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So obviously writing a book that's good is no easy feat. I re-read 90% of what I have written and think to myself "this is absolute dogshit". So I am not sure if I should just keep letting my mind vomit words on a page, or if I should try and create a style and just keep writing until a short 1st draft is done. I spent an hour editing, re-writing, and deleting so much. So as of right now, I have many ideas, and 1 page of writing that I don't hate.

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People who cry in the shower are really fucked up.. I get it though. Sometimes, when I let my mind wander a little too far, I can relate. I pierced my heart and bled soul for 184 pages only to be looking in the mirror at the end of the day a failure. The stillness of silence was suffocating, and I would do anything to have another human being acknowledge my failure. The headline in the news seemed to repeat,  “Tiger Woods beat… to win the… ”. Just once could it be “Erin Dugin’s book Sucks” or “Erin Dugan is a piece of shit, fuck that guy” 

My apartment is marginally bigger than a studio and it claims two bedrooms. Beyond the galley kitchen the furniture is plain, and everything inside is sparse, except for the mini exotic paintings collection that takes an acquired taste to understand. My eyes are fixed on the empty wall behind the medusa sculpture, empty, like the pages on my notebooks. I distract myself with a Time magazine, only to regain consciousness of the fact that I too now work writing shorts about shit I don’t care about. Fake writing as a fake writer. 

After a disastrous spiral of my mental health for the last hour, I unwind through a classic and wake up to Joey from friends blasting in my face.

In the morning I plaster on my bravest face, fortifying my dam to the lake of emotions unsuccessful in stopping the memories from flooding in. The drab, three-story eye-sore that I called home for several years would now just be a memory after this one last encounter. 

I remember being happy here, sitting in my squeaky chair being goofy and sometimes downright strange with my colleagues. But now, as I stand here, looking at the building, I can't help but feel a twinging prick of disappointment for the what could have been thoughts that all old men get when they talk about their ole playin’ days. 

Saving the old timer exaggerations for my grandkids, I do admit I really enjoyed the time at this place. In my office, the journals and stacks of notes haunt me, fools gold feeding me the courage to dream. 

The ignorance was sweet so I tuned to the voices around me as we were saying goodbyes. I felt the sincerity and warmth from the hugs and understood that it’s all business. The severance package was too generous, the company was never the issue, and I take sole responsibility for hemorrhaging fractions of their fantastic streams of gold. Real gold, not fools good.

100 Event Plot Creation

So today I watched a YouTube video about a publisher giving advice on how to write a book. He said to write out a timeline of events you wanted to happen in the book. But I took it one step further. I decided to write out 100 events/important interactions in the story in sequential order. And has filled out so much more than before. I can't say that the plot is any good, or if it will turn out any good. But we'll see. I did make the mistake of writing it all by hand, and typing it out seems like a waste of time. 

I read that the average book was 60,000-100,000 words. At this rate without any editing, this will actually take an eternity. But at the same time I spend 2+ hours on my phone each day, so it's all about how I prioritize my time. I am not giving up by any stretch, I am just struggling to write. 

Not really Struggling Pt 6

In time I will be able to write more than 10 words per minute and have less pauses and disruptions. Hopefully letting go and just writing whatever flows through my head. Practice will help, and feedback does too. But I don't think I'll be getting any feedback on this blog for some time. I convince myself that it's just something for myself, but feedback would be nice even if it was completely negative. Not complaining, I thoroughly enjoy writing by itself whatever medium that may be.

This is a chunk about Erin's house and perspective on houses:

There’s an indelible magic that resonates through the cracks of small homes. The magazines promise beauty, ease, yearning for a dream. A fool wouldn’t accept a bigger house, a nice kitchen island, a room for laundry. But somehow the ease almost makes it all forgettable. My childhood home has a massive wooden dining room table just about blocking the kitchen and was most likely meant for a mansion. And still, the inconvenience warmly pierces my memory forgetting the burden each day of squeezing past for breakfast. We joked that Dad bought it so that Mom wouldn’t eat too much, or if she did she’d be stuck in the kitchen forever. I would say that’s the reason I live in a glorified studio with a broken cuckoo clock and a mirror cobwebbed in the bottom corner. But the truth is I make a fraction more than the Chic Fil A drive through employees and 95% of my hard(kinda) earned money is sent to the old woman in lavishly wrinkling away in the Hawaiian sun. My spending habits are pretty good, I have a policy that I can only use my credit card for “essential items” like pens, journals, and sometimes food. “Non essentials” include the bar, the liquor store, Seven Mile Casino, and donating to the dog shelter no matter how tempting it can be. Just last week I did splurge on a “fair condition” leather recliner that doesn’t really go with the simply empty aesthetic and is bulkier than most small couches. But what really set it apart from the rest in the highly saturated craigslist industry of almost trash was the free shipping. I was not extremely inclined to borrow Matt’s truck for the third week in a row. But look, now I have this awesome recliner with two settings: 1) Leaning back normally, and 2) Feeling like you tried to do a flip on the monkey bars and got stuck.

