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Nearing the end -- 01.12.06
 
(12:49 a.m.) I told myself that I wouldn't stay up that late because it's really doing a number on my internal clock. I'm trying to wake up earlier, but the other side of that equation is to go to sleep earlier too. I havenít been doing that, hence me passing out in my chair the other day and giving myself a stiff neck. But tonight I'm still up at this hour because I was writing, finally after being a lazy bastard for the last couple of weeks. I made excuses because it was the holidays, and then new years, and then the whole immigration thing. Again, I'm not being deported. I know some of you wish I was. Believe me, sometimes I wish I could move to England or something. Yeah, anywhere but this sinking ship of democracy formally know as humanityís last great bastion of liberty. Or so the history books would have you believe. But that's neither here nor there. I'm not here to talk about my disillusionment with this country.

I'm still up because, like I said, I was writing. I've been writing for nearly the last four hours now. And I'm still writing, only now it's this journal entry. I'm on a jag, so bear with me while I type out my thoughts. After dinner tonight, well last night since it's now officially Thursday, I could have just sat in front of the TV and watched a couple of shows I still have on tape, or I could write. I chose to write. It's been too long and I really hate myself for not taking the time to simply write. As I might have told a few of you I've been working on a book. It's about two years since I first started, though I can't remember the exact date I started. I'm sure I can check the dates on the files, and see when they were created.

OK, I just checked. There are two dates on the majority of the files that contain the first draft and ideas, that date would be August 11, 2003. So this has been over two years in the making at this point. I honestly thought that I could finish the book in less than a year. When I first started I was on a roll, but then at the start of 2004 I was finishing up those pesky G.E.s at SMC, and also taking care of my Grandmother. Little did I know that in a little less than a year and a half she would be dead. Little did I also know that nearly two and a half years I would be nearing the end of this this book project.

What I'm basically saying is that tonight I was able to write about three chapters. There are only one and a half chapters to finish up tomorrow, or later this week. I say one and a half because I have a lot of the last chapter already done. I have to rewrite the second to last chapter. I'm pretty sure it suffers from my mind wanting to get some sleep. I'm sleepy now but at the same time I want to get these thoughts on "paper" so to speak. Virtual paper I guess you could call this journal.

Anyway, even as I neared the end of what I was writing I started to doubt what I had just written. I always do that to myself. The one thing I want to be perfect is my writing. I have this overwhelming drive to write a masterpiece. It's not enough that I write something and it's published, it has be a masterpiece of literature. I'm pretty sure what I'm about to finish isn't quite that, but it's a step towards that. See, a few years ago I started to write a novel. About three years into the process I went to page one and started to read it. I got about twenty pages into the story and thought to myself, "Damn this is a pile of shit." I then thought about what I could do. I could either start all over, or try to rewrite what I had, or finish the story and then go back and fix it, improve it. I tried to do a little bit of all those things, but ultimately I decided that the novel was crap and that it was best if I just started over. Problem was that by that time I was sick of that particular novel. I didn't have the heart to start over again. I knew that my second attempt would be weaker than my first attempt because my heart wasn't in it. So I thought that the only option was to just delete all the files and start a new novel with another story idea I had. A friend of mine convinced me not to completely delete what I had written, which was basically about 220 pages at that point. I put all the files on a floppy and then deleted them from my computer's hard drive. It was a drastic move, but I didn't want to have anything to do with that crap.

Jump to the present and I'm here about four to ten pages from the end of this second attempt at a novel. I still have doubts, like is this good enough to be published? Do I really have any writing talent. In my last writing class I felt in my arrogant heart that I was better than most of the other students. There were a couple that I thought were better than me, but at the same time not. When I write in my style I like to think that I'm damn good. Like this that you're reading right now is my style, freeform and stream of consciousness. I could be wrong though. I'm just happy to be this close to finishing this thing, especially since my first attempt was so lame. This attempt might be lame too though, how would I know I haven't read it all the way through yet. But that I'll do after I'm done with the first draft.

Two and a half years, I can't believe it's been that long since I started. My greatest regret is that I didn't finish it in time to have the opportunity to give my Mother and Grandmother copies of my book (assuming it was published of course). That will always be my greatest failure in a lifetime of failures. They both supported me so much, and now that they are gone I regret not being able to finish this before they passed away. From here on out it's just me, and any joy of being published will have to be unshared. Like when I was published in the universityís paper this last semester. The moment I saw my article in the paper I wanted to show my Grandmother, I wanted to share that moment with her. So yeah, I was happy that I got published but it sucked that I didn't have anyone to share it with.

You know that when someone passes away in time you're able to deal with it, but you never really get over the pain and the loss. It has been nearly a year since my Grandmother died, and nearly nine years since my Mother died, and there isn't a day that I don't think of them, miss them, or wish they were here for just a moment.

It's past 1:45 a.m. now and I best get some sleep.
End communication.

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