I, uh... I came to a realization.
This is going to come off as "well, duh" to most of you, but it's an epiphany for me so please indulge my stupidity. Also forgive me for how bewilderingly rambly this will be and for all the weird liquid projectile feces I'm about to humiliate myself with.
I'm going to start this with a bit of an anecdote: There's a Youtuber who makes content people enjoy. He does this for years, building the channel and the audience. The Youtuber fancies himself a writer, but hasn't really revealed that to the viewers. He just dabbles while semi-regularly creating content. Eventually the Youtuber is reviewing a movie he finds particularly appalling. He loudly complains about the story, the characters, the world building, etc. At some point he gets so frustrated he claims:
"This is so bad I could do better! In fact, my novel [insert title here] that I've been working on for years is better than this!"
This piques the interest of the audience. "Ooh! Tell us about your book Youtuber!"
"Well, I... you know, it's just a little something I've been working on... You don't really want to hear about it."
"Pleeeeeeese, Youtuber!"
"Well, since you asked so nicely..."
Youtuber tells them about his novel. His complex characters, his deep themes, his well thought-out lore and world building. And its... well, frankly, it's horrible. Far worse than the aforementioned movie he was complaining about. Maybe there's a core of a good idea buried in there, but for the most part it is simply atrocious. However, the audience gobbles it up. They think it's a fine story concept. Amazing, in fact. They tell him so. This gives him the needed drive to finish the first draft. His audience gleefully agree to critique his novel. They love it! It's perfect! Don't change a thing!
The novel goes to print and suddenly it's not just his audience that are critiquing it anymore. The wider world gets their hands on it and...
Prof. Farnsworth: "To shreds, you say?"
So what's the point of this story? Is there some deeper meaning here or what? For that matter, WTF are you even doing here, Timer? Didn't you flip a double-bird on your way out the door to do some half-assed New Year's resolution soul-searching shit?
I'll get to all that, just calm down. And it wasn't a double-bird, I simply cocked a snook. Maybe threw a bras d'honneur at the worst.
Anyway, the point:
Youtuber was loved for being a Youtuber. They "loved" his novel because they loved his channel, not because his writing was actually good or anything. They were obligated to consider his work as good because to do otherwise might mean that his opinions (which they often agree with, hence their own opinions) might be flawed. He accepted this praise as genuine and considered anyone who had harsh criticisms as being disingenuous or possibly even "toxic". Of course, anyone outside of that arrangement could see the levels of copeium being huffed on both sides. He had something he was good at and leveraged it for something he sucked at. As a result, it damaged his reputation, and also the reputation of his audience.
But in the wider sense, does it matter? If his shit stinks, but he and his audience think it's roses, it must be roses, right? Who cares if they roll it it?
Get to the fucking point, Timer!
The discovery I've made is I never honestly appreciated my readers, okay? I never sat back and really let it sink in that those that read my stuff and comment and fave and occasionally PM and whatnot have no other agenda beyond they enjoy my writing. They're trying to reassure me that they do indeed want more. They aren't here solely in support of my Youtube channel or because they share my religious or political views or any other unrelated whatever. They aren't obligated to be nice to me because they're family members. They aren't looking to get anything from me, jump on my gigantic cock (yes, it is), or marry me to get access to my massive treasure horde (no, I dont). Since there's nothing else encouraging them to show up, it stands to reason that people must come here because they sincerely like my writing. When they say something nice it is because it is genuine, not because it is a burden they must bear, to preserve their own ego, or protect my feelings out of a sense of pity. The least I can do is take the appreciation I get at face value. Instead, what I do is consider the praise as insincere, only accepting negative comments as truth. Since I don't get a lot of negative comments, my overdeveloped sense of self-doubt/loathing is convinced I don't get a lot of truth. When in reality I should be amenable to the possibility that I'm fucking awesome.
And regardless of what the truth is, we're all entitled to our roses.
With that humiliating Sally Field shit out of the way, I am deeply, deeply sorry for treating any fondness on your part so flippantly. Even if you didn't realize it, I owed you all an apology. I am sorry.
....
My fucking therapist is a liar. I don't feel any better at all right now.
Anyway... aside from the desire for public self-flagellation y'all prolly want to know what's going on here, right? So things didn't work out how I was planning. After all this time not sure why I expected they would. Regardless of how things worked out, I'm not supposed to be here anymore.
Yet, here I am.
