A sort of meta rant.

Yep.

I've been working on short stories.


In my head. 


I'm trying to write a novel.


In my head.


None of this is helpful to actually getting it done, in reality. I like to think I'll actually commit these things soon enough, but that's something I am very bad at. I'm trying to gather people for yet another little series involving their stories, but trying to work around their availability and my own isn't always fruitful. (Speaking of, if you want to be one of them, dear god message me. I have time for you. I love you. I'll buy you coffee.)


I am trying to think of content and ways to promote a website that I'm part of while trying to further myself at the same time. All the while, juggling other needs. I'm viewing every little moment of my day as a possible thing to write down. I'm starting to feel like Superman, without the cool leotard. 
At the same time, I have this completed work of art for a show-- in my head. Yeah, still. Can't sell my idea of a drawing to someone. Just the finished product. 


Sometimes I read back on something I wrote and realize, hey, people won't like that. It's harsh, or rough. Do they want to hear me laugh at that guy who almost died because he did something stupid? No. Do they want to hear about how insignificant I think people can act? No. Nobody wants to read something with bitter undertones and realize they resemble what the writer is mocking. 
So I get caught, caught between what I want to say and what people want to hear. I write nice things on one website, only share my fiction (the tame ones) on the forums, only hint at the reality here. I keep a large, unread collection of my short stories hidden away from people. Those are the ones only a few would appreciate, and hopefully understand why I wrote them. 


I start feeling like these writing endeavors are going to lead me to that path of broke (sometimes) starving (sometimes) asshole sitting at Starbucks (which I am doing) not actually getting shit done (... FUCK.) One day, though, I'll put all my effort into self-publishing those hidden stories. 
I'll let go of those novels, throw them at readers and scream "I fucking dare you." 


People can find out what I did on those long walks alone, what I thought, and know what I don't say. Will they dislike me? Probably a few-- though I tend to keep myself in the company of less than sensitive people, since emotional wrecks seem to drive me crazy. Did you call your girlfriend smoochie-face and abandon all man friends to cuddle puppies with her in a field? There may be a reason I don't call anymore. It's nothing against love, emotion, or that person. I just have a low tolerance for bullshit. True, hard, deep love exists. I feel it. But the overlying crap people lay on each other out of insecurity doesn't do it for me.


That's the problem. Right there, right above. That's how I think, to a mild degree. That's what people don't like. As fascinating as it is to see from a distance, or even pretend you want to aspire to a realistic worldview, it's not safe for some to bother with it. It'll lead to depression some can't handle. Anger. Maybe even rage. If you're naturally this way, congrats, you ought to have a handle on it by the time you're beyond the age of 25. I hope.


Or not. It all depends.

I want to walk around some days just slapping people, shoving a sign in their hands that says "I don't bother to give meaning to my life. But look at my nice new car!"

I'm not saying that somehow, my life is better than anyone else's. I'm sure some people enjoy their existences, truly. But others, you can see that they are simply empty. They have stuff. They have uncaring people for friends. You get them drunk and alone, though, and they spout off how much they hate themselves. It's sad.

And that's what I want to say. I want to say what I mean to someone other than my notebook. I'm learning the hard way that people want something that will make them think, but not too hard. Never too hard. 

A while back, before I knew most of the folks I know now, I was berated harshly for some things I wrote. I was told that expressing the innards of others wasn't fair, or nice, and that the truth doesn't need to be shared all the time. Seriously?

That's fine. I know who I am pandering to, and where. It gives absolutely NO less meaning to what I write. Every single bit of it, every word, means the world to me. Just because it's on a website I consider needing tamer things doesn't mean I hate it. If I posted it, I cared about it. 

So, to those I once offended years ago, sorry. I hear Harry Potter is a nice series.

To those I never offended, I think you're pretty neat. 

Otherwise, it's taking a slight turn. I plan to update here four times a week, with one blog on the solecisms site and a story a week. 

It's time to get serious.