Friday, May 18, 2012


I had a lot of thoughts, and then I had none. Lately, without writing on something weekly, I'm feeling fairly unproductive. Plans are being created almost everyday, but none of the little seeds have quite gestated into something more fertile. I am working on a few guest appearances to promote the latest novel, so that's something. It's a bit odd, answering something like the same questions over and over again, and being conscious of similar answers being already in existence, time stamped for eternity. One question I consistently choose to answer is about advice given to aspiring authors. How does one battle a mountain?

Thoughts and opinions about the April release are trickling in. It seems to be about the same as last time, the vast majority of people who read it like it, and then there are a handful that don't for a smattering of reasons. I fear the editing might be somewhat impactful, and I'm not sure as to whether or not I should have fought harder. The next release is being judged as I type this; the phrase "fragile balance" comes to mind. Certainly, it's occurred to me before why authors would go through all the trouble to make their own labels. But more than that today what affects me is a mistake that was pointed out to me that was all my own. I'm ashamed to admit it, because what caused it was little more than my own lack of experience. My mentor encouraged me to experience things so I could write about them with greater authority. I've never felt like I failed in that regard before. And now... well, now I understand why he said that. Because it's never going away.

This week, the sequel to a video game that shaped my college life (yeah, I was a nerd) was released. All my friends bought it, then posted pictures of themselves holding the box on Facebook. I felt a bit displaced because I had no strong desire to join them, felt no jealousy at not possessing the game as well. Likewise, I spoke with a scientist friend of mine poised at one of those crossroads in life, one path leading towards the lonely kind of success outsiders dream about, and another pointing in the direction of the mundane kind of happiness everyone would wish for if they could only understand its sublime perfection. And of course they're mutually exclusive. "The children of some of the greats," my friend said, "were often neglected by their obsessed parents." It was one of those conclusions that washes over the listener, and drowns them in understanding. I felt similarly displaced again, and a bit small to think that I would have more trouble deciding to walk down the latter road as opposed to the former.

I think this week is a bit of a wash. Too much time spent looking back... or maybe too far forward.

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