Thursday, December 04, 2008
"I am losing my mind, Dave, said HAL with heavy homosexual intonation.
I feel schwartze.
I've really got to stop drinking, but when you don't drink, how can your write? Ovid said no water-drinker ever wrote anything worthwhile.
Kill that internal censor, or, at least, get the sumbitch drunk.
Comes a time in a writer's life when experience is ripe, he can climb the mounain and fly down the plain to sure publishing victory.
Mongol madman ready to kill all the women and rape all the men.
Of course, it's the alcohol that greases your optimism, this sense of immortality, conquest; your paragraphs are columns of marching soldiers on the plain. Your paper army, invincible. Terra Cotta soldiers not yet clay.
And then, after ten years of experience, intuition and ingenuity, you forget where the gripping rocks are, roll down the mountain "head over feet", as Alanis Morisette migh say.
Forgot something. In publishing somebody else has control and not you.... This cut of meat is taken, another rejected.
And when the female editor smiles at you, makes nice and tells you how wonderful you are, she's in communication with about 300 other fuzzy-eared idiots who are aiming for the queen be and maybe get burned by the heat.
You needed the plus factor, and this time you didn't have it.
I have made tens of thousands of dollars writing like a crazy bastard. The work was taken and paid for because I was a wild bastard with flow.
Well this time, well over forty, I became structured, careful, old-codgety, like somebody immersed in remedial writing after a long spell in another language.
Great English composition, but no fire, no art. It was writing, but more like English comp. No plus factor.
I needed editing.
But they were were full of sH*t!
They sent my book to a grade twelve dropout sub-editor . Rubbed the balls right off it and made it sound like Dick and Jane.
Well f*ck them, I said.
So I sent out what they had edited for me and it immediately made a magazine literary section.
WTF. Do you have to deliberately write badly to have something accepted?
Is everybody blind, lazy,stupid?
The piece, after editing, sucked canal water. I knew it sucked canal water. I could hear the sump groaning.
Yet the piece was taken.
Feel like old Paul Krassners logo on his excellent old satirical magazine, the Realist.
Kind of a depressed, downward-looking Humpty-Dumpty egg with problems.
Odd. Before I hit the slick magazines, hardly anybody laughed at my jokes. I was on the outs and considered sort of a dweeb.
And now, after publishing some rather purple material everybody laughs at my jokes. I noticed the how my peers in Canadian publishing behave. "This is funny, humorous You will laugh. You will laugh because I say it's funny."
I have attitude, therefor I am?
Scare the shit out of peple when you walk into a room and say "This is the CBC you're talking to"?
I must get even more power.
If lucky, I might be elevated to a woman of colour.