Would That I Might

As I alluded to last night, I've had a run of pretty good stories the last week or so.  I believe that a large part of this is due to my having sort of recognized something about the types of ideas that work for me as stories, that catch my imagination and come to life in some way.  I do think that a part of it is about the absurdity of it, about the idea of twisting something in a direction that is unexpected or even non-sensical.  Often, once I have a premise that gets me interested, all I really need to do is start thinking about it and I am off.  I still need to develop my ability to think up premises, but I am doing better than I had been and feel like I am close to the point I was aiming towards, where I would be able to get myself to the same place of writing stories almost on demand in the same way that I am able to write poetry.

There could be more There was more before, has been more, so why not?  It is  at least a thing to consider, not that it wasn't or never has been. It may be time, things may be different and the factors may differ from how they were. It is worth considering. Even the fact it has come to mind suggests there is meaning, or a desire, maybe, if not a need.

I am going to keep this short.  It's another late night and I am tired and ready to get to bed.  I feel like I really am learning to push myself in terms of the stories that I am writing, but I know saying that is kind of a jinx, so I will pull it back and say that I was able, tonight, to get myself into the right headspace and come up with an idea on the fly, and I am happy about that.  I hope it is a skill I am learning and can rely upon again and again.

I realize what has happened There was a diversion, something went wrong, went the wrong way and arrived  where it was not intended and not at the other place where it was expected to be, and that is the problem, really. I could fix it, though it is late and I can't undo the damage of the wrongful arrival, (which is something else and concerns me in other ways  that are not relevant here) but I could make a new effort that would not go awry, I know that is not difficult. I could do it right now, or in the morning when it would be more appropriate, but I am a bit embarrassed at how long it will have been, how much later it will be than when it was expected.

I feel like I almost didn't make it up here to do my work tonight.  After dinner, I was lounging and watching a bit of television with Melissa and fell asleep for a while.  I was exhausted and I half expected that I wouldn't wake up until it was already morning.  That might have been helpful, in some ways, as I could have used it as a way to shift back towards writing in the morning, not to mention that I would be glad to sleep well for a change.  Anyhow, I woke a few hours ago and realized that I had a part of me that wasn't going to allow the rest to get back to sleep if I didn't do my writing.

It could have been pushed aside hidden away instead of shared, that is what happens so often, is the response, is the natural way to be, often.  There is fear, there is a lot of fear. That is no surprise, is it? The fear is normal, even when it is hard to name what it is responding to, what there is behind it, the thing to be afraid of. It may not be obvious, and it may not be real, is probably not real as it is conceived. But it is still there, and it guides the choices so much of the time. But then there are moments and choices, and they feel brave, but it is probably nothing anyone else will notice.

I feel like I am starting to get a better grip on the types of stories that I am best with.  I don't know if it is that they are what I am good at writing so much as it is that I enjoy telling certain types of stories more.  I don't know exactly how to describe them, but I can recognize the premises when they start to develop, and I know that I am getting closer to having a good way of talking about them, or at least a sense in my head of what they are that can guide me in coming up with new ideas for stories.  I know that a lot of them involve absurd transformations of objects or animals, including, quite often, some kinds of anthropomorphic elements, and that these things tend to be used in ways that are not there normal context.  I think that these elements tend to exist in my story in ways that don't have explanations, that they are not expected or accepted as normal, but they still have just happened and that is all there is to it.  

I did think it would have happened I expected it would not take all that long. I don't know, now, if it will happen or if it is less than likely, or maybe I am being silly, am impatient.  I don't know. I am certain it means something, the time it takes, all of it is significant. I cannot interpret it, do not have a key to decode what is within, but it is there. I will have to wait until something arises I can assess.

I am feeling quite tired at the moment, and am glad to be wrapping up my work for the evening.  The last week or so, I've not slept all that well and have mostly been waking up on the early side, and tomorrow I actually have an appointment in the morning, so I will have to get myself up.  Melissa and I went out tonight to an event, so I had kind of anticipated it would be a bit of a later night, but we actually got home somewhat earlier than I had anticipated, and I even got myself up to my desk to start writing before it had gotten to eleven, but sometimes it is far easier to be distracted than to just get to work, even when I know it is not in my best interests or what I want at all.