There’s an indelible magic that resonates through the cracks of small homes. The magazines promise beauty, ease, yearning for a dream. A fool wouldn’t accept a bigger house, a nice kitchen island, a room for laundry. But somehow the ease almost makes it all forgettable. My childhood home has a massive wooden dining room table just about blocking the kitchen and was most likely meant for a mansion. And still, the inconvenience warmly pierces my memory forgetting the burden each day of squeezing past for breakfast. We joked that Dad bought it so that Mom wouldn’t eat too much, or if she did she’d be stuck in the kitchen forever.

Struggling to Scribble Day 5

I put my phone to the side, plugged in some wired earbuds to the computer, and took a new approach to story creation; a legal notepad & pen.

I dreamed up an entire plotline, created several characters, and events that I want to happen in locations on a timeline. I just wrote for like two hours so forgive me for not feeling like typing out anything more at the moment. I will develop the scenes and share them as they come to fruition, but for now you'll have to wait. Plus, why would I want to give the whole story away in one big summary, that'd be lame.

But here's a little piece of creative writing (not book related) that's just for jokes: 

The words oftentimes twirl me around or strum me as a fiddle, though the partner I seek I seem to never find. As I have learned, its best to only wait patiently for their return, as unexplainable as the summer breeze. My only wish is to catch the firefly and poke a hole in the jar, letting luminescence guide my hand, taking partner to my heart.

=

Struggling to Scribble yet again

I can't really sleep since I got knee surgery even on pain meds. My whole body clock is absolutely shot but it's fine for now because I have been in bed all day. I don't really know what inspires me to write. Not saying it's good by any means, but I want a character in Erin that doesn't really care what people think, but at the same time is really genuine and thoughtful. And I'm curious if that comes across in this passage. I don't know if it will or if people will just think he's a prick. I've got about a million more of these to write before an actual story starts to piece together so I have time to make some adjustments. :)  It's late, goodnight party people.

fi-SHH:

There’s a trickling stream up that sits in a gloomy ravine a short walk from the road. Jutting out is jagged rock I don’t mind perching on for the occasional afternoon if it's warm. I mindlessly toss a lure, expecting nothing, and still hawking over my pole.

I brought up going fishing one time at the Christmas party, and my old assistant Cara says “I don’t know how you go fishing, it takes so much patience!!” 

“Well, I listen to you jabber on all day about bullshit so I think that I’ll be fine” 

I don’t think that’s exactly why she quit, I actually thought she was really nice once you got over the fact that her Earth revolves around buying scarves and booties for her toy poodles. 

I could go to a better fishing hole where you catch ‘real’ fish. I could buy a real pole, better bait, and a three pronged hook. But I prefer it this way, not catching fish every time. I want to drift into a sea of thought, clear my mind of the chattering and jabbering, and wait for a minnow to zap 500 cc’s of adrenaline into my fingertips.

You see, after a while you get bored. Not bored of fishing, but the same how do you do’s on the merry go round of conversation. But interestingly, what never fails is when I see an old friend. He tells me all about his kids and his wife and his job all in way too much detail, and still I am riveted to the core. 

And yet when I see my assistant, and she brings up her dog almost dying during a police chase, I am well tuned out because the letters D-O-G had pursed her lips for the millionth time.

I don’t want to go to the place where you get bite after bite. I get the occasional bite and I am fucking excited to the core. And if I actually catch a fish, it has been a week sent from the heavens to give immunity to the plagues pestering week.

So go on, brag about your fishing trips catching trout and halibut and sturgeon, keep talking about your dogs and your kids and your jobs, I’ll sit here in silence, perched on this jagged rock on a trickling stream, mindless tossing a lure, expecting nothing. 

Chances are I tuned out after your mouth regurgitated F-I-S-H-I-N-G yet again

Struggling to Scribble Day 3

 I feel like I am trying to hard and I'm not sure what to do. I thought the first sentences were brilliant at first. But the more I re-read it, the more that I question if it's good at all. At this point I still have no idea what I am doing, and I'm not sure writing 5 sentences at a time is the way to do it. Maybe I will try a different strategy tomorrow. 

