“Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives.” —James Joyce
Writer’s Disease happens to the best and worst of us. I won’t speculate which of these I am but the infection set in at an early age. It may be a genetic disorder or a contagion carried on windblown spores, or even a pure symptom of insanity. Whatever, it’s proven incurable. I tried to overcome it but doctors, drugs and medicines have always been too damned expensive (as well as ineffective), and things like therapy and Yoga ain’t gonna do the trick. So there.
Don’t ask me why I write; I just do. Days and nights are too long to sit in the midst of mediating/societal conversations (don’t ask), or the plotting of experiments that pretend my phone is smarter than I am. In ancient times I did stints with newspapers, magazines, and occasional porn-playground prose—nothing too notable—before being swept into the currents of music-and-arts promotion where there’s rarely a Great White Whale. It’s usually a Great White Elephant. I got tired of trying to redefine its trunk to the loud and the blind; they generally don’t listen, nor close their eyes long enough to see. So I cashed in my chips and disappeared, then turned up in a newly dug grave. Spoiler alert? I murdered myself… now you know whodunit. I just won’t say which story became the murder weapon.
I’m done with “The Rules,” the agents, the questionated greeting grambles, and non-inspired inspirationalism. Grand ruckuses usually amount to nothing. In everything, there’s a line which, when crossed, puts one beyond the calm of good taste or good sense. Most folks are unaware that in the beginning (and years before Spinal Tap) Leo Fender built amplifiers that went up to 12—count ’em, TWELVE! I’ve driven into numerous uncharted neighborhoods at night… alone… and survived. I’m pretty much still doing it. To shamelessly quote one of my characters: “What’s the excitement of jumping into the shark pool if there’s no chance you could be eaten?”