Archive for December, 2015


In case anyone asks, this is a very weird song.


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Cell Phone 11 29 15 002

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, and there’s no regular crowd to shuffle in. There’s no crowd at all, just me awake in the house after everyone else has gone to bed.  I’m between writing projects, or I have one tiny section of a much larger project to complete, and it isn’t coming. (It’s like, I know what this section is supposed to do, but not what it’s supposed to say. Maybe that means it shouldn’t say anything.)

The question is, why do this? There are better ways to spend a Saturday night, or at least easier ways, even by yourself. Reading books is fun.  Watching TV is fun.  In case no one ever tells you, Cheers is a great show that really holds up.

No one is making me do this, but still I sit here and try, or pretend to try, which is effectively the same activity.  Why?  I can only answer, pretentiously, that the root of my creative impulse is dissatisfaction. Simply, there is a book or story (or set of books or stories) that annoys me by not yet existing in the form that I want.  You might think that actually writing some of this would make me feel better, and perhaps it does for a while, in the same way that scratching an insect bite may be pleasant, even as you break the skin and get blood under your nails.  But the background dissatisfaction only grows as I get deeper into my project, as it takes my thoughts farther and farther away from anything intelligible to another human unless they read the book, which doesn’t yet exist.

Prospects of money, fame, esteem of contemporaries recede into the ludicrous distance.  I can only say that I am working to create these things for the simple reason that I want them to exist.  I can’t think of another one.

[Photo: Sunset from the 7/11 parking lot near my house.]






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