A Novel Experiment: Day 29

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Today’s Word Count (actual/goal): 1012/1000

Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah): 14,642

Had some good writing the last few days, thank gods, powering through the crazed machinations of my heathen children and utter exhaustion. We’re getting there, buddies. We’re getting there.

So there were protests in Lexington about letting high schoolers play sports this fall, as in Right Fucking Now. You know what I enjoy? Sport. I watch sport, used to play sport, find comfort in sport. In fact, the loss of sport is when I first thought “Oh shit, this virus stuff is serious.” You know what I enjoy more, love more, need more? My children being alive and healthy, dirty heathens that they are. I sure do love them, and I sure do value them far more than high school touchdown records. Fall sports are the most contact heavy, particularly football but also in high school soccer where the fields are smaller than the pros and the players are worse so they don’t spread out as much. The only thing worse would be starting up a fall rugby league or some sort of county or statewide dirty-dance competition. We Americans are such bitches, such spoiled brats who want things our goddamn way and kiss our collective ass, The Greater Good. Gimme all the guns and the cheeseburgers and movie theaters and deep-fried butter sticks at the state fair because we can’t let the virus win and also terrorism.

“Life’s not worth living without some risk, so let my boy play football!” Go fuck yourself.

Last I’ll say about this: look at the protest that was held by parents in the Big Ten conference a week or so ago. What was their main battle cry? “Let us play!” US. Motherfuckers, you aren’t playing! You’re fifty years old with saltwater taffy for knees and big bellies like mine filled with ice cream and sadness! You’re just admitting to living vicariously through your children. Smooth. Borderline child abuse, but smooth.

In other news, I’ve been more bananas the last couple of days. I’ll say this: they’re tasty.

Be good to one other, my friends. Clean Breaths > Quarterback Sacks.

A Novel Experiment: Day 26


Today’s Word Count (actual/goal): 1393/1000

Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah): 12,623

Today’s writing was smooth, easier than usual, with only a single break early on to utilize the Shower Principle in service of figuring out the next steps. You know the Shower Principle—you’re in the shower, lathering up your butt cheeks, thinking only of those soapy glistening hams, and then suddenly, BOOM, you know what color to paint your garage. You completely shift your mind gears, and that’s when the universe sends you answers. Personally, I figured mine out while treating my delicious beard with succulent beard oil, a boar-hair brush, and a shitty plastic comb. So try that if you’re feeling nasty.

I can’t stop listening to Pink Floyd. It’s a problem. Now everything I do takes fifteen to twenty minutes even though I could easily do it in four. Also, Roger Waters keeps trying to sue me. I think I’ll write the novel so it syncs up perfectly with Ummagumma or whichever album “Bike” is on.

That’s all I’ve got. Oh, I wish you were here, you strangers, you legends, you martyrs.

A Novel Experiment: Day 23


Today’s Word Count (actual/goal): 1052/1000

Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah): 11,031

I wrote about 300 words yesterday but didn’t get the chance to blog.

One of the shitty things about being bipolar (this may come across as an unintentional humblebrag, please hold on to your butts) is that a lot of different project ideas just pour into your brain when you’re in pretty much any mood but horrifyingly depressed. Whatever I plop out and call art is powered by hypomanic swings of joy and energy, but it’s never acutely focused on one thing, so I end up squirreling things. You know, writing for a bit then screaming “Squirrel!” and spending the next three hours thinking about how cool it would be to learn bass guitar. I believe bipolar disorder, or whatever specific mood disorder afflicts me, is a halfway-close relative to ADHD. That’s not a joke, that a probability. And when you need to buckle down, like I’d absolutely flat-out no-shit love to do on this novel, the new ideas for dog-based paintings, Leper-based poetry cycles, trombone resumptions, drawn and digital broadsides, conservative-pundit parody satires, and backyard Stonehenge construction really get in the goddamn way. It’s frustrating, and fun as shit, but frustrating. Also the brain works like this for anything not just creativity so hip-hip hooray I can’t stop thinking about all the embarrassing things from high school and the state of our country!

What’s my conservative-pundit parody satire character, you ask? LUSH RIMJOB. Thank you, folks, I’ll be here all week.

That’s all. Best of luck to you and yours, my effervescent love muffins.

A Novel Experiment: Day 19


Today’s Word Count (actual/goal): 1364/1000

Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah): 9627

This week has been slow, aggravating, a little stressful, with children’s dental procedures and various work and home duties to care for. The project suffers, as it should have, given that these other things are of primary importance. But I did hit my word-count goal today, so boom, GIF.

Did you know that if you make a pitcher of green tea with honey and a touch of sugar and then leave it on your counter all night because you’re a dumbass, the tea will very much taste like moldy grass when you ice it up and take a chug the next day? Well I didn’t. But I do now. And I will continue to.

I hate writing dialogue. I think that’s one of the things I would have been able to really hone in on if I’d made fiction a focus in school. I tend to ramble, and have long chains of very short back-and-forths that I think I stole from McCarthy only he’s Cormac Fucking McCarthy and I’m Tits McGee writing in crayon over here, and I also sometimes get a little too cute maybe. But hey, Don DeLillo’s dialogue always sounds like two super-computers arguing about the philosophical importance of hot dogs and he’s fucking great, so. Shrug.

Long days and pleasant nights, you beautiful terrestrials.

A Novel Experiment: Day 15


Today’s Word Count (actual/goal): 1020/1000

Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah): 8262

I found these garlic parmesan walnuts that make me go nuts. They’re really helping me power through longish sessions at my desk, which are starting to resemble intense Inquisition-style interrogations, not because of the writing or even any spiritual or existential crises, but more because this cheap-ass office chair I’m sitting in just digs into the outer portions of my ass, those areas that make you wonder if it’s ass or hip, you know? Apparently I’ve got the quarantine ass, and a lovely extraneous bed pillow has not helped.

The writing continues on, goes well. I made a head grow on an old-fashioned reel lawn mower—in the story, of course, haven’t found that real-life spell yet—so that’s a good time.

I’ve been reading Nausea by Sartre and I thought I’d connect with it more, really empathize with the narrator, but no. He is nauseous about existence, not saturated fats and too much queso. Writing’s good though. Might read A Clockwork Orange next, keep things light.

We shall meet again, compatriots.