I’m off from my “real job” today. You would think this means I am sitting here, pounding feverishly on the keyboard as my WIP comes to breath-taking life.
Simply not true. So far this morning I have checked my Twitter account 17 times, checked Facebook 8 times and even checked my Tumblr account and my Blogspot blog.
I do not have a desk so I do this awful “hunch over the laptop on the coffee table” thing that is seriously taking a toll on my back. I think at this point I should probably invest in one of those “lap desks” or whatever the hell they’re called.
So as I write my novel (or attempt to really) I conjured up another creative idea.
A book detailing the thoughts of a crazy person. Kind of like a journal of sorts. The thing is, they will be my thoughts transferred from demented mind to paper. I joke around that I am crazy. I have morbid thoughts, disturbing thoughts… crazy thoughts. I suppose most writers/musicians/artists do. Thank the gravy that God gave us all a talent to put it to good use instead of taking our thoughts out on the living.
Now, I have never been officially diagnosed as “crazy” per say. But I often feel crazy, like I do not fit in. Not to mention the exorbitant amount of people who have called me crazy and meant it. Conversations that often go:
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“Ha! Thanks,” I say with a playful smile.
“No. I mean it. You’re a sick fuck.”
“Oh,” I say as the smile fades from my face.
It is lonely at times. No one gets me. I am continuously terrified to really be me out in public. Sometimes I cannot help it and kind of let loose. This is something that has plagued me all my life.
I have gone for tests, but always knew the right answers and chirped them out with unabated enthusiasm. Does this make me a psychopath? I have never killed anyone (seriously). I don’t even kill bugs.
So what’s the deal?