Sept the Twentieth
So I’m not going to be walking for a couple days, I think.
I know, Journal, that probably comes as a surprise. Not two strates ago I told you I was sprinting around in the woods swinging a stick around like a samurai, but today I’m stuck in bed, forced to have my parents bring me food and cater to my every whim. The horror. Oh, and to make things worse, Tori came over and made out with me for a while, kept telling me how I was so brave and I saved her life, how I’m her big strong man. How could things get any worse?
I’m kidding about the Tori part, obviously, although we did make out a little bit. She mostly made fun of me for stepping on the glass of my broken smoking pipe, said maybe she won’t have to convince me to stop smoking now if I’m even a little bit smart at all (her words). The way she talks about it – the “convincing me to stop smoking” thing, that is – makes me feel like she’s referring to something specifically, like, in her mind, but she won’t tell me what it is. Whatever. Honestly, as far as the whole smoking thing goes, it really does feel like I quit. It’s not a thing to me anymore, y’know? I don’t see it as a habit, it’s not a vice I feel the need to engage in. I don’t really have any vices these days, besides writing and YouTube, at least.
What I’m trying to say is I pretty much cut drug use and porn out of my life and it feels fucking great, I want to scream that shit from the rooftops. I can’t, of course, because the whole no walking thing, but… yeah. I just feel pure, although I will say I can still feel the THC in my body, like, a tiny bit. It definitely hasn’t worked its way out of my system yet, and it probably won’t for a while. Smoking those two joints last night probably didn’t help, per se, but compared to the fuckton of weed I’ve smoked over the past few years, it’s not that much. I doubt it’ll have any long-term effects.
And he didn’t think that, but little did Albey Blake know, he would never be the same again after the night he spent with Old Jack. Lmao imagine.
Oh, but speaking of which, mom and dad took a walk to the scary-lookin’ group home next door and talked to the old dude at the front desk to find out what was going on with Old Jack. They said they moved him back to the other facility (that’s what’s across the street from The True Commons parking lot by the way; kind’a wish I had learned that before last night but at the same time kind’a glad I didn’t, would have been so awkward to just pull up and barge in, demanding they tell me what’s going on like I’m somebody important) for the time being. They also said he said they were building a new treatment room in the basement specifically tailored to Old Jack’s needs that consists of four padded walls – one of which slides into the ceiling and functions as a door – complete with a few discreet nozzles that release aerosol versions of the medicines he needs to take. In other words, the group home which houses mentally unstable patients located in backwoods New Jersey is installing a gas chamber in the basement because one of their crazies escaped one time too many and got himself stabbed by a badass writer dude. Classic Logger’s Pond, I swear to god.
On the novelwriting front, well, I think I’m going to wait a few days before I do anything. It’s not that I want to procrastinate The Face of Fear – like, seriously, I’m actually itching to get it started – but I don’t quite feel up to it yet. I was afterglowing all day today and I’m probably still going to feel the aftereffects of the joints tomorrow. No need to force myself into it and rush through it, y’know? I only get to write The Face of Fear once, and I want to take my time with it. I want to enjoy it at much as I possibly can.
That’s not to say I’m doing absolutely nothing with it, though. In my writing of the synopsis I managed to figure out one semi-crucial detail to the story: the days of the week runes. Technically I don’t need to know what they mean until the end when I go about editing it into book form – I have the story planned out, it’s going the way it’s going no matter what the runes wind up meaning – but I still feel like I should at least try to figure them out, especially since I’m not writing it yet. The story’s going to take place over seven days (excluding the Prelude/Envoi, even though they’re probably going to take place during the same day as chapter 1/7), as in literally a week, but I’m telling it out of order because storytelling. I’m’a list ‘em in my order:
Sunday: First Night – Sun
Monday: Noises – Mon
Wednesday: Research – Wednes
Saturday: An Encounter – Satur
Thursday: Findings – Thurs
Tuesday: Conclusion – Tues
Friday: Last Night – Fri
Incredibly ironic how I chose Saturday to be called “An Encounter” when I had an encounter with the closest thing to a real bigfoot yesterday, which was a Saturday. But anyway, the “runes” are just the day names minus the word “day.” I’m’a write ‘em in next to the chapter names… he says as though the journal was following along with his train of thought. Jeez. You know what, though… I think I know what one of the runes is go’n’a be. Two, actually, because the one I think I know is Satur, and because Sunday is basically the opposite of Saturday, Sun will be the opposite of Satur.
