Sometimes I just want to get down and write. Y’know?
If only life were so simple. If only I could write full time. Perhaps then I’d allow myself the small indulgence of occasionally bleating on about how I’m a misunderstood, impoverished artist and how I’m far too dedicated to my work to consider such trivialities as rent, mortgages and buying groceries.
Oh, for the luxury of being appreciated before I die.
-Jack Binding, 2016
Today, however, I have done some excellent work. Booker Prize worthy? You bet. Perhaps there’s something about being dosed up on painkillers and mind-fucked from jet lag that allows your imagination to stray farther into the woods than you’d usually let it. Christ, I was world-building this morning. Making up words and having rules for this and that in this new fictional playground.
Initially I was just writing about a drug deal gone wrong. Next thing I know, I’m in fucking Gallifrey (only with more crack).
Well, that was pretty lovely.
But after the fun stuff, comes the grit. The grind. The hassle.
After I’d drained my artistic balls, cue two hours of learning how fucking Mailchimp works. I usually like to be a little more compos mentis when working out technical stuff like that, but I got there in the end.
Maybe I’ll run competitions.
Meet and greet with Jack Binding in the dive bar of his choice (you’re paying).
Sounds good to me.
Anyway, please sign up to it. I promise I won’t spam much. And if you hate it, you can just hit the ‘Unsubscribe’ button. And how satisfying is that?
I was thinking of adding a pop-up Subscribe button. What do you think?
Anyway, today was good. Writing wonderfully and then doing all that extraneous nerd crap one needs to keep on top of nowadays.
Sydney, by the way, is lovely. I fucked up my knee jogging around Centennial Park, just like a real Australian. However, I’ve sunburnt my neck, just like a real tourist.
Until next time.