There is not enough time in the day to take my time.
For the first time in my life, I will have something I have written in a book format. But I am not happy.
I am mad. I am almost furious. I am so furious, that I am listening to Mozart’s Requiem.
I am mad, because I spent the last five hours of my Sabbath reviewing, reading, and editing the final portion of Spring, then going through the process of selling my soul to Amazon. I did all of this willingly and knowingly. I did nothing against my will, but maybe with my ignorance.
I got excited yesterday when I realized that it is easy to get free paperback copies of your work if only you sell your soul to Amazon. I overlooked that part.
I am mad, because I bothered at all to go through the process that has now given me nothing. I will have three paperback copies of a rough draft of a horrible novel written by an ambitious and agitated teenager. I wrote it between fifteen and now. I could now insert a rant about how teenagers should not write, or at least not share their writing. I will and I will keep it short.
Teenagers are not good at writing. They can be good for being teenagers. But they are not good – nor will they ever be – good writers until they cease to be teenagers. This is how it works. They only become good, if they went through a stage of being bad or most likely awful.
I wrote Spring and I was an awful writer.
The reason I am mad?
I wanted to do it, because the Devil tempted me with the idea of a physical book with my name on the front of it! Even if it is the worst thing I have ever written.
The reason I am mad?
I have shed light on a novel that ought to never have seen the light of day.
And now, I am questioning the whole idea of me even writing. What I want right now is to write more but to keep it all to myself. I am again attracted to the idea of writing whatever I want and keeping it all to myself until the day of my death.
I am being very fatalistic right now.
I am mad, because making the novel (from henceforth, I will not even name it) physically exist has now put a stop to the whole process of writing it. It exists in all of its imperfection. It also exists with a terrible and disgusting cover. It is a testament to a grand failure that I would have preferred borrowing from in later novels than give a place in this world at all.
I cannot describe to you how much the covers of these books matter to me. They are everything. If the cover of one book is not exactly how I imagine it, then the entire book is a failure. By ordering paperbacks of the novel, I have now ruined the organization I had in my head.
Aside from this journal and school assignments, I have no problem with taking a long vow of silence with my writing. I may do that, actually. Everything I write could just be locked up in a great vault, until the day it is all ready to have covers.
And I still have laundry to do.
And I still have to cook.
And I want to go to bed by ten.
And there are so many pieces of others’ writing that I should read.
I edited an essay by a friend of mine. I was too liberal with my additions and excisions. I upset her. For that, I am sorry. I have never edited the work of another that closely. Someone once did it to me. I sent him a short story I wrote called Your Room, Our Womb and he re-wrote it in his voice. I was livid.
I read a book called Bird by Bird written by Anne Lamott. I disliked that book, because Anne is too schizophrenic and hard on herself. She attaches herself far too strongly in her work.