Once it starts it will go, but it does not always start without a fuss, a bit too much time, a distraction. It would be better if it were simple to sit down and start, and maybe it could be, or maybe that is what I think would be ideal, even though it is silly and not all that realistic. It may be best not to prod all that much, anyhow.  There are superstitions about such things.

I had a bit of a breakthrough in terms of the novel I have been planning out.  One of the plots involves creating a sort of treasure as a reward for anyone who can retrieve it from the place where it is hidden.  The thing is, the treasure is something that has to be tempting to anyone who could steal it, and the ability to steal it requires the person to already possess special knowledge and abilities that make it difficult to predict the exact nature of what they might want.  The solution came to me this afternoon and it is good enough that I am excited by it.  I know I am being vague here, but I don't want to give away the story and the specifics of what I am working on, in large part because the desire to tell what happens is a strong motivator for actually writing the damned book and I don't want to diminish that.

I did as I said and fast as I recalled, too. I did not wait. I often wait and then I wait too long or think it is too long, anyhow, think it is not a good thing to do anything now, because it is too long and it will be odd, but I didn't wait, so it should be fine but I don't know. I won't know without more information. Even time is information. Enough time would be sufficient.

I don't know if any of what I wrote last night seems sensible to most people.  For me, the essential point is one that I find very hard to articulate, as it is very much about the nature of language and is thus difficult to grasp with the tools that language provides.  A large part of it is the recognition that thought and experience, at least as we know them, essentially exist within language.  We don't look at the world, but at the world as mediated by and described through language.  If we do not have words for something, we often will not be able to consider it, but when the concept is introduced, it will be everywhere.  Even beyond this, though, we know that thought as we experience it requires language.  To me, this suggests a strange truth: when we discuss the material world, the real world outside ourselves, we are distorting thing because language those things exist outside of language.  They are real and material and are not intrinsic to the linguistic world, can only

I Said It I had not expected to but I did, and that is fine, I think, or good even if it is not fine, even if it is a problem or a difficulty or has caused an upset. I can call it good, can say it was honest and needed. I can say those things. I wonder if I am saying them because I mean them or because I need to feel right about this.

Despite my intentions, I still woke up around seven this morning and was up and out of bed quite early.  I did take a nap, though, so that might help, but I wish I hadn't stayed up quite so late tonight.  It took me a while to get myself started, which can happen, I suppose.  I didn't even realize just how late it had gotten, to be honest, and a part of me was tired enough that I wanted to just bail and make up for it by doing the work tomorrow.  I do wish I could get myself back to a morning writing routine, but at the moment it is not working out that way.

Begin and it is enough because there must be something that follows.  It is impossible for there to be nothing more than just a beginning. Anything that starts has started, must continue until it ends, even if the end is not satisfying or considered a completion, even when it ceases. A beginning cannot stand alone. It makes no sense: if nothing follows it was not a beginning at all.

I have been thinking about how I can discuss certain aspects of my poetry and the choices I make as a writer.  In particular, I tend to write without as much reliance on sensory details and descriptions, instead choosing more abstract depictions.  This is something that I know many writers would call an odd choice, as specificity seems inherently to demand the application of detail, but I tend to be a bit hesitant about relying on depictions that utilize the senses, as I find that approach somewhat problematic.  For one thing, sensory description is always going to be less than universal, and not only because of the reality that there are individuals who lack one or more sense.  In many ways, for me, the deeper problem is one related to language itself.  Our use of language creates our experiences in a very real way, though I can't necessarily offer a full explanation of what I mean by that right here, but using a word for an object bestows qualities on it.  If I call something a s

I had said it would be done then, but it was not That was not how things went. It is not a thing I can change, not any longer.  I did not do  what was expected of me in the moment when I had intended to do it. I did it.  It is done and I think it is the same. I don't think the delay matters. It should not matter, I don't think. If it had been something where it mattered that much I bet I would have been careful and more reliable about it. I don't think it would even matter if it were still waiting to be remembered.

