The Bell Has Been Saved

If you saw my last post on here, my sumptuous retrospective of Saved by the Bell was in fatal jeopardy, so I turned to you — at this point, imagine a giant, Lord Kitchener finger poking through the screen, causing you to lean back in your seat. Summoning that Muppet spirit of “C’mon, gang, let’s put on a show!”, the metaphorical evil property developers, represented by the deathbed rattle of a dying computer, were bested by what, even I, in my status as overgrown misanthrope can only describe as the human spirit, and like that, my Bayside book is back on.

I don’t know what I expected from that post, but it certainly wasn’t the incredible flood of generosity that sprang forth. Each email or message was supportive, and nobody called me a digital hobo or told me to go fuck myself with a claw hammer. In the huge, wonderful list of people who’d been kind enough to donate, I saw names I knew well, and names I didn’t recognise at all; I saw people I talk to all the time, and those I hadn’t spoken to in years; I saw people I knew couldn’t afford to be slinging money in outward directions, but who were doing it all the same. Every name a band-aid on my battered, crumbled, black heart.

There’s a line from My Dinner with Andre, attributed to Ingmar Bergman, that goes “I could always live in my art, but not in my life.” This is where I’m at. Day to day, while I’m drowning in the utterly overwhelming, hopeless depression that’s now a permanent part of me; like a heavy, smelly coat with a broken zip that’s too tight to get off by pulling it over my head; writing for 12, 14, 16 hours a day is the fingers in the ears “la la la, can’t hear you” that gets me through. My work is where I hide. It’s where I exist. The only place I exist. There are no other parts to me. I don’t want to poke my head above the parapet and see the unhappy wreck of my real life. Consequently, I topped 250k words in the first ten months of the year. It’s a good motivator.

Almost always, especially in the daily hustle of being an ‘indie author’, it feels like you’re shouting yourself bloody into an empty well, and it’s all been for nothing. So, to know that enough people give a shit, and want to see me finish at least this one project, well, it’s a big thing for me. A huge thing. And I want people to understand that. People who donated. People who retweeted and shared the link. People who did want me to put a claw hammer right up there but kept their mouths shut anyway.

muppets

“Let’s help this fuckin’ dickbag publish his book about Screech!”

It’s taken a while to gather myself enough to get back on the horse because a) the coat with the broken zip, and b) I got super sick the day I put up the last post, and proceeded to not sleep at all for about two weeks. I will get around to thanking everyone individually at some point, but for now, please accept this sickly, gushing blog. That said, I did return from my internet hiatus to find that the word ‘bae’ is still being used, but you can’t have everything, I suppose.

Presumably there’s not a single reader out there who doesn’t want me to immediately cease with this meandering me-me-me shit and get back to stuff about Hulk Hogan’s penis or compiling the Top 10 Best Pop Culture Farts. As you wish.

Incidentally, there’s no film list this year. This is unrelated to the recent catastrophe, and more just a time issue (those things eat up a solid month). But I’ll probably name my favourites on Twitter at some point, so look out for that.

Alright. Back to it. Cos I gotta bury the real world beneath the words.

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~ by Stuart on December 8, 2014.

One Response to “The Bell Has Been Saved”

  1. No prophet is recognized in his own house. Except this one time.

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