Saturday Morning Word Cartoons (overall quick update/moving picture word trailer for book)

Before I get to the real (a plan) here’s some weirdness. This is a trailer I made for my book, for fun, inspired by the Dr. Strangelove trailer. I had to go rather lazy on it  because I’m way past what you might call…defeated…HA! Alright.

So for sanity reasons I’ve decided to concentrate on my life again (whatever that means anymore) after I release The Fear and The Going book one, The Going. It’s been draining. I use to find release in writing and now I’m overwhelmed by writing like I was when I worked in the so called real world. It’s basically driving me insane. I wonder how I saw the world before I was a so-called writer. I wonder if I’m terrible and nobody will tell me. I wonder what the hell is the point. I’ve done enough for a while after this book. I’m completely broke and I don’t understand why, and so I’m going to let other people speak for a while and take some time off the rest of the year and see if there are other things I like doing. There isn’t all that much interest in my work. I don’t care about that but I cant live like this anymore (once again whatever that means). I’m going to try and write for somebody that will pay me (whatever that means HA!) It’s just I put a ton of time and pressure on myself and for what, I’m not sure anymore. I feel old. Anyway WAIT, it’s not over yet…

For the duration of this damn book I’ll be maxing out the imagination, the fingers, the smiles and the lungs, the back and the mind, the midnight oil and the twisting of my hair into knots. I will go out blazing with this book and bend nerves and continue the tap tap tap once again starting Sunday night. I’ve put an unspeakable amount of time for ten years now into writing, learning from scratch, and basically, this doesn’t feel good, it’s a job, and one that isnt easy and covers you in emptiness. But never fear, I will work my ass off for the end of this book. It will no longer be eight books as planned and will be a trilogy. So you’ll have THE FEAR AND THE GOING, and then the last book in the Henry Oldfield saga will be THE BOOK OF WAR. I don’t know when I’ll work on that and it might be years.

I’m not sure what I’m talking about right now. It’s just that words are crazy. I need to do something else but I don’t know what else to do other than write this nonsense anymore. I’m good at making blogs and listening to music and inspiring people and making jokes and things of that accord. I do have a college degree, in fucking sociology, (sorry) maybe I can work at subway or something. lol.

SO, I’ll write more about this when I reflect  about it. I still am getting those other books edited for west vine press series, and until I get the going done or something remarkably new happens to me, I’ll continue this blog. SO peace.

Thank you for reading.

What is what? (random post because I want to)

If I remember correctly someone asked a young Charles Bukowski why he was only writing short stories and not novels. His reply was something like, “I’m not ready yet”. The context of this doesn’t matter. I  always liked the way the words flowed and until recently I didn’t even know the reason, the meaning, the translation of the why he said it. But sill, it stuck with me. 

This is what the social digital notebook is for. Sometimes I try and streamline it. I don’t know why. That word is weird and it’s weird I’m writing a novel. It’s weird I’m writing at all. What the heck are novels and what is this thing called writing? Nobody ever told me. I’m not being sarcastic. I’m over it so beer me. I’m done with the literary lazy suzanne.

Edit this. Edit this. Now… this. So what? I don’t know. Write this. Get better. This goes back and forth like a turntable. It sounds good. It’s not even a remix. 

What is what and with that said, my novel is going to be really fucking good. Deadline is the 9th of September. Tour October.Nobody cares. So what? I do.  I’m on page 291. That would be great if this was the third draft. It’s not. It’s the fifth. I should be done. It’s not. The book is now 312 pages. That’s ridiculous. That’s epic. My book is Peter Jackson epic with less hobbits and computer dragons and bullshit like that, and it’s not no Franzen or Jest but it’s a book that can smile once in awhile as it’s looking at how foolish our species can be. What? Nothing. I’m done for the day. P.S: What are hobbits? 

8/28/2013…Good luck out there society. 

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America’s funny home videos

Enough is enough. I’m using the abacus again. I’m on two.

Humans talk because that’s how they express things. A little help here? Not today. Why? I’m busy. Doing what? This is typical. This is how people talk to me.

