It's Four In The Morning And I Can't Sleep

It’s 4:08 am. I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for about four hours now. I received an email from a reader of my sexuality blog yesterday, saying he’d been looking for a voice in the wilderness about a particular topic for the past few years, never having found that voice. He told me I was the first person that ever made much sense to him on that particular topic, and after lavishing some more praise on me, suggested I should author a book on the subject.

I've finally said a boisterous "fuck it" to the ceiling that has held me in rapt attention for the last 18% of my day, and now I'm prepared to fatigue myself for sleep via a purging of the words.

That reader-recommended topic, I have to agree, is one that I believe is profoundly important for the modern man, and I’m pretty stoked to have a guy come out and tell me that I’ve essentially really impacted his worldview, and that he believes I can have the same impact on many other men, that my book would “sell.”

I wonder sometimes if readers realized just how much impact they can have on writers. We lowly blogophiles you see before us, we’re not just here for kicks. Some of us are on missions to get our words out in the stratosphere long before we meet whatever untimely demise lies in wait for us. We take chances, lay our vulnerability bare for all to see, all in the hopes that someone somewhere will venture forth and say, “Dude, that touched me.” It's a quest for immortality, however cheesy that might sound. Hear me, and hear me now, my friend. I write, therefore I am. Rowr!

Sadly, most comments received tend to be light and fluffy or short and to the point. It’s not that often that the people who are shaken will dare to contact us. Back at Christmas, I had a dozen or two really sweet emails telling me how I’d influenced these folks over the past few months. Maybe it’s a special occasion communication, but I don’t care. It really, really hits the spot when someone really truly takes the time to sit down and say what they think about you.

There are few people I bother to go around and read blogs for, and even they are only fortunate on blue moons and red sunrises to have me come by. It’s just too fucking addictive. There are some remarkably interesting writers out there, and the more time I donate to you, the less time I donate to my craft. It’s priorities. Writing, in all its forms & guises, is my only mistress of import these days.

And finding out I’ve shifted a worldview is about as rich a payment as I ever receive. Oh, to write a book on something that I feel so passionate about. Hmm. I have this fantasy of this one magazine I want to write for. I know the format, the rough title and style of the column, I have this little dream of how it’s received, the attention I get. This suggestion from this reader is the first thing I’ve begun to believe that I could sell that magazine. The first thing I’ve realized a potential in – something no one’s doing quite like me, something timely.

I’m sorry for all the vagueness, but every now and then an idea is worth keeping secret.

The only thing is, I’m not ready to write it. It needs research, better understanding of certain events & discussions that have led up until this point in time. But now I’m thinking of it. Now I’m fascinated. Now I’m flattered, flummoxed, and floored. Now I don’t know where to go, except maybe a pre-dawn walk or something. I have all this frustration and distraction with which I can do nothing right now.

But now it’s 4:20 am, and I can smoke a little dope and chuckle about the apropos of it all. Add to all the above that my ass and abs feel tighter than a snare drum because I rediscovered my Ab Swing about 32 hours ago, and I feel tense, tense, tense.

Fortunately, I’m in good mood about it.

I posted a “wah, wah, I know not where to begin” posting a couple days ago about my story series suggestion regarding "my life thus far," and good buddy Steve has proposed I tell how I landed my fair ass in the Great Frozen Beyond, and Stevie, old boy, it just so happens there’s a story there to tell.

I think I’ve figured how to blow my wad for the night. I’ve got Oasis’ “Morning Glory” playing on repeat. “All your dreams are made when you’re chained to the mirror and the razorblade…” Sorta fitting for that story, really.

About that story series. I know it must seem odd that the more important other writing becomes to me, the more lofty my goals get in, say, this area of useless blog writing. I’ve been sort of puzzling over this for the past week or two, thinking I must be absolutely insane, but then it hit me. Creativity, true creativity, tends to really need confidence and the willingness to take chances. The more we try, the more we do, the more we believe in it. I guess I figure that if I can up my game elsewhere, creatively, that it must be up every place. Hmm. Nice notion.

But, well, without ado. Yukon ho! Another day or two and the first installment shall be up. Time to kill a bowl and roll, Stan, roll this wagonwheel.

(*I oughta be listening to the song that provides the title to this piece, M. Ward, Four Hours In Washington. Great insomnia classic.)