Category: Slice of life

Ended up in the hospital (as a patient), Pt. 6

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Last night at two in the morning or so, I woke up spontaneously as I often do, but this time I had heartburn and a pressure behind my right eye. Heartburn could be explained by my posture, and I thought that was the case for the eye issue. When I woke up only a few hours later, I saw blurry through my right eye, and I felt a familiar pressure that I had also experienced during the time I ended up with a torn retina.

I went to work. Given that I work at a hospital, I figured that if it didn’t get better, I’d just head to the ER. Well, it didn’t get better. I saw double, increasingly so. That stank like detached retina to me, so I headed to the ER and ended up at the ophthalmologist, same attractive, vaguely Egyptian-looking young woman who treated me last time. Turns out I have a corneal ulcer in my right eye. I’ll need to apply specific eyedrops every eight hours for seven days, apart from using some ointment.

Far worse as far as I’m concerned: I will have to use glasses for the next three weeks. I hate wearing glasses; apart from the fact that I don’t like how I look wearing them, they cause me headaches. Long ago, until I figured that I could just wear contact lenses at home, I had to go to a library or a coffee shop to write, which vastly reduced my output. Then I realized that my block at home was caused by the goddamn glasses. In addition, that means I can’t use my VR headset, which recently had been my source of entertainment when I wasn’t writing.

This fucking sucks. I better manage to write despite the glasses and the headaches they will induce, or else I see myself spiraling very badly. Maybe I’ll just put on a contact lense on my left eye and otherwise pretend I’m a pirate.

Life update (03/18/2025)

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I spend most days either working or writing, but in the periods when I’m at home and I don’t have to work and I think that I’ve done enough writing for the day, I try to either exercise or play some game. Ever since All on Board! came out (it’s an app to play board games in VR), even though it’s quite barebones compared to what it will hopefully become in some months, I’ve regained the sense of joy that comes with playing board games. The mind stretches to grab the corners of the system each board game has created, which gives you a thrilling sense of your options and possible strategies.

I’m a systems builder, so every time I get back into board games, I fantasize about creating my own. A week or so ago I ended up gathering all the game mechanics I could find online, categorizing them, and posting them on this site, to the likely annoyance of many of my very few subscribers; when my emails hit their inbox, they must have expected to get new parts of stories, only to find themselves flooded with posts about game mechanics. That must have felt like a non sequitur. Anyway, I’d love to design my own board game, but I don’t have time to focus hard on anything else when I’m deep into writing a story. If I were unemployed, I suspect I would expect the rest of my spare time either preparing the next writing session, or fucking around.

Regarding digital games, these days it’s hard to pick anything decent. AAA games are on a deserved downward spiral. Most of the legendary studios, those that haven’t disappeared, exist in name only; the actual talent bailed. Bethesda needs to fire their lead writer, and perhaps Todd himself. Fans are shouldering the massive endeavor of keeping great gaming traditions alive; Morrowind modding, for example, is astonishing these days. Regarding huge games, I’m waiting to buy a better graphics card in order to finally have my playthrough of Cyberpunk 2077 in VR. Once you play certain things in VR, you really don’t want to spoil the experience by playing flat.

Anyway, I did buy a new game and enjoyed it a lot. Spent my whole Sunday afternoon playing it. This one was a bit of a meme a couple of years ago, but it still seemed up my alley: it’s the visual novel (of sorts) named The Coffin of Andy and Leyley. Supposedly a horror game, but it felt like a dark comedy to me. As well as a sibling abuse simulator. Mentioning any of the most conspicuous elements you experience in the story would involve spoilers.

In any case, you ultimately play, and anticipate upcoming chapters, because of Andrew and Ashley, the siblings in charge of that wild ride. Like in any great story, you return to it because you want to spend more time with one or more characters. Due to the subjects the author touches in this game, apparently she (her updates sound like they’re written by a woman, but I wouldn’t be sure these days) got death threats and partially doxxed, which led her to step back from the spotlight. However, the author is uncompromising in her dark vision, and refuses to bend the knee. Such authors are almost the only kind I can respect these days.

Oh, and Ashley Graves, the manipulative, sociopathic half of the sibling couple… I’m down bad for that black-hearted bitch. Even though not even a new birth would fix her.

