Block

Saying goodbye to the same people is old. So I won’t.

… … …

 

I have about thirty things to write and create for work. I’m a couple of weeks behind. And now I’m not sitting around boiling because of someone else, so the floodgates should open and I should be able to knock this work out, right?

 

Guess not.

I can’t afford writer’s block, honestly. Not with my business, at least. I can sit on my hands and not come up with the rest of my novel, with the rest of my short stories, with the rest of emails. But my business pays my bills and keeps our heads above water, so I have to shake this today. Now, really. Yesterday.

But I can’t stop daydreaming. Sighing dreamily or staring blankly at the wall or ceiling or window. I can’t stop wondering what is left to want and then wanting other things anyway.

It’s not bad. Not for me. But it’s so bad for business.

Wake Up.

2018.5

Watching Korean films like I used to.

… … …

There was a time when I could convince you that I was the only person on the planet. On this entire Earth. That I existed by myself,  that even you were a figment of my imagination. I’d sit for hours every single night, avoiding sleep, watching Korean films. Crying like a baby.

Memento Mori. Samaritan Girl. Old Boy. Sympathy For Mr. Vengeance. Lady Vengeance. Green Chair.

I’d watch Japanese films. Live for violence and sorrow and exploitation.

Ichi The Killer. A Snake of June. Audition. One Missed Call.

I’d watch Chinese films. Feel thrills from little details like seizures and bloody nightmares.

Dumplings. H.

And I’d go on and on and on watching these films. Living in these stories and these moments as if my own life would never start up. Because there was no one else there. Nothing but Synecdoche, New York. Nothing but Last Life in the Universe. Nothing but The Science of Sleep or The Rules of Attraction or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Film was important to me. Almost as important as books, for a time.

I feel myself venturing back into that. Into the sounds of skin, close-ups of lips, the study of weary eyes.

I spent my New Year observing movies that I watched so much, I thought I knew the characters in real life. I remembered some of these actors and actresses like I really knew them.

I think I will go back to avoiding sleep. For the most part.

I think I’ll use my time machine for good every now and then.

2018

If only I could translate sarcasm and cynicism into an active writing career.

… … …

The end of the year means a lot to me. I don’t find it as flippant and eye-roll inducing as a lot of people do. It means more to me than astrology and religion and a bunch of other if’s, and’s, or buts.

I can look back on a year and tell you how I felt with detail and emphasis. It’s just enough time for me to take a lesson, maybe one that I will ultimately ignore, and mold into something real. Looking back on 2017 feels different than looking back on 2016, than looking back on 2015, and so on. I find enough value in it to make sure that I write something, anything, on New Year’s Eve. There hasn’t been much to stop that from happening in the past 7 or 8 years.

This year was a lot of…nothing. Alabama was a mistake but one that I needed to make in order to move forward. This year started with a car accident and ended with a death. It started with a fresh start and ended right back where I was running from. But it did start. And it did end. And I’m not dead.

I made a lot of money this year. A whole lot. I think I made more money this year than I’ve ever made in my life (in terms of working – my Dad’s death obviously reaped me more money but that was lost as quickly as his life). I earned. I worked so hard sometimes that I wouldn’t sleep (or eat) for days at a time.

This year, I had two sexual partners. One that I’ve known for almost ten years and one that I’d only known a couple of weeks. This year I kind of lost the feeling that love gave me, the feeling that made me want to keep going back to it over and over. The feeling that made me deal with situations and attitudes I didn’t like.

The excuses seemed to fall from existence this year. The fear was immense. The desire to withdraw from humanity and become someone else, to live in my own head until my body gave up, that intensified. I’m going into 2018 understanding that I want to escape reality some way,  some how. Even if it’s just by doing well as a writer, moving somewhere remote, and dying in the woods of old age and romanticism.

I understand that my depression makes things up a lot. It tells me things that aren’t true. It takes things from me, things that help me cope: music, art, movies, love, lust, everything. But it can’t take my stories, and it can’t take my day dreams, and I understand that now. My fear of my writing dwindling and dying out have always been unfounded.

Writing will always be there for me. My characters will always be there for me. And so, I’ll take better care of them this year.

 

I don’t know. I go into 2018 as Shaquana Amanda Briggs, Trey Briggs, Treys Ludlow. I go into 2018 as the mother of Rajesh and Urijah. The sister of Tairina, Derrick, and Keith. The daughter of Denise Briggs. I go into 2018 as the on again, off again girlfriend of Wolf. I go into 2018 as a lot of old things, and also a lot of new.

 

I look forward to all the success, all the failure,  all the tears, all the fear, all the love, all the lust, all the writing and fantasies that 2018 will bring. I love being me. I love myself and all that I can endure.

I go into this year as a monster that I most definitely created, and I fucking love it.