Tuesday, June 28, 2011

My heart breaks for my 11 yrs old self

I edited chapter 2 of Samurai Zombie Hunter today. My primary thought was, 'What the hell am I doing?' SZH is not a zombie book. It is not a Samurai book. What the hell am I doing? I spent a lot of time writing this book and I don't think the main buyers of this genre are going to like it.

SZH is literary fiction disguised with zombies, a guy with a samurai sword, lots of sexual references and a lot of cursing. I don't know if I've said the word 'fuckin'' in my whole life as much as I've written it in this book. And since writing this book I curse a lot more now.

You know what though, I don't even know if it counts as literary fiction. I think that what it actually is is a genre that doesn't exist in the US. I think that it is Lad Lit, which is the male equivalent to Chick Lit. How many people read Lad Lit? Who knows. But that is what it is.

But you know what? Fuck this fucking book! I hate it, and the sooner I will be able to never think of it again, the better. This fucking piece of shit rubs me the wrong way like nothing before. And I can't tell if it's the words or the story or something about the scenario, but I HATE IT! It's not like a rational thing. It's much more base than that. It's visceral. It's symbolic of all of my failings. The worst part of me is in that book in some way and me hating that it is easier than me focusing the full force of my disgust on where it should be.

In a few months I'm going to have to do something that I have been avoiding doing for years now. And back when I was feeling positive about the directions of my writing career I decided that when I finished this book, I would do this thing then.

Now, every moment that I work on this book brings me one step closer too that thing. It is something that I cower in the corner from. This thing is like going to war knowing that you are going to be put on the front line. You know that you probably won't make it back from this war and the dread of it prevents you from enjoying the time that you have left.

This thing has been what been destroying me for years now. This thing is the thing that I'm thinking about when a friend catches me staring off into nothingness with a pensive look on my face. This thing is what has brought me to the brink of life time and time again. Can I say again that I hate my life?

I put the maroon sheets on my bed last night. The maroon sheets are 1000 thread count and are wonderfully soft. The nights are getting warmer so I have kicked the comforter off of my bed and at night I spread out my full 6'4" body across my queen sized pillow-top. Before I go to sleep at night I hope that when I wake up all of my life will be different. But in the morning everything is the same except for one thing, D-day is one more day closer. I can't even picture my life beyond D-day and I wish that there would be nothing there at all. But something tells me that I'm not going to be that lucky.

When I was in the sixth grade I was in choir with three other kids Timothy, Richard and Kelly. I wasn't really friends with any of them, but I did like Kelly. The problem was that Richard liked Kelly too and Timothy was Richards best friend.

One night we had a choir concert and the three of us were sitting in a classroom waiting for the concert to begin. Even though Kelly was in the fifth grade I remember her being much bolder than I was. I remember all night Richard and Timothy were talking to Kelly but I was too shy to speak up. At one point I remember speaking up and Kelly turned around to look at me.

I remember her really focusing on what I had said and really considering it. But finally when her considering was done I remember her saying that I was too shy. I think that she said it in a way to encourage me to be less shy but I couldn't do it. I couldn't get myself to break out of who I was even if my heart pushed me too. I was simply too weak.

I'm not sure why I have been thinking a lot about that story recently. Maybe because there's a part of me that says that if I could have been different than who I was in that one moment, my life could have been different. Maybe if the eleven year old me could have said to Kelly "I like you." And then been bold enough to reach out my hand and touch hers, I wouldn't have become the person I am today.

Maybe that was one of those moments we have when we're kids that determines the trajectory of the rest of our lives. If that's the case it really is too bad that that kid had to grow up to be me. He was such a sweet kid. He was the type of kid that I know that I would have liked if I met him. It's really too bad because I hate my life. And with my vast intelligence, I can't figure out a way to get out of it. Odds are it's because I am actually trapped. It really is too bad.

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