Blog #42: Write or Wrong

Blog #42: Write or Wrong

I should be working on my novel…

(Yes—this is one of those deals where I should be doing all sorts of other things, and instead I’m writing a blog about how I’m not doing those things anyway… Sorry.)

Also, I need to cut my fingernails. Uh! The incessancy of life… We do and we do and we do—and yet it all just needs doing again! I’m just not in the mood for it. Or anything really just now… methinks…

Butanyhoo—and, so, mine ‘ovel… sigh~ Oh, well. It just hasn’t been going well. Why is that?—you may ask… (if anyone were actually reading this…) Well, I just don’t know. I suppose it’s as simple as my head just isn’t in it. (And/or I keep finding other things to do to avoid working on it?)

And my second novel, The Telemachy… yeah, then there’s that. I sent it to a publisher (Penguin: Ace division thereof) back in October, five month response time… no response in March—so I queried… no response to that—and now another month and a half has passed… And I have yet to send it anywhere else. What the hell?!

Well, there’s this thing… ego… and on the one hand, it impels me to try to succeed (commercially—because I’m an American, and greedy, self-absorbed materialism is more important than God… and/or IS our God)—thus I should try to submit it and have it published and make lots of money and get fan mail to stroke my already overblown ego (because, let’s face it, who the hell am I that I think I need the world to see the wise and witty and all-powerful, immaculate, consummate glory of mine words!!!?)

Or I can write for my own benefit: because I like creating characters and fantastical lands—and sometimes stumble onto some semblance of a story in which to use said characters and lands… and simply for mine own peace of mind. But why go putting it off on everybody else? (Especially since most of everybody else has strongly indicated they just don’t bloody care—and that’s fine… it’s my brain, and no one else need impinge him or herself within it.) And I can even continue to go the self-publishing route—put it out there for those who might be interested, but then just get on with… whatever. Spiritual fulfillment—sans the soul-corrupting influences of a wayward, overly-capitalistic, greedy, self-absorbed, short-sighted, small-minded, (etc.) society.

And that’s just pondering the fate of The Telemachy; I lay awake at night wondering if I should destroy all my journals and noveletters and unpublished writings… because, on the one hand, nobody wants to read the good stuff now, why would they bother with the mindless rambling when I’m dead? But, on the other hand, it should be preserved for posterity—for all time, in respect to mine immortal godhead!!!

(So, yeah, right? Just burn it all, hey?)

And yet—I merely blog… Forsoothly! Alack…

The current novel I’m writing (and/or—but not at the moment) is entitled: More than Kin and Less than Kind. It is comprised from elements of Shakespeare (the basis of the characters and plot(s)) and medieval, Russian myth and legend (setting and mystical elements). I’ve written through part three (of five)—which is probably about halfway done, as part five (I should expect) will be… lingering. (i.e. A lot will really need to get wrapped up there.) Part one and part four are from the perspective of Maxim (a bit like Macbeth, a bit like Claudius)—and I’m having trouble getting back into his head to get going in part four… Part three was from Igor’s (Iago’s) perspective—and mayhap I am yet stuck on that… (Or mayhap I’m just not working on it, and such is mine hindrance??) Parts two and five are from the perspective of Konstantin (Hamlet)—which I mention now only because I do… though methinks I’ll have similar difficulties when I get to part five—switching gears again to get back into his head—just as I’m having now with Maxim. It should be easier for both, as I’ve already done a part for either of them, so it isn’t as if I were just starting fresh—

And, also, what if it’s all just crap?! I mean… what if deep down inside I know it’s crap, and that’s why I don’t want to work on it? What if I know it isn’t working—and part five… my god, part five—just goes off crazy, and what the hell does that have to do with anything?! (Of course I’m plagued by these sorts of doubts in pretty much any long fiction I’ve written, and it always seems to end up alright (to me, if no one else), so


Nevermind. It’s just because I’m not working on it. If I’d just work on it, my head would be in it, and I’d be making progress. I’m just dumb. And personally vexed of late (and/or, arguably, the last three or four decades…). Just forget everything I’ve mentioned thus far—except about the fingernails…

Beautiful day: bright blue skies and trees are a’budding… I have a headache… and my fingernails are SCREAMING with evil!!! (Just skip that last bit…) The spider venom in my blood warms my being—not like vodka did… an itchier sort of warming really—though my pancreas isn’t trying to kill me, so… (My spleen could use a good talking to, as per usual…) A bit of cancer here—just flick that right off there. And methinks I needs must run downstairs to fetch a bit more coffee…

So this is what I have to do today: finish my third novel; submit my second novel everywhere (and for all time!!); expurgate and republish volumes 2, 3, & 4 of the ‘Daemon Mishka Chronicles’ as Potemkin’s Umbrage; write some plays—and mayhap a couple of volumes of short fiction and inane poetry; preserve unpublished writing for all time (after editing out all the bits that are nobody’s goddamned business… which, arguably, is all of it?); finish listening to Rimsky-Korsakov’s ‘Scheherazade’; read everything ever written; go out to dinner with my parents (Happy Birthday, Dad!); go for a walk; eat chocolate crème pie until I am dead; be resurrected via direfully heinous vomiting; learn Latin; become an enlightened, higher life-form (and/or an ogre?… so, really, a god or a (quite large, easily angered) monkey??); and cut my fingernails.

Indeed, by troth, an’ forsoothly! Anon…

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—Mishka Zakharin © 2016





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