Friday, April 04, 2008

Dismal

By Pauly
New York City

I don't sweat the small stuff. I usually let it bounce off me during most days when I feel bulletproof to the world, moreover bulletproof to the bitter people around me who try to bring me down to their level.

This week has been an exception. I'm struggling. I've been in physical pain all week and the emotional pain inside has been gnawing at my intestines. To quote Igby, "I'm drowning in assholes."

I was already weak with a nasty stomach virus that killed a couple of days that I had been looking forward to using as writing days. When I don't write... I get depressed. Writing is the most real thing to me. It's why I get up and out of bed and why I haven't jumped off a very tall building. Writing is my livelihood. It's how I earn a living and been able to dig myself out of debt and got to see the farthest corners of the planet.

I don't take myself seriously too often, but I take writing extremely seriously, so much so that if you interrupt me when I'm writing or thinking about writing or take away time alloted to write... I become very angry. Writing is not something that consumes my entire day and it's not something that goes for more than a few hours. Yes, everything can wait while I'm locked in because so many writers and wanna be writers will tell you that they struggle the most trying to find that zone. Lucky for me it's not that hard to get into the rhythm of writing. The hard part has been finding the time.

Sure, some days are harder than others and it seems like I've had a lot up against me the last few years. It's difficult enough writing in different places every single day. I don't have one specific place that I can go to and be my comfort room/studio to create. More often it's in dingy hotel rooms or wherever I can like in airports, in noisy media rooms, or Nicky's dining room table.

Someone once asked me what I really want in life. I came up with an eight word response...

I want to write and be left alone.

That statement is simple, yet really explains me. The more I write, the more I understand who I am as I unlock the mysteries of me. And the better I write... the more money I'll make. The more money that I make really eases life burden's for some of the people around me including friends and family. So why is it that it's those very same people who are constant obstacles in my way? Why is it that they seem to fuck shit up for me at times where I need hunker down and get my work done?

I had two months where I did nothing. Of course, as soon as I have a bunch of huge deadlines, the shit hits the fan.

I really needed the help of my family this weekend. And like always, they failed to meet the basic requirements for me. I just wanted a space to write in and be left alone. Yet, that didn't happen. Even after I decided to spend money out of my own pocket for a last minute hotel room, I still got plenty of shit.

I tried to be mature about the situation despite the fact that I had been looking forward to the month of April as the time to hunker down and write nonstop. That had been on my schedule for almost ten months and the way I live my life, I never plan anything more than 100 days in advance. That's how important writing in NYC in April was for me.

I understood that something came up and my family was unable to accommodate me this weekend (even though there were plenty of other solutions and they chose a poor one that they knew would put me out). But then they made it worse by verbally attacking me, accusing me of being racist, and causing problems for my decision to find a quiet place to write so I can finish up an assignment and earn a living. That was way out of line.

Most of my life, my family has been a huge disappointment to me. I know that I'm not alone and most people would say that family inherently means disappointment.I had been on the road so much the last three years that I really lost touch with the basic reality that my family has never been one to trust or rely on.

I have changed and evolved so much over the last three years that it's a sobering thought that they still remain the same. Bottom line is that they never supported my decision to be a writer. They only warmed up to the idea when they heard how much money I was making and that I achieved some sort of level of fame. As always, I'm just a pawn for them to brag about. Deep down, they don't care about how I write or the process or helping me nurture that fragile gift. They just want the money and to be able to bask in the warmth of my accolades.

I have myself to blame. My expectations exceeded the reality of the situation. I should have known better. Lesson learned.

Anyway, no more time to be in a pissy mood. I need to get my shit together and crank out some writing. I already feel better venting and rambling on. Somehow forming sentences has calmed me down, despite the venomous tone of this piece.

I'm much more calm now and I'm ready to write for real as I shut the door once again on those strangers who constantly try to derail my life.

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