Day 832: Tummy Troubles?

I woke up this morning with a legit belly ache; I’m not sure what that was all about, but after water, exercise and some coffee I seem to be back on track. Pushing through the day has powered me into feeling better, so hopefully that’s it for weird stomach stuff.

“Simplify” seems to be falling gradually into the pile of ideas that’s good in theory but doesn’t really work for me in practice; I think I’m just a magpie at heart, and it’s hard to cleanly separate some of what I do as a hobby from housework — cooking is key among those things.

Book focus is becoming key, though, and I’m getting excited about writing, which is a nice feeling. After this I’ll probably grab a bit of coffee, put 30 minutes into the book, and then it’s off for radio.

Day 831: Dedicated writing time

I’ve got the desire to write the book; I can sort of see the outcome in my mind. The two issues are (a) I’m exhausted after work every day and “write a book” is not exactly my top priority, and (b) I don’t like what I’m writing, particularly.

It’s the damndest thing. I’m a good writer, normally, and I’m I think a better editor — good at setting and maintaining a tone, good at finding a voice and sticking to it. This, though, it’s eluding me.

I think the only sane responses to the above are

(a) You’re committed to the Master’s now, dummy, so you’re going to be writing whether you like it or not, and this is like Rocky at the Philly Museum of Art — I gotta run these steps to get ready for the main event.

(b) Think less, write more. Get out of my own head and stop trying to be clever; just get the words on the (electronic) page.

I also don’t like writing in my office, which is weird. I literally just stopped typing to move my monitors back six inches to see if that helps. This isn’t an environment that I feel relaxes me, which is kind of indicative of a relationship with this office that maybe I need to look at.

Day 783: When the Aerosmith Guy Tells You To Do It In a Dream, You Do It

I started messing with a book idea a few years ago called You Can’t Drink And Nobody Cares, which is something written to address the super fears of people who stop drinking, chiefly:

a) I’m a freak and a weirdo and there’s something wrong with me, and

b) Nobody’s going to want to be my friend any more and all my relationships will be ruined.

Neither of these things are remotely true, but I remember feeling them and my wife is feeling them right now.

Last night, probably because of the Joe Beef article yesterday and having read about his sobriety in a magazine a while back, I had a dream where Steven Tyler and I were hanging out and he told me to write the book. In the dream, he cut me a cheque for $50,000 and told me to quit my job and write the book.

In the dream, I didn’t really have the heart to tell him that $50,000 isn’t really “quit your job” money any more, and I’ve never really been an Aerosmith fan.

But hell, if it’s a sign, I’ll take it. Dream Steven Tyler and his zero percent body fat and botoxy face are telling me to write a book. You got it, buddy.