Hiatus Break

I wanted to write something quick to break the silence. Consider it a placeholder at the end point of a series of events spanning a month and a half, and the start of getting back into what I was wading through previously. I’ll do a sort of rundown of each notable thing thats happened since, though this won’t be very interesting. I almost feel foolish posting this to my actual blog and not on tumblr or something, but considering I’ve only been inactive here, it should be appropriate. Is it counterproductive to be breaking your hiatus with a rant on your hiatus? Oh well. Thats what I’m doing. Here’s your chance to exit if you don’t want to read uninteresting personal nonsense.

I’ve been questioning my integrity as a writer since I let so much get between me and my craft, even though this is totally at my own will. Every previous meddler in this brand of striking on the earth’s surface had some level of higher commitment, jotting things down in worn notebooks when away from their primary tool, rushing to grab a napkin to write something down at a restaurant when something grabs their attention. Whereas I barely even think about it when I’m out of my lonesome space, making me wonder if I’m only aboard this to have an idle placeholder for who I am. “I’m a writer, but the last thing I wrote was two and half months ago” which is always the case.

I guess the closest excusable factor is that I’m part of a generation based on doing a lot in a lot of different sectors by diverse means, and not a lot of people keep up too well, especially the absent-minded ones. Some forget or lose things, some drag behind in the productivity realm.

This, and I’m ashamed to admit that it takes me significantly longer than others to complete anything. Something that could take a columnist for a paper of any status about an hour or two takes me two weeks to a month. This is of several reasons. Firstly, I sometimes spend a whole day re-reading and re-writing paragraphs because I’m highly self-critical of my structuring, phrasing and use of devices and literary figures, as if any mistake would swell and corrupt the whole work and make me a dupe to the grand total of two readers. Correspondingly, I can’t exactly produce poetic, eloquent sentences in a moment’s notice like many honored authors can. I can make it appear so if I invest a month’s time in it, or get lucky enough to have a burst of creativity and a free flowing mind, but the whole work you see before you commonly takes a ridiculously prolonged period of time. Even this took a few days, even though its “short.” And thirdly, I’m too easily swayed that I can put off work for a day to play a video game or spend time researching a different matter with a subconscious knowledge that I wouldn’t produce anything worth leaving in anyway. This is greatly problematic when this becomes my default mood for a whole month, requiring another month to get back at it.

Now obviously anyone who read that would guess that I’m new to writing and I have some further development to go on. Thing is, I’ve been writing on a scale I do now since I first knew how to form sentences. Going in and out of it, being sidetracked with work in programming and shifting from different paradigms involving typing, has probably worn that dexterity from when prose was my lone craft in its purest shape. Not beyond repair, just into a state of confusion that gets readjusted from time to time. Breaking the cycle normally relies on a single instance of having the perfect idea at the right moment, and following that idea to its end and acting on it. I have plenty of ideas in my notes, only a small handful of them will be revealed to be fruitful and interesting enough to follow to the end into a story. I think a lot of people rest on that rift. We pretty much have the ideas at the ready, but the manner in which to execute them are still up in the air. Drafts within drafts.

Being open about such things is probably for the best. The truth sets you free and all that noise, but this also gives an audience a sense of your inner workings as a creator. We all know what to expect from Scorsese or Tarantino when they release a film because they’re open about their quirks and flaws and fixations in their medium. Now you guys know to expect one blog post per month from me because I’m a tortoise of an author who can’t leave alone the fact that I haven’t written anything for a short period of time and I just have to write about that even though nobody really reads me. Great.

Alright, so onto the main explanation I intended for this.

Minneapolis, June 2016

I couldn’t write anything for June, I made some notes here and there, but no actual work done, as something I’ve been longing for for arguably my whole life happened on the 16th when I flew out to finally meet my lover of about five months, though we’ve had something special for about a year. I could drone on and on about how sweet and wonderful and fucking gorgeous he is, and how my life honestly depended on confirming the reality of this splendid love we share, but I’d prefer to leave that part up to the summary that I was on the cusp of throwing my life off a bridge until this angel among people came into my life and swept my heart up.

The week was primarily spent going to different shops and places of interest in the two cities, seeing the Mississippi river, consuming different substances and junk food, and cuddling and making out. Lots and lots of cuddling and making out. Perhaps not enough, but that will be corrected next time around.

