Writing start: 9:07 A.M.
Finish: 2:57 P.M.
Total new words (est.): 500
Edited (est.): 14700Tasks
1. Failure: Second primary edit of chapter twenty-six
2. Book Three Melody: Off
3. Angel: Book Three: 500 new words
Notes: A good day for this new chapter.
4. Random Chance Book Two: Read-through of chapter three
5. Port Story: Sixth primary edit of chapter two
Notes: I've got a much better idea where the story arc wants to go after this chapter.
6. Hidden Bookmarks: Off
7. Rumpel: Third primary edit of chapter four
8. Zelena (Secondary Edit Two): Part Three
Special Projects: None today
Extra notes: I think I would prefer being a "diamond in the rough" than one that's been captured and tamed and on someone's finger or hanging from their neck.
Over the past year particularly, I've come more and more to embrace obscurity. It has been a very difficult road to walk. The past year has seen me take big strides on it, and to stop seeking ways off of it.
We live in a perversely myopic culture. Fame and fortune rarely go to those who merit them; and those who merit them often starve before they earn either, if they earn either even after death.
I've been writing steadily for more than fifteen years. Daily since then I have labored at improving my craft, my message, my stories, my poems, my words. These logs are a tiny testament to my efforts. They are a solid refutation and disproof to the white-lighty bromide to do what you love and the money will follow.
That's total bullshit.
I am able to write daily because I'm supported in that writing by my partner. We live very simply and frugally. No expense goes un-logged. Our needs are basic and uncomplicated. We have rejected the goo-gaws and sashes and markers of success this hateful culture insists we clamor for, and which this culture defines as success.
Ageism is quite prevalent and insidious in America (along with a thousand other terminal social ills): to that end, and for that reason, I have had no luck finding paid work that would take me away from my writing each day, at least for a few hours. And so in addition to writing, I labor to make our lives and our home the best it can be. I'm what my mother was, and what I used to hold in disdain: I'm a housewife. Or -husband. Take your pick; either is good with me.
(Forgive me, Mom.)
I write; I take care of the TARDIS; I do what I can to support my partner in her work. Every now and then someone writes a review of something of mine that they read, or they email me. It doesn't happen often, maybe once or twice a year. I don't write to current trends in order to get more readers; I don't kiss anybody's ass either in my books or here; I don't "market" this blog or my books, as both are enormous wastes of time; and I don't tolerate those who wish only to use me or abuse me in any way. I've had a whole lifetime of both types; I need no more of them.
This life, as I have increasingly struggled to come to grips with, is way too short.
So here I am. Blogger. Writer. "Jobless." Penniless. "Unsuccessful." A house-husband.
It has been one helluva road.