Shakespeare is what Paulie calls me when he arrives for work. All right, Shakespeare, move along. Before I can put my feet down, hes plopped his coffee and his sandwich on the desk that sits just inside the bar door and is already halfway out of his denim jacket. Paulies our doorman. On Tuesdays I check IDs until he gets in late from his welding class. At which point I have to put down my book and go back to shagging glasses. Im only the barback.
His jeering little nickname for me is even crueler than he knows. For I am not just a humble, barely-published writer (and see, I cant even apply the word to myself without deploying the ever-popular irony-indicating quotation marks), I am a humble, barely published writer who is not writing. Havent finished a damned thing since last September, although not for want of trying. Most days of the week Im at my desk for two-three-four hours, grinding big chunks of inspiration into the dust of despair. And its not like Im trying to write Hamlet or anything. Perish the thought! Just something that works. Something that takes off under its own power, circles the field a few times, and then touches down nimbly. In and out, safe and sound. Doesnt seem like too much to ask, does it? But apparently Ive been attempting to craft kites from sheet steel, RC planes from chiseled and polished granite. Sometimes I actually get around to opening my toolbox and bolting things together. But more often than not, I realize, while still seated at the drawing board, that theres no way in hell this thing is ever going to get off the ground.
You did it once, I remind myself. You designed, you built, you glided over the dunes. And thats true. Right now, right this minute, theres an editor at one of the major New York publishing houses dashing off a quick note to my agent. Interesting, the note says. But not for us.
Check another one off the list.
Oh, Bill. What was it like to be you? Relentlessly productive, tirelessly self-promoting, you mustve known you were possessed by genius. Fate had pointed its finger. Unseen voices had declared, You, young William, will be (arguably) the greatest writer the world shall ever know. Dont blow it. And you didnt. You didnt catch syphilis and you didnt drink yourself to death. Which is pretty amazing. It couldnt have been easy, living up to the expectations of history. Im only not living up to my own expectations, and I feel like dashing my brains out against this wall.
His jeering little nickname for me is even crueler than he knows. For I am not just a humble, barely-published writer (and see, I cant even apply the word to myself without deploying the ever-popular irony-indicating quotation marks), I am a humble, barely published writer who is not writing. Havent finished a damned thing since last September, although not for want of trying. Most days of the week Im at my desk for two-three-four hours, grinding big chunks of inspiration into the dust of despair. And its not like Im trying to write Hamlet or anything. Perish the thought! Just something that works. Something that takes off under its own power, circles the field a few times, and then touches down nimbly. In and out, safe and sound. Doesnt seem like too much to ask, does it? But apparently Ive been attempting to craft kites from sheet steel, RC planes from chiseled and polished granite. Sometimes I actually get around to opening my toolbox and bolting things together. But more often than not, I realize, while still seated at the drawing board, that theres no way in hell this thing is ever going to get off the ground.
You did it once, I remind myself. You designed, you built, you glided over the dunes. And thats true. Right now, right this minute, theres an editor at one of the major New York publishing houses dashing off a quick note to my agent. Interesting, the note says. But not for us.
Check another one off the list.
Oh, Bill. What was it like to be you? Relentlessly productive, tirelessly self-promoting, you mustve known you were possessed by genius. Fate had pointed its finger. Unseen voices had declared, You, young William, will be (arguably) the greatest writer the world shall ever know. Dont blow it. And you didnt. You didnt catch syphilis and you didnt drink yourself to death. Which is pretty amazing. It couldnt have been easy, living up to the expectations of history. Im only not living up to my own expectations, and I feel like dashing my brains out against this wall.
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miss you. hope all is well.