Here's what's strange about the internet. I'm not quite sure how to get my head around this.
A guy I know only in passing, a really talented artist, died last week. We had exchanged some vague correspondence, based mostly on our mutual love of bill gibson and some friends we had in common. And then he up and died. I'm almost taking it worse than if someone really close to me had died, but I can't figure out why.
Mourning is not something I do well. I've never based a lot of my emotional well being in other people. I can honestly and accurately say that, besides my wife, I have no close friends. So, when someone I know dies, it's a very distant catastrophe, a collapse that occurs at the periphery of my emotional structure. It still tears me up, but not in that deeply permenant way that it should. Or something.
I'm rambling, because I'm coming off the lip of a confluence of bad news, tiny waves of badness that have built up tighter and tighter, lapping higher and higher. This is no where near as bad as it has been, not in my idiot life, not by a handful of dooms. Still, it sucks. To top it off, I've taken professional steps to make it as a writer. You know, the big steps. I'm finishing my book. I've contacted an agent. I have the text out to a dozen or so readers to evaluate. Ten years after I should have been doing these things, I've finally got all the cards on the table. There's a lot of waiting, and a lot of anticipation, and a lot of built up stress. Not something I'm good at, just waiting. I'm a doer. I put in the extra hours, I break myself against the spears of opposition. Very rare that there's nothing I can do to better my position. But that's what it is right now. Submissions out. Queries in the mail. Readers, you know, reading. And all I can do is sit around and pretend that everything is cool.
A guy I know only in passing, a really talented artist, died last week. We had exchanged some vague correspondence, based mostly on our mutual love of bill gibson and some friends we had in common. And then he up and died. I'm almost taking it worse than if someone really close to me had died, but I can't figure out why.
Mourning is not something I do well. I've never based a lot of my emotional well being in other people. I can honestly and accurately say that, besides my wife, I have no close friends. So, when someone I know dies, it's a very distant catastrophe, a collapse that occurs at the periphery of my emotional structure. It still tears me up, but not in that deeply permenant way that it should. Or something.
I'm rambling, because I'm coming off the lip of a confluence of bad news, tiny waves of badness that have built up tighter and tighter, lapping higher and higher. This is no where near as bad as it has been, not in my idiot life, not by a handful of dooms. Still, it sucks. To top it off, I've taken professional steps to make it as a writer. You know, the big steps. I'm finishing my book. I've contacted an agent. I have the text out to a dozen or so readers to evaluate. Ten years after I should have been doing these things, I've finally got all the cards on the table. There's a lot of waiting, and a lot of anticipation, and a lot of built up stress. Not something I'm good at, just waiting. I'm a doer. I put in the extra hours, I break myself against the spears of opposition. Very rare that there's nothing I can do to better my position. But that's what it is right now. Submissions out. Queries in the mail. Readers, you know, reading. And all I can do is sit around and pretend that everything is cool.
recidivi5t:
everything IS cool. notwithstanding the perceived waves and spears, you're letting your stress do the talking for you. but everything really is cool. you're an artist in the midst of risk, which is exactly where you are supposed to be, despite your 10 year old cards. time has got nothing to do with it. welcome to the coliseum.
