Sometimes You're Up Late, Which Isn't Really Late At All, It's Just That You Have a Kid
And you're sitting there, thinking, I've worked so hard, continuously, for all these years, and what do I have to show for it? This lousy kid. No, not really, although that would be funny. That is, it would be funny/sad if that's what I really thought and felt.
I'm more like in this space where I'm working on all these book-length projects, which take years to finish. And I don't really have stuff that works well for magazines (although I have started a couple/few short stories and hope to have those finished before 2015), and I feel--well--out of the loop. I know that this is a lame thing to think and/or feel, but I guess I can't help it.
I got tired of writing essays to publish in magazines, so I'm not really doing that anymore, although I do have an idea for a good one if I can ever get the chance to finish reading the book that's associated with the piece, which is difficult, because I teach, and so I focus a lot on what I'm teaching by rereading texts. And that, also--all those essays I've written--are ready to go in a book that Future Tense Books will publish this fall. I know I sound like an ingrate piece of shit little kid.
Still, it's nice to have people reading you and talking about you on social media and whatnot. And I guess that's what I'm missing, and I'm trying to figure out why I ought to care about that, or if I ought to, or if it even matters at all.
On the one hand, it's nice when people are talking about you. It's energizing. You feel compelled to work. You move into stardom in the literary world, which means that, like, 50 people whom you do not know are aware--vaguely--of your name and with whom those syllables might coincide.
On the other hand, seems like people these days have the shortest memories on record, or they would if I could remember what kind of memories people in the past had. Shit, I can barely remember who won the Super Bowl, and I watched the fucker. It took me all of ten minutes to remind myself that my own hometown team, the SF Giants, won the World Series just last October. So the fact that people might not be talking about me now, doesn't really mean anything, because in order to keep up the constant in-the-press kind of work one needs not have a family, because it's impossible to manage the twain.
On the other hand, I know I could work just a little harder, make just a few more things work, get just a few more things out there, sleep just an hour less every night, and it would work wonders. I might have a more-than-once-a-month-blog-post-month. Or, I might finish one of my insufferable short stories and send it off to get rejected by Ploughshares. Maybe I'd finish this ever elusive, but oh-so-interesting essay to which I allude that requires certain somniferous reading. And these things, surely, people would talk about.
On the other hand, they never do. You try your hardest, you know that you write well, but it just never grasps the zeitgeist by the horns. The zeitgeist's horns are a cliche. And, since grabbing them is likewise predictable, it's no wonder you both succeed and fail at the same time, cliche using/busting man.
On the other hand, if all you do is pay attention, and work at the pace that you can work, and make sure that the work is good, that it does not in any way resemble you, but is inextricably you, and so lives as its own thing, no matter how idiosyncratic your vision, and no matter how "popular," or "unpopular" it might be in this zeitgeist, maybe then you'll finish your work, and keep working, and you'll stop worrying your head over such frivolity, and maybe you'll start really really writing well.
I'm more like in this space where I'm working on all these book-length projects, which take years to finish. And I don't really have stuff that works well for magazines (although I have started a couple/few short stories and hope to have those finished before 2015), and I feel--well--out of the loop. I know that this is a lame thing to think and/or feel, but I guess I can't help it.
I got tired of writing essays to publish in magazines, so I'm not really doing that anymore, although I do have an idea for a good one if I can ever get the chance to finish reading the book that's associated with the piece, which is difficult, because I teach, and so I focus a lot on what I'm teaching by rereading texts. And that, also--all those essays I've written--are ready to go in a book that Future Tense Books will publish this fall. I know I sound like an ingrate piece of shit little kid.
Still, it's nice to have people reading you and talking about you on social media and whatnot. And I guess that's what I'm missing, and I'm trying to figure out why I ought to care about that, or if I ought to, or if it even matters at all.
On the one hand, it's nice when people are talking about you. It's energizing. You feel compelled to work. You move into stardom in the literary world, which means that, like, 50 people whom you do not know are aware--vaguely--of your name and with whom those syllables might coincide.
On the other hand, seems like people these days have the shortest memories on record, or they would if I could remember what kind of memories people in the past had. Shit, I can barely remember who won the Super Bowl, and I watched the fucker. It took me all of ten minutes to remind myself that my own hometown team, the SF Giants, won the World Series just last October. So the fact that people might not be talking about me now, doesn't really mean anything, because in order to keep up the constant in-the-press kind of work one needs not have a family, because it's impossible to manage the twain.
On the other hand, I know I could work just a little harder, make just a few more things work, get just a few more things out there, sleep just an hour less every night, and it would work wonders. I might have a more-than-once-a-month-blog-post-month. Or, I might finish one of my insufferable short stories and send it off to get rejected by Ploughshares. Maybe I'd finish this ever elusive, but oh-so-interesting essay to which I allude that requires certain somniferous reading. And these things, surely, people would talk about.
On the other hand, they never do. You try your hardest, you know that you write well, but it just never grasps the zeitgeist by the horns. The zeitgeist's horns are a cliche. And, since grabbing them is likewise predictable, it's no wonder you both succeed and fail at the same time, cliche using/busting man.
On the other hand, if all you do is pay attention, and work at the pace that you can work, and make sure that the work is good, that it does not in any way resemble you, but is inextricably you, and so lives as its own thing, no matter how idiosyncratic your vision, and no matter how "popular," or "unpopular" it might be in this zeitgeist, maybe then you'll finish your work, and keep working, and you'll stop worrying your head over such frivolity, and maybe you'll start really really writing well.
No comments have been added yet.
