In addition to dealing with the death of David Foster Wallace, which has dampened my fucking spirits more than you can imagine, I am beset by all sorts of shit:
1) I am falling behind in some of my consultancy work, which means less money to add to my already meagre income.
2) I am falling behind in shaping out in my real writing (Fictions II and a screenplay I have been working on for the past four fucking years).
3) Realising how much of a philistine fucking place I am trying to live in as a writer - all sort of artistic and literary shit is going on in Trinidad on a weekly basis and nothing is happening here.
4) The sense, spurred no doubt by DFW's passing, that this writing skunt is essentially pointless at the end of the day.
There are a couple of things that are saving me from virtually suicidal depression as well, so I guess the universe balances itself out a bit. My son, for example, is a constant source of delight although work has me so tied up I hardly get to spend quality time with him these days. And I'm trying this monogamy thing and she's proving to me that it has its rewards.* And even with Wallace's passing, it's given me an opportunity to find out more about his work, which in turn has provided with the information I need to define the abstractions which serve as the theoretical basis for my writing.
I have a long weekend ahead of me and I have to prioritise from a list of activities which include, drinking and trading insults with Kram, catching up with Bakannal, spending time with my son, making sure that I don't railroad my budding relationship, working, writing and jerking off.
*Subtle allusion to the fact that yes, I am seeing someone fairly steadily and despite my inclinations to follow the 'advice' 0f my morally-numb friend Kram, I am going to curb my propensity to be a complete fucking whore at times.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment