Posted in Writings

Sept the Twenty-Second – Untitled Bigfoot Project (86/224)

Sept the Twenty-Second

Hello, Journal. The world is still all wet from the rain yesterday, not that I can go out there and feel it between my toes. Y’know, because I have bleeding holes in my feet… but they aren’t bleeding too badly anymore. They might not even be actively bleeding, tell you the truth. It’s hard to tell because of all the bandages, but they don’t feel as rotten as they did the past two days, so that’s something.

…                                     …                                    …

Been thinking a lot about my novel today. I don’t think the first line is going to be “Gobon fled into the endless wood and Albey the Mad Poet follows,” after all. For a couple reasons, too: first of all, it doesn’t exactly match King’s formula. His line is, “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” That doesn’t mention any specific names, but mine does. Sure, I could call Albey “the Mad Poet” and I could refer to Gobon as “the ‘man in white” because of that awful eggshell suit he wears, but like… I like using the names. The names are just as special to me as the characters themselves, plus, they don’t really have any superbig implications in the worldbuilding of my story. The gunslingers are the lawmen in All-World, but there are no line of Poets (nor Mad Poets) in the endless wood of The Hillside Commons. Albey is the only one, as far as I know. There might be other ‘mans in white – hell, there might even be a ‘man in black for all I know – but that’s not… The Face of Fear is different than the Dark Tower series, it doesn’t have… like, it’s not this insane story traversing multiple worlds in which the fate of all of reality hangs in the balance, it’s just… it’s just a story. And that’s all I want it to be, just a story.

A lot of folks online like to talk about how, when they’re reading King’s writing (and King’s writing specifically, I don’t know any other author whose readers make these claims about), it seems to… speak to them, in a certain way. Like, it’s like the words have more than one meaning, the first being the telling of King’s amazing stories, and the second, somehow, relating to certain events in their life that King would have no possible way of knowing about when he was originally writing the words. It’s happened to me, too, and it’s all kinds of spooky when it happens. My whole episode that day when I thought the Dark Tower was a prophecy of my life is a perfect example. Like, right now, after a month of being sober and not touching myself like a grubby little gremlin (or however long it’s been since that chaotic day happened), the memory seems absolutely ridiculous. The very idea that I would send myself down that rabbit hole – the idea that such a rabbit hole even fuckin’ exists – seems so far to the left of reality that it’s peeking over into the right. But back then, when it was actually happening… it felt, like, realer than real. It felt like my actual life was a lie and King’s books (eight of them specifically) were the glitch which would allow me to escape the matrix. It’s scary to think about now, but… that’s how it felt.

And, I’ll dare to say it (because a few folks online have said it, even though they have no real reason for thinking this outside of lowkey schizophrenia), maybe King even felt like that when he was writing it. I don’t know the guy, probably never will (unless, somehow, The Face of Fear is so good that it reaches through the universe and grabs his attention and he’s so blown away by it that he demands to meet me, which definitely isn’t going to happen), but who’s to say that this superfamous and incredibly well-paid author who was writing a tale about a gunslinger (who, even King admits in the book, looks just like him) pursuing the Dark Tower in order to save reality… mayhap, somewhere inside him, he thought it was real. Writing fiction is a weird process, according to him. The ideas just come, as if they have a mind of their own, and King acts more like a translator than anything else (my words, not his). So maybe he thought the fate of the world – his world – really was in the balance, that he had to play his role and write the story so the unthinkable didn’t happen. Maybe that’s why he pumped the last three books of the series out so quickly (well, 5, 6, and 7, anyway, 8 came later).

Or maybe I’m just a fan who takes this shit a little too seriously. Either way, what I’m trying to tell myself in this journal that I don’t even read is that I don’t want The Face of Fear to be like that. I don’t want any book I write to be like that, if I ever write another book (The Story of Old Jack, perhaps?) When I first read the story of the Dark Tower, it was just that: a story. A really fucking good and cool and amazing and fuckin’ inspirational story, but a story nonetheless. And that’s all I want The Face of Fear to be. I don’t want to get to the end of my first novel and find out that Albey dies (which he might, he’s going to war with the bigfoots and there will be casualties) and then freak out because I think I’m going to die, too. That would be… fuckin’, that would be some Old Jack-level shit, and I’m not ready for that kind of insanity in my life. I want to write this book because I have an idea and a love for writing, and that’s it. Stories should just be stories, they shouldn’t have any bearing on reality. That’s just dangerous; imagine if books really guided the course of reality. That would be fuckin’ psychotic. God (or whatever’s up there at the top) would have to be… I don’t even know. Twisted. Broken. Just downright mean lol.

Or stupid, if you think about it.

Hah, what a purely human thought, that the books we write (certain ones of us, at least, the ones who achieve an uber level of success and money by writing the books) are the mechanism by which the wheel of ka spins. The arrogance is brilliant. Thank goodness such a thing can’t be true, thank goodness and thank everything else.

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In other news, I ordered Scrivener today. And by ordered I mean purchased, because it’s software. Checked it out, seems pretty legit. Makes me excited to start the novel, makes me really excited.

A thought just occurred to me, Journal. Order – that’s a cosmic truth of reality, because not only are folks always ordering each other around, but order is, like… order. I don’t know how to actually describe it… I guess saying “the opposite of chaos” would work, but like, “What’s wetness?” “The opposite of dry. Duh, y’fuckin’ idiot.” What’s today… today is Tuesday. Tues is going to mean Order, boom. Set in stone and done. I guess Mon could mean Chaos, then. Monday isn’t exactly the opposite of Tuesday, but like… Mon could be short for Monster, and monsters often bring about chaos. It works. I don’t know if it fits perfectly with my story, but it sounds good right now. I could always change it. I’m’a make a list, for my own sake:

Sun – Life
Mon – Chaos
Tues – Order
Wednes
Thurs
Fri
Satur – Death

Four down, three to go. Damn. Not bad, Sidney. Wonder what the other three are going to be… and at the same time… I don’t know. Kind of don’t want to find out.

All right, I’ll write about it. My hand’s cramping up, but I’ll write about it. I do this same thing – or did, I guess – when I used to play video games, specifically role-playing games. Like, there’s the main storyline, right? And, if the game is good – cough Skyrim cough – there are also a ton of side stories and other things for you to do. I would always start the main story and then just wander right the fuck away from it and do like, everything else (or as much as I possibly could do) until I could no longer progress because I wasn’t far enough into the main story. I didn’t want it to end, y’know? I enjoyed the game so much, and the main story is what keeps the game alive. Like, yes, you can keep on playing after you have absolutely nothing left to do, but… then it just gets boring. So I’d always put off the main story as long as I could.

And I’m doing that now, with my novel, I think… but that’s okay. I’m going to start writing it when I can stand on my own two feet and piss like a man, that’s an objective truth, and that’s probably not going to be until next week, the end of this week at the absolute earliest. So why not wait before figuring out the last three runes? What, am I going to suffer an amnesia attack and suddenly not remember the idea? No, that’s stupid.

So fuck it.

…                                     …                                    …

My hand is cramping so bad, I can’t write anymore. I might not even write for a couple days, just to get away from writing in general. I don’t know, time will tell.

Say thankya, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Long days and pleasant nights~


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~

Author:

I'm that guy who makes fiction books so he doesn't go insane.

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