Plugging Away

I told myself I was going to sit down and write here everyday. Now I'm sitting here a couple drinks in resenting this whole process. It's not like the words aren't constantly streaming through my skillet. It's just that when I try to get them out, it all sounds like shite. So here I am, holding up my end of the bargain with myself. Who's holding up the other end, you might ask. Well, that's me too. No one to blame but myself, really. People ask me why I write, and I say something rehearsed like, "because I don't know how not to." Well, that's not entirely untrue. When an idea pops into my head, it has to come out. Problem is the days, weeks, months between worthwhile ideas. When it comes, it's normally in the form or a perfect sentence. I rarely change first sentences. Seriously, they stay exactly like they first appear in my head. Almost as if Little Baby Jesus Himself has crept into my consciousness and hand delivered them. That's a strange thing for an atheist to say, don't you think. Even when the words come, it's an excruciating process. Sitting and toiling over every word. Is there a synonym for drunk that doesn't sound like I got it from a thesaurus, for example. No one wants his/her writing to sound contrived. It should flow. It should be conversational. People who know you should hear your voice in their head, narrating along as they read. Better yet, they should have you over for dinner so that you can read it to them. I'm tired of Ramen Noodles.

I just read this piece in The New Yorker about Raymond Carver and his rather tumultuous relationship with his editor. I found myself reading Carver's letters to Lish (said editor) and thinking, I don't care how long this guy has been sober. He's either on a bender or he's fucking nuts. His letter insisting that Lish stop the publication of What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, a collection that I've never read, sounds panicked and desperate and slightly psychotic. The way a person might sound when they're pleading with a person standing on the edge of a bridge, moments from jumping off, begging him to reconsider. It's pathetic in a way that I can relate to.

Drivel.