Still slugging through my last round of editing my stories. I had originally planned the collection to be a self-contained series of ten stories, but that would have taken another few years to complete to my near satisfaction. Thus, I opted for five–with an additional one that does not really relate to the rest thrown in as literary lagniappe.
Though only six, those stories will capture my overriding concerns about life. After that set, I, ultimately, will have nothing more to say–only reiterations of what I have already said. However, I cannot not write. Even with family, friends, and career, I would still feel adrift if I were not to write. Thus, I must, and I will.
My next collection of stories will descend into the abyss. Over the past few years, I have amassed a decent-sized library of despair literature. Though I have not personally had the misfortune of experiencing great suffering, I am willing to enter into the darkness and to reflect upon it philosophically. Will I emerge from this unscathed? I highly doubt it, but I consider this to be necessary field work.
My mom this very morning asked me if I were still taking my meds. I told her that I was not. She told me that I need to resume my neural nostrum regimen, for when I am on them I am actually pleasant to be around. I told her that is why I want to make a major move in the near future–to grant me the chance to recreate myself, allowing who I am now to die, as I feel he must. I am such a jackass to my mom.
I am not a good person. I have never claimed to be one. I wish more people would realize this. If there will be anything that acts as my advocate, it will be the way that I can use words–both to give life and to destroy.
Speaking of destruction, before I finish my job-mandated therapy, I want to convince both my therapist and my counselor that there are no rational grounds for optimism. If I can do that by May, then, I will, I must confess, come away quite tickled with myself. I plan on presenting my bullet-point plan of action over the course of the ensuing weeks.
After I release my stories, I may even close this blog. I am tired of writing for no one. Also, as mentioned earlier, I beginning to believe that I am only repeating myself at this stage.
Sadly, there are not too many people to whom I can actually voice these concerns and who would want to listen. Thus, I toss these submissions to anonymous readers–I may as well be writing love notes on paper planes and throwing them from the roof of a tall building.