Wednesday, December 26, 2007

The frustrated novelist as CIA hit man with his "final solution"




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.

Ah well.
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.

Serfs?
Or maybe serifs?

I think I'm going to kill myself.

13 comments:

the walking man said...

Fuck it. You write, you have trouble, you live and you now are having suicidal thoughts. Mundane, typical. Sounds like you're human to me.

In Michigan all the liquor stores close at 9pm Christmas eve and don't open 'til the day after...unless of course you live in my neighborhood, then you could have found the lack of sobriety at full price plus 2/3rds.

One question though, if you kill yourself how would you do it? According to your politically correct sounding family you're already 3/4 of the way there so why give them the too early satisfaction of standing around a box while they say say to each other..."I told him he was killing himself."

Of course while you live you have the satisfaction of knowing that you traveled the path less known and succeeded at it. And they are ordinary. No for me I think I will live on and laugh at my own misfortune and chortle at my siblings mediocrity.

Peace

mark

ivan said...

Mark,

Oh yes, the woods are full of bootleggers in these parts.
The old Joan Baez song:

"Just sit there by the junipers
Neath the fading night.
And watch the jugs go fillin' up
By the morning light..."

Thanks for the pat on the back.

Though my sister can cook--and how she can cook at Christmas!--she and her offspring seem crazier than minks on a sandbar...and I think it's catching!
I do believe there is a schizo gene in the family and I'm glad my father had (I think) counterbalanced it, so instead of a Kallikak, out comes a Juke...(or a fluke?).
Yet even the crazy seem to have scads of money and that really perplexes me.
Better be termed "eccentric" than crazy, I suppose.
My family is very eccentric!

Yeah, I can't afford a bad performance.
Live to be ninety and beyond, like old Ma.
...And drink nothing stronger than Pop.
But, like Homer and Jethro used to say,
"Pop would drink just about anything."

Donnetta Lee said...

I like eccentric, myself. My family is nuts, as I've said before. But, nuts means having character to some degree, I would say. I think that's better than being plain old vanilla boring. Makes the days interesting anyway. What's in the genes? Nuts!
Donnetta

Charles Gramlich said...

I seem to be the primary nut in my family. I got all the genes for nuthood at once.

Ivan, hang in there. The publishing world in the US is fucked too. I think it's everywhere. But hey, there's always a chance for each of us that we'll win the lottery and make some money.

eric1313 said...

Some families are like fruitcakes, mostly sweet with a few nuts. My Family is like a cheap gas station bag of party mix, mostly nuts and the little bit of sweet often is enough to make you sick. But you eat it anyway, and you say it's good, hoping somebody will take some of it off your hands.

Write on, Ivan. Keep the words flowing like cheap liquor at an outrageously gouged price.

ivan said...

Donetta,

Yes. At least the nuts in our families are self-supporting. And that takes some character.

ivan said...

Charles,

I haven't won lotteries, but I have fallen into money at different times becuase of the atitude of being a writer. You kind of build up a rep and some rich people including some government granting agencies--help out.
The hilairous part it that I always drink the grubstake. LOL.

ivan said...

Eric,

Yep.
Like cheap liquor at outrageously gouged prices.
Gotta keep the aspidistra flying.

ea monroe said...

No "sans," Ivan.

If the novelist is rejected, then by golly turn to writing screenplays. No prose necessary.

~Liz

ivan said...

Liz,

Sure wish I had the script when I had my Caddy.
Hollywood doesn't like writers showing up just off the Greyhound.

"Oh Lord won't you buy me
"A Mercedes- Benz" :)

Josie said...

Ivan, you totally crack me up. Please don't kill yourself.

What would we do without the PentaQuark?

ivan said...

m Josie,

I am a great fan of Tom Waits, especially of his Seventies stuff when he did stand-up:

"All by myself. Nothing else to do.
"Took advantage of myself."

Suicide seemed another way of self-entertainment.
But the rope broke.
I said to myself, "Ivan, do you have to f*ck up everything?

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