Yesterday I lost my mind. I nervously paced a dark room. I went to Starbucks just to get out of the house and spent three hours staring at the wall. I held the tip of my pen against paper to the point where blue ink oozed into wordless piles that stained through three pages of my notebook. Finally I tried to write down what my problem is.
Because for those of you just joining up with the cult, that’s what I do… I write.
Today is my 350th post striz-at. I’ve nearly kept a yearly record of running arounds. You know what I need? Not much… but a hint of stability, that’d be great. Having no job and living out of a suitcase has been a very romantic/artist-like way to get by for a year… however I can only imagine what things like, say, having a real place to live; landing an actual job that I can afford food with; and perhaps, just maybe, somehow figuring out a way to make, I don’t know, a dollar maybe, for the eight to nine hours I spend a day on various word projects. This would all be helpful.
There are two reviews about my book up on Lulu. Both use the term ‘raw’. I like that. I want my writing to stay that way, particularly my poetry. Someone else sent me an email that said ‘there is a lot of suffering and pain in your poems…’ That was interesting feedback to receive. It concluded with ‘… that means you are a much too sensitive soul for this treacherous world.’
They’re probably right.
Never the less, I’m much better today. I’m leaving the city once again and going to hide in the country. At the moment, I work better there. People I love, a house filled with windows, and a dining room table to serve as a desk… (insert deep breath here).