“Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives.” —James Joyce
I admit I have Writer’s Disease. Maybe it’s a genetic disorder or some other contagion, or even a pure symptom of insanity, but the infection set in at an early age and proved to be incurable. I tried to overcome it but doctors, drugs and medicines have always been too damned expensive (and ineffective), and things like therapy and Yoga don’t do the trick. So there.
Don’t ask me why I write; I just do. 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, disappeared, then turned up in a newly dug northern Midwest grave. Spoiler alert? I murdered myself… had to be done… now you know whodunit. I just won’t say which story became the murder weapon. And if I did, you wouldn’t get a free meal or any enlightenment coupons anyway.
I’m done with “The Rules,” the agents, the non-inspired motivationalism.
Grand ruckuses usually amount to nothing, so you must remember this:
James Joyce uttered more malarkey than is sane to mention, Joseph Heller played a little pool, John Steinbeck invented the beer milk shake, and no one knows how long Mary Shelley looked in the mirror before she created a monster and pushed it onto the playground. No one screamed at first, but, after a reasonable night’s sleep, mothers and children hesitated before opening their morning cereal boxes. There was no telling where the milk had been and for how long.
-Or- 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?”