Shower:

I often bask in burning showers for what seems like hours trying to soak in the information that spews. 

I’ll gladly sacrifice a high water bill to escape into adventures scouring the depths of my mind. Only until my skin itches do I find the urge to break the bond and begin my morning.

The brisk sunny mornings make it impossible to not going on a windy walk in the woods. Windy (wind) and windy (curvy) are spelled the same. 

I saw a twig suspending a heavy broken branch. That fibrous little fucker just hanging on. He probably wasn’t happy about it, and still he could do it. Sometimes we are forced into positions that aren’t ideal, but nevertheless we can still do them. Eventually all of that wooden weight will fall, but not today. I’m going to come back tomorrow to continue to narrate the little twigs situation.

Struggling to Scribble Day 2

 I couldn’t sleep after reading Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. So I decided to get my lazy bones out of bed at 1am and see what a blank canvas would do for me. I decided to not confine myself to a timeline. And this is definitely not sequential after yesterday’s post. But anyhoo, we’re trying. 

This part is called Sedona :)

20 excruciating hours from my cave, churning pavement like nobody's business. Into the mythical land of vibrant reds and wasping clouds to light up the surreal sunset before dark. Deathly tired, the mesmerizing slow burn of the last colors in the day was satisfying enough for the trouble of the voyage. The bed and breakfast, less so. 

The paint seemed to have had twelve rounds with mother nature, and the owner Betty seemed to have done many many more.

“Thank you so much for coming Mr. Dugin!” eager to climb into my dome and start fiddling with the memory box. As much as I love delving into my personal life with strangers, I kindly retired for the evening, locking eyes with the pillows, and snuggling up into the sand colored duvet.

The clock spun around a few times before I woke, and Betty must have had breakfast ready for hours because just as my door creaked, she was worried that I had starved to death in my sleep.

“Dear, there are muffins and pancakes and coffee and..” 

I’m trying to not tune people out, but it’s a work in progress. Just imagine a buffet at an IHOP and ordering the whole menu just for yourself. As the morning haze retreated and amidst the several encores of eggs and bacon, my attention refocused on the reason for this whole endeavor.. vortexes.

Struggling To Scribble Day 1:

I have nothing figured out so far besides the main character, Erin Dugin. I couldn’t tell you why that’s his name, but I kinda like it. Some other details are he’s 31, and living in San Diego. He recently had a book released but it was a total flop. Obviously, he’s frustrated and to make matters worse he was fired from his company because his book sucked. Now he’s a journalist for a local newspaper, hates it, and that’s as far down this cloudy road of writing I have gotten. I don’t know how to create a scene, or dialogue with other people, or how a writer should start anything. But this is what I wrote, and I am trying not to be discouraged.

This is what I have so far: 

People who cry in the shower are really fucked up.. I get it though. Sometimes, when I let my mind wander a little too far, I can relate. I pierced my heart and bled soul for 184 pages only to be looking in the mirror at the end of the day a failure. My office still looks the same, I didn’t want any of the stuff anyways. All of the journals and notes fools gold, giving me the courage to still dream. I didn’t listen to the voices around me, but I felt the sincerity and understood that it’s a business.

The stillness of silence was suffocating, and I would do anything to have another human being acknowledge my failure. The headline in the news seemed to repeat,  “Tiger Woods beat… to win the… ”. Just once could it be “Erin Dugin’s book Sucks” or “Erin Dugan is a piece of shit, fuck that guy” 

The severance package was too generous, the company was never the issue, I take sole responsibility for hemorrhaging fractions of their fantastic streams of gold.

Very much Struggling to Scribble,

James 

Struggling to Scribble: The Pre Op(eration)

Today is January 11th, 2023, Day one of my long journey in becoming an author:

I want to complete a book. I want to write this blog everyday to keep the creative ball rolling.

This is to keep track of the entire process, how my perceptions change, and how my writing changes throughout the course of this thing. And I want to show people that any normal non-author can make something really cool. I want to showcase struggles and shitty drafts so that people can feel more comfortable being creative in a world of private thoughts and private notes. I’ve kept a journal for years, no one has ever read them, and I want to be less secretive and not embarrassed about my craziness.

It honestly could take years, but I am really excited to see what happens. Thanks for following my journey.

Currently though, I am struggling to scribble,

James