I am still working towards starting a new novel.  It is building in my head, and has grown rather complicated, though I think some of that may just be because I have yet to find the real center of it in some sense.  I have an idea of the driving conflict and the main thrust, as well as a lot of thematic aspects.  I can see a lot of the plot and many specific events in some detail, and I have been developing more and more understanding of the actual way I think it is going to unfold in terms of how to tell the story, but there is still a bit that I am not yet clear on and I think I need to get that sorted before I can really get started with the actual writing.  Maybe that is backwards, though, and I just need to find the way to begin and set out with trust that each necessary answer will become apparent as I approach the place in the story that requires it.

I do not wish to speak of it right now It is too complicated, is fraught and I am afraid, I can say the truth and mean one thing and be told it means another and be told who I must be because of what is meant by what I did not intend to say, or I could say things I don't even mean to be safe, or things that I do mean that are not understood, or I could speak of things that are not even connected and be told it is cowardice or have it be a reason for harm or hatred or anything of that sort. We live in a world of dangers, more and more. I should be braver, I know that. It is important to speak truth and be honest and say what must be said even when it is dangerous, or maybe even more so when there is a potential, but I don't think I am ready or that I am even the person, not for this, I think. I have opinions and a perspective, but I am not so close to this, even as I am touching it just by being alive and being who I am.

I am in a rather dark place at this moment.  It's been a bit of a difficult day in various ways, mostly just to do with family stuff.  Melissa is feeling quite upset about a number of things, and I understand why she is feeling that way and wish that I was able to make it better.  The truth is that I am not even certain what that would look like at the moment, but I need to be committed to making things better for Melissa and I need to try and figure out how I can show her the support she really needs at this moment.  The real difficulty is that so much of the tension and drama in our lives is related to the way other members of my family treat us, and certain differences in the ways we each have responded to that.  I don't know, really, I am just ranting at the moment.  I just don't want to end without acknowledging that I need to take responsibility and not make excuses about it, but what good is writing any of that other than as a way to accomplish the same kind of ego s

Another Error Noticed These are the things that stop me from being free to trust, to believe, to think it is alright to give over  and allow and be ready. I know it is needed, but I don't know if it is safe.

I am feeling quite tired tonight.  I didn't sleep all that well last night and I was up fairly early.  To be honest, I don't know why I didn't try to get my writing done when I woke up, but I suppose that my evening writing habit has gotten pretty strong over the years. 

Maybe therapy is working I noticed it and I told you what I noticed and it is hard to be honest about such things even when it is clear and I know and I feel it. I am aware it is normal and also aware that it is  fucked up, but that is human and what good is there in pretending I am better or different than I am? If the goal is to do something that makes it better it can't be done without knowing what is wrong.

The primary has finished here in Florida, meaning that Melissa is done for the moment.  There is an election coming up in August, which is going to be fairly small again.  This one was pretty silly, as the only race was the Republican Presidential Primary, as we don't have any other offices to vote on in the current cycle, and the Democrats didn't even have a primary.  And I think that Trump was pretty much uncontested, though I am not certain if that is literally the truth or just the reality around the election.  I am still proud of Melissa for doing her part to keep the democratic process going, of course, but I think even she will acknowledge this was kind of silly.

There is so much, again though I had not remembered, had thought otherwise, and was ready for less, for easier, for a change to the tempo of the dance, but these days it won't let up, not yet, anyhow. Soon, it might, but not yet, and even when it does not for long, I expect.

It has been a bit tough today.  To be honest, I hadn't realized that it was eight years since my father died until someone asked me earlier today.  I did try to make it a good day in the ways that I could.  Melissa and I went out to dinner with my mother and that was nice.  It wasn't as if anything particularly bad happened, and there was some stuff that I feel excited and positive about which kicked off today, but it just feels heavy.  I don't have any more that I can say about it, at least not in any way that would be more meaningful or accurate or descriptive.

