We Need to Talk About Malice

I know. Where have I been? What have I been doing? What's the play?

It's never been concretely defined but this space suffered an identity crisis earlier this year. A writing exercise. A confessional. A spin machine. A misdirection planter. There's always the question of who's reading this and how do I want to address them? Because I don't want to share the same message with enemies and friends and perfect strangers. That's why so many of these posts turn out so maddeningly oblique. Few things thrill me less than hearing the words, "I was reading your blog..."

I've downsized my social world. I see far fewer people than I used to. I've had to reevaluate what's important to me. What can I live with. What can't I live without.

What do I not need in my life at this moment?

I have trouble watching some comedies I used to like. The problems on a typical episode of 30 ROCK seem so offensively trivial sometimes, I can't relate. It's hard to laugh at the silly inconveniences of the well-off.

I'm still in the process of regrouping after all the failed promises of this past year. This path I've chosen, it doesn't get easier and it certainly doesn't get easier to explain to people who've never gone for broke on something that MEANS something to them deeply. I'm less tolerant of people who don't understand.

The hours on the latest money gig are long and it's been harder to write. All of it is temporary but I can't afford to not be writing. So I'm pushing myself. Because nothing else matters anymore. This is the only thing I've got at this stage. And all those things in life that regular people enjoy -- love, traveling, assorted extracurricular activities -- all of those things will have to wait for another day. All I have is my writing. One day, I'll get to be a human being again.