Too Tough, Too Much

A lot of people seem to be reading this blog - some to catch up, some to listen to me rant, some to laugh as I compare myself to A-Rod, and the presidential candidates. For me, it's a release of pent-up energy, and random thoughts that haunt me on a daily basis - part therapy, part entertainment to be sure. When I'm writing, I'm making sense of all I hear, see, and feel. When I'm not, I sort of spin in a circle and believe that things can be tough, too tough, too sad, and too nonsensical. I tried not writing once, believing that a break would allow my mind to relax - about two weeks in, I asked my wife, "What do you people do?"

My new book - Blind Spot arrived in the mail yesterday. I had already seen the cover and layout. I had read the story about 15 times during the rewrite. My heart was still full of sadness because of the shit sandwich side of life - and I opened the book, glanced at some of the information gathered, and set it aside. Not proud, not happy, just done. I showed it to my boys who nodded and to my wife who said, "Nice."

It's been a long time since I grew excited about the process and that might be a shame. Yet the one thought that did fill my head was that I wrote Blind Spot about pain, heartbreak, and the what-happens-after-the shit-hits-the-fan. The book is solely about the hurt that comes with living and the sink-or swim puzzle that it brings. I love the story and am thankful for a tremendous effort on the part of those at Sterlinghouse. Yet I feel a little down about it - as I usually do - because besides the promotion and the fact that others will hopefully enjoy it, the journey is over for me, and here I sit - 9 books in - knowing that I still don't have any concrete answers other than I need to continue searching.

I hate when life brings too much at once, but as I mentioned about a million times in Blind Spot - it begs a response. A positive response, hopefully, but some sort of response nonetheless.

Comments

deafjeff said…
I miss being around for the whole writing part. I used to love sitting next the hot water tank and furnace office of yours, reading what you had just wrote while we were playing Nintendo or Ping Pong. The green screen was always blinding, but actually feeling like my opinions and proof reading helped alittle always made me good. Or maybe that was the beer pong.

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