Oct the Twelfth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (132/224)

Oct the Twelfth

Well Journal, I finished the Tuesday chapter. It’s the shortest one by about 400-500 words (not that big of a margin, at least), and I don’t know if it’s any good, but… it’s done. I got it down. I was doubting myself the entire time, but I got it down. I think I only felt weird about it because it took place in the past. In my next book I’m not going to bother with the whole time-distortion thing. Like, it seemed like a good idea when I started, and who knows, maybe when I go to edit it and read it all the way through it’ll be good. Maybe I’m working stuff in that I’m not even noticing. But uh… yeah, I don’t know. I just don’t like writing in the past tense. Other folks can do it, but for me it’s just annoying.

It’s done, though. I got it done. Only two chapters left, Last Night and Envoi. And the Addendum, technically, but that’s just a quick short story. That’ll be easy.

I need to pee.

…                                     …                                    …

I peed. Pooped a little, too. I feel better now.

You know, all things considered, I think I did an alrig–… all right. The word “alright” is technically not a word, although every word is technically a word, but I feel like it should be spelled al’right, because it’s a contraction and all. But whatever, that’s just a tangent. Um… yeah, so I think I did an all right job. The events of Tuesday: Conclusion can essentially be broken down into one sentence: “Albey woke up before the sun, went into the woods, saw a crippled wolf, came home, and read until he went to sleep.” That’s 23 words, but the chapter itself is 4,885. Not too bad, all things considered. Not too bad at all.

The thing I keep forgetting, I think, is that I’m not Stephen King. There’s no such thing as an objectively “good” book or an objectively “bad” book, at least not in my mind. The only bad book is the one that doesn’t get written, right? And The Face of Fear is getting written. I’m an amateur, I have no idea what I’m doing. I dropped out of college and smoked so much weed that I had a psychotic breakdown and hit my head a few times. Stabbed a guy. Somehow snagged a bangin’ hot girlfriend, but that hardly has anything to do with what I’m trying to say.

What I’m trying to say is that I’m just some hillbilly dude from the backwoods of New Jersey, and I’m not going to be the best. Hell, I’m probably not even going to be considered acceptable by the majority of the folks who read and critique books, especially the critics who don’t write their own books. And that’s okay. I’m good with that. They’d probably be good with imperfection, too, if they took all the time and energy they put into judging other folks’ work into making something of their own. Writing a book is hard no matter what way you slice it, and I’m an uneducated twenty-year-old. I’m not Stephen King, I’m Sidney Blake, and I’m not writing the Dark Tower, I’m writing The Face of Fear. I’m just doing me, in other words, and that’s okay, because at the end of the day that’s all we really can do. Just be ourselves and try our best, and I definitely feel like I’m trying my best. I started writing this thing on Sept the Twenty-Sixth, that was… sixteen days ago, more than two weeks, and I only took one day off. I’ve literally never worked so hard on anything in my life, and I’m proud of myself. It’s not going to be the greatest book in the world, but… like… I don’t think any book is. If there is a “greatest book” then it was either written so long ago that we’ll never know about it, or it’ll be written so far into the future that we won’t get to know about it.

Wow, I am being very defensive about my own inadequacy. But at the same time I feel like I’m just riffing. I don’t know. Writing is weird, ‘man. You want your shit to be the shit, y’know? You don’t want it be shit, you want it to be glorious, but the truth is… what? That in all likelihood it’ll fall somewhere in the middle? I don’t know. What even is writing? Like, what the hell am I getting so worked up for? Time’s an illusion, reality isn’t even real. I stabbed a guy. I don’t give a fuck.

…                                     …                                    …

So it’s Monday, still relatively early in the day, and I finished writing the seventh chapter of my first novel. I have some food to eat downstairs, a woman to see later on. What’s there to complain about?

Very little, Journal, that’s what there is to complain about. Very, very little, and all of it exists solely inside my head. So I’m’a stop bitching on the page and go catch some wreck.

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


This has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project. Here is everything you need to know about it:

Untitled Bigfoot Project

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page. Here’s that.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

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