I started writing my book in public today
of course, I've started before but I don't feel it was noticed
God, you have to be the worst kind of writer first before you can be a real one. For some reason the journey to be real is always one not yet made. Words on a page bring you somewhere or keep you company; not “being read” is a fine thing — it’s fine to have so much online nobody reads.
What’s really hard to know is what should be destroyed. What’s even harder is that no one can pay you for going farther. It’s hard to be believed in because I can’t control it. OK, maybe that’s good and worth writing about. But I’m disobedient to myself; I can’t control what the words become. I sit down, start and things start shooting off in directions I allow or don’t. But something wants to keep going.
I mean, I wrote some good things today. You should…scroll and see.
See, if I ask you to do it and you don’t, at least it ticks a box in my head. Maybe it moves things along.
Am I reluctant to write a weekly update to my readers? Do I not like the idea of “weekly”? Don’t I think it supports the Trump administration? Aren’t days of the week capitalist? Aren’t they implying we should be working…for billionaires? I am so mad about work, money, rent and my life being difficult and unfree. I ignore and have navigated around all mild irritations; I look squarely at the fears governing my life: running out of money; failing to bring in enough money for impatience or lack of desire to really pursue clients and do client services, which means going on a business journey and spending more time polishing the golden knob of the Wall Street Journal and “shareholder value” when really I want to tear the system down, a good little revolutionary full of heart. Of course the lyrics in music are right. The poets know. So why are we waiting on the government? Maybe we aren’t anymore; maybe my writing is a lagging indicator of what has already changed in the world, namely the federal government is irrelevant; governors are taking control, we’re going to have regional seats of power, and everyone will be involved in politics because we’ll feel like part of something we can understand, as opposed to America today which is too big. National politics should cease to matter in an era of smartphones where we can all pour our caring into particular areas: we can read and follow what speaks to us, and we can reply back. A nation of readers and writers! Let’s do it! No more passive television consumption followed by sighing and name-calling! We can be better!
Of course, scratch a cynic and you’ll reveal a disappointed idealist. Maybe I need to…keep being idealist before I trade my bravery and conviction for a house, dog, spouse and position in an organizational chart that requires predictable attendance at intellectually-interesting-enough meetings and the fulfillment of duties that have become second-nature. I could be that kind of father. It’s that kind of father that makes the money it costs to have a child and not spend all day scrambling to ease the fear of losing the means of living day-to-day. I’m not here to complain that I’m poor, but simply to announce that I mostly cut myself off from my family and the culture I grew up in, rejected participation in corporate America (though I talk about it gladly as a spectator and former player — the ecstasy of LinkedIn has not worn off) and am trying to earn some support from viewers and readers who I’ve hopefully made believe in me — and it takes softening to become someone able to be believed in. Being open to being believed in has actually been an achievement 12 (or maybe the whole 33) years in the making.
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Of course I forgot to answer or address the question or claim I raised at the start of this post. I started writing my book online today, which isn’t really true; I’ve been saying little bits here in there, every bit imbued with the hope of accumulation and congealing.
it was really a wild day, and it has to lead to more, and I have to push this reality even though the river flows and it’ll happen whether I do anything or not…it feels good to just write and let the plane fly itself, lean back and let the words appear, let it come to you, let you be here and be with it, let you help…I don’t know what kind of help you can give or if I should ask you more formally. Perhaps I need to elicit some responses. Maybe I need to pursue you more. Maybe I don’t know you’re out there?
Reply to me maybe? Comment? We all speak Notification now. I am here to be talked to! How could I prove to you that my knowing you and thinking of you will be good for you and be part of the planet’s healing and coming reawakening? I’m trying to not just talk to myself here; I’m trying to get out of my own way and fulfill my destiny. Now, of course you can read all this as the trying and failing of someone trying to enlist some help. I’ll always be a good cautionary tale proving that the creative life is very difficult and it’s much easier to settle in to a space in an org chart, get some possessions, sign some contracts, drink some wine, put on a movie and stop thinking so much — no! Stop analyzing the cinematography then going on Twitter and talking about it! Consume then work! Don’t create!
I’m kidding. Disobey like hell. But do write to me and tell me you’re here.
xo