Saturday, February 17, 2018

Pierwalker Log: February 17, 2018

Writing start: 10:20 AM.
Finish: 1:50 PM.
Total new words: 1300
Edited (est.): 4800

Tasks

1. Book Two of Angel: Off until next Saturday
Notes: Thinking of the trigger warnings I should include in the front matter. I believe they should be included.

2. Failure: Read-through
Notes: I'm trying to coordinate with Book Three here. It's all coming together, and I'm excited.

3. Book Three Melody: Read-through
Note: I've got a better idea now where this is going.

4. Watson: Off

5. Book Two Cheapery St.: Off

6. Dread Pirate Roberts (2): 600 new words
Notes: More slowly-but-surely work here. Giving some new characters a voice.

7. Slum: 300 new words
Notes: Writing these visions is always, in a profane way, cathartic.

8. T-Bag (new fan-fiction from Prison Break): 400 new words
Notes: Character-driven Prison Break. That probably won't excite fan-fiction enthusiasts, but I really couldn't care less.

Extra note: I've noticed that those who infect social media with quotes and admonishments to persevere are almost never those who have been truly called to hang in there when times get tough. They don't know what tough times are. They don't have a clue. It's like the loudest Christians screaming about Jesus. They are often the most immoral and un-Christian of the lot, and have no real idea what the man said.

I've written at least four thousand new words this week. Multiplied by fifty-two, that comes out to a huge new epic novel or two smaller (but still substantial) ones. All while penniless. All with the absolute apathy of the world at large. All with almost no encouragement. All with no recognition. All with a species more interested in watching cat GIFS and tweeting fact-free Republican talking points on the great social media opioids that are Facecrotch and Shitter than they are in any form of art produced by authentic artists.

I must remind myself. I do not write for you. I never will. I refuse to. You are flighty and unpredictable; you couldn't care less if I live or die; you consume instead of appreciate; you live in suburbia, in all likelihood, and hold, whether or not you've thought about it, to the suburbanist worldview. Someone like me doesn't really even speak your language, do I?

C'est la vie, baby. If you aren't there for my struggle, to paraphrase Will Smith, don't expect to be there for my victory.

And I will have my victory, believe me.

Go back to your Survivor and Pornhub. While you're at it, kiss my big white ass.


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