At the keyboard, trying to make words flow, trying to write something. Trying to create from nothing, summoning sentences into being. The life of a writer is one of drudgery and pain. It's one of solitude and loneliness. It's a wretched life of dark rooms and late nights, of regrets and anger. It's the life I live because I'll know no other.
A failed writer sits surrounded by manuscripts and rejection letters and stubbornly plods on, vivisecting a bit of his soul and stapling it onto the page. words ooze forth from his mind and trickle in tentative drops, then a deluge and downpour. I know people in Hollywood who work on films and I know people living in Manhattan with connections in publishing. unfortunately, they can't help me, so I must shoulder the burden. It's my cross I'm forced to carry up the hill, one I'll be crucified on, impaled like a slab of beef in the butchers' window, a pathetic spectacle worthy of gawking and ridicule. Americans and their shadenfreude. They love to see suffering, and them ore personal, the better. There the failed writer hangs, food for flies, dejected and alone, his epitaph reading "Here Lies One Failed American Writer. At Least He Tried."
My only regret is I've waisted the last decade of my life and didn't send anything out. I didn't write anything serious or worthy of print. Just empty articles and empty, shallow words clinging to the page like past echos. Hollow and devoid of substance, cringe-worthy and drowning in pathos. Nothing bold or vibrant, nothing stellar or remarkable. I spent my thirties lost and floundering.
Maybe it'll all peak later for me. After a lifetime of experience and misery, my writing could only improve, become more disciplined and meaningful.
If there's such a thing as karma, then I'm long overdue for some good fortune.
Monastic existence, spartan heart, realistic to the point of numb. I've poured bottles of Guinness down the drain, purging the alcohol and sobering up. I don't frequent that horrid dive bar anymore. I exercise and get some fresh air.
Earth turns as its always done, another day passes, another night falls. Within the back room of my apartment, I sit and type this blog, recording something - anything - of mental recollection. For posterity. To alleviate pain. To just get the words down somewhere.