OK. Just taxied home from being a clown at a Mexican restaurant. My funniest friend wasn’t there so there was a power vacuum that I gladly filled. Stir-crazy on my little block with the laptop all week and so I came out swinging. Other people. They only exist to laugh at what I say. Go ahead, I told myself, be obnoxious; better than being boring. There was tequila lying around to top off the mood.
I had just finished the book so I got loose and splashed some Korean won around like it was Monopoly money. Done. A final six-week push. A long Hell of self-doubt mixed in with occasional god-like feelings. Like when you re-read something you nailed and it feels like you drained a half-court 3. Done. Smoothed and sanded all the rookie aberrations off it and cut the extra words out of the thing until it bled. I’m proud of it now. It’s not a masterpiece but I can say with supreme confidence that it’s sure as shit better than Brad Thor. It has scenes that could be in MAD MAX. It needs to be a movie. It was always supposed to be a movie. I wrote it as a script in college before I got into fiction. It’s a motherfucking movie.
And now it’s done. Now what. 96 hours since my last post. Uncommon for me. But I can barely write anymore. I should quit. I am 27 and possess perfect health. I should be on night busses out to these islands that pretty young people go camp on. Instead I just sit here blackening my teeth with coffee and getting ball cancer from the hot plastic I type into. Developing blood clots because I never move. Sixteen people that I have never met like my stuff. That makes me happy but I don’t know if I can sustain it. I’ve lived the same Groundhog Week over and over since I got to Korea. You know all my schemes and scandals. I can’t believe I was able to stretch it out for this long.
And I can’t write anymore because I’m too happy. Too happy to be incisive and hungry like an artist needs to be. Most of that is an ironic byproduct of being proud of what I’ve written. The rest of it is because I prayed. Not to God; I wasn’t specific. Just a cosmic shotgun blast. I had to pray. Because there are people who want to be me, but I didn’t want to be me. For years if anyone gave me a compliment or if my mother said she loved me I would think: stop lying to me. I started going to the bridge at night to look at the canal with the featureless Soviet blocks lined up on it. Not to jump in but to make a request. If anyone is listening, I need to be me again. I used to be the boy who liked himself a lot. I know I can be him again. I need him to come back.
That’s what I pray for and it’s working. It’s necessary. It’s also sucked the urgency out of my life. That’s OK. I’ll write when I can. When I want to.
Well that’s it for now; go fuck yourselves. And have a great weekend.