I am back and writing again every day. I, Dalton Lewis, author of the wonderful short story A Werewolf’s First Day as a Vampire, which is out now on bedburrito.com, am finally blogging again about the disastrous reality of every life on Earth. I am writing about how bad real life is and how great fictional life is. I am writing about the enormous divide between those two disparate realities. I live in a world in which I can’t finish sentences some days. I live in a world where paranoid shizophrenia is so bad that I can’t function at all without medication that will shorten my lifespan and make me fat. I was skinny before medication; I was happy before schizophrenia; I was happy before whatever you call it, pseudo-voices, voices, talking to myself inside my head, or whatever.
The resurrection of this blog happens in a week when I finished my eldar army of wargaming miniatures — don’t call them toys — and started back on my khorne daemonkin and chaos space marines. I have a chaos knight, which is a huge thing which towers over the little miniatures on the battlefield. I have a kharybdis, which is the best transport method ever. I have a great army that will lose on Sunday because I haven’t practiced it enough. The army of miniatures reflects the fictional realities in which my mind spends its time. This is a mistake; I don’t spend enough time on the real world, on the laundry, the groceries, the porn. I don’t spend enough time on my mundane reality of terribleness and spend too much time obsessing over the brilliance of the fictional reality inside all of our heads. I think this is a superhero obsession, or an obsession on silly fiction, or something. I don’t think that anyone writes realistic fiction anymore. I don’t think that anyone cares about realistic fiction anymore. They do write it, of course; I just don’t pay attention to it. It has lost its focus, its way, and its attention, and that is a crime. We live in a world of superficial pop stars who never stop never stopping, and we can’t understand a movie which criticizes that.
I don’t know what to write anymore. Do I write realistic fiction, or do I write superhero fiction which reflects real life tensions? I don’t know. So many decisions. For now I have miniatures to build, a tournament to prepare for, and reading to do. I have work to do. I have work to do. I have work to do.
Thanks, and take care, fuckers.