New Year’s Eve is about beginning again. Starting over. Or just getting some kind of clean slate. Even if the slate isn’t all the way clear, you can clean just a little bit of it, off. You can wipe something off the board, get some clean space to draw something new. Write something new.
I try to live a symbolic, magical life. I try to live something that will be worth writing about. This writing thing. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really been good at. I’ve tried other stuff, but it never works out. Tried… well, just about everything. Hen people hear about what I’ve done in my life, they’re always just a little bit amazed. I’ve been a sailor, a breakman on the railroad. I’ve worked with developmentally disabled adults and emotionally scarred kids. Not scared, but scarred. Like the kid who watched his dad blow his mom’s head off with a shotgun, then had to run for his life while his drunk father chased after him with both barrels blazing… before the father blew his own head off falling forward, pulling the trigger when the barrels were in front of his face. The kid tripped his drunk dad when he wasn’t paying attention. Got just a little ahead of him and tripped him when his drunk dad came around the corner.
The boy killed his own father. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that one. I don’t know where he is now, but he wasn’t in a good place when we knew each other. I hope he’s in a better place now.
I’ve been dead. Twice. Wrote about that one once. I’ll share it someday.
Worked in the theater. Even saw a real, honest to God ghost. Southern belle looking for her husband. His name was Johnny. Hearing a ghost calling your own freakin’ name. Yeah, I don’t think I’ll forget that one either.
I was even a husband for a while. Almost five years. Nearly made it five years. Just over a month short.
Told stories for a living. For about three months. I made it nearly to
The one thing I haven’t been is a father. And that’s something I don’t think I’m interested in at this moment. Or in the foreseeable future. I’m told I’d be good at it. By parents, no less. Lots of parents who watch me with their kids and say such things. Pah-shaw. I’ll believe them, but just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean you should do it.
Like trying to be a writer.
I have a novel. I can’t get it sold because nobody’s interested in little novels anymore. The kind of novels Asimov and Zelazny used to write. Under 300 pages. I need to write something massive. A trilogy. At least 100,000 words per novel. That’s what my agent tells me. And I need to drop this “post-modern” voice I’ve got going on.
“It’s very pretty, John. And it’d work if you were writing something modern. But you have to drop it for the fantasy market.”
That’s what they tell me. If I was sitting on the shelf next to somebody like Ellis or Palahniuk, I’d be fine. But next to Jordan and Martin, I need to… what was it they said?
Oh, yeah. “Dumb it down.” That’s what they said.
“You’re writing too smart,” they told me. “Remember, what these kids” – and they said “kids” – “what these kids want is a simple story about good and evil.”
I can’t do that. I can’t write good and evil. I can’t write about magic like it’s an artillery piece. I can’t write about magic like it has a coherent system that can be reproduced under scientific conditions. That isn’t how magic works. Not real magic.
So, I write a novel. And it’s good. That’s what they tell me. The agents and publishers. It’s a good novel and they want to publish it. But they can’t.
“It isn’t what the market wants right now.”
What does the market want? Trilogies. About a ragtag group of reluctant heroes who go out to save the world.
“Tolkein with a Twist” is what they tell me.
And trust me, my novel ain’t got no Tolkein. But, it does have a twist. A great one. The best one I could find. But, it doesn’t matter.
No Legolas, no legs.
Eh. Trying to be a writer. I am a writer. I publish my own books. And, you know… they sell pretty damn good.
I’ve got a good mind to publish my own damn novel… I mean, it’s good. They love it. They just can’t sell it.
Well, fuck ‘em. I’ll sell it myself.
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