cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Missing Piece of my Novel In other news, I did a lot of fishing in the last few days but not quite enough. I spent most of Friday fishing, but didn't get a single fish all day. The pond I was on is usually excellent, though it is very deep and I suspect that the water temperature simply hadn't gotten high enough yet to result in really active fish. Most of Saturday was spent helping Trish's father with building a pole barn. I like doing carpentry on that scale and want to do more this spring but the fucking shame is having to avoid swinging a hammer for more than a few minutes at a time, what with the ruined tendons in both elbows. Of course Sunday was full of Easter. We went over to my parents' house and I had to listen to an hour of whining from my mother over this weird falling out that happened between her and my brother and his wife. Long story short, he was just offered a job in the Wh1te H0use and my mother leaked it accidentally to a GOP blogger about 5 minutes after finding out and this resulted in immediate efforts by a bunch of Republicans who hate my brother's guts to derail the appointment/job offer. He now hates her guts and wouldn't show up for Easter brunch. Then there is a whole parallel drama between my mother and my brother's wife. I kept sneaking off to the pond down the hill from my house to try and catch fish. Trish was an absolute harpy about it, rolling her eyes every time I grabbed the pole off of the porch. The crappie were feeding and I wanted to get some to eat for dinner. I caught several small ones but nothing big enough to keep and cook. Crappie hang out in schools so I knew that if I kept hitting that spot I would eventually get some of the big ones that I know are in there. She rolls her eyes every time I walk out a door with a rod or a shotgun. In the first place, *this is my job now.* I write books and articles about killing things and eating them. This does require actually going fishing and hunting. In the second place, just fucking come with me once in a while. Don't give me this act like I'm abandoning you. All she has to do is walk out the door with me. I'm sitting next to a pond, watching a blue heron stabbing at bullfrogs in the shallows, and the buzzing of dragonflies, and tiny newts that pop their heads out of the water to stare back at me. What is so intolerable about this situation that she couldn't come along instead of complaining? I'm done with expecting her to change. I wish she could be a creative partner in things that I do. If that was going to happen then it would have happened a long time ago. As time has gone by I've come to see a whole other dimension to what a wife could or should be. Now that I think of it, I don't think that she has read a single chapter of my book that just got picked up. _______________ There is a real danger of having too many writing projects going on at once, but I've got a novel starting to take shape. I had half of it pretty well laid out before but there was no real emotional depth and I knew this. Now, after that dream the other night I've got the rest of it. The problem before was that it had no point exactly. It is, like most first novels, largely autobiographical. What I had was a miracle (the incident with the spine-shot deer and my dog) and the struggle to make sense of that afterward. Then I had suffering. The past year of soul-crushing poverty until the money started rolling back in recently. I had these experiences of absolute desperation and the burning away of everything civilized about me while NEEDING to kill in order to survive. But it didn't fucking mean anything. It was just suffering and a sort of erosion of self. Then I had that dream and everything made sense. I fell madly in love in a way that would have been completely impossible without having suffered and hungered the way that I have. I went through a lot of things that were truly horrifying in order to feed my children. If you've never blown a deer's brains out and then watched it continue to slowly move its limbs and you struggle to slit its throat amid the spattered brains and blood then you may not understand what I'm getting at. Imagine doing that out of *hunger* and looking at this horrifying mess of struggling zombie-like flesh and bone and thinking that this is going to be really good to eat in a few hours. Try to understand the level of desperation and need that it would take to inhabit this situation willingly. At times I have come to doubt my humanity following so many experiences of this kind. As I awoke the other morning I felt that same desperate, hungry need. I wanted that woman and the experience of kissing her so badly that I knew I was willing to endure whatever suffering might be necessary in order for that to happen. To love like that is to be elevated. Hungering for food or security with that intensity is just painful and depressing. But to hunger that way for a woman is something great. Something to remember. Something to polish and shape and hold up to the light and put into a novel. Almost that I write here, in this diary, is bloated and worthless. I know better than to do this with an actual piece of work. What goes in here is more or less stream of consciousness, which I reckon demonstrates the worthlessness of most thoughts. _______________ I am frustrated by the delays going on with my book contract. At this point I doubt that I will see any of the advance money until 6 weeks from now at the earliest. This is holding up serious work on the new book, as I need the money to cover the travel expenses involved in writing it. A whole network of LA contacts is starting to emerge, only I feel pretty stupid not being able to name a date and start putting together an event in Los Angeles for lack of being certain of the money for air and hotel. I'd like to go to Berlin this fall. For perhaps 2 weeks or so. Get in most of my travel and notes for the now book during the summer and then take a flat in Berlin to finish writing it. If I get enough of an advance for this one then the plan could be very practical. It would be nice if I could find someone to come along. The alienation of solo travel is often helpful for writing but it makes for a damned lonely run of it. I had to do Munich alone last summer and something was certainly lost by that. The laptop I'd borrowed for that trip crapped out mid-way across the Atlantic and I hardly got any writing done once I arrived. That is the life that I want to create soon. Having a home base here near the mountains with a nice house and friends and family around, while trotting off every few months to some other country for writing and speaking engagements. Take the train to NYC a few weekends a month. Someone to travel with. Someone to wander around Berlin with and keep me company while I'm paddling down rivers and catching strange fish to eat and write about. A solid back catalog of useful non-fiction that keeps some royalties coming in and a reasonably good novel that probably won't sell for shit. I want this. 10:14 p.m. - 2010-04-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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