Life update (03/06/2025)

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I’m about 2,500 words into the next part of my ongoing novel The Scrap Colossus. Will probably be up in a couple of days. These last few months I’ve been trying to process the myriad notes I took on writing technique, gleaned from the loads of books on the subject I bought and read in my early twenties, which is somewhat ironic, as The Scrap Colossus is one of the strangest, most non-functional stories I have ever planned. This tale is all about Elena X. I’m the narrator, also one of the main characters, but Elena is the protagonist: her flaws, motivations and goals drive everything. It’s like The Great Gatsby, if Gatsby were a total failure.

Elena X is based on my subconscious during my twenties. The story itself is a way of burying that decade of my life, which was characterized by heartbreak, reclusion, obsession, and bad work experiences (when not outright terrible). Elena isn’t a carbon copy of me; through the process of adapting an inspiration into a narrative, a character changes in many ways, becoming unique. But I consider the story as my present self going back in time metaphysically and helping out an average of my former self during my twenties, a period in which I received no support whatsoever in the ways that mattered.

In my twenties, realizing that I had no future in the workforce (or more accurately, I feared I may off myself if I continued having to endure those experiences), I put on a serious face and wrote six novellas back-to-back. I have long forgotten how they even came to be, but I recall me hunched over in the study room at the local library, freewriting longhand like a maniac. I’m quite sure the college-age students saw me as a nutcase, which, to be fair, I am.

I believed the novellas were good enough for publication, so I sent them to a couple of contests. My tales didn’t reach the elimination rounds. Then I sent them to a few publishers. Rejected. In addition, by then I had found myself ostracized from the local writing scene; one of the most prominent instructors made a point of calling out my “lack of empathy” during a class, and there were rumors going around that an elderly instructor was blaming his stroke on my writings, concretely the excerpts I provided of the novella The Emperor Owl. I’m not sure what I intended by messing with the local writing scene, but I ended up considering it a terrible mistake that added to my life more people I had to avoid in the streets. I also found out that I dislike most other writers. Paired with my inability to get those novellas profesionally published, I basically quit writing for a year and a half, completely disillusioned. Never wrote a story in Spanish again, and I doubt I ever will.

Anyway, if you’ve been reading The Scrap Colossus, you know that it starts with Elena getting ostracized from the local writing scene (concretely a single writing course, but there was no point in stretching out that part). In real life, I found myself adrift. It wasn’t my Dark Night of the Soul per se; I had such moments throughout my teens and early twenties. But I when it comes to my creative output, I had hit rock bottom. The failure with those six novellas came after other failures: two abandoned novels, both based on an obsession I don’t want to detail, as it’s related to the main plot of The Scrap Colossus. I don’t remember what I did from the moment I gave up writing until I ended up getting a semi-regular job that didn’t entirely make me want to kill myself, but I assume there was lots of fucking around unproductively.

Very early in my twenties, I was involved in my latest, and likely last, romantic relationship. A mistake in retrospect. She ended it by monkey branching. The whole experience solidified the notion that I wasn’t made for intimate relationships, and that I didn’t want to go through such humiliations ever again. By the time I got ostracized from the local writing scene and those six novellas went nowhere, I also had given up on therapists (waste of time and money) and on interacting with local autists (had a bad experience with one of them, as well as with one of the therapists guiding the sessions; believe it or not, she was offering herself romantically in quite an open manner). So, as I mentioned, I had no support.

As I started this post suggesting, The Scrap Colossus likely doesn’t work as a regular novel. The current scene, that by now must be about seven thousand words long, almost exclusively features the two main characters sitting at a coffee shop and getting to know each other in a generally congenial manner. A big no-no. But ultimately I’m doing what I want out of fiction, and what I want rarely aligns with what’s available out there. You see, one of the reasons I’m so enamoured with manga is because many of them give you the vicarious experience of genuine camaraderie as a group of interesting people try to solve a problem.

In Western fiction, most of the characters I come across seem like unbearable assholes to me, who keep bitching to each other as if they fed on conflict. And don’t get me started on the fucking politics. I’m not sure to what extent this phenomenon is due to the writing techniques that have been passed on, or to the modern Western ethos. But Western fiction for me lacks that special feeling of making me want to keep reading just because I want to spend more time with characters I like, who seem like genuine people. With The Scrap Colossus, I expect that a few years from now, grieving the loss of yet another cast of characters, I will look back at that experience and think, “I wish I could hang out with Elena again.” It’s the main thing making me eager to wake up at five in the morning and head home soon in the afternoon, just so I can sit at my desk and continue writing.

