The joy of waking up and having nowhere you need to go. And knowing that you have another day off after the one you are just starting. Another day that holds no demands, just that you finish some projects and start some others.
Like teaching myself how to make simple animations so I can animate a dream or a story. (This is really just me mucking around…)
Or starting a subscription story project where I send subscribers a new short story on the 30th of every month.
I did get some of the zines bound but as I was doing so I felt unsettled, the way I had felt unsettled writing the story, printing the story, reading the story. I’ll be honest right here (not to say that I am dishonest elsewhere rather that I will be forthright instead of omitting the truth), it is the anchor story that bothers me. I don’t even know if it is quality writing or not because it is just so deeply personal that I cannot read it.
Also, I wrote it a while ago. Before transitions took place. Shedding of skins. It is rather embarrassing and I should just toss it into the garbage bin but for the fact that I have put off shipping it to the only person to buy it for too long, my mother (so we really should remove that ‘rather’ up there and just call it embarrassing). She somehow came across it when I had it for sell, out of a dare to myself, on a different site and bought ten copies. I sent off the first batch a while ago, glad to see the end of it but they did not arrive, thanks to the US Postal Services. So, I made a second batch, and a companion painting to replace the one that also perished in the post, and that has taken up so much time simply because: I do not want to be doing it.
It had to be written, though, I know that. It had to be reduced from this big, overwhelming thing to something minor, something held together with string, made on a convenience store copy machine. Do I really want anyone to read it? Not really, which was why with the first edition it was under a pen name. But I need to own it, I need to say, I wrote this because I felt this way, because I suffered these delusions, because I was so soulsick that it was the only way of saving me, of washing me back ashore this land called life.
Every writer does it, writes some shit and learns how not to write so shitty by writing again and again until it is less shitty. So my shit is a collection of three stories and some poems, folded together, and my attempt to sell it is simply my attempt to get it out of my system, because once someone reads the story then it ceases to be solely mine.