GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #146: IT'S CONFESSION TIME

I don't write this with a lick of pleasure in me. I'm actually pretty ashamed of myself, but I promised that I would write this as part of my self-prescribed penance. Here we go . . .


I have not written a word of fiction in months.


Goddammit, it hurts to admit that. Ordinarily speaking, I try to get 2,000 words a day. Sometimes I get more, sometimes less, but I always get at least 1,000. At fucking least.


Not for the last few months.


Don't get me wrong. I've done a lot of writerly things in this time. In fact, I've done just about everything a writer can do in this industry without actually writing. I worked with Don Noble to get my first novel re-released. I worked on Strange Story Saturdays and MonstErection. I'm working on a secret anthology right now (which I'm sure I'll be able to announce very soon). I've done a ton of things, but none of them involves actually sitting down and creating something.


A lot of it I can place at the feet of a horrible physical problem I've been having lately. Some of you know that I recently broke my tailbone. Sitting down became incredibly painful for me these last few months. Unfortunately, I work a job where I sit down for eight hours a day. By the time I left, I was in such pain that I just didn't want to sit at my computer and write. It hurt too much, even though I gobbled painkillers like there was no tomorrow.


Whoo-boy. Here's an even darker twist. I was in such pain that I didn't want to be awake for most of my life during this time period. I had to be awake for work, so I played it as safe as I could when I was at my nine-to-five (which is actually 5:45 am to 2:15 pm). However, when I got home . . . things got ugly. I took a lot more than my recommended dose of painkillers, and when those wore off, I'd drink myself into oblivion. Yeah . . . not the healthiest thing to do.


Hey, at least I didn't down my painkillers with shots of whiskey. Although to be honest, that was quite tempting.


It hurt to do everything. I couldn't work out. I couldn't write. I could read, but only if I laid down in bed on my stomach. It was fucking brutal. I was desperate to get through this horrible period of my life, and as a result, I made some really bad decisions. I indulged in the worst of my vices in an attempt to time travel through the pain. I had a shit-ton of prescription drugs that I tried in various combinations to get me through until I could finally reach a phase where I was healed of this terrible broken tailbone.


Which is not to say that I didn't try to write. I managed to make headway on the weird SF vampire book I'm working on right now. I usually got maybe 200-300 words whenever I took the time to sit down and try. But for the most part, whenever I sat down, I felt pain. I just did not want to be in that position, so instead of muscling it out, I retreated quicker than Cobra Commander.


I did try to write when I took painkillers, but I discovered that I just couldn't do it. I'm not one of those writers who can get fucked up on all kinds of shit and then write. I never have been. I need to be sober to write. Editing? That's something different. If I drink while editing my own work, it feels like someone else's novel, so I can mercilessly cut myself to pieces. But I can't create while fucked up.


But even all of this isn't so bad compared to my conduct in the last few weeks. I stopped taking the painkillers because I knew I was out of control. Thankfully I discovered I wasn't addicted. I just stopped taking them, and I never thought twice about it. But I still felt pain. I never felt it outside of my job, though. I could last until the final hour without resorting to the 'roid cushion, which usually helped me get through the day. However, I never felt pain when at home. I could very well have sat down to write some things.


Yet . . . I didn't. I think I experienced fear. I think I was afraid that I just couldn't do it anymore.


I was wrong. I know this because I forced myself through three solid hours of writing tonight. It went slow, but it went well.


I've been working out for the last couple of weeks, because that no longer hurts. I got through today at work without needing the 'roid cushion, so I sat down and wrote tonight. Even though I was incredibly depressed over one of my publishers going out of business, I thought about what I should do next, and I'm planning a stage two form of industry combat for the book they were going to publish.


I'm back in the swing of things. I haven't missed a workout in weeks. I'm finally going back out on my usual walks. I'm writing like a fiend again. I'm off the meds, and I'm no longer trying to avoid living life. I've found the plot again, even though that SF vampire book is still giving me a ton of shit.


I would not have said these things if I didn't have control of myself again. Truth be told, my tailbone is still giving me problems. But I've finally figured my shit out.


And if I get a replacement for that juicer I mentioned on my Facebook, I think I might be able to lose some weight in the near future.


I've been fucking up left and right for a while now, but I've got this shit. It's in check. I still have DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN coming out from MonstErection soon. If I can get a handle on this vampire book? I'll have more shit for you soon. I hope.


Sorry for fucking up, everyone. I thankfully had enough projects to cover it up. But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't confess this major flaw. Thanks for reading, and goodnight you lovely non-fuckers.