Unreasonably gummed-up.

I knew it was coming. I knew my enthusiasm would dampen, I’d become discouraged & say “fuck it”. That’s probably why I wrote the 1st 5 parts of that stupid-ass story so quickly, before the Black Dog curled up by my side & I started gagging on my own weak tea. I’ve said time & again, to anyone who would broach the subject, that I have no illusions about my talents as a writer (I’ve READ good writing! I know what it looks & sounds like!), yet always, with the least bit of encouragement, I’ll blow the spark to flame, and use that encouragement as tinder. I’ve been hearing the five ugly words all my adult life: “You should publish that stuff!” I’ve got a file cabinet here filled with crazy-ass stories like the one I’ve been writing, each one tickled the funny-bones of a small circle of friends, family or co-workers, and each was then tucked in a folder/shroud & interred in the archives. “You’re depriving others of the chance to read it!”…..Meh! Pffft!…. What I do as well as anyone on the planet is write for myself!  The poetry especially, I suppose, but the other stuff , too. Of course, I’m ever-grateful for those who enjoy it & express their enjoyment (my mother-in-law loves the new story!), but the simple, honest fact is that writing for me is Cosmic Masturbation, my pleasure-of-choice for the exploration of the wondrous & mysterious thing we know as Consciousness.

The proximal reason for my apostasy, my sudden loss of faith, came via a Facebook PM this morning. I had gotten in touch with a friend-of-a-friend who operates a small publishing house, & asked him to check out the story, ‘The Other Sliver Spoon’ I’ve been writing. He wrote that it was an “interesting Lovecraft fan story” & that “the writing is certainly competent”…. Such a harmless, casual critique. Was I expecting maybe something more along the lines of , “Great Shit, bro, send more!” ?….Possibly, but I know that everything can be resolved if/when I get back to writing for my own pleasure alone. I should heed the wise words of the Reverend Hogjowl’s timeless poem:

Of itself celebrate!

no more the track laid in selfless pursuit of freedom

than the brave forlorn at it’s approach.

Of itself celebrate!

valley of vineyards drowsy in the summer sun,

your wine belongs to another season of joy.

Of itself celebrate!

land and water of wide expananse,

cloud and star of endless sky,

wind and rain uncaring of the passing of our days.

Perhaps soon, perhaps with a little more dry tinder, I’ll get back to work & write part 6 of the Gothic Memoir.

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Posted on January 24, 2012, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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