there was no compassion on the side of the reader. Basically, I had this avatar get shot and no one should care.

Initially, I was a little indignant. I have always, and probably will always, believe a story should be more a snapshot of an event rather than a retrace of past events that have little bearing on said event. I got thinking about Pat’s comment in this context, though. I started to realize that he was more correct than I wanted.

After penciling ideas out for a month, I finally had an idea of where I wanted to go. So, on Monday, I put down 2000 or so words. Tuesday, I heard the sirens call and wrote another 1000ish words. Wednesday, I was on fire and wrote nearly 5000 words. Yesterday, being Thursday, October 1st, I read over the fruits of my labour. That day was the first day that I didn’t have new ideas, and I was happy to just reflect.

Imagine my horror when I read the same chapter (with variations, minor but there were some) three times. I spent the next few hours stunned into silence. I had not started my music before I started reading, and I was between YouTube videos. There I was, staring at the horrible mistake I had made.

I was floored. I was upset. Hours upon hours of work would have to be destroyed. They were too similar and time sensitive to use again in the narrative, which means I couldn’t even recycle them for “the next day” or something like that. They were useless.

IF ONLY MY STORY WAS ABOUT THE DELICATE NATURE OF TIME AND SUDJESTION!

Oh wait, it is!
Without giving too much away, I am going to try to make them work as recursion as a hint for the reader that everything is wrong. I started a plot-progression tree to try to keep track. It’s already intimidatingly large.

If this works the way I think it might, this will be amazing.

Now to drink all the coffee ever in celebration!

Oh: I’m moving on Wednesday. There may be a little hiccup in updates, and if you want to come by for a visit, do so now. I’m moving 5 hours away and though everyone is welcome to come over to visit, it will be a bit far.

I’m Terrible

Hey. I got a new chair Thursday. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I have been busy.

I’m working on a new PodCast surrounding the concept of artist hating their own work. I got feedback on my FaceBook. I have a mild script this time, so I keep my thoughts in a somewhat organized fashion. I feel pretty optimistic about this one. Mind you, I thought that about the last one, and I have only had eight views on YouTube at the time of writing this. I will not say that it is because of poor production, not enough responses to blame everything on that.

I digress.

I have been writing a pretty torrent, as of late. I am expanding Martha. to be a full story, and the couple of people I have had read it over really enjoy what I’m doing with the plot! To make it even better, I am having such fun delving into that world. I have been writing the tale since May, so I am not happy with the 5438 words that so far. I had planned on doing 1000 words per month, so I am close to my target. I want to start shopping it out after I finish. I don’t plan on having someone bite; but if I continue this direction, I think it will have a better chance than some. I really like it, and I hope you do to!

My strange quiet for the past month? We’re moving again. Well, for my wife and I it’s again. For my parents, it’s the first time in 25 years. The cacophony surrounding everything keeps my mind very busy, and I am going to attatch myself to that premise as to why I have not been around as much.

OH! Here’s the new chair!

Depression

I am going to start this of with a warning. I don’t plan on getting too dower or bleak, but this is a very triggering topic for some. If you are someone who has a tendency to get upset by talk of suicide, depression, or the state of the world, consider this a warning and remember that I love you. Call a help-line, talk to a psychiatrist, or get hold of a friend. You can even just leave a comment with a statement as simple as “help” and I will make sure to reach out.

Also, this is not a request for help. This is not a sign of warning, nor is it an answer. It’s more of a series of ideas and questions posed as a blog. I am not an expert, and I do not pretend to be. Again, resources are available if you need them. The one thing I am very passionate about is that talking to someone is, not just a step, the best step. That includes morons, like me, on the internet with too much time on their hands.

Okay. You have been warned. This is the last line that I will post before launching into my thoughts. I promise you that they will be upsetting to someone, and I refuse to be sorry for them.

If you couldn’t tell from that 3 paragraph intro, I have a lot of thoughts on depression, suicide, and mental health in general. Again: I am the furthest thing from a professional, and I have never been diagnosed as depressed. If that is a deal breaker for you, have a good day.

When I say that I have never been diagnosed with depression, I mean that in the most clinical definition. Am I depressed? Almost definitely on paper. The thing that keeps me from confirming the suspicion I have of depression is a sense of irony. It would almost be too perfect if I am depressed because my outlook on life is so bleak. I don’t care what happens after I die; I am dead. I cannot believe in an afterlife no matter how hard I try. I guess one could argue that I lead a hedonistic life, but that term seems too definite to me.

If I refuse to define my life as headonistic, how do I define it?

