To Be Noted

I don’t know, on some parts of the wave you level off on for a bit, pump some; continue to drive for a few ounces of momentum for what you can see down the line, when things finally start to come back together again, to the place where the action happens. Perhaps, that’s my excuse. That’s where I’ve been.

It’s more complicated then that and also, and equally, more lazy. Or depressed. Or unfocused, lost, swallowed in self-doubt, etc. Insert indolent writer cliché here. It doesn’t matter. Flat, unproductive would do.

But I’ve been working. Not towards anything specifically, but working. I’ll post it soon. Much is coming, in general, and I know it’s my common refrain. It’s been taking a while, like a long mid-album song that holds the hits in front, and the art pieces in the back, together. Something mean and rough: hard to hold together and difficult to leave alone. And I want to make sure it’s better then the things I’ve written in the past. It has to be. If it can’t be; there’s no reason I should keep writing (now that, there, is a sports cliché).

I think it is, but I’m staking me time. When it comes to fiction, I write slow, and develop even slower. It’s a cruel truth, something that I’ve always known but that has taken me decades to come to terms with. Everyone has a different process: mine is not productive in bulk and never will be. Checks will never come my way.

I’ve never written for checks, though, and never will. I just write. Perhaps amateurishly, perhaps vexing and distracted, often drunk, but occasionally with power. Sometimes I want to be the guy that had the talent and blew it, and I am that guy.

Absorbing? Building? Taking Notes? Just know it’s all still in my fingers, and they haven’t quit.

Many gnats swim the laps of pools deep with tangerine light.

Let me make something real like I should.