What's Next?

I was thinking about what it means to ask someone to read something you wrote. I guess it's asking a lot. Everyone is different, but myself, I really only have a few, finite minutes a day when I have the time, energy, and concentration to read. To me, those are the most precious minutes of the day.

So maybe asking someone to read something you wrote—particularly something book-length—is not only presumptuous, but inappropriate. I suppose one way to look at it is, you can make someone aware of the writing, but not demand, expect, or even desire that they read it. I guess that's the way I want to be treated, as a reader.

But then I wonder, does it make sense even to write anymore—particularly long things like novels? There are so many books written already that I want to read, I'm sure I will reach the end of my life only having read a fraction of them. And then there is re-reading, which, to me, is really important. And then there is talking to friends. And then there is walking in the woods.

Right now I'm committed to finishing a long piece of writing I started writing over ten years ago. I can only hope I finish it in my lifetime. If I do, then I will be faced with a decision: should I start working on another long story? Maybe it would make more sense for me to do something—anything—else.

I suppose if I do spend my best hours and energy on writing something, you can be sure that it's something I really want to do. It's not a decision based on habit, recommendation, reputation, illusion, or economics. Maybe I won't, but if I do, there must be some reason for it, because I'd rather be just about anywhere else than in this chair.

A Ghost Is Not A Monster

So far I have failed to write in this journal like a daily diary as intended, but that doesn’t mean it’s all a loss. I may still get it together as far as that is concerned, as soon as my surgery scar stops hurting and I stop getting sick on a weekly basis, and I kill stress before stress kills me, and I get around to thanking people who sent me stuff on my birthday, and answer emails in general, and do my taxes.

As far as money goes I have to keep working in the job I’m working in, or find a better paying one—but anyway, I can’t stop working, or even look for a part-time job. I am making pretty much exactly enough money to get by. While my job is stressful and annoying, and often makes me tired—and like today, on a Saturday morning, ache all over, and possibly be beginning a daylong migraine ordeal—I actually like it in a way. It’s not boring, and I like the people I work with pretty much. Stress is as much of a two-way street as anything—meaning it’s not just the job that’s stressful, it’s my reaction to stress—which is, of course, something that’s possible, though not easy, to change.

Sometimes I wish that I was 20 feet tall and weighed 500 pounds and I could walk down the street crushing everyone who walks too slow, doesn’t watch where they’re going, and “multitasks” while walking. Half the subway car would clear out to accommodate me, and I would have a miner’s hat with a light on top for reading. But would I, then—would I be just another monster? Really, that’s not what I want at all. I want to be ghost, to go here and there unseen, entering through the most minute cracks and exiting without saying good-bye. Able to read in the twilight, unaffected by my surroundings, and without any need to tell the world about what I’m reading.