Most often these days I feel that I've been writing into a vacuum. If
I'm going to get published in book form I need to find a publisher which
means finding an agent first. And I need to get off my ass and do that.
I do get hits here at the blog. Some of the people who visit may even
read some of the stuff. But if they do they aren't posting comments and
I have no knowledge that they were here or read any of it or whether
they liked it or hated it. I've printed off my work a few times and
passed it out to friends. And I've generally gotten pretty good feedback
off of it. But when it comes right down to it, writing for me these days
is some sort of relationship between me and my 15" diagonal monitor.
That's my world these days. My world become a small rectangle. I don't
get out much, and when I do I kind of get nervous if I wander to far
afield from the desk. I sometimes wonder if I'm becoming xenophobic,
like Carroll John Daly.
It's basically just about the writing now. A guy I know asked me a few
weeks ago how much time I spend writing. I told him, "Pretty much any
time that I'm not in here" (the bar, which I don't visit that often). I
do sleep, of course. And I try to remember to catch DaVinci's Inquest on
the TV late Sunday nights. And I've been doing a little reading too,
lately. But for the most part I get up and shower and shave or sometimes I
just shave or sometimes I don't do either and I grab a cup of coffee and
sit down at the desk. I write. And then, eventually, I call it quits and
go to bed.
I believe in my work. But getting one's stuff out there takes time. I
imagine that one day my heirs might get some money off of all this.
They'll maybe get a nice sports car out of it and a nice cabin in the
mountains. And I hope they are able to do that. As for me, I usually
worry about how to get a new pair of pants or scraping up enough money
for the next pack of Pall Malls. No matter, really. Yeah, I would love
to make a mint off of this; or even just a middle class yearly income.
But when it comes right down to it I don't worry about it all that much.
Because as nice as the sports car or the mountain cabin might be, I
know, KNOW that the feeling I would get from all of that isn't even
close to the feeling I get when I'm sitting here putting down sentences
and paragraphs, generating something out of virtually nothing. Creation
is its own reward.
So I stare out into the vacuum. I hope the vacuum occasionally stares
back. But if it doesn't, that's okay — I have my world, and it's a 15"
Even this is to myself. Hey, Ed, that last paragraph you wrote in the
story was dynamite. Thanks, Ed, glad you liked it. I'll try to write
more of them.