I’m up and down, pacing back and forth. I’m trying to connect what I wrote yesterday with what I wrote last November, because, damnit — that’s where the book is at right now. I can’t think. I’m at Coffee Rush and I can’t focus. Mainly because I’m trying to pull back up memories of a time that I was extremely depressed and then trying to write about them. I feel like throwing up. Why am I doing this? Because’s it’s in me, and I need to get it out. I need to fucking get it out, and it hurts. But I need to get it out. I need to write a story, I have to — it’s in my blood. I do not have a choice. And that story must be true, must be honest. It must be real. And nothing’s real it seems, that doesn’t hurt.
I want to say that I write this to help others. That I am doing this not for me — but I’m doing it for others who are where I have been, and so that I can’t help them. So they can know they are not fucking alone. So they can feel vocalized. So they, and maybe The Others, can understand.
But in honesty, I am doing this because I am selfish and I need to get this done. I am almost done with this book project, and it’s almost out, but not quite yet. It stings. I still feel like I want to puke, but I can’t, it won’t help. Only thing that will help is the true voice of writing that is true to the Irish — bare your fucking soul and slay it on the table. And only then will you write from a place of honesty, only then will it be worth the time, only then will it be what you need.
This book will not be the weak attempt at vocalizing confusing that the last book was. “Churches, Pubs & Hostels” was written from a place that was still trying to be consumed by the quiet. It was written from a place that was hidden, that was masked, where I wouldn’t let you see inside. In the end result it was limp and confusing and not what it needed to be. It was a long cause and effect essay that never mentioned the cause.
This book is different. Fuck opinions, this book deals in honesty. This book deals in raw honesty, and I do not expect everyone to agree with it. It is not an angry book — not by any means — but it is a slow, honest, complete book. And the slowness it takes is painful. Why do you think I don’t write for weeks at a time? Why do I think I don’t write for weeks at a time? If I spent as much time writing as I did pacing the book would be complete, but it would not be whole.
Only when it’s whole will it be worth the time, and only then will it be what I need.
Posted by sharoute 
