“As things stand now, I am going to be a writer. I’m not sure that I’m going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says ‘you are nothing’, I will be a writer.”

– Hunter S. Thompson

Writing has always come naturally to me, but when one devotes their life to what they love, it certainly gets a lot more difficult to do for whatever reason.

I think this is because my whole life “writing” has been an escape from responsibility, cutting my hair, making money, and dying for someone else’s dream… although The Great Gatsby is still a tragedy.

Now, it is no longer that. You win, kid. You’re an artist. Now, go be free and fly. Just do it away from us.

Making art looks different than what you’d expect. Or I expected. And I’m enjoying it. But it is hard. It’s hard in such a different way than clocking in is hard.

You go to work, you clock in 8 hours, you go home.

Making art, you are doing it 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, for life, regardless of whether or not you are making anything, let alone anything good. You’ve sold your car for your soul.

I’m not saying I am the product. But I am saying that the trade is the product that as an artist you both buy and sell. Let’s hope I don’t get fucked.

No need for wealth. No need for retirement. The riches of doing what you love is the trade-off for the world. But it is hard. It’s like a marriage to yourself.

Anyways… Don’t make art, kids. It will make you poor and happy.

;

I’ve got to caveat and let the world in on the secret that I’ve been lowering (titrating) my meds for the past, roughly 5 months now, and I will probably continue to be lowering them for the next 4. And then I’ve got six months before I do it again.

The moral of the story is that I am not at my best.

Nobody told me that at 3 years sober, you’d have to go through withdrawals all over again from a benzo that you didn’t know you were taking.

Apart from being pissed all the time, I’m tired. But it passes when the 4-week titration goes by, I adjust, and then I am back to my unusual self. I’m not so mad anymore. And I sleep less, have more energy, and eat better. Not to mention, an iota or two sharper. But no beuno when I go down on med.

Then I’m a dumb bum bum. And don’t really feel like doing shit, including eating well, or maintaining a healthy sleep schedule, much less blog.

It’s hard when you’ve got stuff to do, and you don’t want to do it, and the best part is when you don’t do it. I haven’t done that for the past 3 or 5 years. Just doing a little of nothing.

You want to know how many people reviewed the last two books I wrote?

Zero.

I wrote the only review.

So, discouragement aside, um, it’s been nice to have a fuck you attitude to my go-get-it attitude. And all the people who I come out of the wordworks for on a daily basis, because they all just mean so much to me.

The feeling is mutual; There are people reading this who know I know they care.

But at some point, one likes to feel like they have gotten to where they need to be. Like, I don’t have to go to grad school…again…to prove that I deserve to just be alive. I’m so tired. of always. trying. to do something. to be. someone.

No AA improvement. No no fap. No no smoking. No reading books. No podcasts instead of movies. Or plays. Or exercise. Or sleeping schedules. Or jobs that get me to the next thing.

Like, hey, 28 years old. My name is Ben. I watch cats.

But it is my nature to fight. Don’t let anybody tell you anything different, Capitalism is founded on violence.