Positive Consensus For February
The general consensus is that things are looking up for this month, although not necessarily for the writer, and although the stupid mother from across the street is afraid to hold down the fucking button on her whipper-snipper.
Women are hopeless when it comes to things like that. If it weren’t for her two gorgeous daughters, who have been countless subjects to my furtive happy snaps, she would have been heckled and verbally walloped by now, at least in my memoirs anyway.
There seems to be no time for frustration these days however, despite it being so frequent a writer’s setback. The call is more an onward one, but the mules are my days and all these pressures in them are those that dig into the very spleen of my nerve.
The Issue Of Burnout
How does one ward off burnout then? When it looms, how does one combat it? Nothing seems to be getting any easier, especially in this sticky weather, where the only people who benefit are those with a car and air conditioning, or both.
The fan at my back stolen in choler from my parents upstairs is blowing cool air on me, but you would hardly think me cool at the moment, bashing my fist on the top of the monitor and rampaging from room to room like a wild bull who sees red.
Windows Operating System Keeps Malfunctioning
The fucking computer has seized up on me again. Microsoft® Word in particular has given repeated troubles, causing spontaneous kernel problems and shutting itself down with an error message every ten to fifteen seconds. Ironically, it all went down when abandoning my cozy bedroom this morning. Isn’t the writer kicking himself now?
I don’t know what happened since then and now but every sentence written needs to be fast saved to avoid losing my work through another stupid malfunction.
You see what he has to put up with? This is one of the reasons he loathes writing out his memoirs, stupid faults as these, which are inevitably his undoing. The fan at my back hardly seems any consolation now but things are settling down.
Saving my work after every fourth or fifth word typed seems to be fending it off. Oops, spoke too soon. Another page fault and another detested fourteen pages of notation to scroll past, here to remind me of how much work there really is to catch up on.
Unable To Save Files As Computer Crashes
This is really fucking pissing me off. Why doesn’t this fucking computer ever fucking work when you fucking need it? How appropriate that the program only seems to crash when you don’t want it to, and then only when you have written a few lines that you forgot to save, and can now never retrieve.
Ah, the stress. The computer is mocking me, playing with me, killing me with my own boil, and it seems that the writer is forever angry and forever aggravated because of it. There has to be a radical change, and not just in the way these memoirs are handled.
I hate the feeling of being trapped by my own work and loathe it even more when shit like this happens.
Every day, every single fucking day, the writer has me walking up a down escalator. I just want to have some fun, or at least some peaceful nights to write. At the moment, neither of them seems reachable.
Wishing The Writer Fades Away
I wonder whether there will ever come a day that the writer fades away, where the other shades will rise up to inject some of that long-forgotten fun back into my life. To be honest, the thought has crossed my mind lately.
Being free from my literary bonds seems like a dream, a long unreachable dream, and not only for the sake of this fiery mood. I long to be outdoors, walking around in the city, hanging out with friends, and having the time to talk with people on the phone without the daunting thought that it will likely be written in my memoirs.
Normal things.
I long to do normal things.
But somewhere along the line, this became normal for me.
Torment me world, torment me and make my life a misery, spin me with severance until you make my mood as arduous-bled as the writer’s.
How to overcome this that cannot be overcome? How to undo the doing that has been done?
The pressure, ah rife dissuader of motivation, fiendish killer of pursuit and you, you villainous martyring of patience, you, you murder me.
Diary Of A Mad Chaos is a daily diary written from March 1996 until today, of which individual books and book series have been created, namely “The Lost Years” an exploration of young, entwined love, the “Wubao In China (猎艳奇缘)” book series which provides an extensive comparative analysis of the cultural differences between Eastern and Western societies, and the book titled “Foreigner (华人)” an exploration of race relations in Australia.
