Love and Pain
You cannot waste time if you are engaged in creation, no?
Tennessee said something like that.
12/28/95
After this I'll write letters to Uncle T, and Cousin Carman Back East. Then a fifteen minute guitar pluck and we're off to the Satanic Temple in Century City where we'll enter the noxious catacoombs in an unholy search for a parking space before wandering the labyrinth on foot in search of an affordable meal, and make a sacrifice in hopes of reaching our movie before it sells out.
Getoff called to invite us to Pasadena for a beerfest at the Stuft Sandwich, but I've really got to get that old man off the mastodon and introduce the resident genius. Then I've got a harlan Ellison story on tap, from the Best Short Fiction of '93 anthology, and after that Act 1 of Streetcar Named Desire; so I should be pretty busy.
Who's gayer me or Tennesee?
It occurs to me that I allot a lot (heh) of time to the practice of writing while letting other forms of expression wither. I should plan blocks of time for talking to people the way I do with writing. I'm a lousy conversationalist; I need practice. I guess that's why I like writing in here, because it doesn't matter if what I say sucks. No one will see it, and I don't have to worry about making an ass out of myself.
I'd like to draw more, too. One drawing a week is a good goal.
It's good to sort out your time and what you want to do specifically. Everything becomes more achievable. You feel more in control of your destiny. No more guessing what next.
Yeah, right. I hate being pinned down.
Yesterday I bought a '96 Writer's Market, and that '93 edition of the year's Best Short Fiction, and a book called Chez Chance that I read about in the Times Book Review and got because its premise is similar to my Jim Crack story, what with the drugs and Disneyland. Shittily uncanny: I thought that was going to be my original idea, and this bastard has already got it in print. And he went to Irvine. I remember seeing his sourpuss mug in the the pub, with that sad sack please-love-me look--you could see it, in retrospect, now that I know he wrote a book that he craved recognition without wanting to appear to be craving recognition. Must be all unsung writers look like that. I'm just jealous he wrote a book.
I wrote something that turned out to be kind of a poem on the matter of being my father's son. It's interesting and pathetic.
Like "Leaving Las Vegas." How's all the patheticism in that garnering so much critical acclaim? Love amid the misery of alcoholism and prostitution--is it gimmicky?
Great line, though: "Maybe you should quit drinking."
"Maybe I should quit breathing."
Love and pain: you can't have one without the other.
Tennessee said something like that.
12/28/95
After this I'll write letters to Uncle T, and Cousin Carman Back East. Then a fifteen minute guitar pluck and we're off to the Satanic Temple in Century City where we'll enter the noxious catacoombs in an unholy search for a parking space before wandering the labyrinth on foot in search of an affordable meal, and make a sacrifice in hopes of reaching our movie before it sells out.
Getoff called to invite us to Pasadena for a beerfest at the Stuft Sandwich, but I've really got to get that old man off the mastodon and introduce the resident genius. Then I've got a harlan Ellison story on tap, from the Best Short Fiction of '93 anthology, and after that Act 1 of Streetcar Named Desire; so I should be pretty busy.
Who's gayer me or Tennesee?
It occurs to me that I allot a lot (heh) of time to the practice of writing while letting other forms of expression wither. I should plan blocks of time for talking to people the way I do with writing. I'm a lousy conversationalist; I need practice. I guess that's why I like writing in here, because it doesn't matter if what I say sucks. No one will see it, and I don't have to worry about making an ass out of myself.
I'd like to draw more, too. One drawing a week is a good goal.
It's good to sort out your time and what you want to do specifically. Everything becomes more achievable. You feel more in control of your destiny. No more guessing what next.
Yeah, right. I hate being pinned down.
Yesterday I bought a '96 Writer's Market, and that '93 edition of the year's Best Short Fiction, and a book called Chez Chance that I read about in the Times Book Review and got because its premise is similar to my Jim Crack story, what with the drugs and Disneyland. Shittily uncanny: I thought that was going to be my original idea, and this bastard has already got it in print. And he went to Irvine. I remember seeing his sourpuss mug in the the pub, with that sad sack please-love-me look--you could see it, in retrospect, now that I know he wrote a book that he craved recognition without wanting to appear to be craving recognition. Must be all unsung writers look like that. I'm just jealous he wrote a book.
I wrote something that turned out to be kind of a poem on the matter of being my father's son. It's interesting and pathetic.
Like "Leaving Las Vegas." How's all the patheticism in that garnering so much critical acclaim? Love amid the misery of alcoholism and prostitution--is it gimmicky?
Great line, though: "Maybe you should quit drinking."
"Maybe I should quit breathing."
Love and pain: you can't have one without the other.
posted by johnz at 6:46 PM
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