I finished my new book. I will be sending it off for review in the next week. This story was complex. It opened many doors for me. Now, I’m in that transitional phase. That terrorizing walk between two safe harbors. Between books, I’m left with reality, and though mine would be considered a pleasant one, I don’t intend on breathing it in too long. Real life makes me a little nauseous.
Though my first novel was accepted, and will come out soon, I still feel the same insecurities with this new work. I supposed it’s just like theater. No matter how many representations you’ve given, you still lurk by the curtain, staring out at the audience, asking yourself: “what the fuck am I doing here ? Why do I insist on doing it to myself ?”
Then, the curtain lifts, and you know you can’t live without that connection.
Writing is like a telepathic experience to me. A link between me and the reader, imaginary or not. Between books, I feel like I have been torn from the fabric of the world.
Here’s what’s on my mind lately:
Bisexuality, friendship, assessing life’s worth, Glenfiddich, My Chemical Romance’s Mama, AIDS related charity, Casey James from American Idol, my lover’s dreams, and family. That, and Aliens who carry pictures of Marilyn Monroe between the tattered pages of their copy of The catcher in the Rye.
They said an Asteroid zoomed passed our lovely Earth. That same night, I dreamed I was being led into my new home by a black Pit Bull. There was some intense energy lingering around us all last week. I don’t know about you, but April has been an emotionally charged period.
Well, I’m a Pisces, so that’s like every other month I guess.