54,268 words

54,268 words into this book about Bloomigton, I’m starting to get really sick of it. Not the book, but the writing. And the idea for the book. It’s like the old game where you say the word orange 800 times and then wonder what the fuck orange even means. The stories are blending together into a weird murk, and the writing gets to the point where I feel like any sentence that isn’t “I was ______” starts to look funny or sound wrong. It’s all collapsing in on itself, and if I had another feasible project, I’d switch and work on that for a while. But I don’t, and the thought of starting something else up is pure murder. So I’m going to try to keep going as long as I can.

One of the current ballbreakers is that I’m trying to rewrite this story I wrote back in 1996 called _The Merch_. This was a long-running piece of folklore between me and Ray Miller, and I wanted to document and also have him write his version of it. He didn’t finish his version until about five years later, and I knew they would be different. The basic summary is this: in 1992, me and Ray went to Chicago. We were walking off a few beers we had earlier with a guy from a record label, and near the Hard Rock Cafe, this dude came up to us and offered to sell us some portable CD players for an incredibly cheap price, like $20 or something. Long story short, we end up driving this guy around for three hours while he uses Ray’s money to buy crack, smoke it in the car, and then leave us in the middle of the worst neighborhood in the midwest.

Now the thing is, Ray insists that my story makes him look like a dick. But the whole reason the entire incident happened is because he honestly thought he was going to get a CD player. Even after the guy left us and it was three in the morning and we had no money and no gas, Ray was still like “I hope that CD player has a car adapter, too.” It’s just who he is. If you wanted to rob him blind, go to his house and say you have a bunch of Godzilla toys that aren’t out in the US that you will sell for a dollar each, and you need to come inside. If you shoot him and leave him for dead, his last words would be “do you have any Megaman toys, too?” That’s not some horrible character fault, it’s just who he is. And it’s why we spent a lot of time driving around to the middle of nowhere and paying too-high cover charges at piece of shit bars – because he always thought that around the final corner, there would be the holy grail of pussy or something.

So the Merch story has been hard to edit, and it’s all very passive, but to make it active introduces a lot of really retarded dialogue. It’s a lot of work, and it’s hard to motivate myself on this project. I just found out that up to September 30, I sold 34 copies of Rumored to Exist. That’s probably twice as good as Summer Rain did, but when you consider the amount of time I put into the book, it’s not much of anything. I’m hoping to do a bunch of these zines and give away as many as possible, and maybe have a piece of Rumored in there so people will check it out.

OK, I need to get back to editing.


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