And  what’s the story? Well I wish I was younger but I’m not. This is what happened. Here’s the information…

So I like the night. That’s when people sleep. I’m not a person. I’m everyone’s errand boy. Case and Point:

When you’re a writer (this probably goes for everything and all social actors) especially when you’re an unknown and poor writer/editor/publisher/idiot often people think you’re free to do whatever it is they need you to do. Change breaks/mow lawns/rake sand/clean basements/walk dogs/move general society things around. They don’t know that I work ten hours for them and then ten hours on the words man, just words…

They don’t know. They just see the man who is still a boy. They say things like how’s the job hunt. I say things under my breath like go to hell. But I don’t hate them. I like them. I’m just tired. They think I’m stronger than I am. Actually they don’t think about me, they just see me. I don’t care. I feel so sorry for them. Sometimes I can’t look.

They always think I’m just sitting around or something. I was. Earlier after a nap I’m sitting in the park reading, hey, can you give me a hand, sure, and four hours later I get a thanks and no dollars and then I go drink a Bloody Mary and pass out under a tree.

Feeling something bad I was going to read some more but my eyes didn’t work. The lake was nice, it’s bat weather the end of august in Michigan, and holy smokes you rift raft, you can’t sleep outside because that means you’re a bum. Oh no. A reading bum. Oh the humanity…so I’m sorry I don’t have a boat. Oh no. A writing bum. Call the cops. No. Wait. I’m sorry. I should leave. I’m ashamed so I go home and I sleep a little more. Peace. Darkness. My pillow covers my face. Darkness. Peace. Snooze…

Two hours later it’s 7 pm. I usually sleep til 9 pm. Not tonight because The phone rings, YEAH WHAT OK YEAH DAMN MAN SURE SOUNDS BAD RIGHT NOW YES I GUESS DAMN…

Sometimes I yell. I don’t even know what’s going on and you’re my nightmare. I’m not trying to but I get mad when people wake me up.

Hey, something sounds wrong with my breaks, there’s a rattling sound. Can you come look at them? Great. What? Be there in fifteen.

I just fixed these things. I walk over there, I’m angry and slow and I know that I have to edit and finish my damn novel and then think about those new kinds of business aspects of my… “business”. I need to make money…soon.

Chowing down a sandwich and I brought a glass of milk with me. I’m walking down alleys and cutting through old people homes. I’m Dipping some cookies and I’m bleeding because for some reason there was glass on my desk. I swept it off with my hand. The whole experience happened so fast. It felt like a nail going through skin. Great. A blood spout. Paper towel works just fine.

Walking. Blocks and trees and it’s hot. I think about nothing. Some time later I get there. They go inside. I hear them watching America’s funniest home videos. Nobody even has a camcorder anymore. Damn. I get under the car. Tire off. It all looks fine. Wires tight and nothing is hanging down.

A small conquest for a writer so I drink a swell of gin. Cheers. The break job was a job well done for twenty two dollars and here hang on, here’s a buy one get one burger coupon, no cheese no exceptions, void where prohibited and only these locations, just and only… burger.

Thanks. This is what I’ll say. Oh and let’s not forget the I.O.U. Many people have given me these metaphysical I.O.Us. They forgot and then some time later they say I owe them, and for what? Money. And do I? Sometimes. But what about my I.O.U? I guess somebody else took that off their hands.

Most of the people I know are like banks. They smile and ask you for things, they’re always five minutes away from total breakdown, they say we love you and thank you so much for banking with us, but then, they come for you because you owe them ten bucks from a year ago when you borrowed it so you could get a cheeseburger…just never mind…

Be right back I say. They don’t listen. They’re laughing. It’s absurd how funny they think those videos are. What’s wrong with this species. This is a very big question. Luckily I don’t think too long about it because right then I see a big moth on the ground. American Instinct said kill it. I didn’t. It looked like me.

I could just steal this car and drive. I wonder when I would run out of gas. This is what I’m thinking about…just before…and alright…

Getting in the car I drive it around the block, and yeah, something is rattling so I stop the car. I pop the hood.

Shining a flash light down well… damn, I see the problem. Somehow I dropped a wrench into the car. It was there for almost three months.

Moral of the story. There is none.

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