at this point, I’m so disgusted with the whole process I have to ask myself what ever possessed me to start writing in the first place. I feel like taking every single attempt at fiction I’ve done and throwing into the garbage.
I won’t, of course. The disgust extends way beyond the total mess of what the hell do I think I’m doing with this draft. One of those existential low points that show up way too often these days. Burn-out or something. Energy petering out because every damn little thing uses up so much of it for nothing.
Case in point: a meeting with a school Principal in two hours from now, concerning a father who could put his destructive impulses to work in real time. The son in need of protection but if you think the father’s going to let that happen, you’d better think some more before training as negotiator in hostage-type crises.
Never mind being tired about people settling arguments with machetes (then having to deal with their younger brothers or sisters). I’m also tired of kids burning cars as a past-time. Tired of their younger brothers stealing the money while their classmates and teachers stage a Race against Hunger – not that the classmates will win the race, but filching the money and blowing it on Doritos won’t do much for humanity either. I’m tired of putting a happy face on a bunch of crap and getting yeah-well type responses. What the hell, you know, that’s life, it’s all going to the dogs anyway the rich get richer, the ozone gets thinner etc and you can count on the media to keep you posted on the seventy million reasons why you should take your pills, and stay out of trouble.
Voilà. I won’t even call this A post to keep afloat. I’m tired. Period.