Once
again, the new year begins like crash-landing on an unknown planet.
Only this time there's all kinds of weird apocalyptic shit around the
smoking crater. The natives are too busy figuring out their new
realities to notice me crawling from the wreckage.
There are
a lot of new realities in 2019 . . .
So,
what do I do now? If it wasn't for all the holidayization of the
calendar, I'd just keep on, head down, full speed ahead, but culture
puts its rituals in the way, interrupting my program.
Think
I'll make a public spectacle of finishing my novel, Zyx; or, Bring
Me the Brain of Victor Theremin.
I've been thrashing away at it for a few years, and it's finally
taking shape in brain, which should have serious effects on my
behavior. I could use a excuse, and it could be entertaining.
I
also should sit down at my drawing board, and finish drawing that
Aztec Eagle (a masked, Mexican wrestler) comic based on the script
that Claude Lalumiรจre
wrote for his Avatars of Adventure
project. It keeps getting derailed my writing career, and getting
tripped up on technical aspects. I should just get down to doing some
old-fashioned cartooning.
Also,
I should stop letting the drawing board get dusty. I need to draw
more, if just for the way it makes me feel.
There's
also some unsold short fiction. They've all reached the point where
they've been turned down by most markets, so I have to go hunting in
the outer reaches to find homes for them. As if I didn't have enough
to do. But how are people
supposed
to read them if they don't get published?
I
also have a Pancho Villa's Flying Circus,
story collection
that
I should start working on . . .
Funny,
how I'm never short on stuff to do.
Also,
I need to expect the unexpected, and invite inspiration, which is
basically, the way I lead my life. I come up with these crazy
ideas, and that's why it's so disorganized. Or is it just organized in an
eccentric manner?
Is
it possible to be a writer and an artist, and be normal?
Meanwhile,
new things rain down. While driving back from Sedona last week, Emily
told me about a dream she had that would make a good fantasy novel. I
made a few suggestions, and she asked, “Would you like like to
write it with me?”
Just
what I need, another project.
But
I could not resist.
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