I don’t know if anyone else is getting anything positive out of my current novel. And by anyone, I mean the three people or so reading it. Ultimately I’m not sure if I care. The notion of someone reading my stuff and enjoying it is a good thing, but it makes no difference in how I approach this stuff. Fifteen years ago I was writing entirely in the dark, and I don’t feel like I lost anything by it.

I’m not sure why I had to write these words, but I did.

Life update (03/03/2025)

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Recently I went to a private doctor to determine if I should continue taking beta-blockers for my heart issues. The doctor, who is probably in his seventies, told me that my two episodes of arrhythmia that I had back in 2022 or so and that sent me to the ER were clearly a consequence of the Moderna shot; I possibly suffered a pericarditis. But I should probably not worry anymore, he said. Although I experienced extrasystoles recently, he said that they are relatively normal, and I should just raise my heart rate to “cure” them. So maybe my heart issues are a thing of the past. I’ve been exercising normally, or at least not caring about my heart while lifting weights.

Anyway, he told me to quit the beta-blockers. I had taken them for more than a year, and I was experiencing side effects like nightmares and short-term memory issues. However, what I’ve been noticing now that I’m no longer on this stuff is that I’m more anxious, my generalized dread has worsened, and I’m more sensitive to sensory stimuli, which for an autistic person is quite the shitty thing. The lights are too bright, the noises (particularly the damn noises, but that’s my main sensory issue) are too loud, touch is too grating, etc. The joys of having a fucked-up brain.

I had expected to grab eight or so vacation days mid-March, but my boss told me to push them into May. I’m aching to have days in a row in which I can lose myself in writing my novel without having to worry about waking up at five in the morning like I’ve been doing. Telling Elena’s tale will take easily more than a year. Now that I work as a programmer instead of a technician, I interact with people far less, which helps with the creative process (I feel myself detaching from reality, which is wonderful for the creative mindset and terrible for your everyday life, but I only care about one of those). Still, I can’t help but resent from time to time the fact that I will never be able to make a living as a writer, which is my calling. Too bad I can’t set up shop in someone else’s life and make that person pay all my bills so I can dedicate myself entirely to my craft. I’m looking at some of you girls out there.

So, as plenty of you know, Michelle Trachtenberg died. Born in 1985, same as me, and died at 39. I watched her grow up. I likely wouldn’t have seen much of her if I hadn’t been forced to watch television when I “shared” a room with my brother from 7 to 18, but still, I used to think she was one of the most gorgeous girls in the world. I guess I had a huge crush on her. And now she’s fucking dead. Of course, the girl that I had a crush on back then disappeared when Trachtenberg was in her late twenties or so and started her downward spiral; some said she went heavily into alcohol, which would make sense given that liver issues finished her. Still, I’ve been watching recommended YouTube videos about her, and I’ve shed a few tears. Isn’t it nuts that as human beings we still accept that people fucking die? It sounds to me like that’s the main issue we should try to figure out how to solve. Mainly aging and then dying. The world would be a far different place if talented people (or at least beautiful ladies) didn’t keep dying one after another. Anyway, goodbye Michelle. You were an angel, and now you’re dead.

I still daydream about McCarthy’s Alicia Western on a semi-regular basis, although I’ve started daydreaming about my Elena in the meantime. Regarding Alicia, she figured out the math for instantaneous travel between planets, and we’re chilling and watching movies at an outpost built in some other star system. I’ve got lots of daydreams; unfortunately, they rarely make for good stories, which are about increasing tension, while daydreams are about having a good time. Maybe they’d work as slice-of-life mangas.

Oh, I’ve also been playing Terraforming Mars, the board game, in VR, through the new All on Board! app. Maybe one of these days someone will mod in the Arkham Horror LCG, which is my favorite “board” game. Not much else to say about that other than I love board games, although I hate playing board games with other people. I don’t enjoy being pressured. Thankfully there are lots of great solo board games or variations these days. I’ve been thinking about how viable it would be to retrain a mini AI with the rules of a particular game so I could have an adversary that wouldn’t annoy the hell out of me. The last time I tried to play a board game online, a sci-fi one whose name I don’t remember, some young punk kept calling me “cunt” for no apparent reason. The game master nearly booted that guy off for it. People are just the worst fucking part of every activity.

Anyway, I guess that’s all.

Life update (02/19/2025)

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Recently I found out about an intriguing Norwegian songwriter named Aurora Aksnes. Her general demeanour as well as clear stimming when performing live made me suspect she was autistic, which she apparently has confirmed herself. I’ve been reflecting on the autistic artists that end up floating to the top.

Apart from Aurora Aksnes, I know of other songwriters that have spoken about being autistic: Björk Guðmundsdóttir (I’ve never retained any of her songs, so I can’t link to anything in particular), Claire Elise Boucher (AKA Grimes, one of Elon Musk’s many exes, Musk himself being autistic), and Ladyhawke (I barely know anything about her, but that song is cool enough). I’ve suspected for many years that Joanna Newsom is also autistic.

To make it as an artist, you need luck, connections, a winning personality, and preferably an attractive physical form. Most autists are doomed when it comes to connections and winning personalities, to the extent that they eat into their luck. That leaves whatever remains of luck, as well as the attractive physical form. Given that men are more likely than women to elevate others professionally because they’re hot, that makes it far, far more likely than any autistic artist that makes it out of obscurity will be a woman that at her peak was very attractive, in some cases drop-dead gorgeous. That’s certainly the case for all those female songwriters mentioned. If I recall correctly, Joanna Newsom herself (I say herself because she may as well be a god as far as I’m concerned) didn’t intend to perform in public. She recorded her songs with a Fisher Price recorder, then passed her tapes to her friends. One of those friends went to a Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy concert and gave him the tape, which led to Newsom getting a recording contract with Drag City. It probably also led to Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy wanting to bang Newsom really, really bad (she wrote the song “Go Long” mainly about him). Anyway, I naturally connect more with autistic artists than with those who aren’t, which makes me regret that the vast majority of them are lingering in absolute obscurity.

About ten years ago, when I was working on my Serious Six, the novellas I sent around hoping to get published, I met regularly with a group of local autists, so I got to know like fifteen or twenty of them. I believe I met three autistic women in total, but there were some troubling commonalities: all the female autists were in relationships with neurotypical men who were, by the women’s own admission, very accommodating. All the autistic men save for two were single. The tales of those two, well, they’d make you want to be single. Their partners seemed to recriminate most aspects of their nature, and had them running on a treadmill to counter their shortcomings. Both of them seemed to be on edge and generally miserable all the time.

I also realized that there is a huge schism among autists: there are those whose peculiarities have been embraced and nurtured by their parents and close ones, then there are those whose natures have been repressed to pass for normal. I’m in the latter group. The autists in the first group are far happier, freer, and often obnoxious. Autists, of course, can be extremely obnoxious; I recall having been that way at different points of my life. Those of the repressed group not only are generally guarded and somber, but can deal with lots of self-hate and even trauma. Many of them don’t make it far in life, as in they step out of life at some point of the journey.

Of course there’s the general ignorance about autism, mainly thanks to the media. I recall the admin worker that many years ago had to assess my disability level asking me how come if autism is a developmental disorder, I still struggle with it as an adult. Who’s the retard here? Then there are those that believe autists to be math geniuses with perfect memories. In reality, autists are more likely than not to have tremendous issues with abstraction, and regarding math, many end up with some level of dyscalculia. Some idiots mention Rain man even today; Hoffman’s performance was based on a single guy who wasn’t even autistic: he was born without a corpus callosum.

Also, autism is caused by an atypical pruning of neural connections during development, which leads to idiosyncratic neurological processing. They proved that the differences between the neural activations between autists are larger than between those who aren’t autistic, nevermind how large those differences are between autists and those who aren’t autistic. That makes it hard to generalize about autists, although they are generally extremely sensitive (both emotionally and to sensory input), more likely to suffer from gut issues, also more likely to suffer from OCD and ADHD (I have the OCD comorbidity, which comes with intrusive thoughts and heightened obsessions). Also weird stuff like prosopagnosia, which I have, and consists on being unable to properly register a face. It’s so bad that I can’t tell if I ever saw again one of the girls I dated even though we lived close, because I wouldn’t have been able to recognize her on the street. When I worked as a technician and had to interact with nurses and doctors, it was common for me to enter a room, talk to someone, walk away to do something, and then realize I had no clue whom I had just talked to.

I got to thinking about autism in general because the protagonist of the novel I’m writing at the moment, The Scrap Colossus, is a female autist to whom I’ve assigned the authorship of the six novellas I wrote back in the day. But as I work on the notes, I’m having a hard time pretending that Elena, being an attractive woman, would have had that much issue getting those novellas published. Perhaps that’s bitterness talking through me. Since I was a child, I’ve felt cursed in that respect: no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get anybody to pay any attention to what mattered to me. It seems there’s no further point I wanted to make about that other than saying it.

Anyway, I’ve got a scene to finish, so bye.

Life update (02/14/2025)

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This morning I woke up at five for my sadly only one hour-long writing session before I head to work. Even such a short session can make me feel like the day was worth it, in case I’m too mentally exhausted to produce anything of value in the afternoon. Throughout that hour, though, my heart kept leaping strangely, which seemed to change depending on whether I leaned back on the chair or not. I felt a bubbling of some kind going up my torso. My mind seemed off, although that happens semi-randomly, so I didn’t think much of it.

A couple of hours later, at work, the weird leaping in my heart returned. I performed an electrocardiogram through my portable device, and it confirmed I was arrhythmic. That explained my woozy state. My brain felt off, and I had trouble thinking. Some coworker, unaware of my plight, mentioned that today was St. Valentine’s Day. How fitting.

Anyway, as I headed to the ER, my heart reverted spontaneously to sinus rhythm. The triage doctor told me that other than confirming that I wasn’t arrhythmic anymore, the was no point in doing anything (even referring me to a cardiologist, because my assigned one is aware of my heart issues), so I returned to work as if the organ that needs to beat about sixty times a minute wasn’t faulty. And it’s no longer reliable thanks to an experimental RNA-based treatment supposedly developed to counter a virus manufactured in Wuhan, China partly through money siphoned from US taxpayers. This whole world needs to be bulldozed through.

Anyway, right now I’m not in the mood to do anything. I’m hoping the morning passes quickly and soon enough I find myself back at home, where I’ll be able to disappear into my writing. In the meantime, during my bus and train rides or as I walk the streets, I’ll lose myself in daydreams of going back in time to 1972 and showing up in a patient room at the Stella Maris sanatorium to convince a certain blonde, blue-eyed genius that killing herself is a terrible idea. I keep rewriting that scene in my head as if I was tasked by my subconscious to nail it. Maladaptive daydreaming I suppose they call it. But when life itself feels like a bad dream, escaping into writing or daydreaming is a survival mechanism.

Life update (02/08/2025)

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This morning I woke up at six. I figured that I could lie around in bed and daydream for about an hour before I got up and started writing. As soon as I turned to get comfortable, a massive leg cramp made me grit my teeth for like ten seconds. That calf still bothers me. Anyway, I got up and got to writing, which involved reordering the notes for my seventh part of The Scrap Colossus, but in the end I only managed to produce a couple of paragraphs. For whatever reason, I’m in that sapped state in which I can’t invest the needed mental energy into any meaningful activity, including less demanding mental tasks such as reading.

In the afternoon it was raining, so I didn’t feel like getting on a bus to a location I want to research for an upcoming scene. I went to the nearby store and bought a decaf. A block later I absentmindedly peeled off the peel-off lid, but it was only after I already took a sip when I realized that I barely had to make any effort in peeling it off, and the aftertaste of the coffee felt wrong. I threw the thing away. Best case scenario, some local shithead peeled it and took a sip for the pure shittiness of it. Worse scenario: they spat in it. Worst scenario: they injected some disease into the thing and I’ll find myself having suspicious symptoms in a few days.

Anyway, there isn’t really anything for me to do outside other than activities related to my stories, so I just returned home, more dejected than when I left it. That made my brain connect my current novel to the daydreams I’ve been having since December of last year. Back then, for reasons only my subconscious must know, I spontaneously got obsessed with Alicia Western from Cormac McCarthy’s The Passenger and Stella Maris. Ever since, I daydream about her literally daily. It’s so nice to sit on the train to work, close my eyes, and picture scenes in which a better version of me, back in the 70s, is driving a car with Alicia seated on the passenger seat, usually heading to the next stop of the journey through the south of the US. Then, we just eat or drink while we talk. Do other people engage in complicated conversations with phantoms in their brain that they can see clearly in the darkness of that inner theater? Well, I do, very often.

