Capetonification

Writing is hard.
Backbreakingly so. Anyone who says writing comes easily to to them is lying through the teeth I'd like to kick out.

I've finished 3 stories over the last few years. The first was a novella, weighing in at 25k words.
The second was, I suppose, my masterpiece. It was epic, sweeping fantasy and it's bloated fat ass grew to an horrendous 135k.
I started the devil when I was in high school, wrote on and off over the ensuing 12 years, and finally decided to put it to bed end of last year. In all fairness, it was fun, and at moments emotional for me.
Writing is always personal. I invest myself in it, whether it's the way a character stirs the coffee in his cup, or that little scar on the second knuckle of his left hand, they are all me, and I am all of them.
My most recent piece of work is a fiction. mostly. or maybe it's real. maybe it's me. or it probably is. more like a biography. a self-fulfilling prophecy.
truth is, i fell off the fucking wagon.
i decided to piss a life away.
a good life.
with a good woman.
a woman who loved the shit out of me.
who put up with all my retarded man-child behaviour.

it's over now.
she's over me.
it seems. no more tony to love. she says she's better off without.
that's fucking hard to take. cause I don't know if I'm over her.
if i'll ever be over her.
so i wrote my novel.
and it spelt out this day. this situation. these emotions i am feeling.
sitting here. self destructive. listening to John Mayer, and wondering how confortable our love was. how broken in. how perfect.
emotions i'm not used to feeling.
loss.
losing.
not me.
I usually win. conquer. get the shit done. prevail. the man.
not today.
maybe never again.
fuck its all gone to shit.
why do I do the things I do?
why am I destroying myself?
what the fuck do I have to gain.
All i got is whole lot of nothing.
because she was everything.
All I have been, all I have done for the last 7 years. It was all for her. All with her.
and now.
there is no more her.

but at least I got some fucking great material for the next one.
A sequel.
a story about hitting rock bottom.
go tony.
you're the man.
write some more stuff no one wants to read.
be the artist.
the tortured artist we all know and love.
fucking fag.
you're ugly.
and nobody likes you.

so to sum it up.
writing's hard.
especially when you have nothing to write about.
but I do.
cause life imitates art. and tragically art imitates life.