I'm officially on leave for the next six weeks, and I honestly feel a guilty for it.

That's part of the upbringing I guess. Even though my company is fine with me leaving for medical reasons, and that even if I can't get leave donated, I can survive for six weeks without the paycheck.

It's something so counter to my "nature" to be able to say that I can take time for myself. Time to recover.

Maybe being BIC means that our DNA is changed to release guilt through our systems for no goddamn reason.

Anyway, I want to be able to take the time to write the rest of my manuscript. I've mentioned before that I'm 50% of the way there, and the story arc is pretty much done. At this point, I'm looking at targeted points to flesh out with more detail, a few more jokes, and a fuck load of swearing.

I probably wouldn't be doing my job right if I didn't end up with a manuscript that had the world's record for potty words in it. At least that would be something worth note if publishers were to discuss that,

"Yeah, did you see the manuscript come in from 'Raptor Jesus,' Bill?"

"I sure did, Shaneequa. It reminded me a lot of 'Catcher in the Rye' except more whining, a lower sense of prose, and a shitload more curse words."

"Well, as long as there are curse words in it, we might be able to sell it to fundamentalist Xtian communities before they burn it."

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I wanted to write a story today because that has been my routine. Come home on Friday and get drunk, then take Saturday afternoon while getting properly lubricated to let the words flow freely from some pre-ordained topic that I've had rattling around in my head for the week while trying to work but doing the work poorly because I'm distracted.

Except that I can't get a particular story to come out independently. It's all a giant ball of writhing venomous serpents in the dark.

If you were to crack open my skull, John Rhys-Davies would gasp and say, "Asps! Very dangerous!" And a younger Harrison Ford would lament, "Snakes, why does it have to be snakes?"

I need to get the beginning of my story done with all of its false illusions to the Iliad, and I need to talk more about music but that's all intertwined with my childhood, and the mission, and coming home. I need to give a background to Mormonism a long with what it's like to grow up BIC, but that's all intertwined with everything else.

If I take it chronologically I might miss something about the topic that should be threaded throughout the rest of the arc. The worst thing you can do is try to take a theme and cut it in half - trying to display it as the living organism that it really is, but instead butchering it poorly and acting like that's what you 'meant' to do.

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Writing this story is now about reaching into the pit and selecting the 'correct' serpent. Allowing it and every other poisonous creeper to bite you as you bring it forward and examine it. Letting the venom to course through your body and temporarily warming the dark with rage as you lay it out on the page.

This of course is a process of both courage and abject stupidity because while you are attempting to share the rawest of experiences you know that you are also inviting the rawest form of criticism as well.

"Why would you even say that?"

"That's not MY experience. What was wrong with YOU?"

"Get over it!"

"Grow up!"

But if everyone really was able to do this, we wouldn't have actual art in Humanity.

No givers. No takers. Like ants we would just go about our specialized tasks gathering and consuming calories.

Gathering and consuming.

Gathering and consuming.

I tend to gravitate toward solipsism (I'm sure *that's* surprising), and I'm trying to find a way to detach myself from my writing. The problem with drawing upon your life experiences in your work is that while you have a ton of material if you're an ancient artifact like me, you also often relive the emotions while you're trying to be cogent and engaging or funny. Funny is tough. Funny while pissed off or miserable is even tougher.

I want a narrative, but not necessarily an autobiography.

I remind myself of this piece by DFW, a review of Updike's _Toward the End of Time_, whenever I get stuck in me: http://www.observer.com/node/39731. And then I remind myself that David Foster Wallace's criticisms of Updike could also apply to him. It's like a friggin' snake eating its tail.

It gives me great ideas for writing.

We all have to learn about our "metabolisms."