“You need a major book project,” she growled, staring past me over the top of her wine glass. (Black humor becomes her so.)
This was true. It would certainly keep me off the streets, if I ever went into them. I tell myself I don’t know what to write about. People yell at me and say, “Just WRITE!”—which is what I’m doing now, of course. But it isn’t a book. I have half a dozen minor projects, but no major one. There are only limited works of mine for you to buy, and I am less than rich. What a goddamned nuisance.
Just when I’d figured out the meat of being “blocked,” too. The sustenance. The joy. Blocked, hell, these days are like gold! The extended tension is exquisite. Libido in the toilet, hanging by my thumbs? Awriiight! Hard liquor before noon? Shut up! Wear the same clothes every day? Oh, baby! Put butter on Ritz crackers, get mugged at the dentist, see if the new bread knife fits between my ribs? This is living it, my brothers.
It’s the ultimate validation!
I loved your post about Yellowhammer Farm. You could write a book about your time there.
I already have half a book with that. Needs redoing so no one would sue me. 🙂
Yeah, just change the names to protect the guilty.
And write some more posts about it here.
I think you should start writing up Taos – not just the natural beauty part of it but the social scene, every stratum and species of it, from the natives and artists to the poor white rural wreckage to the high and mighty at their chamber music concerts. The authentic and the fake, the befuddled and the visionary. Possibly a few ordinary citizens like the plumber, the mechanic and the dead landlord. Include a guy with some family trauma mulling it all over up on a hill. You’ve already got all this stuff in the can, just flesh it out and start inventing. Don’t worry about polishing, let it rip as it comes out. It’ll write itself once you get going, and you’ll sleep the sleep of the dead each night and arise calling for your pen and paper.