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Sunday, October 20, 2013

Really Nothing that Exciting is going on here (Unless I am right and a bird is re-masticating my vitamin B for me somewhere in China)

"You can't just leave up a post about suicide for a month." Says my Marketing Friend. "You're supposed to be visible, have an online presence-so you can sell your book."
Fine.
But weeks go by when I really don't have anything to say. Or maybe what is going on is so weird that probably no one outside the State Mental Hospital would relate to it, so I draw pictures instead. Or I watch every episode of the Walking Dead.
It's fine, maybe just a little suspect (like people who aren't on facebook at all or don't own a cellphone) but sales of your book drop when you neglect to routinely remind people in a chirpy, hopefully not too annoying fashion that you wrote it and it is, in fact, still for sale.

Since when does the definition of "artist" automatically have include an enthusiasm and ability to regularly communicate with the World? What if part of being able to create at all is critically connected to an absence of expression, the funneling of something elusive into a painting or a book or a song, and a certain amount of reclusion and silence is required to think all this stuff up?
 Most artists I know have some degree of social anxiety disorder. Even the ones who get up on stage own this particular neurosis, they have just figured out how to wrestle theirs to the ground. For people like me, "Being visible on Twitter" requires a deliberate twisting out from under a circular pattern of thinking that traps me into it's cycles like a loop of barbed wire. It goes like this-
"None of this is real, not really."
"But I hate it. I feel self conscious and weird."
"But it's not real, and besides-no one cares. Also-everyone else is managing twitter just fine."
"But there are all these rules and social customs I am not aware of, it's a mine field."
"But you don't care what people think."
"Oh. Right. Then it doesn't matter-because it isn't real?"
"Right."

So then I make jokes with people and send out links to my book because that's what you're supposed to do even though I loathe it, and I feel pushy and insincere, compelled to use an excess of exclamation points and smiley face emoticons because I am trying to make it look like it's all very casual. And its all so deliberate and so tense and overthought that after a few days I say "fuck it" and go do something else.
So sometimes the suicide post stays up for six weeks. That's apparently how this is going to go.

Except maybe not, because one of the ways I've been spending the last six weeks not-writing-about-anything (besides going in and out of the ER even though I assumed that finding a diagnosis of what's been making me sick would mean I wouldn't be sick anymore)  is going off gluten, sugar, and dairy while also ingesting a precise combination of cracked up B vitamins and other pills and substances prescribed to me by my new hippie doctor with a PHD in biochemistry.
So even though I'm lazy and I enjoy treats I am doing everything this guy says-even taking folate that has been "pre-methylated" even though I forgot to ask them how they "pre-methylate" it so now whenever I take it I have to overcome both a gag reflex from taking pills and a slight paranoia that it was methylated in the stomach of a cow; or in the beak of a momma bird and then regurgitated-because that's what it sounds like.
Which is totally possible. People do stuff like that. They drink coffee from beans pooped out by ocelots, and birth control pills are made from horse urine. You can't assume whatever these people give you isn't secretly gross and made from mold or monkey fetus slime-you have to ask.
But I'm taking these pills anyway, and maybe that's why today I can communicate with the World.
Hi, World.
How are you?

2. I also moved out of the retirement center into a little house. So I've been wandering around the little house late at night trying to make it feel like I live here. Being homeless for any length of time reverberates for a while. It makes you afraid to fully unpack. Because you never know. But making several series of mildly disappointing glutensugardairy-free muffins helps you with that. Especially the last batch (after you decide Fuck it-a few chocolate chips isn't going to kill me)

3 comments:

  1. I read your book in two days - thank you for sharing your story! I was rooting for you the whole time. :)

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  2. there's a bunch of really lovely entrapeneur/artist marketing specialists who I've been reading the last few years and it's helped a lot with taking the icky, slimy feel off of me in regards to sharing my work (though I still suck badly at it, but I don't feel icky about it anymore). They're all people who do private coaching for lots 'o moolah, but they also have free stuff all the time; weekly emails, free webinars and the like. they might help you find a happy way to share your fabulousness in a way that honors all of it, even the suicide posts (which I adored and didn't mind that there wasn't more, though I missed reading your words)

    anyway, some to look at - AnnaKunnecke.com TheOrganizedArtistCompany.com, DanielleLaPorte.com, MarieForleo.com, TaraGentile.com

    A friend gave me her old Kindle so I could read your book =)

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  3. Oh, that first night in your own place after being homeless and you look up at the ceiling from your spot in your very own bed ... heavenly. But it does take a long time to make that place feel like HOME.

    I'm an artist, and I work in marketing, and I'm still not over the awkwardness of sharing my own stuff. I think, maybe, that's a good thing. It keeps you real. That doesn't mean that you shouldn't celebrate your accomplishments and honor your hard work and show the world. I just think it's always a bit difficult to bear one's soul, and that is what our creations are.

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