Thursday, April 30, 2009
Crazy? Who's crazy.
"Conundrum?" Sean Connery might ask? "Ah forget it. Your mother is a whore!"
Nevertheless conundrums. Puzzles.
On the horns of a dilemma.
And again, the ridiculous answer.
MAD Magazine showing some poor confused dweeb perched the horns of a bull named Dilemma.
...And on harboring a grudge, there is this troll the dweeb keeps in the basement, rent-free. The boarder looks really pissed off.
But the pin-spotter in the sky has me today.
Press F for f*ck-up. "Now I've got you, you son of a bitch," from the pin-spotter.
Thirty years the writing of one book.
Thirty years of being pin-spotted on your alley space as a loser.
Thirty years of dodging landlords, income anxiety, bankruptsy, madness, losing entire families--for what?
For the novel, that's what.
But thirty years?
Said my uncle, after ten years. "You haven't even scratched the surface yet."
Said the editor at ANANSI. "Do no more work on this."
The ego screams like a trapped hare.
Not even as good as Anais Nin?
It has not always been like this, though the pin-spotter somewhow manages to set you up you every time.
Not always so, though the obsession was always there.
Celebrating the success of my columns in TOPIC Magazine, Both Sides Now. One year gone by. Fifty-two columns. An award. House in the exuburbs. Beautiful wife and children.
"But I want to be a novelist, not a journalist, Martha!."
Resubmit my novel, THE HAT PEOPLE.
Agent takes it, but he wants money. I am a dweeb. I give him some money.
I wait. Nothing.
In comes the letter. "You have joined our list of aspirants...."
Aspirants? What the hell is this, a creative writing course?
I ask for my money back, and Talisman Enterprises does indeed sent it back.
Next month, Talisman publishes somebody. Not me.
Pin spotter. As they used to say in the Air Force, "Got me by the bag." Last time I actually paid an agent, I somehow, through a wobble in space, and largely by the agen't advice, managed to publish my very first novel....But printed in the magazine I worked for. Does that count?
Ah persisting with the fantasy, the novel I had titled THE HAT PEOPLE..
THE HAT PEOPLE were vicious, menacing phantoms. They were pure energy. They fried people like me because they liked earthly crispy critters.
They came from outer space and they fielded themselves on weakened, failed humans to draw energy from. Energy suckers from Space. Preying on weakened humans who, unlike more able and insigthful humns, had no defenses against alien vampires as better evolved humans had had. The better evolved humans, the better writers knew that things were in the saddle, and they rode mankind. But weakened humans did not know this... Weakened for sure as a the failed writers tried to name the incubus. Name The Hat People, so as to have power over them. But personal power failure in the attempt.
Perhaps an exerpt from something thrown at the hero by THE HAT PEOPLe from outer space. Bowler Hat fell from the sky, beaned, me, like something tossed by Odd Job in OO7.
Hit me full on. Made me mangled, charred grist for the Hat People and their buddy, the sadistaclly grinning pin spotter in the sky... Scratch one loser. He grates:
You will be put back in training camp with the other failed creative writing kiddies.
Scratch one loser. That's where the HAT PEOPLE want you.
But from outward apparances, loser not.
Paid-for house, writing job. Nice family Teaching job as assistant professor.
So what was the beef?
Ukfrainian father says what the hell is the matter with you? "You not have enough to eat?"
If it were only that simple.
A fine madness I am obsessed by THE HAT PEOPLE. I am trying to name them and so rob them of their power. What is crazy about that? (incredulous clucking here from the Hat People).
I have become compulsive, obsessive! My novel, THE HAT PEOPLE will be published or I
Real life.(At least the unreality of an unreal person):
I surrender the vows, give it all up. Find a garret. Starve.
"Now I've got you you son of a bitch," says the pin spotter.
Got ya pinned. Got you on my list of 'unpublished novelists and other f*ck-ups.' That's not what you wanted, but that's where I've got you."
Today, I burned my final draft of THE HAT PEOPLE.
There was a sense of relief. I am free of THE HAT PEOPLE, which, as my uncle had said, was a negative self-projection in the first place.
I am free of the HAT PEOPLE.
Now if I can only get away from THE PIN SPOTTER.
I'm going to get you, you son of a bitch!