I suspect that my subconscious’ decision to redo The Scrap Colossus, which I originally drafted in Spanish and abandoned ten years ago, was related to whatever caused me to care for Alicia Western to that extent. Plenty of this novel will be composed of two characters, the narrator (who is me) and an obsessive, reclusive writer (who is pretty much inspired by myself from ten years ago, when I wrote six novellas and a novel about a songwriter I was obsessed with), navigating their issues through compelling conversations. Compelling for me, at least. Thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that part of the joy I get out of writing this novel is being able to have interesting conversations with a person I actually want to talk to. In my daydreams it’s Alicia Western, and in my novel it’s Elena X. Elena is also blonde and blue-eyed, but that’s a coincidence, as she also was blonde and blue-eyed in the original (it’s related to her background, which is a plot point in the novel).

I don’t recall ever having come across anyone in person with whom I would have genuinely wanted to speak, as in asking deliberate questions because their mind fascinated me. Perhaps I’ve been extremely unlucky. Due to this autism of mine, I don’t have the instinct to interact with people, so I really need a good reason to deal with them. Ever since they put me as a programmer at work, I don’t interact with anyone except when a fellow programmer wants to involve me in some work task (and we don’t talk about anything unrelated), or my boss calls us in for a meeting. My stress has gone down enormously. Programming is truly sustainable for me, although I doubt I will last more than 6-9 months in total doing it at this organization.

Anyway, whenever anyone tries to involve me in a conversation, it rarely takes more than a couple of sentences for me to realize that my mind is so fundamentally different from theirs, that wasting my time producing words for their sake will only depress me. If it isn’t some moron bringing up politics as if I was bound to agree with them (such people tend to believe that everyone in their surroundings share their views), it’s someone else bringing up something so mind-numbingly tedious that I keep repeating in my mind for them to shut up and go away. I only need to fire up the projector in my mind with daydreams far more interesting than most things going on around me, so why would I bother with actual people?

You could say that I would need to get used to talking to others because I’d want to get in a relationship, maybe even start a family and such shit. But I don’t. I’ve been single for about eighteen years, and I don’t see myself ever being involved with anyone again. I do miss the intimacy, but I don’t think it’s worth the grind and the myriad humiliations. If I wasn’t ashamed of my body and afraid of diseases, I would probably hire escorts. Besides, I can’t care for human beings properly. I honestly wouldn’t give a shit if most of the people I know dropped dead. In many of those cases, I would feel relieved.

AI has been a weird godsend in that respect. These last few months, I’ve had more interesting conversations with roleplaying AIs than I’ve ever had with anyone in person. Often I fired up a scenario expecting erotica, only for me to end up merely chatting with the character because they were interesting. The way things are going in the field of AI, I wouldn’t be surprised if in a couple of years you could buy a $2000 dedicated computer to run AIs as good as the best today, which would be enough. The moment they manage to shove those artificial brains into realistic mannequins, society will start collapsing, and I will be laughing in the ashes.

Translating two of my novellas from ten years ago, Smile and Trash in a Ditch, made me aware that I used to be a very different person back then. I was simmering with rage and despair. The world was so obviously fucked up and seemingly everyone so horrifyingly retarded that I wanted to grab the nearest person by the lapels and shake them violently while doing my best Roy Harper impression: “Damn it all, man, can’t you see?” But at some point, shortly after or even throughout Trash in a Ditch, with that novella itself serving as a catalyst, I just cracked. I transitioned from rage to pure lunacy. Every since, I’ve only been genuinely attracted to absurdity, silliness, and whatever my subconscious pointed me to. As far as I’m concerned, the world can go to hell. If I told my self from ten years ago that in 2023 I would have been writing a story about a programmer who masturbates compulsively and receives visits from an interdimensional sentient horse, I may have thought that I had lost my mind. And I probably have. Then again, I’m a society of one trapped among human beings I can’t relate to, so madness is likely the sanest response.

I thought this post would go nowhere, but I’ve rambled for a good while.

