The Johnson Creek Park, Sellwood, Portland, Oregon.
They bust your guts nowadays. It’s not enough just to bleed writing your book. You are to become an engineer, mathematician, salesman, logician, and somewhat a magician, if you want to publish your story the traditional way. If you want to be recognized by academics, critics, and cynics.
You survived an ordeal still grateful to a particulate grace that shone a light upon you, you wrote day and night, night and day, heart and soul, against all odds, you still do, until your health starts wearing out and your clothes don’t fit anymore. You lost most of everything you held dear, and you even developed a shortness of breath, only to discover that it’s just a beginning. Now you are to shop around for literally agents. You are to reduce your master-piece into a log-line, a hook, as if you were a single-handed pirate. You are to prove you can sell yourself better than anyone else, still preserving your dignity, which becomes a rather challenging abstraction. Meaning if you, Joe Blow, don’t write a powerful query letter, you’re a bad salesman, and thus a bad writer too. An incompetent individual. In other words, a loser.
The Google might have forever changed the way we don’t see things, but I am grateful for one: I had just typed in ‘fiction and non-fiction,’ and a miracle hit me in the face.
Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.
It might not help me find an agent, but it fully restored my believes. It took a Master to tell a simple, profound truth.
Again I am convinced, more and more, that we mostly shoot in the dark. We have walked away from our traditions and old schools enslaved by a greedy quest for independency, equipped by gadgets and personal assistants that help us mentally jerk off in a more sophisticated way.
Don’t be wise in your own eyes.
The good old Tacoma Street Church. They always come up with a catchy liner of the day.