So, since I could very well have died last night at the hands (and… other… body parts of Old Jack, creeps me out just thinking about it), I’ve decided to designate Satur as Death. Reciprocally, Sun will be Life. That feels right. I don’t know what the other ones are going to be yet, but I think they’ll keep along the same lines, like… it feels pretentious to call them “higher truths of reality,” but like… that’s kind of what Life and Death are, right? Everything lives and dies (unless it’s an inanimate object, although one could make the case that their existence is their “life” and their destruction is their “death”, like, a tree lives and dies, but wood is an inanimate object, so say it was made into a table; as long as the table was around, it could be considered alive, and then when the table eventually gets burned or rots away, it would be considered dead), it’s pretty inescapable, and wow I just went in on that parenthetic thought tangent, good for me.
Actually, it appears that I really went in on this journal entry, too. Woah. Killin’ ‘em. That’s why I’m not really paranoid about not starting the book right away, even though I finished penciling out the synopsis yesterday. It’s like Jason said, creativity is a muscle, it gets bigger and more powerful the more you use it, and writing is a form of creativity no matter what kind of writing it is. I know I said a while ago that I probably wouldn’t be writing you very often anymore, Journal, but (over the course of the next few days, at least), I think I might be eating those words. I’ll at least keep you updated on the rest of the five runes, when I eventually figure them out. It’s the least I can do, because, honestly, I don’t know that you’re not really alive. I uh… I had this… experience, of sorts, in college that I don’t particularly like to think about, but uh… I once, like… became you, for a few minutes. Or something… uh… yeah let’s not talk about it.
What else, though? What else… I don’ow. I was pretty much on the internet, like, all day today. Just watchin’ videos on YouTube, listening to music and podcasts and stuff. Reading articles, or at least what pass for articles… like, a lot of folks call themselves journalists, right – I’ve thought like this for a while but Joe Rogan talked about it in a podcast once so I know it’s a thing – but so little of them actually do any journalisming… journaling? Is journalism just writing a journal for other folks to read? Good lord, why am I bothering with this novel, I have volumes of journals just waiting to be published! I’ll be the greatest journalist in the world!
Except I would rather write a novel because that requires original and unique thought and that’s actually respectable !!! As far as I’m concerned, at least. Like, when Jason told me he was working on his tenth book the other day, that damn near knocked my socks off, I was amazed. I respect the hell out of that dude. But were he to tell me he’s written hundreds, even thousands of articles dissecting various pre-selected topics and current events using celebrity tweets and shit to spice them up, uh… I probably wouldn’t have remembered his name. And that’s just what it is, sorry to say.
Except I’m not sorry. HAH!
Speaking of reading and Jason, though, I kind of want to read one of his books. I’m sort of in the middle of Pet Sematary still, don’t know when I’m go’n’a get back to that with my lacerated feet and all, but I could probably afford to order one of his books from Amazon. I set fifty bucks aside for a writing program he told me to get and it didn’t make my bank account bottom out, so… why not? Might be really interesting, y’know? Might be worth the money. He seems passionate enough. And hey, if I don’t like it, I can always just donate it to the library. Or throw it out, whichever.
Let’s be real, though. I’ll probably like it. There’s a certain allure to the idea of independent fiction, I don’t know… it’s like, it’s kind of raw, unfiltered. When a guy like Stephen King puts a book out, it’s not just the work of Stephen King, it’s the work of Mister King (not Kyng but King, Kyng is someone else) plus his editors plus whoever else has a hand in it. If anybody else has a hand in it. I don’t really know, to be honest, Pet Sematary is the only book I’ve read of his outside of the Dark Tower stuff and I haven’t even finished it yet, so I don’t really know what I’m talking about, but… still. The idea intrigues me. Can’t possibly be the worst thing ever.
… … …
Oh Journal, I feel like I could just riff on and on forever. But my hand is getting sore, as it usually does when I write a bunch. Kind’a makes me wonder how many words I’ve written over the years, or even just in this journal. I coul–… actually, no. Not even going to entertain the idea of counting them by hand, nor of typing future entries. Yes, that would make it faster and I could just riff on and on and on into infinity, but then I would feel compelled to go back and transcribe this whole journal so it was all in the computer, and then I would feel the compulsion to transcribe all my past journals, and as much as I like typing (idek if I do to be honest, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything on a computer, I guess I’m old fashioned like that), copywriting is the fucking worst. You couldn’t pay me enough to sit and type something I wrote in a notebook.
Actually… there may be one exception to that. I found a short story I wrote a long-ass time ago (and by that I mean in college), I’m thinking about including it in The Face of Fear. I haven’t typed it yet, and the idea is nothing definite, but I’m thinking about it. Certainly thinking about it.
Ugh. My hand hurts soooo bad.
I think I’m go’n’a call it a night right here, Journal. It’s not that I don’t love ya, but I think you know that. I think I don’t even need to explain that.
… … …
Say thankya, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Good sleeps and good dreams~
Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~