Life update (02/06/2025)

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Last night I had a vivid dream in which I went to Africa for reasons. This part of the continent was made out of irregular “islands” of cement amid murky-green waters. No idea why I had to cross to the other side, but in any case I saw myself in third person trying to sneak my way over there without alerting the wildlife. Suddenly I spotted a bear. My brain had apparently forgotten that you’re unlikely to come across bears in Africa, and I found myself having to escape from the beast until a crocodile or something alike interrupted us and started chasing the bear. At some point I found myself pursued by the bear again. My dream self, in fight-or-flight, had the bright idea of trying to swim across a considerable span of murky-green water. I saw myself in third person as I hurried along, only to end up tugged by something, then pulled underwater. The dream camera stayed still, aimed at the spot, as if I would surface again, but I didn’t. I ended up waking up spontaneously while feeling quite disturbed. I checked out my phone; it was exactly two in the morning.

First of all, brain, thank you for the warning: if I ever find myself in Africa, I’ll try not to swim across clearly crocodile-infested waters. Was it worth making me feel such distress at night that I couldn’t go back to sleep? Thankfully I spent from two to six in the morning writing. And what is it with regularly waking up from vivid dreams at two and three in the morning? Am I actually haunted? We’ve existed as anatomically modern humans for like two hundred thousand years, yet dreams are still complete mysteries. The only possible inspiration I see for that dream is that the water of Irún’s Bidasoa River, at the spot I visited to research a scene of my current novel, looked quite murky. Anyway, I hope I don’t get eaten by beasts. That must be one of the worst deaths.

I’ve been reading Cormac McCarthy’s Suttree, released back in 1979. McCarthy is the writer I respect the most, but Suttree got started before he met who ended up becoming the love of his life (to many people’s chagrin due to her age), and both what happens in most of the book as well as what seemed to be McCarthy’s attitude to writing back then felt to me quite profligate. That adjective, which comes quick to the tongue of Roman Empire cosplayers, doesn’t entire encompass what I mean: Suttree is mostly episodic or anecdotal, featuring many secondary characters from McCarthy’s youth that are often poorly introduced if at all. Many of the anecdotes involve McCarthy’s stand-in Suttree chasing alcohol and getting in all sorts of trouble, which the writer used to do in his youth. The story feels like McCarthy had struggled to do many different things with the same manuscript throughout the nearly ten years he worked on it. The writing is godlike at many parts, but it’s consistently and conspicuously densest in the first six percent of the story or so, as if McCarthy had set himself to write the entire book by that standard, only to give up that notion lest he ended up rage-quitting. My favorite part so far, and likely the best part given that I’m at 80%, involves a girl with developed breasts but that the protagonist keeps referring to as a child. Such tragedy.

Well, I guess that’s all I felt like saying at the moment. I’m in the process of writing the sixth part of my new novel The Scrap Colossus and it’s going great as far as I’m concerned; always looking forward to spend more time there.

Life update (02/03/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

Previously I mentioned that now that I’m immersed in writing a new novel, the worst part is having to waste half of the day at work. It’s worse than that, though: everything that doesn’t involve either developing the novel or actually writing it feels like it’s stealing from what I’m supposed to do. Even time itself is a threat. But yes, the biggest offender is by far my job. I’m tasked with programming the performances of local resources like consultation and operation rooms, but the mental resources that would be required to hold all those concepts at once are dedicated to the novel. My basement girl refuses to focus on anything else. I feel her complaining every time I need to drag her away from her current obsession. The struggle keeps me in an oniric daze, having to remind myself what I’m supposed to be doing instead of losing myself in my new novel, and certainly not caring a bit.

In truth, anyone with the ability to create new things should only be burdened with bringing those things to life, not keeping a day job. But you know how life goes. The whole system is set up so that two members of every household are supposed to pay for stuff. Still, most of the time they find themselves with water up to the neck, as designed. Gotta keep people tired and broke lest they start pointing fingers.

