What’s shakin’, bongo players.
Once again, it’s been a while. Life and all that shit.
I’ve been taking care of a lot of stuff. Things that needed to be done, such as clearing out the basement (not finished yet, but I at least got the long overdue project started), and assorted bits big and small—this, that, and the other.
Now, if the weather could start warming up and drying up longer than three days in a row, that would be most revitalizing.
A couple of days ago, I got some new ink. The hula girl I’d been wanting for some time; I had a space left for her on my right forearm. Loving my girl. And she’s sitting on a Tiki. I have this image on a flask. The moment I saw her, I knew she was the one.
I’m still kind of tired, but it’s all good.
I treated myself to a rad new pillbox earlier today.
Because if life isn’t silly, it’s often too much. Gotta be silly. You can’t take it too seriously.
I have more polyester treasures on the way, so there will be more funky photos. On the whole, life is better when I deal with the 21st century on a need-to basis. The societal pressures (from all sides these days, it seems) that say you have to do things and be and think this way or that way can fuck off, basically.
This summer, I want to make more macramé wall-hangings and do portrait sessions and twang my ukulele again, and sit in the garden again (didn’t do this at all last year, for the first time since we moved here; I was too worn out for garden anything).
What I want most of all, however, is to get back to writing. I’ve begun writing two of my upcoming books, and I need to write again, get back to work, to complete and publish new books. Even though I’ve had much on my plate since the start of 2017, pretty intense shit, even though I know I can only juggle so many pins, as it were, I also know that I have been stalling, too.
It’s true that the whole “I don’t know what I’m doing” writing-fear mindset has less of a hold on me than it once did. All I want to do, now, is simply write what I write, what I love to write, and that’s it. Whoever digs it can read it. Whatever, you know? There’s no point in worrying and agony. No point in trying to write what doesn’t do it for you, whether what works for you is marketable or not.
I’m not interested in “targeting” an audience. Or making sure I take the necessary steps to turn myself into an “effective brand” or whatever.
I can’t be the only one who thinks shit like this is weird and depressing.
Sometimes, I don’t know if I stall because I want success or because I’m afraid of it. Who knows what might happen when you put your work out there.
I do know that when I don’t write as much as I need to, when I’m not publishing new stuff, my unhappiness is greater than the unhappiness that comes with success or failure, and fear.
One thing that has been amusing me is the idea that if I ever became a somewhat well-ish read author, I’d buy myself a 70s Thunderbird. Preferably a 1977 model.
Because driving down a highway in that big magnificent bastard would rule.
On that note, I need to eat something.