Many years have gone by since I first got the idea in my head to be a published writer, in the public sphere. And with those years, undeniable and ever-present problems have haunted the house of my mind. Simply put, I have a lot of trouble not worrying while writing.
These fears run the gambit, from coming off like an uninformed idiot, to my very style itself. I’m not dense, and am aware that I read like a coked-out, distracted narcissist a lot of the time. I’m all too aware of my abuse of the first person pronouns, and of my lack of vocabulary. My word repetition is staggering, and sometimes it’s on purpose, but a lot of the time it isn’t. Don’t get me started on my fluctuation from incomplete, to long run-on sentences.
Over the years, my idea of what this site and these articles should be has changed. When I started, the plan was to have it be a blog chronicling my attempts to make it as a published horror novelist. Of all the trials and tribulations of finding an agent, and shopping a first novel around.
And then I finished my first book. And I don’t know, many factors kept, and still keep me from publishing it. Many people told me to self publish it, and I just don’t want to do that. But, I’d be lying if I said last summer, I didn’t go through a couple editors. I’d be a liar, if I didn’t tell you I got a friend to make me a cover for the book, so I could in fact self-publish it.
But things just didn’t feel right. I tried to change the style of the book, to add dialogue after an editor’s request, to what was on its first draft always supposed to simply be a letter. A serial killer’s letter, and who on Earth writes a letter, and adds in dialogue complete with “this type of shit,” he said. In its first form, it was supposed to read like something you’d find hidden in a guy’s sock drawer. A really long letter, that was a confession, of sorts. Other factors came into play. Not feeling like the character described the 18 states he visited enough, and a lack of faith in my own editing, and the ability of others to edit my first novel, means that yet again, it will stay a thing I send to friends every once and a while. I’ve moved on.
Yet, I still had this site. I’d paid for a domain that intentionally had my name in the title.As I was writing the first book, it was always my plan to have reviews on this site. To showcase my interests, and influences. To tell people about the real stinkeroos, and the gems. But, after the first book was trunked, suddenly all the site seemed to be about was reviews. Oh, sure, every once in a blue moon I’d throw a link to a short story I got published. But, I lost the fire I once had. And, so, for about a year or more, this site has been left by the wayside.
I hopped from site to site, writing freelance. And I’m still welcome to contribute at a couple, I’m pretty sure. One not so much, but I ain’t got time to dwell on that bullshit.
I have changed the name of this blog, (at least the header), many times. From Spooky Sean’s Sinful Bloggery, it was shortened to Spooky Sean’s Bloggery, and then to simply, Spooky Bloggery. I changed the theme and overall design of the site, and it was a bitch and a half. I got rid of my links, because the new theme didn’t look great with them, but I’m thinking about adding a few back to the side of the page.
Which brings me back to why I’m writing this. I guess in a way I do want this to become about Sean M. Thompson the fiction writer again. I started writing for a site called Adventures in Poor Taste, so I have a great venue to showcase my nonfiction reviews, and articles. I don’t want to stop writing reviews and write-ups for this site entirely. But, I’d prefer to steer more towards analysis of multiple works on here. Because let’s face facts, my traffic is in the gutter, and I don’t give a fuck anymore. Why not make this a place I vent? Why not make this an actual blog?
I still worry while I write. I worry I’m not writing the right thing. I worry I sound stupid. I worry that my style sucks. I worry that maybe I should just give up on this site, and just write for Adventures in Poor Taste, and maybe I should give up the fiction entirely.
I stretch myself very thin. I’m currently doing a review of every single episode of Community, I do at least 1 comic review a week. I contribute to my own podcast, which in a fun and unexpected way stopped being merely a plot to get traffic up for this site, and started being about interviewing people I am intrigued by. I started as a co-host on a podcast known as Miskatonic Musings. I’m still attempting to help the crew at AIPT get their podcast off the ground. And, starting soon, I’ll be one of 2 hosts on a Stephen King podcast.
But, when does that leave me time for the fiction? This question plagues me. The logical part of me knows it’s obvious; Sean, you write for the sites people read, and you contribute to the things that people take in. And, going with that, I would only contribute to AIPT, and Miskatonic Musings.
But nonfiction is not why I started this journey. I realized last night that I need the fiction. I remembered last night why I started my first book in the first place. I am a man with a lot of problems. I’ve suffered from depression for my whole life. I’ve suffered with social anxiety disorder. I have Attention Deficit Disorder. And with all this comes a lot of pain, a lot of sharp memories, which bleed me internally every time they rear their ugly heads. I have a lot of anger, and I have nowhere to direct it. So, for better or worse, writing a book as a serial killer helped me to channel some of that anger. The most fucked up individual you can think of, namely the character from my first book, was a great way to express all the hatred, and sorrow in my heart, without having to come out and say “I am Sean M. Thompson, and I am fucked.”
Because I am not “fucked,” as glamorous as that would be, and as easy as it would feel to just accept that. I have my problems, sure, but I am a caring and compassionate human being. I am a good friend to many, a good boyfriend (I’ve been told), and above all I am a person that wants to help people. You, reading this, I want to entertain you. I want to make you go through emotions. I want you to have a place you can go to help you when you don’t know how to deal with your own life. I want to make you think, laugh, cry, what the fuck ever. As long as I’m entertaining you. As long as I’m giving you what I so desperately needed all my life; a safe outlet, and a place to escape to forget about all the bullshit inside.
Bottom line is I don’t give a fuck anymore what I write for this website. I just want to write. And if you’ll indulge me, I’m going to tell you about what I have going on from time to time. Because this is a place where I can truly be me. Where I can interview artists I respect, and where I can tell you about my attempt to create my own art, even if sometimes it drives me nuts.
I started what I think will be another book a few months back. And the other day, I decided that even if I have to scale back contributing to some of the sites and podcasts where people actually read me, or listen to me, I want to give it another go.
I want to prove to myself that I can write another book. Ideally it won’t take another two fucking years, lol.
I’m not going anywhere. So even if this will just be a place where I practice writing, and my main audience is me, I don’t give a shit. Because creation is better than nothing. And because writing this made me feel a lot better, made me feel like I shouldn’t give up.
To all the people who have been here since the start, thank you. And to all you new people to come, I’d like to welcome you. Because I’m here for you. If you’re going through some shit, I want to hear it. I’m linking the Facebook page for this blog below. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here.
You should never give up on your dreams. I’m not giving up on mine.