"Self-improvement is important, but so is mediation (i.e. if you are constantly focussed on improving yourself, how can you enjoy anything ever?)"
I was giving this advice to someone dear to me, only to realise that it was the exact sentiment that I’d been trying to figure out for the past six months with regards to myself. I wasn’t pondering anything deeply at the time I wrote it; the discussion itself was not even that pressing. The issue we were dealing with was just on my mind, and I responded (as I tend to) instinctively, and with a certain degree of honesty.
And then BAM.
I’ve been searching for some mantra to motivate me to change from the self-destructive cycle of the past year, and I think this could be it. And all of it, too, coming from a simple conversation borne of love. Maybe there’s something corny and mildly Hollywood in all of that.
This leads me, then, to wonder why these thoughts so often are delivered to me in such blase impasse? In writing We Ran Anyway, the most poignant understanding I grasped of my past came from a throwaway line mid-paragraph, when I wasn’t trying to “say” anything at all, but instead the words spoke for me.
Perhaps this is a subconscious process, driven by the forces and thoughts and concepts that our surface-level minds cannot grasp—and thus, these parses of thought come to me not when I am searching, but when I am grasping: when I am already there, they reveal themselves. I think I’m getting a little mystical here, but I’m essentially trying to state the belief that a lot of things are subliminal, and are only grasped when applicable, and not when desperately and internally reflecting due to some innate desire for meaning and explanation. Maybe I am saying also that human connection (conversation with a loved one) is what drives these subliminal connections to be made faster.
So then, the interconnectedness of everything reveals itself once more. I am very tired.
“You know how I feel about spirits,” he said. “They’re only for drinking.”
The more I think about it, Her might have been better than Inside Llewyn Davis…
The second draft has been run past my editor (I call you that now, Louisa, but soon you will find a real job).
She digs it, sans one chapter. Which I’m mid-way through working on now (Chapter Nine). It is, essentially, an important chapter in terms of theme and pacing—however, the specific content of the chapter is not very good at all. So I’m refining that now.
I’m going to convert some conversation to become more thematically relevant and so on, then build off that. I was going to add a series of chapters, but honestly the book seems okay in its current form. I guess I’ll have to wait and see what the rest of the readers think.
Apologies for the poor nature of this post. Just keeping myself in the loop.
I want to say something serious, but I don’t want to be taken seriously.
Second draft done.
I’m thinking that it’s time to do something for a month that isn’t a book, or even, maybe, a written narrative (unless an idea hits me, out of the blue, striking with force). I’ll restart my artist’s journal, I think, and combine it with the diary I’ve been meaning to begin using to sort out this mess of thoughts I’m trying to cope with.
But I suppose it won’t be hard to find ways to fill the time, at least, what with university looming around the corner—the first orientation session is this monday, actually, tomorrow…
“Okay, you can be God, but you have to be blue. Like the colour of a man constantly choking. A God choking on sin.”
“No; I’m omnipotent. I’ll be a fucking rainbow if I want.”
“Oi,” he said. “How dare you fucking say that to me. My dad was gay.”
I stared at him.
“It would make sense,” I said. “Your mum’s so hot after all.”
It was unsettling, to think for a moment that we had built the sky.
Maybe so many short updates are pointless, but it feels important to get thoughts out there, onto the blog, like a shorthand flow chart of ideas/ideals.
The book ends well. There’s an overflow of montaged emotion. Not sure if it works, but I like what it could be with some fine tuning and rethinking. Now that I’ve finished reading, I just have to start working on typing those edits up—and then, maybe, send a copy of the manuscript off to someone.
Piggybacking off this post since what I want to say is brief. I think I’ve figured out that this novel is an exploration of my insecurities, which is, perhaps, different to Heart is Hard to Find's exploration of my fears. Curious, since I'd say that this book is much “scarier”—and maybe there's something to that. There seems to be a lot to everything in this book, and most of it is very vague (too vague? I cannot be sure).
96/205 pages of edits typed up. Getting there. Interesting, this second draft is getting much longer, not shorter. This is the nature of the style and story, I figure (there is a lot of cutting, but also a lot to add). Probably ~250 words longer than the original so far, which is less than an additional page.