I just wanted to get that out there. It makes me feel better about my precarious mental situation to generalize myself. I'm a writer and I'm nuts therefore all writer's must be nuts right? But Mercy you're not nuts. You're...honestly, let's just stick with the facts at hand. I live a great deal of my time inside my own noggin. I'm a classic introvert. I don't do well in social situations. I like my little bitty office corner. I can and have gone days without stepping outside my house. I love to look up strange stuff on the internet. And the librarians see me coming with something akin to terror in their eyes. They don't understand that the Dewey Decimal System doesn't make sense when there is no section entitled Crazy Author Research aisle. When I need to know about guns or poisons or bathing practices of the eighteen hundreds I need to know now. I am surprised I'm not on some list somewhere as a person of interest. When you walk out of the library with travel guide books and popular recipes for undetectable poison it's sure to arouse someones suspicions I would imagine. Though I never did write that book. I just settled on physical and mental torture not involving poison or heavy artillery.
Another tell tale sign that writer's are nuts. We gravitate to other writers for support. It's cray-cray feeding the cray-cray. Ever get a couple of loons...er..writer's together in a restaurant and they don't start plotting a heinous murder or terrorist situation...okay you haven't done that, ah...okay, people get sort of wild eyed and stare at you funny. Erotic writer's think nothing of passing around porn on smart phones at Waffle House. We giggle like a bunch of teenagers caught drinking in the parking lot. I am not kidding you. It's feeding time at the zoo when certain writer people get together.
We're also incredibly sensitive. Creative people usually are. Some of us hide it behind bravado and big words. Others tend to pull in on ourselves to try and sort through the damage. Some of us also tend to forget that we are just frail little creatures in a sea of frail little creatures and we can inflict damage without meaning too. Failure scares us. We take it personally. By the same token success terrifies the shit out of us.
And that ladies and gentlemen is where this crazy ass writer is right now. In a terrified paralytic state. Torn between running to the mall and shouting my book is in the number one slot at Amazon for five days in a row, and curling into a little ball and never emerging.
Two weeks of not blogging wasn't nearly enough. Two months of not writing is taking a toll. Freak out of extreme proportions is imminent and I don't have a damned soul to talk about it with. Why? Why? Why? Why this book? Why that book before it? What makes this one so special? I wrote it more than a year ago and I didn't know what the hell I was doing. Just a crazy idea that I could write something like this. Went through hell with this book for nearly a year. Sold it to a publisher who didn't do one thing with it. For six months. No sales. No interest. Nothing. I didn't change much at all. Cleaned up what I'd done wrong the first time and added an epilogue. Yes that's what it's like to go through a hurricane. Yes I have a Katrina baby. She'll be six in June.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I just write to tell a story. And now I can't write and the stories have stopped. And I have no one to talk to about this. Not one person understands what is going on in my brain. One side is ecstatic the other side has found a dark little spot and crawled into it. Unfortunately, that's the side of my brain that comes up with the stories.
And that is more than I ever intended to write. I know it freaks people out when I reveal too much. Sorry. I have been very up front about my mental state from the beginning. It shouldn't be a shock to the system now. But okay, shutting up now.
No hot men today. We'll get back to that tomorrow. I haven't gone trolling for fresh meat in awhile. I think I might be tired of looking at naked men....nah, I'm just kidding.
Have a great after V-Day Wednesday, chocoholics, what can I say, the hair of the dog that bit ya, or potato chips, I can't help and now I want potato chips. Dammit.