*Sigh*
Before I left I was going to post one final story. A story in which "Timer" interacts with many of the characters I've created over the years in a non-canonical (and nonsensical) setting. It included at least one from nearly every story posted here. Even some characters that aren't associated with Timer but had something to say anyway. An opportunity for one final word from each story/character. The idea was this story would explain why I was doing what I was doing by stating it directly to the characters. I touched on things like how painfully disgusting I find AI art to be, what my culpability is regarding the content I produce, what I'm hoping to move towards, and some other random points. This gave me a way to play the devil's advocate. It was turning out pretty good and I wrote around 5k words. And then I realized two things:
My characters managed to pick apart most of my reasoning. Not picked perfectly clean like a school of piranha, but more like flock of seagulls from an Alfred Hitchcock film.
Due to what that means moving forward I can't post the story anywhere, ever. If I leave I can't post the story since many of the characters can't be here or anywhere else. If I stay I can't post the story because many of the characters can't be here or anywhere else.
(That makes sense in my head. Trust me.)
This is all good in that I don't have to finish that particular story (I was getting tired of writing it anyway). It was also bad in that my explanation for why I was leaving just became as worthless as a PhD in butt-wiping studies from Harvard, just with far less plagiarism. This means I have to speak directly to my readers instead of being able to hide behind a layer of narration. Unfortunate since it's quite awkward for everyone when I'm direct.
...
Case in point:
OH MY FUCKING GOD!
FUCK THIS!
FUCK THAT!
FUCK EVERYTHING!
You know what? Fuck it. Fuck it up the ass and without removing the anal beads first. I'm tired of trying to get my thoughts in order so I'm just going to Tommy Boy this. I spent all God-damn month trying to write this and all I have is a confused, contradictory pile of bullshit, so I guess it's not happening or I'm too fucking stupid to express it. I'm sorry but you can all spend the rest of your lives wondering what caused me to do all this. Just take comfort in the fact that this is the least of my issues. However, right now it's in my goddamn way and I'm sick of tripping over it so I'm just gonna sum it up:
Since it's apparently way easier to stay than it is to explain why I'm leaving without sounding like a gibbering lunatic (he said while hysterically frothing at the maw), I'm just going to stay.
In fact, I'm doubling down. I'm going to make "Timer" a cub only account and then create other accounts to port over stories that don't belong here. So some stories have gone bye-bye and will reappear again sometime down the line under a different pseudonym. Don't worry, they're the stories that nobody really reads anyway.
Basically I was stuck in the "pie problem" but without the pie. There's really only one answer to that problem and it's to eat the damn pie.
Yeah, I don't know either but I'm done thinking right now. So here's a quote written by Mark Twain that I'm going to misapply to my situation obtusely: "All right, then, I'll go to hell."
Speaking of Huck, I've decided y'all can have this little excerpt from that story I'm never gonna finish cuz I guess I need to humiliate myself further.
A twig snapped behind me and I became aware of the allure of tobacco smoke. I spun to find I was no longer alone on the path. A lanky, feeble figure approached me with a lazy, sauntering gait. He wore a long, black overcoat that was dust-stained to a powdery gray. The black hat on his head in a similar state.
"I'm your Huckleberry," the figure spoke with a southwestern cadence. He took a drag from a non-filtered cigarette before tipping back the hat. Yellow jackal eyes regarded me with amusement.
I rubbed the back of my neck in annoyance at how blatant that was. "If anyone, I would have expected Roger."
Valentine coughed. "Dont' be daft, I am far more fitting given the situation. Moreover, Roger is presently committed."
I examined my hand. Not a hand anymore. A furry paw. Specifically a ferret paw. Sure, why not? I guess that makes sense in a self-delusional way.
"So we're just gonna do this whole meta thing?"
Valentine blew a series of smoke rings. "I reckon so."
"And you're here to... what? Talk me out of this?"
"That depends on what "this" is."
"The same thing I always do. Find a way to rebuild myself and carry on."
Valentine chuckled as he slowly circled around me like a vulture eyeing a corpse. "There are two types of cowards, Myst-are Thyme-are; those that can pull the trigger and those that cannot." The jackal leaned against the signpost as his jaundiced eyes danced gleefully in the shadow of the wide brimmed hat. "We both know which sort you are, don't we?" He flicked away the butt of the smoke before sweeping back his duster, revealing the mare's leg pistol strapped to his thigh.
I gave an incredulous chuckle. "Is that a joke? I don't even have a—" I put a paw on my belt and recoiled. There was the smooth, pearl grip of a Colt single-action dangling from my hip.
This was no joke.
"If we do this, your story will never be told." I warned.
"Sanguis pro sanguine, my friend. Alas, it is not my story, is it?"
I narrowed my eyes. "You can't beat me, lunger."
Valentine's face split into a rabid grin. "Say when."
Once again, I apologize to everyone and I promise to have no more "Important Messages" in the future. I'll likely be quiet for a while since I intend to slink under a rock, but when I get my shit in order I'll be more than happy to roll in this bed of roses.
