Thursday 11/17/22
It's hard to always be doing everything at once. It's harder still to be doing everything at once when it feels like there is no point to anything. I don't mean the work itself. Nothing has ever had a greater point. I mean in terms of results. Outcome. So that is why there is sometimes a gap between entries in these pages.
I'm writing a piece on "Love Me Do." Still working on "BETTER MAN." Or it still sits. I read the first page and a half again last night. The girl in "Best Present Ever" is now eight, instead of seven. Been working on Glue God, The Human Reader, and And the Skin Was Gone. I came up with about five new story ideas yesterday.
I should write a book about writing. I mean a real one. Not the bullshit you see. Every single book I see about writing that comes out now is meant to enable people with no ability or people who are not developing their ability or people who could be better--everyone can be better--who are not taking the steps to get better. Not make anyone a better writer.
I can make one a better writer. I can also get one to deal in reality. I can also get one to be a better reader. I'd break it into like seven sections. Why seven? I don't know. It's the number I have in mind. The way a book like that should work is it's about more than making people write better--it's a lucid consideration of what good writing is and what makes good writing good writing. That's where we begin, and also what we must return to.
People love to be lied to. It means everything to them. But it doesn't help them. It hurts them. I would say that the books of which I am speaking make the people who read them worse at writing. If they treat what they're reading seriously. Mostly it's just comfort. You see someone unhealthy, and you tell them, "No, you look so good, you're so fit, wow, that's awesome," and they just want you to say that. But they're dying.
Maybe there's a better way to go than just cheering their death. Things are fixable. But you have to know what you're doing, and you have to knock out the bullshit. It's all in this journal, isn't it? But we're over 1800 entries, and all of that is intermixed between much else. So I think a clear, 200-page book about writing better would be appropriate.
Speaking of not dying--I should get some exercise in.
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Back. Walked three miles, did 100 push-ups. Not good enough, obviously. Got a little blood flowing, at least. I'll have to do better next week. Ran 3000 stairs, did 100 push-ups yesterday. Somewhat blustery out. Got a green tea. Burned my tongue. I was a touch too enthusiastic. I honestly look at drinking things like green tea as pouring good health into myself. I act like every cup makes a difference, every glass of water. I'm not saying it does. But maybe it does.
I like when I do push-ups on the damp grass and my hands sink into the dirt. When I'm done they have bits of grass and soil and leaves on them. I rub them them together and then against my pants and move on but I can tell when I look at them that they were recently pressed into the ground. After a brief interval I do another set.
I also like when Axl Rose says, "Take it for what it is" on "Used to Love Her."
Maine beat BC in basketball at Conte the other day. That's bad. An ACC team losing at home to Maine?
This is the radio interview I gave the other night. I discussed Shaker music, an episode of Gunsmoke, the 1972 animated special, The Thanksgiving that Almost Wasn't, and the Boston Bruins through the first sixteen games of their season.
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Later now. Began making notes on the book about writing and pretty sure I have the title. Also wrote an 1100 word ghost story--because of course you did--that needs work.