My father's death is eight year's today How old it has become, what it can do now, how it has grown, all it has learned being a death in the world for this long. It is bigger, isn't it, I think to myself, and sits still for longer even with no one to keep it company.

Early voting for the primary finished today and Melissa has tomorrow off, then she is back to work on Tuesday for the official election day.  In truth, this was a very short election cycle, and she has worked for longer periods, I believe, in the past.  I am guessing it will be the same again when the actual election begins later this year.  I am just glad that we will have a bit of time together tomorrow.  Though she was only busy for a week, I have found that I often miss her when she is not around.  Beyond that, it is my Dad's Yahrzeit tonight and tomorrow and I am happy to not be spending the day on my own.

It was simple though I worried it would be wrong or go wrong or not work out well, or something of that sort. I did not trust myself, though it was simple. I kept it simple. I don't think, even so, it was perfect but it was fine, it functioned. I want to do better of course, but first I need to do it at all, from that I can work on improving.

Tomorrow is the last day of early voting and I seem to be, at last, getting my work done on at an hour that can be truly called early, considering that I will need to be out of bed around five or so.  I am fairly tired already, though I did sleep a bit after I drove Melissa to work, though it was not for very long as I had an appointment at around ten.  Maybe tonight I can get a decent amount of sleep for a change.

There could be danger in it but I am too foolish to worry about that, am too tempted and almost willing, or at least wanting to know, to be aware, to understand  what is waiting. I don't think it is real, don't trust that it could be. I know it is foolish, of course I know that: I am a fool, not an idiot.

 I recently picked up a book of writing exercises and have been using them to help me in writing my flash fiction pieces.  In some ways I find this very helpful and liberating, and it does take a certain pressure off from me.  It can be difficult to always have an idea to start a story and I don't find a lot of the same tools that I use when I am stuck trying to write poetry as helpful with fiction.  Having an exercise helps me to focus on just writing and not worry about more than putting one word in front of another, which can be very liberating.  At the same time, I don't know that I am writing much more than exercises, if I am honest.  I think it may be that I am using it as a way of training myself, though, and in the end I will find better approaches that help me to actually get deeper into the work.

I will be hopeful for tomorrow even if today and yesterday were both disappointments and I don't have any reason to think it will be different. There is nothing to be done, no change I can make to cause a different outcome. I am simply caught and waiting and hoping. I could be less optimistic but it seems harmless to hope for the best, until I get depressed that it never comes.

Melissa is still working at early voting and I have been driving her each morning, which means that I need to get up early tomorrow.  I didn't intend to be up quite as late as this, given the circumstances.  She is supposed to be at the polling place by six.  Fortunately it is not a very long drive from our house, but I still try to be up and ready by around half past five, so even midnight feels a bit late.  To be honest, I probably don't sleep far more then four or five hours most nights, anyhow, but it is nice to have the opportunity to try for more than that.

I can be honest about it and write the truth I have done it before and will do it again, but I know  it is not what you want. When I write the truth it is never perfect and what is best, is what is true and possible. You want more, which is right because it is true that you deserve more than what is possible. Still, the world has limits.

I've been writing short fiction pieces for a long while now.  Not all of them are anything much, and I often feel like they aren't even really meeting the assignment, other than in the most basic sense of having written something, if I am blunt about it, but I do think I've become more adept in some sense as it has continued.  I also think that it has helped me to free up certain ideas and to discover ways of approaching aspects of fiction that I hadn't ever considered before.  I think I am getting close to some sort of breakthrough in terms of discovering a narrative technique or mode that is going to liberate me in some way.  I wrote a piece a few days ago where I was able to sort of able to push the role of the narrator in a way I had not played with before and it opened up a whole new set of possibilities for me.

I do not like to do it but I can if needed It is just slow and unpleasant and takes an effort of will, but I can do it and will be fine. I don't mean that in a stoic way. I know you  realize that because you know I am not stoic or good at stoicism, not in general, so I am being honest that I can do it. I am capable. I wish I felt I could say that and not need to be so defensive but I make a point of protecting myself from so many things and then I realize maybe it is not always what I need most. But, also, it must be my own choice and my own terms, or it becomes something else. I cannot explain better. I am only able to say this much, but it is honest, which seems significant. I do not know if I understood before. I don't know what changed or how if it is new or if it came to be this because I thought of it in a new way. Those are all possible, or I think they are which is similar if not the same.