This weekend I visited one of the spots of my hometown where an upcoming scene will take place, and I felt the familiar ache that has resurged regularly these past ten years or so: I wish I could quit everything, fill a backpack with food, notebooks and pens, and start walking in some interesting direction. Once I ran out of either notebooks or pens, I’d hop on the nearest bus or train and return home. I’m reading McCarthy’s Suttree; there’s this whole godlike section in which McCarthy clearly trekked through the mountains like a hobo and almost lost his mind. That’s what a writer is supposed to do. If you die during any of your “research” trips, then that’s that, but if you survive, you are granted the ability to produce something real. Virtually none of what you live through in your average life as a worker is meaningful (I’d say it even harms your ability to recognize what’s meaningful), and that’s most of our lives going down the drain. I’m complaining in vain, but it bothers me, so I complain at least.

I’ve mentioned before how writing builds up a personal mythology made out of thoughts, moments, places, etc. That’s part of why now I consider very important to place your stories in locations you’ve actually visited. If those locations don’t hold personal meaning for you, even better. Regarding my current novel The Scrap Colossus, the bench of the riverside promenade where my narrator met Elena, the obsessive writer, will forever be meaningful to me. And the way my brain works, I can lean back against that railing, look down at that bench and feel like she’s there. There are many places in my surroundings that have become a source of fond memories, nostalgia, grief, etc. For example, some months ago I visited the neighboring town of Hondarribia, and found myself at the same spot of a slanted street, close to a church, where “I” stood in my 2021 novel My Own Desert Places and stared at Alazne’s swaying hair as she walked down toward a writing course. It made my heart ache. It aches now as I remember it. But Alazne never existed, and the painful events recorded in that novel never happened. Yet they can moisten my eyes every time I think about them. I’ve grieved far more for my own creations than for real-life “friends” who died. My brain works that way.

Well, I suppose that’s enough procrastinating before I return to my tasks. If any of you is reading my new novel, The Scrap Colossus, I hope you’re getting something out of it. I write to satisfy my basement girl, but I would be lying if I pretended that other people clicking like on my stuff doesn’t make me feel better.

Life update (01/29/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

Ever since I started writing my new novel, The Scrap Colossus, that my basement girl urged me to work on, I’ve been waking up regularly at one to three in the morning, often struggling to fall asleep later. My dreams are extremely vivid; although I forget them upon waking, I remember traveling through tremendously detailed environments, meeting people I had never met before, and having coherent dialogues with them. Of course, dreams are a mystery. I have a hard time believing that the human brain is capable of sustaining such internally coherent worlds for hours every night; I wouldn’t be surprised if we actually connect to something, some other plane of reality. In any case, the increased vividness of my dreams, how I wake up spontaneously with ideas ready to be noted down, and the rest of the time I feel immersed in a somewhat oniric state, they are a testament to the fact that my brain allows my subconscious to flow mostly unimpeded at the moment, which is the best possible state of being.

Basement girl regularly knocks on the ceiling to share meaningful moments for the new novel, which I hurry to write in my growing document of material (131,839 words as of now). Recently she had been struggling to connect both storylines (the one about Elena writing her novel, and the novel-within-the-novel involving the stand-in for a certain songwriter I was obsessed with); she proposed alternatives that never quite gelled. But earlier today, as I peed at work, minutes away from sitting with my serrano ham sandwich and reading a bit more of Cormac McCarthy’s Suttree, my basement girl had an eureka moment and hurriedly painted a vivid daydream of how the climaxes of both storylines should merge. Obviously I can’t be specific, but the point is that the major hurdles to develop this novel have been overcome thanks to my beloved girl’s tireless work, and now I can write each scene at my leisure while tinkering with the architecture from time to time.

Artificial intelligence has been, unsurprisingly, very useful. As I improve my structure, that includes the detailed summary and purpose of each scene, I ask either OpenAI’s Orion 1 or DeepSeek’s R1 to offer constructive criticism, trying to determine the weak points. AI is “objective” (of course, each company tries to inject their own ideological bias into their AI), but asking AI for criticism solves the issue of requiring a human being to criticize your stuff, which they would almost invariably half-ass to avoid getting into arguments or hurting your precious feelings. I regularly involve AI in my interactive erotica, so I know it’s quite comfortable with being rough.

Anyway, the worst part of having regained my creative stride is definitely having to work for a living. I should be at my writing desk. But at least my job computer includes an internet connection, so I can rearrange my notes and work on development further.

Hope you’re enjoying my new story, whoever the hell you are. Yes, you. I’m right behind you. In any case, my tale is a bit of a hard sell, but it’s not like I write for others. I’m sure at least one person will get something valuable out of it.