alt-rock band name: Holly’s Hit
I initially had this plan that I wouldn’t post anything until Book 2 was done, but I cut my finger making two-minute noodles (I AM A NOODLY GOD) and it’s taped up and typing is inconvenient; and I was awake for 40 hours, then asleep for 15; and I’m confused about the book anyway. So I bring unto thee this blog post.
I feel quite good about things, currently. The 15% of the time when things aren’t great, flowing, superb, is a time that I am dealing with. As I posted earlier, she told me that I can’t know anything, and that, more specifically, I don’t have to know everything. What she didn’t know, is that I have been trying to tell myself that for a while. But she’s actually now made me properly realise it. It was all special, because she didn’t know my personal agenda, but she knew me. Human connection is the most important/beautiful thing we have in this life, and yet we waste our time on things like money and nice cutlery.
WHATEVER; I DIGRESS.
Actually, now I have no idea what to say. I kinda just ranted it all to a friend in more specifics than I’ll ever feel comfortable putting up here.
Alright, peace. At New Years’ I’ll have some manifesto ready.
She said: “you don’t have to know everything,” and she said it without having to pretend like she understood.
For the first time ever, I believed someone. More on this later.
I have one third of a book; I’m going away for a week. It’s strange, having written before, to write. I KNOW how much is ahead of me—I know just how difficult the editing will be, especially for a book this complex. I know how much will be rewritten, and rerewritten.
And it all sorta excites me, actually. I thought it would make me give up. Sometimes I feel that it will, like the KNOWLEDGE of difficulty will crush me. But it hasn’t, yet, because I have to tell this story. It’s an essential cleansing for me, I think. Just like how the last book cleansed a set of fears and doubts and illogical thought processes, this book serves a new set of frightening masters, all of which I want to tame, or at least come to terms with in some vague sense.
I’ll always doubt myself, and my ability to write. I don’t even know how I feel about this blog post—how it’s going out into the public, unedited. Everything now, more than ever, requires careful editing. And not just once, but four, five, six times. Only then is anything ever ready.
As such, no one is reading along with this book, like last time. I’m keeping myself going, and I’m doing it alone (which feels important, maybe, to the whole sense of the book).
19000 words down. Hopefully a shorter, more manageable novel than last time (did you know that Heart is Hard to Find is 7000 words longer than The Fault In Our Stars?) Mind blowing.
Finished writing before 12 for the first time in a week. Feels good; will begin posting long updates post-Christmas. It’s been a long, exciting year, and I am still busy reflecting/working on large, scary things.
The solace of January will be a beautiful time indeed. Until then, Godspeed (for you and I).
I am my favourite joke.
It was like Sofia Coppola made a movie about an obnoxious, soulless, materialist culture, while still managing to endow it with some of her signature strange magic (vibes similar to Lost in Translation). Coppola encapsulates the kids’ heinous actions with a feeling of fulfillment; we come to understand why these kids do what they’re doing purely through the feeling delivered to us through cinema, rather than by any actions/dialogue itself (which is occasionally kinda weak).
It’s not a brilliant film, but it is a good one. It’s topical in terms of youth today, and if you watch it in tandem with Spring Breakers, then I think you’ll have a lot to think about.
An essay about The Bling Ring and Spring Breakers sounds like a pretty good way to spend graduation…
I think Spring Breakers was probably the better film, though The Bling Ring managed to retain some elements of Coppola’s signature ethereal magic which really worked for me. I’d love to find the time to write about these things, but final exams are impending and leering all at once.
The words on the page begin to blur with the world around me and everything seems to become a strange fantasy that is both entirely normal and yet somewhat removed. I feel two worlds become one, as though my own constructions could be as real and tangible and altogether felt as the physically-occurring world that encapsulates my body and the paper of fiction.
The colour manifests in the leaves. They rustle a static backdrop to the words in my head—“In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery”—that are framed, both in my mind and on the page, by the trees and their roots, and the dried grass lining cracked bitumen. The colour is golden sunlight on green leaves. It is also so much more; it is just as much the feeling of movement (the trees, my legs, a turning page, a falling sun) as it is the light in my eyes, in my head, in my thoughts.
I look out the window sometimes when I’m stagnant and see the colour, sort of. I see the colour and I feel the memories. That’s what makes it special.
It’s about then that I pick up whatever I’m reading (Eggers’s A Hologram for The King) and begin to move, once again, through the strangeness of manifold worlds and the everything between.
There are semicolons where my feelings used to be