Back at home. I did not go to the Trumper party, obviously. I went to my parents’ house and watched Independence Day two times in a row instead. I asked for a full Fourth of July dinner since I didn’t get to celebrate last year. I decorated the table and everything. Red tablecloth, blue plates, white napkin. For the centerpiece I wrapped a red, white, and blue scarf around a pineapple. It was a very NOLA thing to do.
Just sitting here thinking about reality. I felt weird watching Independence Day. It’s hard to watch a movie where the US leads a worldwide coalition against an alien invasion. The president in movie says things like “People are safer in their homes” and “I’m not going to sacrifice anymore American lives.” He even gets in the fighter jet and leads the attack on the warship himself after giving an epic, inspiring speech. I got major Henry V vibes off it. Such a stark contrast with reality. Wow. What a striking difference. I’m not going to lie; I’m feeling pretty depressed now.
Watched some fireworks from a distance and contemplated differences in perception of reality. I’ve realized the main problem is that the people who are causing me problems don’t understand that to me, this is a book. This is a physical manuscript sitting on my desk. There are charts and graphs and endless lists and multiple attempts to make an outline. There are handwritten copies of printed stories. It’s not the real life drama, it’s not the actual bar, it’s not the actual people. It’s a book.
It’s a book I’ve taken to workshop in Paris. I’ve shown this book to people from all over the world. I sat at a table and listened to strangers who don’t know any of these people critique the characters and structure. I have pages of feedback on it. It’s a highly personal document to me. Everyone needs to stop telling me to “just let it go.”
What I learned from my conversation was that a lot of them seem focused on one or two posts that were written when I was blackout drunk. They’re not thinking about it like it’s a book. They’re thinking about it like it’s interpersonal drama. It’s a very strange disconnect. I truly feel more communication can resolve the issue. Thus, I am here, desperately trying to explain that we are not seeing reality the same way right now. Forgive me for attempting to resolve a misunderstanding that continues to directly interfere with my life. I’m such a terrible person for wanting to make peace.
I don’t actually understand the other version because it all takes place behind my back. No one talks to me to my face. No one expresses their feelings to me personally. No one tries to communicate with me. They just talk about it amongst themselves and magically expect me to read their minds. That’s why I’m being so goddamn stubborn about this. I’m tired of this negative, unfounded perception of me that is getting passed around in spite of the fact that I am not that person. Just accept the fact that I’m a fucking writer, I wrote a book that failed, and NO, I AM NOT OVER IT YET! So shut the hell up about it already!
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here alone in my office pouring over my manuscripts trying to figure out what the hell I just wasted the last four years of my life writing. It’s not easy for writers to let go of their manuscripts. This is a fact. I just read an article today about how the screenwriter of Marco Polo is still depressed his show was cancelled, even though he’s working on other projects now and it’s been several years. I can relate! This is exactly the issue that I’m talking about. This is literally what is happening to me right now. And guess what? That’s okay. I am allowed to grieve for my manuscripts. Please stop trying to invalidate my emotions over this. My writing is very personal to me. It doesn’t matter to me that “No one cares!” I still have my feelings about it. And guess what? You not caring about my feelings doesn’t make me want to care about yours. If you want me to respect your feelings, you can start by respecting mine.
Nothing about what happened this week has changed my mind about the situation. Nothing. I just feel like I’m being unfairly persecuted and intentionally misunderstood. Everyone talks about that guy’s feelings, but no one cares that he moved into my building where I was living for two years after starting a bunch of shit with me for no reason whatsoever. This guy essentially bullied me so he could fit in with his new friends, then just expected me to be cool with it when he moved in next door. No one cares that I wrote the story because I felt attacked, threatened, and violated by a bully invading my personal space. But hey, whatever. Let people play the victim all they want. Just apologize to them and move on. It’s not like I ever actually want to be friends with this person ever again after all of this fucked up bullshit. I don’t want to be friends with any of these people, really. I’d rather just leave this miserable shithole forever and turn my stint in South Dakota into a running joke for the rest of my life.
Let them live in their weird version of reality. I am quite comfortable in mine, with the exception that my life is currently a pile of smoldering ruins. It is what it is. Verm is a shithole. Everybody knows that. My life will improve once I’m elsewhere. I can focus on starting my business, new writing projects, and everything like that. I felt good when I was in the routine. The problem was that the job made me feel so, so, so bad. That part needs to be fixed, and it will. I’m confident I can create stability in my life once I find the right formula. I just have to figure out what that formula is. At least I can say I know what doesn’t work.
Going to head to bed now. The world is way too stressful for me. Reality is actually a real, legitimate nightmare in just about every single way possible. I just want things to get better for everyone in this country (and everywhere else). I want a future full of hope, not a dystopian wasteland. I don’t know how I can change it, but I hope someday I can.