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.
Page 1
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.