I have been told that I think like a Chinaman, that is to say, obliquely, but somehow accurately. The Chinese person is great at thinking for him or herself, but has trouble with the collective.
I have trouble witht the collective, certainly my imposed world of Google and Bill Gates. Googlie will not put up my blog pictures for me, and as I try to put up images in my blog, the images do not only disappear, but my attempts at putting up pictures turn into spam; I have to shut off my computer, try again, try again and finally-- go crazy.
Long interested in things oriental, I see as I toss the I-Ching that serious work should not be attempted on a full moon. There is a full moon out today and it seems to be blunting any sharp edge I have had to my overworked brain; It has, in fact become mush. I seem to stand to one side, watching it pitch and turn.
But I cannot blame it all on my oriental studies, nor the full moon.
There has been serious suckage in my projects for the past two years.
My old Newfie buddy puts it succinctly: "Press F for F*ck- up."
I would dearly love to put this in Latin, but I don't do Latin to well. Donus nus. Sumus fornicatus!
"Give it to us. We'll f*ck it up!"
Smarting over a rejection a few weeks ago, I went to a sucessful editor and he says, "Do film. Mediums have changed. Nobody wants novels any more. You are producing things nobody wants."
Have you ever tried writing a feature-length film? It's impossible. Same as with writing a novel.
(Still, the proud, secret twerp within me says, "You nevertheless managed to cobble a novel together, Motherf*cker.").
Well, that was a long time ago. Written, published, reviewed.
And just when it seemed you were on the way to Hollywood, as your reviewers urged, you lost all your money and started distributing free pizza coupons on the street. This is a novelist? This is a f*ck-up!
Buck up, f*ck-up!
Sort of like the Newfie in a bank holdup. Says to the teller, "This is a fuck-up!"
I am tired of rallying from defeats. All the Hollywood movies feature a hero who turns a disaster into triumph.
Gone With the Wind. Birdman of Alcatraz. All the Henry Fonda films.
Seems to me, the best way to rally from a defeat is to sit down and shut up.
Says the Newfie, "If at first you don't succeed, give up. No sense in making a damfool of yourself."
I am desperate for a drink.
"You look like a guy who's had the sh*t kicked out of him," says the bar owner.
"Well, if you don't cut off and ban for life that Scotsman soon, he's going to come over and kick the sh*t out of me. Twelve beers, and the asshole wants to fight...I need my face to teach with.
"Oh don't take rejection so hard, says the bar owner. Tell you what. You put in three ads for my sports bar inside you novel and I'll be your publisher. Ricci's Sports Bar."
There is hope here. Published by anybody but oneself is a boon.
I intend to go home to look for the manuscript.
But there is some serious drinking to do yet.
I go back to my regular drinking buddy, my enabler, unofficial patron.
"Do porn," says the Newf, my friend.
"What do I know about the writing of porn?" I ask.
(I had just, in fact, read a book on sexual astrology and was enlightened by the information that Pisces like to roll in sh*t). "Write about rolling in sh*t,'" says my Newfie friend. Rabelais could do it. Became a masterpiece. You can do it too."
"This is the stuff of greatness?" I ask.
"Indeed," says the Newf. "Sh*t is money. Write sh*t."
No. I think I'd rather go with the Beatles' old song, Paperback Writer.
I will change this, I will change that, I will turn my earstwhile manuscript into porn.
"Be a whore," the first line will begin.
"Share your welfare cheque with the pimp until things get better."
"Now you're talkin'," says the Newf.
"Be a Ho.
"Now there's a title for you."
Well, "Be a Ho" it shall be.
And my barkeep will publish it.
"This is only the beginning, my Ontario friend," says the Newf.
"Hate to think of how you're now going to defend all your titles."
Somebody has already written Deliverance!