Some complaints have come to my attention from well-meaning sorts about the underlying problems and shortcomings I'm apparently afflicted with, and the only conclusion I can reach is I'm apparently crazy, insane in the membrane, certifiable but not yet formally diagnosed, etc.
I guess this writing career is one manifested symptom of something I've heard about in recent years but never knew I might have until recently (no formal diagnosis from the sainted high priests of the modern Therapeutic Culture has been yet made, but give them time - they will, followed by institutionalization for life I suspect). I recall some mentions in Kindergarden on a report card about "does not work or play well with others." With some minor exceptions in certain activities, that is probably correct.
Apparently my comments about women here are FRIGHTENING to the average woman (or so one told me I've known for many years) - tough. Get over yourselves, gals. I know no woman in her right mind is interested in me and things I say (or possibly do) will scare them away in the future. I don't care anymore because obviously all that rot I hear about how God wants the best for us in life on Earth doesn't include any soulmate for this writer - ever. I'm meant to toil in lowest common denominator, labor intensive jobs for the rest of my unnatural life, never becoming more than my parents or ancestors or doing something unique and wonderful in my time here. Some readers like the details I layer into my fiction work while others do not. My cover artwork apparently sucks - but I've known since age 13 I'm no artist. Unfortunately I've done the best I can (please insert inappropriate laughter at this point) and I don't know any talented sketchers who can give my book covers the treatment they deserve to catch the average reader's eye looking for some fantasy story. I have a vision and cannot realize it sitting here alone. Obviously my career ambitions need help if they are ever to prosper, but I don't know where or how to get that help without the invisible Hand of God providing what seems to the world as dumb luck in finding the answer.
I now sit in a rental house (it's nice for one person, apart from lacking only a shower capability to the bathtub and no central air-conditioning) a few miles from the home I grew up in, lived inside 44 years and almost 4 months, and could not maintain as an adult orphan for the last six years. Some might say I deserved to lose it. I think I should've moved away 20 years ago, but it's too late to change the past and unfortunately impossible. Unless some unexpected positive change from an outside event or circumstance acting upon my life occurs (and soon), I am again losing the will to live in these depressing circumstances. I cannot pretend to be happy when miserable inside. In past months, the only women who showed any interest in me were either undesirable (based on my standards) or some sort of scam artist (pretending to be madly in love - some of those in fact men pretending to be women). Now if I could just turn this rage and frustration into a standup rant act as part Dennis Miller style intellectualism and a hint of Rodney Dangerfield, that would be a life-changing event. But who would pay to watch my stream of consciousness monologue about politics, cultural matters, etc.? No one, that's who.
I guess this writing career is one manifested symptom of something I've heard about in recent years but never knew I might have until recently (no formal diagnosis from the sainted high priests of the modern Therapeutic Culture has been yet made, but give them time - they will, followed by institutionalization for life I suspect). I recall some mentions in Kindergarden on a report card about "does not work or play well with others." With some minor exceptions in certain activities, that is probably correct.
Apparently my comments about women here are FRIGHTENING to the average woman (or so one told me I've known for many years) - tough. Get over yourselves, gals. I know no woman in her right mind is interested in me and things I say (or possibly do) will scare them away in the future. I don't care anymore because obviously all that rot I hear about how God wants the best for us in life on Earth doesn't include any soulmate for this writer - ever. I'm meant to toil in lowest common denominator, labor intensive jobs for the rest of my unnatural life, never becoming more than my parents or ancestors or doing something unique and wonderful in my time here. Some readers like the details I layer into my fiction work while others do not. My cover artwork apparently sucks - but I've known since age 13 I'm no artist. Unfortunately I've done the best I can (please insert inappropriate laughter at this point) and I don't know any talented sketchers who can give my book covers the treatment they deserve to catch the average reader's eye looking for some fantasy story. I have a vision and cannot realize it sitting here alone. Obviously my career ambitions need help if they are ever to prosper, but I don't know where or how to get that help without the invisible Hand of God providing what seems to the world as dumb luck in finding the answer.
I now sit in a rental house (it's nice for one person, apart from lacking only a shower capability to the bathtub and no central air-conditioning) a few miles from the home I grew up in, lived inside 44 years and almost 4 months, and could not maintain as an adult orphan for the last six years. Some might say I deserved to lose it. I think I should've moved away 20 years ago, but it's too late to change the past and unfortunately impossible. Unless some unexpected positive change from an outside event or circumstance acting upon my life occurs (and soon), I am again losing the will to live in these depressing circumstances. I cannot pretend to be happy when miserable inside. In past months, the only women who showed any interest in me were either undesirable (based on my standards) or some sort of scam artist (pretending to be madly in love - some of those in fact men pretending to be women). Now if I could just turn this rage and frustration into a standup rant act as part Dennis Miller style intellectualism and a hint of Rodney Dangerfield, that would be a life-changing event. But who would pay to watch my stream of consciousness monologue about politics, cultural matters, etc.? No one, that's who.