I am looking through my poetry to find work for a new manuscript.  At the moment, I am particularly seeking out poems with animals in them, which is honestly not all that limiting, as I do put animals in a lot of my poems.  It is a theme that emerged quite naturally, and is something I have considered building a collection around before, although it came about rather organically.  I actually have some help to work on this project, which is always a boon, as it can be hard to look at the work on my own.  I do have the advantage that I write so much that I often don't even remember many of my poems, so I can sometimes look at them and have a very clear sense of what is or is not working.   At the moment, the real goal has to be just to find the work and bring it together and then we can begin to stitch it into a larger work.  For me, the point of creating a book of poetry is to really bring the individual elements together to create something cohesive that draws upon the individual p

I wish it had gone another way but that is hard to explain because it is not bad, the way it went is fine, I expect, even good, and there won't be a problem, but I had options that were not exercised and I didn't realize  until it was too late. Things had changed by that time.  It was no longer the same. If I had known from the start it would have been very different, or maybe it wouldn't be different, but I would feel a different way about it.

Tomorrow is my Mother's birthday.  Melissa and I are taking her out for dinner along with a friend of her's whose husband is out of town.  It should be pleasant, I think, though I don't really know if my mother is looking forward to it very much.  I hope she is, but I don't really know what is up with her most of the time lately.

I have made those choices each time, and I realize they are not good for me. I am not doing what is best for me when I choose. I can do better and I should. I will, or I am saying that I will, I have to do it. I want to do better, or maybe I want to? I don't know how to be more committed. It is more fun to just do what I wish and not worry about consequences. I wish that were not what I preferred, but it is no good to lie and pretend I don't enjoy enjoying myself.

It was another very early morning today, with Melissa needing a ride so she could get to the polling place by six this morning.  I am going to try and wrap this up quick and get ready for bed.  I still have a bit of other stuff to do around the house, mostly cleaning up from making dinner.  It shouldn't take me all that long, which is good, as I am quite tired already.

All these parts are coming together even if I am uncertain of how or why they fit.  That is the point of doing all the work, is finding the connections that need to be discovered or crafted, and I am not sure which it is or which it will be even when it has been done. That is a part of the beauty, too. The mysteries that remain even when you are behind them. It is not a bridge or a cleaning solvent. No.  Those are another type of thing.

I have been thinking about narrative point of view quite a bit lately.  One thing that always fascinates me is considering how the early novels were all written such that the narrative was diegetic to the text.  That is to say, the text that conveyed the story was something which was said to exist within the world of the story itself in some form.  In  Pamela, for example, Richardson employs the use of an epistolary form, allowing the reader to see the existence of the text itself as an artifact of the tale.  Now, this is very different than many modern stories in which we accept reading words that reflect the mind of a character as it exists in the moment.  Faulkner's stream of consciousness is a clear example of this distinction, but even many works of genre fiction rely on our accepting reading a narrative that by its nature cannot and does not exist within the text.  I think there is a great deal more to consider in this, but I am just beginning my explorations at the moment.

More waits outside that will not be brought in and will not be considered or noticed beyond it existing, it being a context from which emerges, springs forward, rushes into being, that sort of energy, I mean, that way of going about it. That is all it has given and it is enough. The context won't remain beyond the essence.

Tomorrow is the first day that Melissa's is working on the election.  She has to be there at like five in the morning.  I told her that I would get up early to drive her, so I am going to finish this up and start getting ready for bed, I think.  Maybe after I get home from driving her tomorrow morning I will feel like getting to work myself.

It was foolish and selfish and I should have chosen to stay away I suppose that is true. I don't know if it really matters. You are kind about it but that is your way and part of your duty, I suppose, your job. I am putting it on you and it is not good. I am reading things and trying to find what is right. I made a mistake, though. You will be kind but I know what would have been best. I should have stayed away but I was glad to be back.

