The mouth of voids.

At some point I got lost in the distractions of the real world. Or the distractions from the real world. They did their jobs well. I got addicted to fiction and fantasy and escapes. I disassociated. I don't know when that happened. I can't place it. But I know it's real. It happened. It still happens. And it's not painful. It doesn't hurt. But it feels like something. It feels like a missed opportunity. A life lead in a barrier.

It's the strangest thing. Given the right alchemy of time, I would swing from book to film to album to game on an endless loop until I was finally caught up. And there's ZERO catching up. This is an impossibility. I'm never going to make it. I have to remind myself that it's NEVER going to happen. I'm never going to 'be there'. Especially in the sense that I'm constantly trying to find influences and mentors and what came first. Influences. Muses. Letters. Background. More and more and more. The pile growing thicker daily.

I'm never going to make it.

I took a month writing an act of a sci-fi story. A novel is the goal. And going back to it is great. It feels really good. I shared it and a lot of the feedback was great. But what it makes me feel is this endless void. The collapse. The things that she wanted me to add or explain or throw in made me feel almost helpless. Like: "How didn't I think of that?" The real issue becomes how I don't even finish anything, maybe I never see the gaps. And maybe I never fill the gaps because I don't feel them. I never go back and reread and understand what's missing. What's lacking. What's lost in translation. What got dammed in the filter between my mind and my fingers.

I plan to go back in on the piece in July. A recommitment to the project. And I'm looking forward to it. ACT I has a lot to set up and it's a lot of emotion and coping and awakening. And there's a lot of plot that I have mentally that I don't have on paper and eventually it's going to pass through the drain. I don't want that to happen.

I have another story that takes place in the NYC/BK music underground that still has a very solid plot to me, but the more I think about it [and just don't write it] the more I question it. I should just get it down on paper. There are so many finished things out there in the hands and eyes and minds of others that are somehow swimming in the same shallow pools I could be flooding if I just set my feet into them.

I got really into the microfiction project (here) and really loved the outcome of it, even if the actual feedback was sparse. I know all of it was quality. It bothers me that I know it. The main problem is that much of who I shared it with is... 'just'(?)... a friend. That's awesome. That was the idea. It's difficult to not be able to share it with a grander audience. But I don't know the way into the auditorium. It's like a bad dream where I don't know how to find the power switch for the microphone while standing on a stage. Or even closer... more direct... I don't know how to find the unlocked door to the presentation stage. 

I'll be honest. I'm not looking.

Years ago, someone added over 50 links to places to share my writing. My fiction, my poetry, etc. I'm planning to use July to jump on each of those and figure out how that is going to work for me. What happened there? Well, initially, I shared a piece of poetry that got 'publised' and when I shared it, instantly a friend jumped on to that same site and shared something also and also got published. That did two things to me:

1. Made my effort seem utterly bland. It stole the unique moment from me. I felt like anyone else. Everyone else.
2. Piggyback on that: It made my skill feel like the skill of everyman. Like all anyone needed was the link to that site and everyone would be 'published' there. 

What business did I have putting anything anywhere?

Fuck it.

Going to see what July can do.

Going to see what I can do.