at nearly 4:30 am and I’ve barely slept. fuck. forgive this ridiculous entry in advance and the fact I didn’t put my glasses on to type this.
Getting a flash published on Tin House’s Open Bar has given me glimmers of hope but then in these small awful endless hours of insomnia spanning ahead of me, I think how no one will or want to read my novel Pushed.
Waiting for responses is like waiting to sleep.
I asked Mark, how do you fall asleep? But he says it’s not something you learn how to do, it’s just something you do. I’m looking at it all the wrong way. Okay, still doesn’t help me.
Struggling with a new novella (maybe a slim novel) I’m writing. It’s dark and lurid. I know I could go back to the 1,500 pages that I cut out of Pushed and I probably will some day but I want to try to write something else something that isn’t mired in the saddest time of my life, my four years at Oberlin. But that time has left an indelible stain.
His apathy disarmed me.
Also, he is not writing, he should be writing but isn’t. He’s like another person I knew who stopped painting. Dean O’Gorman‘s photos of horses remind me of that friend who no longer paints. The longing in them (although my friend’s were a blurred longing of motion, these photos are longing filled with tension) He loved to paint horses and landscapes, painting defined him. And now my other friend, the writer, has seemingly given up. Their abdication breaks my heart and I cannot understand it.
Or perhaps I refuse to. Because if I don’t create music or write, I feel unwell and can’t sleep.
and now maybe I can sleep.