So much for writing tonight
Well, I got started. Had a pretty good idea where I was going, but I got up on a Monday morning at an ungodly hour — something like 4:45 a.m. — so I could get to work early and then get off early, so then I could make it back to Sacramento in time to meet some guy from the property management company who was supposed to do some maintenance on the malfunctioning fixtures in the bathroom of my apartment. Sooooo, I got back at 3:45 p.m., was supposed to meet the guy at 4:00, waited, waited, waited.
Finally, at 5:20, I decided to honor my oncoming comatose state, which at that point could be ignored no further, and slept for an hour and a half. So here I sit, after 9:00 in the evening, typing this out, this “I’m sorry, but I started writing the first chapter of My Not-So-Brilliant Life as an Obnoxious Drunk, and there was no metaphorical whiskey in the reservoir. Fuck me. I’m not stupid, but some nights, it’s impossible to get that flow going.
What the hey. I’ll just ramble about something. I just came out of a recent period where I kinda crashed and burned. Sometimes I don’t pay attention to what’s going on under the hood, or in the brainpan, or wherever there’s some kind of sentient activity going on. I over-commit. And sometimes, no problem; I can go to the well and pull those long late nights and work like the dickens and get a lot done.
But, other times, I go through periods where any superhuman activity is just too damned difficult, unless it involves sitting around playing guitar. I fold like cheap lawn furniture at a pool party frequented by obese drunks. I crumble like a burnt cookie. Or I just don’t get anything done. I stress out, and come apart like overcooked fish fillets on a barbecue tended by the same obese drunks, who have wandered into the garage where the cooler is to find more Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boys, fillets be damned.
So, this daily update of my long-neglected blog is my feeble and too-late attempt to get my writing shit together. If I can commit to writing something every day, in the same way that I’ve been able to sit on a cushion and meditate every day for, well, it’ll be four years at the end of this month, then maybe someday I’ll build up somewhat of a head of steam, and I’ll have a book’s worth of stuff. Or, maybe not.
I know I’ve promised this before, and I’ve failed. This time, I mean business. —Jackson Griffith