On Decline

It occurs to the present author, as post activity and view activity declines, and brainstorming has resulted in no new ideas for this hereto blog, that, like all endeavors undertaken by both the present author and most humans, this too shall end in failure. That a modest attempt at regular internet content, in the form of vapid and self-aggrandizing posts, managed to last a half a year, to this point in time, can be seen as a small pyrrhic victory against the unending onslaught of procrastination, laziness, and writer's block.

If any of the non-existent readers of this blog have enjoyed the self-deprecation, horrible use of multiple textual voices, and totally unrelatable posts, then I would like to propose that you examine your health and value systems.

This is not to say that this blog is closing - far from it - and the present author would like to continue semi-regularly to it, but as the months have gone on, it becomes clearer and clearer that regular content is harder and harder to come by. Perhaps some spark of creativity lies just beyond reach, waiting to ignite a storm of posts.

Or perhaps that's just the electromagnetic shock from the car door on the way in to work.

50,000

It occurs to the present author that, National Novel Writing Month has been attempted by said author on three separate occasions, and yet, has only been successfully culminated on one of those occasions. That said occasion occurred back in 2007, during a period of incredible depression and social anxiety, and boredom from college, is a point not lost. The two other attempts, occurring in both 2008 and 2011, started off promisingly enough; the present author accrued about 15,000 words in a few days, but around that point, both times, hit a wall. Given that said author now has a multi-page outline of the novel that the author wishes to embark on, as well as several scenes floating around inside the author's head, it is hoped that the most recent event, here in the year 2015, will be more of a success. Given the distinct challenge that it is to actually write a 50,000 word novel (which is, it might be added, an extremely short novel), this is unlikely.

Of Colours and Contours

Last few days of window down, hair blowing, music playing, darkness entreats earlier upon your worldview, soon it'll be bundle up and suffer the dry chill, no more breeze in you hair or wind in your face, except to remind you of its putrid existence, or perhaps yours.

A few nights of nightmares, disturbing ends, humans crushed into a pulp on the assembly line, blood and guts sprayed every which way.

You told your sister everything that made you sad one day, as you sat there with her, spilling everything out, words barely escaping a sparse tongue, she listened attentively. Then you woke up, the dream was over, and everything you said was true but nobody heard it except your subconscious.

The lawn hasn't been mowed in a month, you're waiting for the mean neighbors to complain to the township, perhaps they won't, you like the way the grass waves at you in the breeze, as if saying goodbye, for it will soon be covered with snow.

Leaves are starting to change colours, removing green from the contours of the land, dotting the eye line with reds and yellows and oranges, not unlike the sunsets that will soon disappear for months on end beneath the gray skies of winter, clouds and clouds and endless clouds. Your home state has the 2nd highest incidence of seasonal affective disorder.

If it's true that only the good die young, doesn't that explain why you are here?

The deck needs replacing, it's falling apart. The car needs replacing, it's falling apart. The phone needs replacing, it's falling apart. The sidewalk needs replacing, it's falling apart. The plant needs replacing, it's falling apart. Your life needs replacing, it's falling apart.

Reach out to different people once a week, never hear back, ask someone how they're doing, never hear back, relegate yourself to your room, talk to yourself instead.

In the morning darkness you try to keep lighting to a bare minimum, wouldn't want to convince yourself that you're supposed to be awake, the exhaust fan in the bathroom screams at you as you take your shower, there is dust clumped in it, a stink bug - they're everywhere - is lying dead on the window sill, you've had the house sprayed twice for them to no avail, invasive species are a pest, quite literally in this case.

It's another Monday and you'll likely have thousands more.

What Promise Once Held

It occurs to the present author, the present author being one who is closer to the age of 30 than the age of 20, a both thoroughly distressing and utterly contemptible reality, one might add, that one finds that the amount of potential expected from one declines as one grows older. It is to be said that, one day, while the present author was still in elementary school, a man who the present author new and was a business partner of the author's father, boldly exclaimed that said present author, i.e., me, has "the kind of brain that ends up at Harvard or MIT." That the present author's brain ended up at neither, or, really, any higher institution of learning, rendered the praise ultimately unfulfilled. Such praise, however, is a facet of childhood; one can be an athlete, or go to a good college, etc., etc. But as the years coast by into middle age, one finds that such expectations are gradually lowered, and much celebration is to be had for the simple act of getting out of bed.

Of Money and Writing

The present author - one who is, as of this current date, unpublished (unless you count this blog) - has made several attempts over the years at getting short stories and flash fiction published in literary journals or contests, to largely (read as: entirely) failed results. However, in doing so, the present author has a growing collection of short stories sitting in one Google Drive. It came to the attention of the present author that, perhaps, after a sizeable collection of stories is completed, they could be grouped together as a sort of collected work, and self-published on the hulking behemoth that is Amazon.

One thing that all who make art are told, repeatedly, is that you should never do your work for free. However, given that the present author is under no life situation in which money could become scarce, or food and shelter could be hard to come by, the present author has concluded that, ultimately, any self-published collection will be instituted at the very low price of "free." This is because, given that the amount of money one could expect to make from charging for what would appear to be, to the consumer, a totally unheard of and random collection of stories from a nobody, is just a few dollars, and given that free self-publications on Amazon are downloaded approximately 400% more than paid ones, the present author has made a value based judgment that getting out there is more important than a few dollars. The extremely fortuitous life situation for the present author in which money is a factor but not a factor of survival also plays a large role.

To wit; the present author has made every attempt to avoid monetization of any work - be it videos, blogs, or writings, - in a vain attempt to make some sort of generalized statement about how money corrupts art. At the same time, the present author would love to be able to make a living solely on writing, but alas, given that doing so is, quite literally, statistically, more difficult than being an NBA player, such delusions will remain as such. We are left with, then, a piddling attempt at notoriety, by way of a soon to be self-published collection of mediocre, at very, very best (and likely much worse) short stories, that will be cast into the void of the millions of works on Amazon, forever lost to the seemingly infinitely expanding content taking place on the web.