Tuesday, Nov. 8, 2016

Who can think of anything else but the election?

Yesterday I had my semiannual dental checkup. Before that, my wife and I drove down to the Government Center and voted early. Then we went to a small cafe for a calming breakfast (I had to insist she not talk about politics, because I was about to throw up). Finally I went to my checkup—no cavities, of course—and then back to work.

Didn’t do any writing last night. My wife is very politically active and informed about contemporary news, so I had to talk her down from the ledge all evening long. You do that for your spouse, the one you love. But, to indicate a petty, minor point, I didn’t get any writing done. Yes, in the grand scheme of things, NaNoWriMo is a petty endeavor. Writing a novel is lots of work, but it doesn’t weigh much against helping your mom entertain your brother’s girlfriend’s kids or restoring the psychological balance of your overly informed wife.

Tonight’s the election. I’ve been despondent all day. Now I’m home, getting drunk, and my wife’s playing vinyl and making a delicious, fun dinner. Even the girl-kitty has curled up around my hips in an attempt to diffuse my incredible negative energy. It’s quarter to eight, and I have to decide whether I’m going to hack out a couple thousand words to NaNo or fulfill my story-of-the-day requirement.

I just lost a filling. There’s a sharp and jagged hole in the corner of my mouth. It’ll get in the way of my concentration.

Oh, and now my wife’s putting something on the TV… well… I’ll just get drunker and write something, I guess. Or move to another room. Or just chuck it all to the wind and go out for a walk, waiting for the ravening hordes of gun-happy and undereducated rednecks shooting anything that doesn’t look like them. Or does, because yee-haw ‘Murica.


Wednesday, Nov. 9, 2016

Disaster. The bigoted, money-lusting, inhuman fascists have metastasized all of Congress and the White House.

I don’t feel like writing jack-off fiction today. No playful, lustful ideas are coming to mind.

Took the day off from work for a mental health break. All I can do is reach out to friends, or lie here staring at the ceiling in disbelief.


Thursday, Nov. 10, 2016

And it starts. Students in high schools and colleges, lashing out with hatred and violence against other Americans on the basis of their skin color. Calling each other horrible things, chanting for them to leave, laughing at them to get to the back of the bus, spray-painting slander and bigotry on private property. The president-elect has made white supremacy acceptable, and it doesn’t look like decent people have the courage to stand up to it. So we’re headed for another Great Depression and a class war.

I don’t see the point anymore.


Friday, Nov. 11, 2016

Violence continues to break out. Conservatives do horrifying things to Americans and humans.

Most coworkers are taking days off now. The few that are in the office, we no longer joke around. We glance at each other, nod grimly, and walk away in silence. One or two people a day will talk to me, when they’re unable to hold back and have to pour all their fear, anger, confusion, and dread into me. Everyone I know is starved for good news, and there isn’t any.

I ride the bus to or from work, staring out the window. I sit at my desk, in an office where more and more people are calling in sick and we all wear black in mourning. I sit on my couch at home and stare at the wall until it’s time to give into sleep.

Four years of this, next. Four years of waiting for the asshole to take a swing at me. Four years of waiting to step between a bigot and an innocent American. Four years of never wanting to see another morning, dreading what the world’s going to look like.

Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit drinking.


Sunday, Nov. 13, 2016

No more writing. No inspiration. No lust, no playfulness, no philosophical masturbation, no punchlines.

No point to keeping this writing journal.

Just waiting.

Speculative fiction author within size fantasy, artist, musician.

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