Post Tryptophan Ramblings

Felicitations. I greet you well. I trust the turkey has found its way into the sewer by now and everyone is strung out on beer and tryptophan, plus whatever surreptitious opiate they put in the meat during the holidays. For me, it was a day of Scorsese, and that's just fine. 

This is going to be a little choppy, like mad seas. I have no subject but don't want the blog to stagnate. While grateful for every single reader I have, I also keep it to assuage my automaton of apathy. Years of that muck in my shadow. As I drift through it, this is one of my paddles. This is a sort of diary--I wouldn't sell it, but it aids me in organizing my thoughts into a linear pattern. Maybe gives them a sort of theme, which is great for the writer. And not bad for the person who may benefit from keeping all their thoughts in disciplined subject boxes. Grants one the ability to know their minds well enough to rebuke any egregious compulsions. That must be one reason journal keeping is so laudable.

Another oar is the book I've been working on for ten and a half months. Relearning to write by turning a mass of crappy street notes into a book has gone from virginal plunking to a work for which I have high hopes. Verily, I wax honest. There's a part of me fantasizing about the Pulitzer. It's probably my bi-polar saying that, so I heed the humility in my logic centers. That means I know if my confidence is fantasy level, I at least have printable copy. Maybe a writer needs that to succeed, and stays healthy by taming the delusional mustang within that drives him across his tales. 

And there's these illustrations. I feel like I'm not doing so well with these. Drawing is a motherfucker. I know how, but it's HARD for me. I'm not Clive Barker. I can't just touch graphite to page and make the pencil shit mastery like he can. Ever seen him draw? Ye fucking gods. Ludicrous. Many other artists, especially comic artists produce perfection with a calligraphy pen. Shit. I barely know what one of those looks like. Why the hell am I trying to illustrate anything? Well, I said I would, and it's important to me that I finish this art project. That, and I know it'll fucking be cool when I'm done. Sometime's that's good enough. 

What else do I have in the fire? This wendigo story I began today. I can't talk about that much, but I feel like it will wrench guts. While I'm editing I see that everything I write seems doused in sulfuric indigo. But fixed sulfur is gold, and indigo is majestic.

Enough babble for now. And my brain can stop bugging me for not keeping this up. I do hope you lot had a magnificent Thanksgiving. And if you called it Indiginous People Day instead of Thanksgiving like some, I hope you had a happy one of those.