November 7th, 2005


The Clarity of Insomnia

I wrote 2,200 words AND put in a full day of work Nov. 1. There were a few days there where I was sick, or sedated, or had an excuse, but there was no excuse for today (Sunday). Had I chosen to, I could easily have caught up, but for some reason, I did not. Clearly, I only think I want to write this novel -- if I really wanted to, I would.

Some years ago, in my senior year of high school, I hit a barrier: I could no longer understand anything going on in my math class. Slowly, I realized that no amount of study could solve the problem -- math had simply ceased to make sense. On one sleepless night, I realized what this meant: my dream of becoming a physicist was utterly impossible.

I have since realized that this was for the best. I am too impatient for the rigor demanded of a scientist, and not really intelligent enough to have been more than a drudge, anyway.

Now, another sleepless night. For months now, I have been plagued with the question of whether working at Discovery is the day-job of an aspiring writer or a career. Tonight, I realize I've known the answer all along.

I suppose, on some level, I was clinging to the hope that writing might be meaningful, somehow worthwhile in way that working at Discovery is not. These past few days I realized it is not. My words are just as pointless and empty as Tuffy the Turtle. Even more so: it is theoretically possible that some angry but exceedingly impressionable and dim-witted child will actually be swayed by that idiotic reptile. I, however, write solely for expression -- which means the only influence my writing could ever have would be to influence someone else's views to become more like mine. That alone is a good enough reason to stop.

The real reason is more basic, though. Writing isn't fun anymore. I look at West New South Oldtown and I see a story about someone who is guilty over what they've imagined and angry at being abandoned. I look at The Fourth Purpose and I see a story about someone who is guilty over what they've imagined and angry at being abandoned. EVERYTHING I WRITE lately ends up being about the same damn thing, and I'm sick of it.

Frankly, I'm sick of everything. There are a few activities which allow me to briefly forget I exist. These are good. Writing, unfortunately, is not one of them. I will drop it, freeing up more time for nonexistence.

Divide by Zero Error

I read the entire archives of 1/0 today. I finished it, and thought, "This does everything I wanted to do with West New South Oldtown, plus everything I wanted to do with my proposed Lego comic, plus delves into theology, and does all of it better than I ever could."

And then I remembered the time freshman year, when my professor told the class that sestinas and villainelles (sp?) are always lyrical, because they are too repetitive to tell a story. I wrote a narrative example of each, on the same subject, by next class.

I remembered the time in 10th grade when I was failing History, and I asked the teacher what extra credit I could do to get a "D". He sarcastically answered, "Give me fifty pages on why war happens, thoroughly researched with an annotated bibliography, in one week." I gave him fifty-four.

I don't believe in God, or anything supernatural, for that matter. The material universe (by which of course I include energy, space-time, etc., as well as matter) is all there is, mind is a product of a complex and specialized chunk of matter shaped by evolutionary pressures, and all other apparent supernatural is a delusion produced by mind. Somebody once asked me what I would do if I found myself in the afterlife anyway. Without missing a beat, I answered, "Kill God or die trying."

I rediscovered some RPGFFSMB people the other day. There's one in particular I have to apologize to. I didn't find her, but I found something else: I remembered the days when Froborr and Jed were different personae. I remembered what I created him for.

When NaNo was simply very, very hard, I despaired. Now I realize it's impossible. And that just happens to be my specialty.

QotITP: "I am back from the Dark World, and now I am Red Froborr."
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