3Am, New Orleans time. I can't sleep. Why? Because my mind won't stop. Images and regrets and things I should be doing rob me of sleep.
This is my Hell.
I wake up every day mad I didn't get enough writing finished, I moan about going to work when I have a job most people would kill for. I'd rather be at my computer working on one of my stories about a serial killer or an alcoholic loner who hates the world. Something, anything. This isn't anything new for someone who writes.
The hardest part for me and my unlucky girlfriend is how much writing eats away at me. How she begs me to not take my computer on vacation, but I still make notes on everything from bar napkins to my cellphone.
On some days it robs me of my humanity, my will to understand anything.
Some days I can't bear to not lock myself away the deluxe sized coffin known as my bedroom. The thought of missing a Twitter moment where an agent hands me the golden keys to success eats away at me.
If I'm not working on a blog, a review or a story, I feel like I'm cheating myself and my career. If I'm not always trying, always doing, I feel like I'm failing. I search for sites to write for, places to review music. Ideas to critique. The hardest part about being me is that I want the world but when you have my style of doing things, the world is a hard place to find where you're wanted. I still carry on, I still obsess.
I still hold out hope I'll meet the agent who enjoys Chuck Palanuik(I know I spelled it wrong) and the picture of Dorian Gray as well as Elmore Leonard or could easily understand the idea of a writer who is as influenced by Bukowski ad he is Mirakami.
The kind of agent who thinks a serial killer book could be more than just a crazy person with a knife but an exploration into what reality in the mind of someone absolutely insane really is, vs what is perceived.
I've went as far as giving myself a sleeve of literary references to stand as a reminder that I'll have till my last breath, that I can't fail.
I should be in bed but the words painted on the back of my eyelids demanded that I pour myself out in some sort of exorcism of failure. When this blog is done, I'll go Bukowski and write some weird poetry about my coffin or my demons to make myself feel better.
I had to get up from my comfortable bed with a beautiful woman because the inner voice told me to. I'm always trying, always begging for someone to see my work. I plaster my name everywhere like a cheap whore in hopes "The One" will see my writing somewhere as I blindly query agents who'd want to represent me. My manuscript is being read by one now, but the silence of reading time on their end only acts as a noose around my neck as I sit and wait for some kind of news. Any kind of news.
Some days I feel like I can't get out of bed because the discouragement I feel is beyond grasp. Those are the days a breakfast beer is how I have to kickstart an otherwise unbearable day amongst the living.
I love what I do but as it's going lately, the chances of sending me to an early grave are more than likely. I'm trying my hardest to avoid such a future.
If you're anything like me, try to relax and hopefully we'll make it out of the tunnel with some wisdom of the process and the end result will be far greater than we could have ever understood or hoped for. I have to keep telling myself these sorts of things, otherwise I'd never get any sleep at night.