Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Here we go again
One of these days I swear I'm going to register in a self-help course like How to Cure Yourself of Creative Writing.
Of the writing of books there is no end, says Ecclesiaste the preacher.
And yet like some kind of trained seals, we persist, hoping, I suppose--for a seal-bottom seal?
What does it matter that the last five projects ended in disaster? Andalay, andalay! Keep hitting that piñata funny face. Crack its skull...Maybe go on crack!
One of these days the goodies will drop, as they once did before.
What does it matter that the doctor says I picked the wrong career, maybe even the wrong wife...At least the kids are great. But the scribbling, not so much.
And so, with half the faculties gone, one final novel. I swear, God it will be the last.
Let's see now:
I was born a child of the moon under a threatening sky, my parents themselves under the monstrous shadows of two competing dwarfs, Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin. The endless autobiography!
Heh. Will I one day thank God for an unhappy childhood?
Cindarella did drive out of the ashes once.
But I swear the sisty-uglers are going to win this round.
But the condition is golden. This I know.
It's just that the gilt is tarnished all to hell these days.