I came home with a heavy heart and started drafting an overall telling of the experience. I couldn’t just let this be something to look back on from memory, I wanted it documented somehow. As of now its still in development, and it might just become a private memoir of our first meet between the two of us, but a better idea of the whole thing can be conveyed in the first draft which is worth publishing.

Leaving Minneapolis

Take off from SDF shoved my anxious tension into my chest and forced me down into my seat. All I could do is watch the shadow of the plane become smaller as my heart pounded harder, and later burst at the seems as I finally touched down in St. Paul 94 minutes later.

I was going to rendezvous with someone particularly special. Of the romantic variety. Someone who I’ve come to love on a level not simply of physical attraction coupled with an admiration for character. This individual was keeping me alive in ways I still don’t fully understand. Keeping me moving forward in resolving lifelong emotional issues I had forgotten about. We gradually formed this relationship online in November of last year. Each passing day of chatting with each other got better and better, more and more deeper in subject and personal outlook. I think we started saying “I love you” about a week or two into getting well aquianted. From there on out I knew I wanted this person and not any other soul.

Let me put it in perspective. Since I turned two digits old I’ve never had a genuine friend in my life; let alone a love. Ditching public school for a cross between homeschooling and self-education at 11 years old ruined any chance of forming an important relationship with anyone. Around this time I started learning more that I liked boys, and that I also still liked girls to a very small extent. Upon entering my teens I accepted myself as a bisexual male. Knowing this, all I could really yearn for — in total isolation, as if expressing loneliness was the greatest sin of all — was that of a loving friend. Not even a boyfriend, just anyone who would honestly care about me and hug me when I’m miserable. Seven years later, I’d get more than I bargained for.

Baggage claim 9. Thats where the lonely chapter ended when I looked over and saw him walking toward me. A solid second of my heart arresting and all the memories of sheer isolation evaporating before my mind’s eye preceded a beautiful smile and a first awkward hug. That goddamn Hawaiian shirt he wore. It was dorky as all hell but I wouldn’t have changed a thing. His hands in his pockets, his shoulders scrunched together, a nervous little grin on his beautiful face as he stepped closer. I think I mustered enough in the moment to simply exclaim “Dude!”, and fell into his arms. That sweet embrace I had dreamed of for half a year had finally come, the rift between building the foundation and standing on its peak had been crossed. Five seconds in, holding him by his shoulders and getting his scent in, I pulled out as if I had done something wrong. I stared back at the empty carousel, him staring as well. An excited grin on both of our faces said the same thing. “Holy fuck, its real.”

I can’t remember the awful small talk we conjured to break the ice in those initial moments, but I do remember jumping into the back seat of his friend’s car at the airport and him immediately going into cuddles for the whole way back to his place. This was especially wonderful and terrifying in the first five minutes. I sat there with an uncontrollable smile on my face as this lovely person was hugging my arm and nuzzling my neck. A virgin to all things delightful coming from another person freshly thrown into the fire can only handle a little at a time, but I’m glad I didn’t burst *too much*.

[…]

Things go by way too damn fast, especially when they’re the best moments of your life. When they’re spent with your life’s love, in a new and splendidly chaotic environment. Why is time so cruel like that? I never wanted to not be driving to an airport so badly in my life. Just seven days ago its all I wanted to do, now I wished every airport in the world suddenly disappeared. Anything at all to keep this person’s arm around me forever and ever. Anything to stop the mile-by-mild progression toward the best week of my life coming to its end.

“This isn’t the last time”

“I will see you up ahead”

We exchange a final hug before I break away to get this shit over with. I pick up my bags and go to check in for the outbound flight.

“I love you. No looking back”

Now that I’m back into my usual cycle, I’m of course introduced to new life obligations outside of writing and work – related to money, housing, family and where this relationship will take us. Consider this the part where I say that only my best efforts in balancing my responsibilities with my self-endowed responsibility in converting ideas and events into neat text will be at the helm of my life for the remainder of the year. Normally in a week I would have sorted through my notes and drafts enough to gain direction, but to be safe I’ll give myself the remainder of the month to have everything sorted. Thanks to all those who stick with me and those similar to me. Its the small lights that inevitably shine brighter than the greater, shallow ones.

Hiatus Break