Lately, I have felt like one of those inbred dogs that fall to pieces too young, their bad hips a mystery to the children they were brought into the home to please. I loll useless in the corner and make up overwrought metaphors is what I’m saying. I hope I’m not alone in this feeling—I hope it is something universal to the writing life, where so much of who you are and who you want to be are squirreled away into words, the value of which are decided far down the line by strangers who don’t really know your pain and how very very special it is.
I know I must have some modicum of talent, given that sometimes I get a nice email from a stranger who’s read my book, and perhaps once in awhile I get stopped on campus by someone who heard me read somewhere, but I never feel sure of it. How do you get there? How do you arrive at the self-assured charging ahead that seems to be a necessity in this crushing business? These questions press down on me more when I don't have something compelling to write about, which, lately, I don't. I am always haunted by the words of Flannery O’Connor (that sassy bitch): “Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.” I keep thinking that I will turn some corner or walk into some room and find that all my colleagues and professors are seated around a plate of cookies. Dr. Phil is there, and he tells me I should have a seat, these people want to talk to me about something, about how I’m hurting their lives, about how they have a way that I can get well.
What can I say? I am often a bummer. This post is not meant as a bummer, though. It is meant as a hopeful, timid proclamation of solidarity. I am saying to you, dear reader, dear Imaginary Audience: “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’m doing it.” And you can take that with you as a token that what we do is worth doing, or you can look at this and say, “Well, at least I’m not a walking whiny joke like this dude over here” and get by a little better for it. Either way, I did my best to help.
Hey Zach an interesting take fer sure. Does bank robbery mean anything to you? It gets the blood flowing and letting off a round or two into the ceiling makes for a metallic sound equaled to that of the greatest symphonies. You will find, as I have, your creative powers instantly restored through the process of eluding the laws (Clyde Barrow tagged the cops such)and every ounce of imagination employed in finding hideouts and laundering ill-gotten
ReplyDeletemoney. Think on it. I'll take you on a run in Southern California - they have no partitions at the teller windows and it's a matter of sliding over the counter. Let's do it!!
Best,I am,
Chris Roberts
I'll be the getaway driver.
ReplyDeleteStarting to have the makings of a stand-up gang. Travis, can you drive and fire a Thompson sub-machine gun accurately at the laws?
ReplyDeleteChris "Two Gun" Roberts
Short answer, yes.
ReplyDeleteLong answer: Because the driver's side of most American vehicles is on the left, I will have to operate said Thompson with my left hand, which, historically, has increased the risk of my affecting civilian casualties. Which, hopefully we can agree, is something we will likely want to avoid. So, if possible, we should try to get our hands on a mail car first. Coincidentally, I have one in mind. (For two days in a row, my postman has neglected to pick up my Netflix copy of Weekend at Bernie's 2. Maybe this will teach him a lesson.)
Travis - That's thinking on your feet! A mail car is a great idea. We can set him up thusly: we shadow his route and find out where he eats lunch.It'll probably be a joint called Ma & Pa's American Diner. We'll come in and join him at the counter and either slip him a mickey or get him riled up. I prefer the latter, it has more theatrical value. First I'll have you distract him by saying, "Isn't that a picture of the Spice Girls?" and as he swivels around, I'll grab his keys. Then we'll tag team him with insults sparking the DNA present in all mailmen to go postal. Strategically emplaced at the door will be I, the coppers come and I'll exaggerate that he's swinging two butcher knives, they'll gun him down and in the ensuing mayhem, we'll casually walk to the parking lot and I'll drive our new mail car and you can follow. Sound good?
ReplyDeleteThe thing is, Ma & Pa both of 'em are decent folks and that American Diner of theirs is all they've got in the world, so I wouldn't want them to have to see it get trashed just because of one lousy mailman. But on the other hand, you're right about the diner being the ideal location for flipping the postal switch and nabbing the mail car. So what I'm thinking is, before you get the bastard all riled up and fetch the cops on him, I'll slip Ma & Pa a coupla mickeys in their coffee cups, that way they won't have to see the chaos ensue and I'll still be able to show my face at the American Diner every morning for unlimited blueberry pancakes that I will be able to purchase for the unrequited pleasure of my belly after I'm rich from all this money that we're getting from California. Salivating I am.
ReplyDeleteIndeed! You are a brilliant man. We have to protect Ma and Pa from the violent side of all American life. They sure do brew a mean cup of joe, don't they? With all the money were going to make, we can fix up their joint, for sure, be sure, surely. We gotta work on casing a few gun shops. A fact: a .38 will never jam on you, it's the cleanest, rooting-tooting, straight shooter there is. When we take our First National Bank we should wear spats as a nod to Dillinger, it'll give us good luck. Yee...Haw...I'm double ready partner!!
ReplyDeleteChris "Two Guns" Roberts
Boy do I love a good cup of joe!
ReplyDelete