My experiment is over. The world does go on without me. I wasn’t sure, but now I am. The world most certainly does go on, seamlessly, without my active participation and youthful exuberance.
This was not me being coy or savvy. Just out of tune, slightly depressed, bogged down with day job, and yes, that anticlimactic “I-released-a-book-and-am-feeling-like-it’s-no-big-deal-but-it-really-is” feeling.
But today I’m getting back into it. I must. Maggie & May must be written; Harvey Keitel must receive a copy of Back(stabbed) at his Goatsingers production studio; and a new job for yours truly must be sought.
Finally the summer heat and drought is over so I have no more excuses to be depressed over the weather. My kid #2 is nearly diaperless. I bought new headphones, so I no longer have to fight the anatomical fight of poorly fitted earplugs with shitty sound. It’s a new day, goddammit, and I’m going to shit all over it on my own terms rather than feel shit on myself.
I have Gupter! mags to distribute. I have stories on Year Zero to comment on. I have book signings, reviews, and promo copies to guerilla drop of Back(stabbed). I have a cake I must bake and apple sauce to make.
There are past months issues of The Atlantic and Harper’s to read. There are McSweeney’s posts to catch up on. There are tons of commentary to make on the ridiculous, silly know-it-all blogs of publishing industry folks to bug. There is more postulating on the end of the publishing industry to make.
There are leaves to rake. There are stupid fucking halloween costumes to deal with (I hate halloween). There are pumpkins to carve and later on, to hose off the stoop since they will undoubtedly rot in the ugliest way.
The unintentional experiment is over and my ass must get moving.