Failure

I’m feeling like a fat, ugly failure. I’ve gone straight back to the dull side of drinking-too-much. Mostly because I have a trapped nerve in my back that came on suddenly last week and I’ve been drinking to block the pain out for the past three days.

However, drinking for three days does nothing for the constitution. Today I am utterly flatulent, equipped with a tickly dry cough, unable to sleep for more than forty-five minutes throughout the night and utterly not with it. The lazy eye has undertaken a weird twitch. I’m falling apart.

Last night I was sick in the bin. HM didn’t like that much, I also wee’d in my baseball boots. I didn’t like that much. I missed my driving lesson today. My life is falling apart. HM seems to enjoy it. Every night and this morning have been filled with another one of his sexual advances. This is particularly weird, as I usually chase him around the bedroom demanding sex, demanding orgasms. At the moment I could take it or leave it. The pain in my back leaves my desire undemanding.

The worst thing about all of this is the lack of productivity and optimism I am now feeling about the characters I have created, the overall feeling and the world that I have been slaving away on within Trapped in Amber (Daddy was like the Autumn has now been officially dropped as the title – it has little / no resounding influence to anything in the damned book. Trapped in Amber however is used in a Bell Jar type of way – I suppose). As I am being depressively manic or bipolar I can’t connect with the housewife I have created and who my story emanates from. Ten chapters in 2 weeks has left me in a resounding slump. I’ve run out of steam and it feels worse because I was doing so well. It’s like what’s happening to the tortoises and the British weather. They start waking up because of the sunshine. What you really should do is put them in the fridge to make them go back sleep or else they will die when the weather drops again. Another bad thing is sitting and typing is almost impossible. I can’t really do it without lots of pain.

I have done one other thing. To cheer myself up, I escaped and retreated into fantasy worlds. At least I observed two very absorbing ones and then created something myself from the collage.

I quite like Meatloaf. Fattyman sitting about in his castle with its moving furniture, drippy candles and Buffy-vampire face. I like the texture of his world. I like the dusty drapes, the bearskin rugs, the fire, the broodiness, the huge circular glasses of what-could-be-blood.

I like The Sandman. Mekon leant me Brief Lives the other day and it’s taken me quite a while to finish it. I like the dream world, the soppy charisma of Dream, Death’s assuredness, Destructions dog and Delirium’s ability to make little multicoloured frogs.

I decided as a treat I would write something and not worry.

So I’ve begun a short, short story. Something that is particularly weird. Its about a temple dancer called Freckle, an oversized roommate called Esmeralda and the Italian restaurant downstairs. It actually reads much better than it sounds. I’ll finish it this afternoon if I can sit on the sofa with the laptop on my knee; slowly going sterile… somewhere on the internet might publish it. That’s my problem, I keep forgetting that I can publish little bits on the internet and don’t send any out. I also have the gremlin in the back of my brain (no, not HM!) that says my work is shit and I should not bother inflicting it on the world.

The website is being created. It’s a right pain to create and upkeep I. There is also another set of professional pictures being done thanks to Sarah Francis. I want some indorsey type ones, possibly done at her house as it is the prettiest interior I have ever seen and it fits into my whole style I suppose…

…and she owes me a favour.