23 December, 2006

The journal nags at me. Sometimes, I really wish I had more to say. I want to keep the site updated, but I don't want to just keep writing random stuff for the purpose of writing random stuff. In fact, I know I've rambled on about this topic more than once in the past, and I really shouldn't be rehashing the same ground here. It just nags at me. The site languishing. The journal going without updating. It makes me antsy.

And, basically, the whole joke is the reason I get all nervous when I don't update the journal. I've got this pathological fixation on the fact that a lack of website updates makes for a dwindling of people checking out the site. The fewer the people who check out the site. The fewer people who might purchase a copy of one of my books.

Well, I followed through on the thought processes about this far today and realized something. Nobody is buying my books. Nobody. They must suck, which is neither here nor there right now. Completely beside the point. The point being that updating the website, getting eyeballs to pop at the page, is not having any noticeable effect on the number of books that move. In other words, I am wasting my fucking time worrying about whether or not I've written a journal entry in the past bunch of mother-fucking months. Writing in the journal. Moving books out to people. Never the two shall meet.

Doesn't matter. This isn't about money. I mean, it would be really sweet if books went out and money came in so that I could tell the people I work for to shove the casserole up their stupid asses. I'm not saying this to be mean to people. I actually like some of the people I work for. With. Whatever. I'm just saying it would be nice if enough money trickled my way so that I could cover rent and purchase food and not have this soul-crunching day job. It would be nice if I only had to worry about producing stories and music and shit, and I don't mean literally shit. I mean, shit as in the random miscellaneous stuff I might have to take care of on any given day.

But, here is the other side of all of this that also started nagging at me today. Do I really want people paying attention? I mean, isn't that kind-of what is going to happen if people actually browsed my website and quite possibly purchased copies of my little insane stories? Okay, it isn't a guarantee. In fact, it is rather impressively arrogant on my part to assume that anybody would take an interest. Also beside the point at the moment. Fans. That's what I'm talking about. I don't want them. They scare the crap out of me. No, seriously. People taking an interest. People following what I do. Reading what I write. Listening to shit. Taking an interest. Writing back. Offering opinions. Getting all offended if I don't reply to their little missives.

So, yeah, that's something I've heard. Which is maybe the wrong way to put it. Something that I've sort-of picked-up on as I've just sat around listening to people and reading what they've written. You know what I'm getting at, right? That whole thing. If celebrates didn't want the attention, then they never should have sought out the spotlight.

That bothers me. Okay, we shall skip over the whole section where I go on and on about how insanely arrogant and egotistical it is to even talk in terms of celebrities and groupies and shit. I know, okay? I know. I'm not actually talking as if there is a teardrop's chance in hell of me ever having to worry about anything of the kind. It's not going to happen. I know. Not my point.

My point is the whole notion that somehow by posting these little non-sensical insanities of mine automatically means that I want groupies and attention and shit. I don't. I really don't. In fact, I really wish that people would just bugger off and leave me alone.

It's all really rather a psychotic dilemma. It would be really sweet if I could support myself in a way which would leave me free to pursue such unnatural pursuits as book writing and music pounding. Giving people the option to purchase crap I've written could result in people saying that I owe them because they purchased a copy of my crap. Yeah, that's a tough one. I really don't want to risk creating people who think I owe them because they've read my little stories. So, do I take the logical way out? Do I simply not make my writing available to people? Solve the problem?

Well, see, that just leaves the problem of being able to write while holding down the soul-sucking day job. It is the toughest shit.

I think I wrote about this once. The reason I first tried to make money through my ramblings and writings. Quite simply, it was an attempt to show certain people who shall go without being mentioned by name or inference here that I wasn't a total fuck-up. I wasn't quite the slacker and looser that some people were kind-of sort-of implying by their basic attitude that I was. Wasting my life. Being an idiot. And otherwise just generally screwing myself over. To which I reply, oh yeah? Oh, yeah? Here, I'll show you. I'll make a go of it. I'll put myself out there. I'll risk the freaks. Just to show that I'm prepared to do what is necessary to make my own way in the world.

Of course, I've still screwed the pooch. If I was really serious about this whole supporting myself idea, then wouldn't I just try to whore myself out to every agent and publisher in town? Shouldn't I sign up for writing workshops and go to conferences and conventions and shit? Shouldn't I be kissing ass? Sucking on dickies and other assorted genitalia of critics and high and mighties and Paris Hilton and such other assorted people of standing and character as might be able to sway things in my favor and otherwise act in a patronistic fashion?

So, yeah, okay, in spite of everything, I'm still a slacker.

Actually, this all is kind-of funny. It's nothing at all what I was thinking when I sat down to finally write an update for my website for the first time in months. I was going to say a few words about the new sonatina in F minor. But, wow, look at all the crap I just vomited all over the landscape.

Oh, well.

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