Leaving off blogging for a while is like getting off the bottle for an alcoholic.
Feels so good, you are so overstimulated by the good feeling—and then you need a drink.
And so it was when I visited my family in Hamilton.
Some of them are abstainers so I didn’t drink very much.
…Felt good, but my family’s reflection of all my woeful negative qualities were enough to drive one to drink…First thing I wanted to do this boxing day was reach for a bottle of scotch, but all the liquor stores are closed here in Ontario.
Jeezus. Boxing Day and nothing to drink. We must be in Canada.
So it’s back to the other addiction, blogging.
Well, don’t we ger ourselves into a cul de sac here.
Seems blogging, like alcohol, like a cat—takes you right over.
From my relatively sober standpoint here, I notice that one has become a sort of cartoon image of this little circular railway with the same chugging little train going around and round on the same circular little track. Sort of like the old Charlie Chaplin silent film, Modern Times, where Charlie dreams of putting bolt #35 into Frame #72, over and over again, ad infinitum.
Almost the same as the often-rejected novelist.
And nowadays, you might as well say it on--the novelist-blogger, for all novelist-manque's seem to be bloggers now.
The submitted manuscript: Both publisher and author suffer damnably from the proffered hardcopy material and oftentimes it seems that neither side can win.
The publishing house is, more often than not, immensely bored with the material.
Writer and publisher are doing each other damage.
The publisher may get final satisfaction over rejecting the piece.
The writer, if inventive in expressing his outrage, may write a neat little roman à clef to expose the publisher for a money-grubber and a fraud.
The publisher may come back with blacklisting the crazy bastard. “The guy’s dangerous, and a flake.”
Or so it seems to me when it comes to Canadian publishing.
Smarting recently over a rejection, I sent my script to a former theatre director.
“It’s produceable, but it needs work. We all do.”
So maybe the work “needed work”?
Seemed to me, when it came to novels, people look at your work and an ass looks out.
I am not certain these days who is the ass.
Makes one want to do mad Russian parodies of Shakespeare in Julius Caesar:
“The problem, dear Natasha, is not in our tsars, but in our serfs.” LOL.
Or maybe serifs?
I think I'm going to kill myself.