I haven't blogged in a long time. Two years almost. I could say "Shame on me," but shame is such a useless thing. I don't wish to invoke it. Instead, I'll simply say, "Here goes." (We can talk more about shame later. And shall. Especially in reference to my relationship. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)
Maybe I should talk about why I haven't been blogging.
The simplest answer is I've been busy writing other things. Like the novel Splinters, which is about to be published by Dreamspinner Press. I also worked on a screenplay version of my novel If the Rains Don't Cleanse, which then got ditched after Hollywood producers optioned the novel and wanted a real screenplay written by a real Hollywood writer.
In addition, I lost access to this blog and every time I tried to log back in and post something, I hit a dead end and rather than keep trying to figure it out, I got distracted and moved onto something else. Like writing tweets for my Twitter page. Or sending endless Facebook pokes. Or smoking weed and playing with the cat.
Ironically, there was a period where I was journalling prolifically. This was during a period of depression I went through in late 2013 after breaking up with Marcos. It's been broadly suggested that to be a serious writer, one ought to write 1,000 words a day. There were a number of months in 2013 where I journalled 50,000 words or more. Most of it was dreck. I don't even want to go back and review it now. Those were not quality words. They were long laments. Lists of nothing useful. Meandering, circular repetitive ... you get the idea.
And then, in December of 2013, I met Mariano Tugas, now (spoiler alert) Mariano Johnson, on a trashy hookup website. We ended up dating instead of hooking up, I came out of my depression, we fell in love, and then he went batshit crazy for a little while (maybe I'll let him be the one to blog about that.) Eventually he got un-crazy and we got married. Now we live in a big house with way too many animals and we run around most days in our underwear and sing songs to each other, shouting from room to room, fighting like angry lobsters. (Do lobsters fight? Do they get angry? I know they're red from asthaxanthin, not anger, but maybe they have tempers. I digress.) We tried healthy food delivery for a while but it was a bust. So now we order in pizza and Chinese food. Every day, I do voice-overs in my studio and write and post things on social media in the bedroom on my laptop. Husband sits around in the family room tending his four aquariums and attempting not to kill seahorses. (He is sometimes successful at not killing seahorses.) We burn incense. We alternately sneer at each other and sing each other's praises. We frequently run out of lube.
There are people who want to make a reality TV show about my life. About our life. Which is kooky because I spend most of my time sitting here wearing reading glasses and typing on my computer.
.
That is, when I'm not floor-skating down the hallway in my socks with my husband or fighting with him. (Yes, I'm aware this is the second time in this blog entry I've mentioned fighting with my husband. I'm deeply in love with him, but I'm not going to pretend like things are hunky dory all the time. Except, maybe on TV, I will.) I can't see how our life would make for interesting television viewing. But I'm going along with the TV people, at this point. Because I love attention. And a part of me still feels like, all these years after the TV show Extra fired me as host at age 24, I still haven't gotten my fifteen minutes of whatever--Fame? Acknowledgement?
There are a lot of blank spaces to fill in. Underdeveloped parts of me, as a human being, and gaps explaining myself. (In a blog. This blog.) I'm working on both, the Benjamin and the blog. Maybe I'll talk about shame in my next blog entry. Shame is a motherfucker. And it plays more of a role in my life, and in husband's life (and thus in mine, doubly), than I wish it did.
Sunlight disinfects. Let's drag some of this out into the light and see what happens.