Well, I would say that I live a life of insecurity and stats. I obsessively watch things like YouTube subscriptions, video view numbers, stats of interactions with Twitter, and fancounts on FaceBook. I will spend the next week obsessing over the engagement that this post receives, as I have with every post I have made to this site over the last five years. The first AND last thing I do in a day is look at book sales, which haven’t shown a single number in three months at this point.

I have tied my worth as a human being to a series of number and engagement ratings. I hide my personality behind paywalls and am constantly disappointed with how poorly I am doing according to the numbers today, as opposed to seeing how they may have increased over the last year. The other day, I noticed that I lost two followers on my Twitter a month ago (the one stat I don’t keep up with) and spent hours re-reading the 40 or so posts I have made since they vanished to see what I might have done wrong. Damn, there is a chance that they were never real people. Alternatively, there is a chance that they WERE real people that realised how pointless Twitter is and disabled their account to go do something cool, like eat a sandwich.

I have a hard time disassociating likes, followers, and view numbers from accomplishment. I should be proud of the fact that I have 10ish releases of music and a book under my belt, but I find myself hung up on how I am very broke, rely on family and friends, and am very broke. Ironically, money is something that I cannot attach myself to. I have had the same Patrons forever. I appreciate them very much, but I don’t plug or push donating to that because I am trying to make stuff without relying on that. Even though I do have three dogs and a cat that would like to be fed.

So far, I know that this post has seemed like waffling. Those opening paragraphs seem like nothing more than fodder to keep the morbid few reading further into this post, but I swear there is a point to all of this. I cannot talk about my own mental shortcomings without defining where my head is at the point.

Back to my point of “who cares what happens after you die?” That is actually something I have been struggling with a lot as of late. Therefor. I have very little regard for life. I cannot find a reason to care about what happens after I die. If my identity gets taken, if my book gets plagiarized, if my unreleased work gets finished by someone else and published under their name: I will be dead and therefore cannot reap any benefit or dismay that it might generate. If anything, I do not have to deal with the fallout and heartbreak of it not going as well as I think it should.

So, if I have this very “selfish” view on life; why keep going? If I am so convinced that there will be no repercussion that I have to deal with, why even risk the heartbreak? I should be willing to take my own life. I should be already dead. I should die quietly and make sure that I go in a quiet manner to make sure that I matter as little in death as I did in life.

One word.
Tomorrow.

I’m curious about what tomorrow brings. I’m curious about what I can accomplish. I’m curious about what my friends will do, and if the things I have (or my friends have) done will matter in the long run.

If you can’t find reason to live, just remember that the reason could be as simple as what the butterfly effect might bring in the next moment.

That might sound stupid, juvenile, or even selfish; but it helps me see tomorrow. Yes; I have a wife that I love very much. Yes; I have my family, friends, and possible prospects in writing. Yes; I have a small collection of people that might read this line. I love all of you very much, and I appreciate you coming to my articles. I know that I have been a bit more rambly as of late, and much less directed. I am sorry for that, but please remember that I appreciate you.

Also music.

To reply…?

I have gone a couple of months without saying too much about the review that was published. Official opinion? I like it! I was very honoured that they compared me to Chuck Palahniuk, as he is one of my favourite writers. Even being called “undercooked” by comparison is like saying that a painting is no Mona Lisa. That comparison alone brought tears to my eyes as I read it.

I refuse to refute any points I do not agree with. I am a firm believer in the idea that a work is a living entity that exists on its own. The review, though I do think it is a bit too tough on the vignettes, is very good. Even the “undercooked” is surrounded by words of encouragement and praise, so I need to stop focusing on it.

It’s hard to detach personal attachment from something that I created. I still get mildly defensive when people attack bands I was in a lifetime ago. Hell, I have notice lyrical discrepancies in regards to The Twin and I will never elaborate on that. If you can hear where we were offensive, let’s talk about it. I’ll tell you 234982340 other times you should be offended, and I will fully agree that we should have payed more attention to what we were saying.

On the topic of creation, I am about 1/5th into writing my next book. I know that does not sound far, but you have no idea how little hair I have left trying to wrap my mind around timeline and greater scope. I have the ending done, I have a major event. Now, it’s just a matter of connecting those two points, while also making those points make sense in the greater narrative. Also, I need to give some importance and gravity to the initial event.

I showed a very early draft to my friend Pat, and he pointed out how there was no reason to care that an event happened to the main character. At that time, I had the inciting event happen right at the beginning. I still hold that it could have worked, but starting with an emotional moment only to have it undercut by how we don’t know the character is not ideal…

MY GREATER POINT

If you donate to my Patreon (as low as a dollar a month) you will be listed in the “Thank You”s at the end of the text. I will have the book done by 2021, because 2020 is a garbage fire and I want nothing I do to be immortalized by this horrible year.