Sunday, June 19, 2011

My next novel, if I get enough energy

Let me try and think of something to say, something to say about how awful I feel. Why is today the worst? I can't think of anything else to say, I mean I'm too exhausted. But wait – what happened to what I wrote yesterday, just a few sentences, about how actually yesterday was worse than the day before, the day that starts at the beginning of this paragraph? Yesterday I almost wrote down everything I did, just to see, even though I hate when healthcare practitioners ask me that, but somehow it suddenly it sounds interesting, because I felt like I did a lot, just at the beginning of the day, even though I had to get back in bed, twice, and after the second time, when I actually fell asleep, I felt so horrible it was like there was no possible way to wake up, except that I was awake, right, but not awake, and then eventually I went back to bed, slept through the night and woke up thinking okay, today’s the good day: maybe I'll even start my next novel, or at least think about it – it's the one about Boston, for a while I was thinking I didn't want to start it until I was in Boston, but that's silly – I want to start it now.

So now I'm thinking about whether just to start writing, or first to read my journals from that time, maybe a brainstorming list I mean I've started lists before, so maybe I should look at them first, then there's the thing about the ending. That's what I keep thinking about, I mean when I think about this novel that I wasn't sure that I wanted to start yet, but today I'm sure, yes I'm ready to start soon – but right, the ending: of course I don't need to know that yet. There are things I want to investigate – like what would've happened if I got more stuck, more addicted to drugs and I couldn't get away. What if I lost my critical engagement and just became part of that world that I couldn't escape. I want to write about that trick in New York who paid me monthly, but move him to Boston. Maybe he's part of the escape, and part of the trap. Maybe I want to write about AA and how Chris abandoned me, but not Chris in this case, someone else, or maybe I'm the one who gets addicted to AA and does the abandoning.

But first I need to write about what actually happened, that's what keeps drawing me to this idea even though I'm not exactly sure why, I mean except that I need to write about Boston, the first place where I really lived inside gay worlds not queer; where drugs and club really became the center of my life; where I went to escape college and what I was supposed to be, I mean the second time; where I really hung out with fags for the first time, I mean only fags. Those dreams of drugs and longing; that lunar landscape of the sky and everything beneath; my relationship with the John Hancock Tower, which I called Andrea; hopelessness through hoping, coping, hoping again, coping. What I want to investigate and what I want to bring back; what I want to leave; what I left; what I was never there for; what I found; what I lost. So much to think about, it’s crazy and exciting – a new book to write!

Except then I get so tired again, tired like I need to get back in bed; I already got back in bed. Tired like I can’t even think, have to push my thoughts out, pull them into space, hope that my brain doesn't give way. I guess there's no rush. Except that I don't want to keep feeling this way.

Oh, but the book – maybe it will help, I mean when it doesn't give me a headache just to try to get the words out, ouch. Of course it will help – writing always helps, right? Or, well, helps something. Although back into that world of drugs, what will that make me feel? Sketchtasy, that's what the book is called.

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