I owe y’all a post. I know this. It’s why I’ve got ten half-written posts on god knows what sitting in drafts. I started a post. Got stuck. So I did what helps when I’m stuck, usually. I fucked around with painting a dresser or pulling Virginia creeper or burning Virginia creeper or spraying that wasp nest or making beans or walking Woody, or bandaging whatever injury I just gave myself because I refuse to wear gloves. I sit back down, and whatever I was trying to say was gone. So I opened my word doc, that other screen where I’m supposed to be writing a book, and that was gone too. There’s no next sentence.
No next sentence is fucking painful. Doesn’t work to try to type a next sentence if you don’t know what it is. I can hack something out but that won’t be a sentence and there sure as fuck won’t be a next sentence, and I start to wonder about that sentence twenty thousand words and three states ago. Sit there a few more hours and I’ll be researching how much I can pull off my credit cards in cash advances, which non-extradition country sounds livable, and how do I get Woody there.
I know better now. I know staring at a thing wishing it would write doesn’t write the thing. Mostly. Sometimes I accidently remember some writer who writes a completely different fucking way saying you have to sit there no matter what or have you checked your outline. Like I even know how to make an outline. Which is why I avoid those weirdos. I’ll waste a few days or weeks and feel like a fucking failure because I can’t sit down and write. If I fuck around and go see some music or read something or drive around listening to something good or pull down some Virginia creeper and talk to the old lady next door about the weather, or take Woody somewhere pretty—let it simmer in the background, I’ll get it back. Eventually. Woody doesn’t mind my fucking around. It’s more fun now that I’m fucking around in a yard.
This is mostly what happens with substack posts. Meaning, I tried. Then I got stuck. And I had to go fuck around. Because I do have to write a book. So I fucked around enough that I got back into the book. Felt guilty about not posting anything. Started a post… You see where this is going. Same reason I’m not texting anyone no matter how bad I feel about it. I have to write a book.
Someone asked me why recently. Which is why I’m not talking to people. Not the only reason. But it’s up there. They’re one of those people who make smart financial decisions. Good to have around because sometimes you do need advice or just to remember that your poverty mentality is not the norm and might be somewhat unhelpful. And they take pictures of amazing food that you’d get to eat if you’d quit being a jackass. But then they mention that they looked into this substack thing and people like me can make a lot of money on here. I tell them how much I make because I think it’s pretty good. And they start throwing out entire new digits.
I tell them substack sort of ebbs and flows. I subscribe to a few. But if I had to pay a big vet bill, those would be cancelled in the same panic spree as HBO. And the internet isn’t actually forever. We know that now. Ask someone who worked for Vice or every other outlet that fucking disappeared recently. I know substack subs are something people have to cancel. They write sad notes when they do. So I comp them because that sucks. But they were probably just trying to clear out their email because it’s annoying as shit to get any email that isn’t a job offer.
What I was telling my bourgeois ass friend is this isn’t exactly something I can rely on next year or the one after. But they really did do the homework. I know this because they laughed. As they should. Because, to people who know even a little bit about money or the state of publishing, it’s fucking hilarious that I think books are the safer career option.
I don’t really think that. I don’t even know if there will still be books next year. Nevermind the goddamn earth is burning and if someone doesn’t put that fuck in prison, and they won’t because power will always protect power in the end, they’re probably not going to let us read in the camps.
Nevermind all that. They just fired my publisher, and my last publisher. This is after the bloodbath a year ago where I didn’t have a publisher for a month probably because PRH fucking closed Vintage Anchor. Just shut it down. Layed off everyone or moved them around. I don’t know. No one told me until I got picked up again. (Very smart. Always tell me less.) But my book was saved because Lisa Lucas picked up my editor and my book at Pantheon. Now Lisa’s gone along with Reagan Arthur. Here’s a gift link to the story if you’re curious. It was bullshit. I don’t know who my publisher is right now. I’m not getting attached again.
I got another chance because I made the list the first time around. And a few people thought I could still write and I wasn’t a one hit wonder. They just fired two of them and I don’t know how many I’ve got left. But it doesn’t matter.
I have to write a book because I wanted to be a writer who writes books. That’s all it is, once you clear off the bullshit. I want to write books. I thought one might be enough. But it’s not and I already know two books won’t be enough and neither will three. Your horizon moves before you get there.
I’m gonna finish this goddamn thing apparently, and then I’m gonna do it again. And I will whine the entire time. Because it sucks and it’s so fucking hard. But it’s fun as shit.
I was going to get into why I was stuck. But I fucked around all day and burned some Virginia Creeper and made beans. It is very late. Now I am unstuck. But I don’t want to get stuck again. So I’m just going to write about writing. I can’t take my head out of the book. I lose a few days each time and I do not have time. So we’ll try a different thing. I apologize in advance. Im not sure why I convince myself I should be writing about anything else. But I do. Might be related to the fact I would rather listen to some dude doing that snort throat clearing thing than listen to a writer talk about writing. Mostly. Sometimes a writer says something interesting, but only if I’m biased and already like their shit. Either way. Unless you want to hear about my war on Virginia creeper, writing is what I’ve got.
But like I said, it’s late. So maybe next time we’ll get into why I was stuck this time or why I’m stuck the next time. We need a disclaimer first, or a warning. You wouldn’t think so. You’d think that I could talk about a book problem or an anything problem and anyone reading it would know I’m just trying to talk it out. If I needed advice, I’d probably ask someone I trust. But there’s a warning label on this wasp killer that says you shouldn’t inhale it. Because someone looked at a can of wasp killer and thought inhaling it could be fun. Don’t inhale wasp killer. Don’t give me advice. Here’s a picture of Woody helping with yard work.
All you owe* us is pictures of Woody.
*You owe us nothing.
Damn. I’ve been following the PRH saga and wondered if that would affect you. Lots of people pissed off that Lucas has been fired (including plenty of journalists and writers who have multiple books in print). The failed deal w/Simon & Schuster cost PRH over $200mil in termination fees, which appears to be their excuse for cleaning house. (Though housecleaning usually results in just cutting heads and not really getting to the root of the real issues. PRH may come to regret these decisions, if they have a brain.)
Good luck. Take care of yourself and Woody. You don’t have to flee the country yet. Don’t forget to vote this week - there’s a primary runoff that takes about 5 minutes to complete, once you’re at the polling place. Then you can have the feeling of accomplishment because you will have voted - while others sat on the couch and didn’t bother. Gives your vote a lot more clout.