Intentions

I had intended on pointing myself back towards Chicago to catch Kid, You'll Move Mountains' concert in Geneva tonight, but found myself drearily drowsy after my 8th consecutive cashiering shift such that I am delaying my visit, hoping the KYMM will play again next month. I've scattered some messages with hopes that friends less than 300 miles from Geneva will go in my steed, but in five years of concert-going I can only recall one instance where a friend told me he/she went to a show I couldn't attend thanks to my suggestion.

It's not all bad . . . I'm making a living wage for the time being, for the first time in my life. I am stuck in my off hours under my parents' roof, mostly, but with the long-term plot to stash away most of my money, as it rolls in (possibly for less than a full month), to allow for some percolating escape plans.

I've drafted 15 of 50 planned chapters of my (hopeful) first novel, and mean to be through 25 before the middle of next month. The further I progress, the more frequent my delusions of success are becoming--perhaps this is a bad thing. Perhaps this is a terrible thing. If I finish my manuscript and it proves to be "unpublishable," for whatever reason, I can't imagine what else there is for me to pursue . . . I won't willingly buckle to the pressures of society to continue a meaningless job as that which I've recently landed for any lengthy period. I can slave away for a few months, tops, but then will need to fly off elsewhere . . . or else I'll wither.

This continues to be an increasingly stressful phase of my life--kicking around on the doorstep of artistic validation, knocking occasionally, almost praying (of all things!) for someone to let me in. I'm not sure where precisely I'm going from here--where I'll be in one month, in five, in sixteen . . .

The good news is I am writing. Consistently. Consistently enough to have exceeding faith that I will achieve my personal deadline goals. So, if nothing else, there's that . . .