|Iíve been wanting to write a work of fiction for a long time. The idea of actually putting pen to paper has been stirring around for a LONG time. It was the catalyst for me going to CSUN and getting my English degree. But you know what? I just donít have it in me. Iím not a novelist. I took a trip this weekend up to Carmel in order to capture a bit of a moment. Eight years ago I traveled up the coast with MontereyGirl. It was a great trip until the end. Circumstances, such as me running out of money, MontereyGirl telling me she had a crush on me, being away from home during Thanksgiving. All of those things turned a simple road trip into a story I tell people when they ask me when I first went up to Big Sur. Seven years later I wanted to return there with TheGirl. Now, eight years after I wanted to return there and write about all the shit thatís happened since. As soon as I got to chapter two I thought about my outline and how it would simply go through my history with TheGirl. And you know what? I donít fucking care to relive that. The start was wonderful. But knowing the end ruins it.
I loved TheGirl with all my heart. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. It was that serious. Now, weíre just friends. Today if that friendship went away I would just let it happen. I would miss her, but the true pain happened long ago. The pain of losing her friendship would be microscopic compared to the pain I felt when she broke my heart. Iíve written about my history with TheGirl here, I donít need to go back and rehash it. When I started chapter two I thought, ďOh shit, Iím going to relive this thing?!?Ē For what, I thought. For some book that I already hated?! Yeah, I hated every word that I wrote. Iím just not cut out for this. Iím better in short form. I think. Perhaps Iím an OK writer. What am I saying perhaps. As promised, if it wasnít a masterpiece then itís best I just chuck it and never speak of it again. Even now I think I should scrap it, delete it. I might save it for a little while. I like the notes I have. But the actual novel... tripe. The past is where it should beÖ dead.. in the past.
At least for my troubles I did get one great photo out of this trip.
I took it on Thursday, on the way up the coast. I think itís pretty good.* * * * * *
Aside from that photo the entire weekend was a bust. I felt ill nearly the entire time. I hardly went out. On one of the nights, I canít even remember which, I walked down to the beach. There wasnít a soul there. I looked up at the stars and spoke to whatever. Myself really. I donít even remember what I mumbled to myself. It wasnít important.
On my first night in Carmel I did meet a woman that told me two things that did strike a cord. She said, ďYouíre up here to write a book, arenít you?Ē Now how the hell did she know that, I wonder. She also said that she could see changes happening in my life. And, lastly, that she could see few love on the horizon. The sceptic in me says, well what fools isnít trying to write a novel, and change his job, and find a new girl?? Those things apply to nearly everyone. Yet, a part of me thought to myself that perhaps this was a sign. A sign that I best get off my ass and make these things happen. Because, whatís really what happens when someone tells your fortune. Itís a little voice inside you saying that you have to get this done in order to make that prediction true. Youíve married yourself to that prediction because itís something you want. Simply sitting back isnít going to make it happen. With the knowledge that it will happen if you act, then you act. You strive to make that dream/prediction true. Thatís how that works.
Anyway, Iíll never speak of this novel thing again. Iím going to stop trying to write it. Iím never going to being it up to people. Iíll stick to photography, where Iím sorta good.