I have been feeling somewhat unwell today.  It is mostly just congestion and a bit of a sore throat, really, but I am also rather tired as a result of whatever it is, or maybe I am just tired because I woke up up in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep for several hours.  Anyhow, I am glad to be finishing up my work so I can get to bed on the early side.  Maybe tomorrow I will wake up feeling at least a bit better, and maybe I will be in the mood to shift back to writing in the morning again.

I let it happen again let myself fall back, fall off, fall away and into it.  It was there, was waiting, was already ready and I was ready, I suppose that is true, that is worth admitting: I allowed it.  I chose, maybe, in some way, I chose.  I did not stop it. I could have not done it, not indulged.  I know it is possible.  Really, what I don't understand is why it is hard.

This is just a quick entry to say that Melissa and I made it back home safely.  I am quite exhausted at the moment, having driven around four hours today.  It is good to be back home.

It is easier This way, I mean. It was difficult, each time it was a challenge. Things have degraded and made it worse and now, I think, it is almost impossible, would have been. But this is easier and better and what I needed. I should have prepared for the possibility of things going wrong, but I didn't do that. I knew that I should but I just didn't. I would still have complained and been angry if it had gone too far. As it was, it was hard but not quite impossible. This is better, though. I am glad it was enough but this is much better.

 Melissa and I are Georgia for the night.  We plan to be home tomorrow evening.  The drive today was rather pleasant, without a great deal of traffic or any real spots of bad weather.  I am hoping for tomorrow to be similar, though I worry that writing of such a hope might be a foolish act, far too tempting for fate to ignore.  Perhaps such an acknowledgement might earn me an abeyance.

None of it was necessary I did not need to go there and did not need to stay or to argue with that woman, though I hope it mattered and she heard me, heard that it is possible to think in other ways and hold truths as righteous as those she claims for herself. I did not need to. It might have been best to stay quiet.  It is probable I am worse off, or that what she will learn is nothing I intended. I do not trust myself to make the right choice. I was enflamed. I hope I am wrong, but I think I courted a danger that will not vanish.

Melissa and I left  New York this morning and are in Virgina for the night.  It was nice to be in the city, though it was difficult staying at the new apartment.  I hope I can figure out some way of adjusting to it, but I don't know if that is at all realistic.  The problem is there are no alternatives that I am willing to accept.

You wish I had spoken up but I wish you paid attention or, maybe, that you cared enough to notice the mood of things, to recognize it yourself. It was not a secret.  I told you in many ways, direct and otherwise. How is your failure to recognize the damage between us something you seek ready to blame me for?

I had a late night yesterday and an early morning today and I am quite tired at the moment.  I was so tired that I completely forgot about my writing until I was almost ready for bed.  It just completely disappeared from my thoughts for a few minutes.  Glad that it didn't last much longer or I might have been scrambling to make up for the mistake tomorrow morning, just as we are preparing to hit the road for our return voyage home.

It was good of them to speak, to take action and urge  for a change, for us to work at healing this. It matters that they care and want this. I do not think I have believed anyone did. I felt alone with the pain and the impossibility of speaking to you about anything true or meaningful.

It is late and I should have finished with my work earlier, but I let myself be distracted.  I am certain that it will be a problem that I was up this late and am not really wanting to deal with the repercussions but here I am.  It is too late literally and figuratively 

I can do better I know it. It is not that hard, it is a choice.  I know that, there is a choice to be one way or another. I do not notice it most of the time: it just happens without a thought but it is a choice. I can learn to notice and to make a better choice.

It has been another difficult day, but I am here and am at least together enough to keep up with my writing.  That is important, I know, and I am proud of my commitment to doing the work, especially when I am dealing with so much else.

I must not lose track It is not certain that it will remain fresh and clear inside my mind, and the urgency, the pressing desire to follow through, that can be lost, is more often lost than fulfilled. I must be careful to keep it in mind. That is all I can do, but it is enough.