I'm 99% done this thing (and it's the best thing I've ever done), but the last 1% is a real motherfucker.
The book is almost done. Maybe 2-3 more weeks of intensive work, and then it's off to the agents again (the election of Trump has changed the game, made my novel far more topical).
The only problem is that the rest of my life is on the verge of falling apart. Except it's not really on the verge of falling apart - that characterization is nothing more than my mind catastrophizing, extrapolating from the current crisis to a doomsday scenario that's enormously unlikely. Objectively, I know this to be the case, but that doesn't prevent me from tossing and turning at night, unable to sleep.
I'm paralyzed by fear. Fear of missing out, fear of failure, fear that I've made the wrong life choices, fear that I'm going to live a life of mediocrity, fear of losing someone I care about, fear of caring too much, and caring too little.
Let the fear pass through you. Accept that you are going to die. Accept that your consciousness will be annihilated. Accept the temporal nature of your existence. Stop fighting it. Stop resisting. Let it pass through you. The resistance is what creates the force. Acknowledge to yourself that you care about her. Acknowledge that you may fail, and fail spectacularly. The world around you is a hurricane. Find the eye of the storm. Sit down and close your eyes. Breathe.
Maybe another month?
Beta Male - a five and a half year journey of a novel.
The final (FINAL) draft is really coming together. There's a movement to it, a clean rhythm, a sense of completion and wholeness that wasn't there before.
It's the best thing I've ever done.
Since I'm not a tech guy, I use Weebly to set up this blog.
Problem is, sometimes it's buggy and doesn't save drafts.
In fact, after I published two posts yesterday, the posts were actually permanently deleted, and when I tried to recover them, Weebly's customer support wasn't any help. They helpfully suggested that I save my blog drafts in another form of writing software, completely defeating the purpose of having a system that saves drafts to begin with (and often it doesn't actually save the drafts).
In conclusion, Weebly is absolute dog shit. I should've gone with SquareSpace.
Spent about an hour writing out a seven page handwritten entry in my personal journal (things that are too personal for a publicly facing blog). Found myself writing out a list of goals for 2017. I'm actually trying to move away from goal-focused living, since I think it puts one in a state of perpetual failure and unhappiness: once you achieve another goal, you just set a new one, returning yourself to state of pre-success failure that makes you feel like shit.
Instead, I've got areas of focus:
No more goals. Just systems...
When you live in a small Bushwick apartment with two roommates at the age of 32, you're going to constantly question the value of what you're doing. I mean, it beats doing work I don't find useful or meaningful [while] making a lot of money for myself and even more for other people.
From Tony Tulathimutte's interview with VICE.
Although I'm half-Asian, I follow young Asian-American male writers with interest.
I'm broke as fuck, so earning that cash cuts really badly into that writing time.
It's my own fault though, so no right to complain.
The thing about casual sex is that it's not always casual for the other person. It's unfortunate, but power is an intrinsic component of any relationship. The person who is more attached to the relationship - whatever it may be - finds themselves in a weaker position. Consciously or unconsciously, the person with greater power is usually aware of their strength.
I have been on both both ends of this, so I try to not to use my strength to emotionally exploit the vulnerability of the other person. When you tell a girl that, no, you don't want to be her boyfriend, it's not pretty watching the dagger slip into their chest. I take no pleasure in watching hope die. It's completely fucking brutal. It's terrible that it's so common. You can be completely upfront about your intentions and the type of man you are, and you still end up inflicting terrible pain on others. Few things hurt more than unrequited love.
Some people avoid the discussion entirely (hence the prevalence of ghosting), but personally, I think that's inhuman. If someone takes a chance on you, you don't spit in their face. You treat them like a person.
It occurred to me yesterday - walking home at 2 AM, the night sky illuminated by city lights, like a glowing canvas - that promiscuity is not increasing my happiness.
It has taken me a long time (years) to reach this conclusion.
My close friend, who I previously assumed was an incorrigible womanizer, recently got a girlfriend. He tells me he's probably going to marry her. He's been a ravenous pussy hound for seven years. It's not a perfect relationship, but he's doing his best.
People, they surprise you.
“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing.
I buried two friends who died by their own hand in their early twenties. The caskets are heavy, moreso because the white satin gloves they give to pallbearers have little grip to them. The weight of the casket slips past the fabric separating your palms from the metal grips drilled into their sides. There were eight of us carrying the thing, his friends, men in the full bloom of youth, and we could barely carry the thing.
The young have no concept of death, know nothing of its finality.
The first one died when I was twenty-one years old. I took a phone call in a hallway.
What do you mean, it wasn't a car accident?
If you want to see how deep love can go, you need only meet grief. When I saw his parents, I knew that I'd never seen anyone so completely devastated.
It is not enough to give someone a reason not to die. They need a reason to live. Supposedly, we are wired to survive at all costs. This is our genetic legacy, gifted to us from evolution. And yet, in my experience, survival and living are not the same thing. Survival is a prerequisite for the former, but it is not the same thing as living. To live is something greater than that. To live is to love and to be loved. Spiritual needs are as biological as any other.
I'm a flawed human being, but I'm doing my best not to lose another one.
I really, really love being hypomanic. Being on top of the world, my mind like a machine gun spitting round after round of stellar ideas.
I can only imagine how great true mania feels.
Hypomania isn't like mania, in that it makes you do really crazy shit, it's just super, super great.
And science agrees!
people I admire
Bret Easton Ellis