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Heart of Pyrite
May. 10th, 2003 02:14 pmI reread part of my unfinished, untitled novel today and continue to hate it. I have no idea how I ever convinced myself I was a writer, although it is true that the ideas themselves have some merit. Or, well, I am a writer, sometimes, just never while I'm working on the novel. I don't really understand it, and it makes me want to cry and want to drink.
I've sort of been bandying about the idea of alcoholism, possibly as a shock tactic. I have also been searching out studies on the correlation between alcohol consumption and creativity, alcohol consumption and poets, alcohol consumption and madness. While I will be the first to admit that correlation is not causation, what I really seem to be looking for is some kind of excuse to be . . .
My speech has become oddly formal when it's not horribly jumbled. I strongly rely upon the phrase "and so forth" because it removes the need for accuracy or conclusion. The truth is, I don't have much to say. I do hours of research every day on any subject that comes to my head, hoping I'll find something worth talking about. I summarise the Wars of the Roses; I recount the grisly details of the Zodiac murders. I try to look inward to view myself, but all I see is a haze of caked-on grease.
Somehow I manage to connect this with a need to drink, not so much to better accept myself but as an insignificant attempt at rebellion. My life is so small these days. Out of this smallness, the thing I have latched onto is my friends' complete disinterest in alcohol. Of the four people I see regularly, one is allergic, one finds it distasteful, one hates the flavor (unless it's very expensive), and the other tries very hard to convince me he doesn't find it morally reprehensible while simultaneously making me feel guilty and self-conscious. It isn't that important in the large view of things; none of us smoke either, which doesn't bother me a bit. This alochol policy may be part of my new pro-hypocricy campaign.
The difficulty comes in a peer group who likes me, supports me, but really isn't very interested in me. They haven't noticed this yet and will probably argue that they are very interested and I am overly secretive. It would be nice if in the course of this argument they smashed things, but they are not the sorts of people who smash things. Patrick breaks pencils sometimes, and this may be the reason I married him.
I've sort of been bandying about the idea of alcoholism, possibly as a shock tactic. I have also been searching out studies on the correlation between alcohol consumption and creativity, alcohol consumption and poets, alcohol consumption and madness. While I will be the first to admit that correlation is not causation, what I really seem to be looking for is some kind of excuse to be . . .
My speech has become oddly formal when it's not horribly jumbled. I strongly rely upon the phrase "and so forth" because it removes the need for accuracy or conclusion. The truth is, I don't have much to say. I do hours of research every day on any subject that comes to my head, hoping I'll find something worth talking about. I summarise the Wars of the Roses; I recount the grisly details of the Zodiac murders. I try to look inward to view myself, but all I see is a haze of caked-on grease.
Somehow I manage to connect this with a need to drink, not so much to better accept myself but as an insignificant attempt at rebellion. My life is so small these days. Out of this smallness, the thing I have latched onto is my friends' complete disinterest in alcohol. Of the four people I see regularly, one is allergic, one finds it distasteful, one hates the flavor (unless it's very expensive), and the other tries very hard to convince me he doesn't find it morally reprehensible while simultaneously making me feel guilty and self-conscious. It isn't that important in the large view of things; none of us smoke either, which doesn't bother me a bit. This alochol policy may be part of my new pro-hypocricy campaign.
The difficulty comes in a peer group who likes me, supports me, but really isn't very interested in me. They haven't noticed this yet and will probably argue that they are very interested and I am overly secretive. It would be nice if in the course of this argument they smashed things, but they are not the sorts of people who smash things. Patrick breaks pencils sometimes, and this may be the reason I married him.
