In my continuing inability to focus on anything at ALL I wandered over to the page of the catfish poet.
I have been unblocked and dummy me hit the message option to see if it worked and found messages from 5 years ago.
I also lost 2 days worth of ‘work’ on the new book due to an unscheduled update.
It wasn’t much, just some editing, but I have to get groceries and I cannot fucking focus.
Upon closer inspection I lost 2000 words, not the 200 I originally thought, shit fuck.
Still doesn’t explain why I would want to open that old box of hurt.
I didn’t message him back, but part of me wants to.
The writer part of me that turns pain and blood into words.
“Hey that scar is pretty well healed, barely visible really, let’s cut that fucker open and watch it bleed.”
I am not bored, to say I am bored in a world full of such miraculous wonder and the internet is a mortal sin.
But…
I am not motivated.
I know this.
Hence my urge to play a little football with the hornet’s nest.
I do that sometimes when someone new hurts me. I go back and look at the old wounds to see how well they healed, or dig out any old splinters that are festering. Some of my exes are incredibly sweet and comforting, so is the knowledge that although I may have collapsed crying in a pile of laundry while holding the sweater I wore on our first date, that I moved past that. I got rid of the sweater which was too bad, it was a good sweater, and he is a good ex.
The catfish poet is not numbered among the good ones though.
I actually can’t remember how many years we were on and then off again. Too many.
The Half Wild Thing book was written originally to show someone (catfish poet specifically) I understood who they were and what they wanted. I genuinely cared about this person and he was a cuck. I wondered if maybe after 7 years of extreme sexual repression in my marriage if this was something I wanted, could I be with someone and fuck other people in front of him? Never tired it before, still haven’t, but I wrote 400 pages about it.
I have since realized that, while understanding, experimentation, and acceptance play a huge part in the act of loving someone, bending completely to their will and getting nothing in return is just unrequited bullshit and feeding of a starving ego that will never be full.
I left that project by the wayside until he and I were officially done. Which, according to Facebook memories was 5 years ago today. This is what I had to say about that.
I got dumped for lack of a better word.
For the simple act of being myself.
I got ice queen cold over it.
Scared myself a bit with how little I cared or reacted.
Then I realized something.
I had 7 years of training for this.
My ex and I split up monthly and would have these 12 hour text wars where nothing got resolved.
I’m not cold. I’m just too happy with my life to bother with dramatic bullshit. I already know how this ends.
I do have a massive aversion to drama. I will not fight to stay with anyone anymore.
The anniversary aspect is pretty funny though. Gee I wonder why I was peeking at him yesterday, specifically yesterday after months/years of forgetting he exists. I suppose I have hung out with enough fuckbois that I now have an internal timer that goes off on all anniversaries and my subconscious whispers “go look”. See what he is doing.
I don’t even really equate him with the book anymore, weirdly. It sat as an unfinished word document until I decided to move to Newfoundland and I wanted an extra revenue stream just in case. I then picked it back up and wrote my own ending where she gets assaulted, he handles it badly and they split.
I got fucked over hardcore by the original publisher and here we are.
In rewriting the ending I orchestrated my own rescue from a situation I was never in.
The Queen of California is stepping down. John Mayer
I abdicated a throne that was never mine to begin with, but I got a book out of it.
An insanely pornographic gang bang, cuckhold, toy filled book of things that should never be attempted in real life, but it’s good.
The original publishing date was 3 years ago today. And I only finished it because I was angry.
Revenge porn, just not in the usual sense.
I write really well when I am mad.
I remember in grade 9 my bestie’s boyfriend did or said something that sent me off the deep end. I was LIVID about something. No idea what, that was 33 years ago, but I wrote him this scathing letter about it. He didn’t get mad. He took it to his grade 12 English teacher, and all I could think is “I am in so much fucking trouble”, but no. She had a sit down with me about what a good writer I could be if I could channel my energy in better directions. Mrs. Turvill. She was so cool, and I regret so very much not tucking myself under her wing when it was offered.
I wish I could get that back.
I have spent a lot of time lately praying for a time machine and having incredibly vivid memories of my past.
Even this last year in and out of lockdown, out of work, so much time all I did was publish 2 books, one new one old and re-edited. Working on the third but it is going so slowly it hurts. The Patreon feels like a hail Mary pass trying to salvage the year.
I am truly enjoying the freedom I have to write different styles of articles over there and being monetarily rewarded for time spent is new and right somehow.
I want a do over. I miss the ease of March, the revelations of July, the forward motion of September.
I read stuff I have written in this new book I am working on and I am in awe of whichever part of me took over that day and put those words to paper.
Elizabeth ‘eatpraylove’ Gilbert did a Ted Talk a million years ago regarding daemons and muses and inspiration. She told a story about Tom Waits sitting in L.A traffic and getting a really good idea for a song and yelling at his muse to come back later. She tells it better and obviously I will post a link.
I want my muse back goddammit.
I am here, ready willing and able.
Writing is really all can do right now, my body wants to sit and not much else.
This day last year I hit my intended word count for A Wolf and His Witch as well.
What a weird day to be so symbolic and full of weird writing things and writer things for me.
January 19th. Has no ring nor excitement to it. It is just an awkward day and I am in an awkward mood.
I normally finish off my posts with some grand mal epiphany, but I am at a loss today.
So here are links to all da tings
https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch