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Day X – A Good thing

I slept badly, last night

I didn’t want the day to end,

Even though there was nothing special about it.

Some days are like that,

Days that don’t want to leave.

Last night I had a good streak of writing, it was beautiful.

Then I stayed up a little late.

I ruined a good thing.

I hope I can fall asleep earlier tomorrow.

A little bit of journaling © Christopher Stamfors

Day X – Hard Work

I’ve worked rather hard, recently.

They make us work 24 hours, sometimes, today I worked 32

Did a lot of writing, regardless – not my best work.

I think I might be a bit tired, at least for this particular story.

I got a few days rest, maybe I should work on something else

I have one other.

Fool’s Tower, it is called.

It’s a bit of journaling © Christopher Stamfors

Day X

I had a good day, yesterday

I played a game, wrote a little

I didn’t have anything to drink though except tea

Drinks happen sometimes

You can have good days without drink, bad ones too

Sometimes I lie, for whom?

Writing is saying the truth, at least it should be.

I like hearing the clinks and clanks of the typewriter, that’s the main reason I’m writing today, I think.

Writing is my way out

It’s weird, when it was time to decide what to do with my life, I chose to be a writer. I never gave it much thought until at the end of University, when I was running out of time. The choice always seemed so far off.

I never wrote anything seriously before then and I’ve only been writing for about five years since. I took jobs where I could work as little as possible and write instead. I feel like I’m at a place now where I can actually finish something good and I’m about to. I’m already browsing agents but I still have some extensive editing to do.

For some reason writing is the only viable thing I could see myself do.

I’m a lonely guy. My sister had a kid a year ago and I’m more convinced than ever that I never want one. I ended a relationship recently too, realizing it’s too much work. I’m too self centered and I like spending time with myself. Funny thing is I like talking to new people but I don’t want to make friends and create obligations, people seemed to like me too, at first, at least… I must sound terribly immature.

I think there’s a bit missing in my head.

Cat’s don’t have money

Cat rode down the mountain on a bike to get some cheese. He couldn’t get the cheese because he didn’t have any money, he didn’t even know what money was. Yet he knew how to ride a bike. Actually, it wasn’t his bike, it was the Dog’s. The Cat just borrowed it. The Dog didn’t have any money either.

It’s All Bullshit

I love writing stupid bullshit, because that’s what writing is. We put words on a page and we have no idea if it’s any good or not. It sound right in our head until next time. Sometimes we know it’s bullshit but we put up with it anyway, telling ourselves I’ll fix it later.

Bullshit is good, it’s the only way to write. Otherwise you take yourself too seriously and that’s the death of the story.

An altogether serious novel has no place in literature, it must contain some silliness, otherwise it’s a product. It’s just pandering to the reader and putting yourself up on a pedestal that you’re deep.

Writing is one of the few mediums where the artist have full control, make use of that and write your bullshit. 

It’s all bullshit anyway.

Evidence – Poem

There are ruins after ruins along the road. Sometimes hidden, sometimes plainly seen. 

It’s not a dead world, the ruins are just evidence of the past.

At night they become especially visible, which is ironic.