Life update (02/03/2025)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
Previously I mentioned that now that I’m immersed in writing a new novel, the worst part is having to waste half of the day at work. It’s worse than that, though: everything that doesn’t involve either developing the novel or actually writing it feels like it’s stealing from what I’m supposed to do. Even time itself is a threat. But yes, the biggest offender is by far my job. I’m tasked with programming the performances of local resources like consultation and operation rooms, but the mental resources that would be required to hold all those concepts at once are dedicated to the novel. My basement girl refuses to focus on anything else. I feel her complaining every time I need to drag her away from her current obsession. The struggle keeps me in an oniric daze, having to remind myself what I’m supposed to be doing instead of losing myself in my new novel, and certainly not caring a bit.
In truth, anyone with the ability to create new things should only be burdened with bringing those things to life, not keeping a day job. But you know how life goes. The whole system is set up so that two members of every household are supposed to pay for stuff. Still, most of the time they find themselves with water up to the neck, as designed. Gotta keep people tired and broke lest they start pointing fingers.
This weekend I visited one of the spots of my hometown where an upcoming scene will take place, and I felt the familiar ache that has resurged regularly these past ten years or so: I wish I could quit everything, fill a backpack with food, notebooks and pens, and start walking in some interesting direction. Once I ran out of either notebooks or pens, I’d hop on the nearest bus or train and return home. I’m reading McCarthy’s Suttree; there’s this whole godlike section in which McCarthy clearly trekked through the mountains like a hobo and almost lost his mind. That’s what a writer is supposed to do. If you die during any of your “research” trips, then that’s that, but if you survive, you are granted the ability to produce something real. Virtually none of what you live through in your average life as a worker is meaningful (I’d say it even harms your ability to recognize what’s meaningful), and that’s most of our lives going down the drain. I’m complaining in vain, but it bothers me, so I complain at least.
I’ve mentioned before how writing builds up a personal mythology made out of thoughts, moments, places, etc. That’s part of why now I consider very important to place your stories in locations you’ve actually visited. If those locations don’t hold personal meaning for you, even better. Regarding my current novel The Scrap Colossus, the bench of the riverside promenade where my narrator met Elena, the obsessive writer, will forever be meaningful to me. And the way my brain works, I can lean back against that railing, look down at that bench and feel like she’s there. There are many places in my surroundings that have become a source of fond memories, nostalgia, grief, etc. For example, some months ago I visited the neighboring town of Hondarribia, and found myself at the same spot of a slanted street, close to a church, where “I” stood in my 2021 novel My Own Desert Places and stared at Alazne’s swaying hair as she walked down toward a writing course. It made my heart ache. It aches now as I remember it. But Alazne never existed, and the painful events recorded in that novel never happened. Yet they can moisten my eyes every time I think about them. I’ve grieved far more for my own creations than for real-life “friends” who died. My brain works that way.
Well, I suppose that’s enough procrastinating before I return to my tasks. If any of you is reading my new novel, The Scrap Colossus, I hope you’re getting something out of it. I write to satisfy my basement girl, but I would be lying if I pretended that other people clicking like on my stuff doesn’t make me feel better.
Previously I mentioned that now that I’m immersed in writing a new novel, the worst part is having to waste half of the day at work. It’s worse than that, though: everything that doesn’t involve either developing the novel or actually writing it feels like it’s stealing from what I’m supposed to do. Even time itself is a threat. But yes, the biggest offender is by far my job. I’m tasked with programming the performances of local resources like consultation and operation rooms, but the mental resources that would be required to hold all those concepts at once are dedicated to the novel. My basement girl refuses to focus on anything else. I feel her complaining every time I need to drag her away from her current obsession. The struggle keeps me in an oniric daze, having to remind myself what I’m supposed to be doing instead of losing myself in my new novel, and certainly not caring a bit.
In truth, anyone with the ability to create new things should only be burdened with bringing those things to life, not keeping a day job. But you know how life goes. The whole system is set up so that two members of every household are supposed to pay for stuff. Still, most of the time they find themselves with water up to the neck, as designed. Gotta keep people tired and broke lest they start pointing fingers.
This weekend I visited one of the spots of my hometown where an upcoming scene will take place, and I felt the familiar ache that has resurged regularly these past ten years or so: I wish I could quit everything, fill a backpack with food, notebooks and pens, and start walking in some interesting direction. Once I ran out of either notebooks or pens, I’d hop on the nearest bus or train and return home. I’m reading McCarthy’s Suttree; there’s this whole godlike section in which McCarthy clearly trekked through the mountains like a hobo and almost lost his mind. That’s what a writer is supposed to do. If you die during any of your “research” trips, then that’s that, but if you survive, you are granted the ability to produce something real. Virtually none of what you live through in your average life as a worker is meaningful (I’d say it even harms your ability to recognize what’s meaningful), and that’s most of our lives going down the drain. I’m complaining in vain, but it bothers me, so I complain at least.
I’ve mentioned before how writing builds up a personal mythology made out of thoughts, moments, places, etc. That’s part of why now I consider very important to place your stories in locations you’ve actually visited. If those locations don’t hold personal meaning for you, even better. Regarding my current novel The Scrap Colossus, the bench of the riverside promenade where my narrator met Elena, the obsessive writer, will forever be meaningful to me. And the way my brain works, I can lean back against that railing, look down at that bench and feel like she’s there. There are many places in my surroundings that have become a source of fond memories, nostalgia, grief, etc. For example, some months ago I visited the neighboring town of Hondarribia, and found myself at the same spot of a slanted street, close to a church, where “I” stood in my 2021 novel My Own Desert Places and stared at Alazne’s swaying hair as she walked down toward a writing course. It made my heart ache. It aches now as I remember it. But Alazne never existed, and the painful events recorded in that novel never happened. Yet they can moisten my eyes every time I think about them. I’ve grieved far more for my own creations than for real-life “friends” who died. My brain works that way.
Well, I suppose that’s enough procrastinating before I return to my tasks. If any of you is reading my new novel, The Scrap Colossus, I hope you’re getting something out of it. I write to satisfy my basement girl, but I would be lying if I pretended that other people clicking like on my stuff doesn’t make me feel better.
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