Sigh.

[dragonlady7]

Jonathan Carroll's blog is always a good read-- often haunting or unsettling, always interesting. The entry linked to just there describes perfectly the impulse that has always driven me to write. Fiction or nonfiction, it's all about explaining things, but mostly to myself.



I read more author's blogs than I do novels. I would wonder why, but I know why that is. I can't be trusted with novels. I binge, like an alcoholic. I try to explain, and can't.
Good Omens was good because it was a fast enough read that I only had to reread it once and it didn't take very long. It also satisfied me enough that I didn't get The Hunger and need to read other books. I think it might be because it was humor more than drama-- drama sucks me in so much. Don't get me wrong, there was drama, but it was understated enough that I could control myself.

I digress. See, I get sucked into talking about it too, and it eats my life.



I really am serious about the strip club thing. There's a bar downtown Z and I have been going to for years now, a really mellow classy joint in a historic building downtown. The owner, last time I was there, gave me his card and said I should come work for him. Z has been saying for years now that I should work there. But I can see it's not that busy at dinner, and I just dunno if I could afford to work there, y'know? But now they're opening the upstairs as a burlesque joint / "gentlemen's club" kinda deal, and, well...
I sorta told myself I wouldn't get another bartending job, but this one was so good for so long that I'm really tempted to keep going in this career.

I just... dunno. That's all. I am full of the Dunno.




Also full of the Tired. Have to take the bus every day this week, as Z needs the car for stuff. Which means I leave the house at 11 am and have hours in which to think about the various correspondences, online and on paper, that I am behind in, but being stuck in an airport lounge sans Internet, there's nothing I can do. But by the time I get home it's midnight, and I am bushed, so I go to bed. The following morning I have just enough time to start to think of things I was telling myself to catch up on, before I have to pack up and go catch the bus, and spend three hours again thinking Yes, that's what I was going to do; yes, that also is shamefully late; yes, I should do that. (Which gets me so antsy and worked up I can't really get any writing done or anything like that, so it's really wasted time.) But again, when I get home, I'm incoherent with weariness, and so I go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. That, right there, is my entire life.
Even without the weird schedule bullshit.
I can't do it. I really can't.
Not any more.

Comments

[moralanqua.livejournal.com]

H, go for it. The job sounds like a chance to make lotsa cash and to be drooled over. Nature gave you those giant bazoomba's for a reason, now go jiggle them over draught beers and dirty martini's!