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August 24, 2004
I'm sick and tired of always being sick and tired
I swear to god I'm going to write that damned book.
I think I say that to myself every single day. I even see the book, in my head, page after page. I see the characters doing what I want. I see comparisons to Kundera and Salinger. And yet I see 6 pages in a Word document taunting me.
It's a matter of discipline. It's something I'm learning but do not have mounds of. Nor do I usually end sentences with prepositions, but have been lately. I have to imagine that, were I able to force myself to sit for one hour a day at the computer, not allowed to do anything else, I would write. It might be shit with a capital S, but it would be writing. And, as every crap book about how to write says, getting that first draft done is the most important thing. You can edit, or throw it away. But you can't edit, or reject, nothing.
I think this is the hardest thing in my life. I like to bitch about women in (or not in) my life. But really, I've wanted to be an honest-to-god writer since I was ten-ish. I knew then I would study creative writing in college (and I did) and that I would write a book and be famous. Maybe the book would be a movie and I'd be rich. But I also have this problem of expectations. As in they are WAY TO HIGH. And I don't meant the rich and famous part.
I mean that when I write something, of any length, I am not happy with it. It may in fact be better than a lot of the crap out there being published and enjoyed by the masses (see "novels, trashy romance"), but it isn't good enough for me. I think this comes from having such high idols. Shakey. Salinger. Kundera. Tolkien even.
I got to meet a guy who did what I wanted to do. I mentioned The Dante Club before, and I was fortunate enough to get to have dinner with the author, Matthew Pearl. Great guy, and a great writer. And he did it. He's only a few years older than me, and he's written an interesting, well-written book that's sold. Millions. It's not only worth buying, it's worth reading. And that's saying something.
That's saying what I want to be saying about myself.
Posted by ashersky at 10:19 PM | Comments (358) | TrackBack
August 22, 2004
there's one thing...I can do nothing about
It's the end of the weekend, so it a way it's the end of the end, or the beginning. It's confusing, at any rate.
The summer is winding down. I realize that technically, it isn't, but for most, August is the last month of the summer. September is when things really start: the better weather, schools, stores open up again (here, August is a dead month, everyone goes to the beach, and nothing is open in the city), and we start looking forward to breezes and autumn nights on the river.
It is not without irony that such a good, nice time comes with melancholy. It can mean the end to many things, as the year winds down. So much depends on (the red wheelbarrow) what happens in the coming future. All we can do is set our own priorities, see how they mesh with the priorities of others, and be sure to do what's best for ourselves...and the ones we love.
And right now, a HUGE priority is cleaning my house. I just talked to Ed (twice in a few days!) and hopefully IO will be back and running soon. I tried to explain to him my own way of thinking about priorities (greatly influenced by the writing of Hyrum Smith) and how he should start thinking forward. He also owes me pages for our joint book we're writing. So do it. Write the address on the envelope and put it in the mail.
Here's hoping this summer ends well for you.
Posted by ashersky at 07:15 PM | Comments (43) | TrackBack
August 19, 2004
slide along side yeah baby that's right
How long's it been, like a month? I'm a bad blogger. The graphic of the week is old, too.
I haven't done anything regular for awhile. My hand is shaking from guitar playing, after only a few minutes. It's been too long. Routine hasn't been available, with much travel to and from the States, work, saying goodbye to a friend, settling into life.
Italianolio is threatening to shut down. If you know the e-mail, complain. He's being an idiot. I'm anti.
The future shows promise; next week she gets back, finally. We are going to the beach that weekend, hitting true Florentine sights tourist style the weekend after, a trip to London in October, Rome in November, and planned trips to Milan, Genoa, and maybe Lake Como, Clooney style.
I swear I'll get pictures up soon. And a direction. Who actually comes to this blog anymore?
Posted by ashersky at 07:13 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack