Progress Report

So things are not so far going well with my book. I shouldn't be surprised. My agent done told me. But I guess one anticipates the best, despite the odds. Or anyway, I've always been that way.

But the word is, received just this morning, that no publishers have so far expressed interest. Neil tells me that we still have a lot more to send to, but still I can't help feeling bummed.

Why?

Well, as the day passed, and as I had nothing better to do, I started to kind of parse this out. Why does the possibility of not being able to publish this book make me feel depressed? What has been the nature of my hopes, what has been anticipated, what changes would take place in my life?

As for the latter question, having published a book some years back, I already know that nothing of essence really changes in life. I mean, you have a period of high spirits I suppose, and pride, but there is nothing really to sustain it over time. You find eventually, in fact, that you rather dislike the book, and so you begin to work on something else. Or you find something better yet to do with your spare time.

Writing this present book was to begin with something of an accident in itself. The thing sort of rose to existence at the suggestions of people who had read my entries in online MS communities, so that eventually I took the cue and thought, Well maybe I should. And so I did.

Did a lot of sweat and effort go into the project--hours of struggle, painful doubts and soul searching?

No.

The fact it, little more effort was required day to day than putting my pen to the paper (or rather, my fingers to the keyboard). It was not only fairly easy, it was fun. And this, as I concluded while sitting on the toilet, is the key.

Of course, I would like to do something for my wife which would result in the form of honor, not to mention money (of wait, I just did). I believe it would be of great importance to her for me to make money through these efforts. And I wouldn't mind the money either, if only to be able to give it to her.

And of course I would like to be able to leave her something--in the same sort of way that I left my ex-wife (though sort of accidentally) $200,000 dollars and a house. It would be something that she could put away, a security I had been able to leave.

Nonetheless, when it comes right down to it, what bummed me out most of all was the thought of losing my reason for all the pleasant mornings I have spent at Starbucks, or in the yard at home in the summer, writing, remembering, philosophizing, searching, and sharing. It has become a part of who I am, of what I do. How else am I to spend my time and garner like reward?

And so it happens that while still on the toilet I realized with some relief that failure to publish need not be translated as a lack of reason for writing. If, after all, I have failed to please an editor, or editors, I have to remember that I did not intend to please him, or them, in the first place. I wrote what was in me. I explained myself.

And I do not think they fault me for that. They're looking to make money, and that is the basis that they buy upon. Money is nice. I like it too. But money and writing are two different things. Just like apples and oranges.

The Truth In Lies

Some people say that I exaggerate. Some say that I lie. My second ex-wife used to say that I would lie when the truth would do just fine. And she was right. The truth might have been just fine, but then again it is often not very interesting, nor very funny.

It was Mark Twain who famously said When in doubt, tell the truth. But you see, the trick is to avoid being in doubt.

A lie can be a window to another world, whereas the truth is restricted to what is factual, what is known. A lie can also be a route to the sort of truths that try to hide.

Consider the work of fiction, for instance. Was there ever, in truth, an Ishmael, a Pequod, an Ahab, a white whale? No . . . and yet how else shall we make our way to the truths that lie beneath the surface of the fictitious voyage than to believe in the lie, the ship, that conveys us? What truth can the white whale sound to the depths other than the truth of the lie?

How great would the Great Gatsby be if he were a matter of fact, a two column piece in the business section of the New York Times?

I was sitting once in a bar, back in my drinking days, when a man of like age sat down beside me. It happened that I was wearing an old army coat I had gotten at the Goodwill. Because of this--a hint, an invitation--the man asked whether I had served in Vietnam.

Yes, I said.

And though I had not served, and though this was a bald faced lie, it turned out that I learned more of essence, of truth about the Vietnam War that night that I had ever before learned in a newspaper or a history book--so that now, in some way, I have been there--Yes, with the 1st Marines at Khe San, at the airbase in Danang, in the rice paddy where the water buffalo had stepped on a mine.

We shared an experience within the character of common humanity--he was a veteran, I was a drunk, and we had both been injured in a war.

My mother used to say that life itself is a lie, an illusion. And it is, so it is.

For here we have no continuing city, but we seek the one to come.
--Heb 13:14

Procrastination

I am procrastinating. Not my favorite pastime, yet here I am nonetheless. See, I'm supposed to be editing my book per the suggestions of my agent, but I just can't seem to get around to it. By way of excuse, I will say that my mind is just not up to even remembering what I've already written, let alone altering or adding to the same in any cogent way.

It means, in short, that I must read the whole book again--everything that has already at some point issued from my own mind--and then try to apply other material or adjustments according to a swiftly slipping grasp of the whole.

I will try to begin next week.

Wish me luck.

Up Against The Wall, Slime Ball!

My second wife, who fancied herself to be accomplished in the art of child-rearing, and whose credentials for the same consisted in the main of having had three children by three fathers (something which leads me to believe child-bearing would have been a more apt description), would often cite the essential secret of her success as having had the will to apply regular beatings.

I myself make no final judgment regarding whether this habit led to successful results. I guess the jury is still out, as is the case with most things in life. I will say that they have grown up to be pretty good kids--or adults, I should say, being now 33, 30, and 21. I would say that they are generally polite, have a basic sense of decency, and probably will not conspire to blow up the world.

On the other hand, I do believe that they fear their mother still, and so perhaps suffered somewhat in growing into a full appreciation of their own independence, their own power of decision making. They have, therefore, some lack in drive, in setting and attaining goals, in overcoming obstacles.

But to return to the point, which I had not actually gotten to yet, it so happened the other day that I remembered an incident in which my second wife (let's call her Georgia, because that is her name) set out to demonstrate to her younger sister how she should go about disciplining her own somewhat unruly children.

You gotta show 'em that you mean business, Georgia said. You gotta put the fear of the devil into 'em.

Fear. The very word has no connection with Chrissy--sweet, quiet, kind-hearted Chrissy. One can no more fear her than he can fear Winnie the Pooh or The Care Bears.

But they're not afraid of me, Chrissy said. How can I make them afraid of me, Georgia?

I'll show ya how, Georgia answers, grabbing at the same time the collar of 8 year old Jason's shirt--Chrissy's first born, and biggest offender.

You jack 'em up against the wall like this! Georgia says, then you stick your knee in their gut like this--

Now Jason is giggling--Auntie Georgia is always so funny--and yet he is always keeping a wary, rather worried eye on his mother's face, watching for any sign that this might actually be dangerous in some way.

And then you get right up in their face and say"Up against the wall, slimeball!"

Having demonstrated the technique, Georgia unhanded Jason, who stood adjusting his collar, straightening his pants.

Now you try it.

Me, Chrissy says. Me? I can't do it. It's not the same.

Chrissy's children are of course laughing uproariously at the very idea.

Go Chrissy! Do it! They're laughing at you! My God, don't ever let 'em laugh, Sis!

Okay! Chrissy says, rushing forward like a fuzzy bunny rabbit, reaching for Jason's shirt front, pulling up the collar as if it were a blanket in a doll's bed.

And in the sweetest, most tender, most apologetic tone of voice, she suddenly pleads with all her force--

Up against the wall, slummm-buggg!

You see, not only had she gotten the technique wrong, but she had bobbled the very words to be used, rendering them not threatening but endearing.

Poor Chrissy. She never did learn.


Author's note: Jason went on to earn a degree at the University of Washington and works now in State goverment. Chrissy's daughter, Becca, trains horses for a living and is happily married with children of her own. Chrissy herself helps to raise her grandchildren in the same ineffectual manner.