When they said
kill your darlings
they didn’t explain
how they would only ask about the rabbits
so I said
ok, maybe
we can just stay here
for a while
so I stretched
& scratched my head
& bled
& waited
waited until they said
“look what you made us do
we sat just around
all afternoon”
didn’t understand
what else they were supposed to do
couldn’t soak in
those few moments
before I’m through
& through
& through
& the rabbits burrow away for the winter
I have been absent. This blog hasn’t had much of an update in some time, and I have no illusions that this is a bad thing.
Then again, I consider myself a writer—or at least I aspire to be a writer—and a substantial part of being an active, contributing artist in our modern society means having a presence.
Of course, that primarily means an internet presence. The flashy artists, the ones who show up in trendy magazines or are renowned in the lit scene, they live in big cities and can attend live events, buy drinks for fellow poets, or have a one night stand with that cute up-and-coming singer/songwriter. More than anything else they do, they show up.
More than anything else I do, I don’t show up.
I have a measly internet presence. Years ago, a woman wearing too much make-up laughed at me. How the fuck could I even be human if I didn’t have Facebook? It was a naïvely idealist view, at the time. Something I could roll my eyes at and dismiss. But since then, it has become more and more true.
Not that I feel any less human. In fact, in the past year of neglecting the internet—after too many years trying to coyly join in on the party—I feel more alive than I ever have. But then again, as the Millenials say (and let’s face it, Millenials will become the dominant force as Baby Boomers vegetate & die): if you did it but didn’t record it, did it happen at all?
None of it happened. Because life never happened. It is happening, or it is not. Anything besides what is currently happening is either memory or imagination. Life itself is an existential experience, a matter of the present—of being present—of presence—and there we are again, with that goddamn pejorative.
What really gets me about presence is Definition 1.1 in the Oxford Dictionary: “A person or thing that exists or is present in a place but is not seen.” That is essentially internet presence, although of course, with the narcissistic twist that the internet produces, this usage gets confused with 1.3: “The impressive manner or appearance of a person.”
The first definition speaks to something beyond the self, something beyond the senses. The second speaks to ego, the self, the senses. The way we interact with the internet is that: it’s beyond the senses, beyond the self, beyond the ego—and yet it engages the senses, the self, and the ego. It’s an empty egg, and we’re subsisting on an imagined yolk.
I prefer the first definition. I even take it to heart and let it expand: “A person or thing that exists or is present in a place but is not seen, heard, felt, smelled, or tasted.”
Then what is it?
I don’t know. Maybe that is what I am endeavoring to find out.
Read the full story from the Meridian Booster online.
If I was smart, or more adept in the Ways of the Extrovert, I probably would have done this a long time ago. But alas, my introversion has conversely become something I have accepted…and something that I would readily trade away for three magical extrovert beans.
It took me too long to seek out some exposure for my novel, Onwards & Outwards. I am getting used to the idea that the artist in modern society is, more than anything, loud (it has probably always been the case). The quiet artist, the secret sharer who bares their soul with the door closed, or the one that does not ask for a person’s eyes, ears, and heart, is one that easily becomes just another weirdo in the din.
But that’s okay. Because I don’t have to deal with coverage and criticism about people crying because I didn’t sign their autographs.
Are you an artist? What has been your experience with exposure and self-promotion? Tell me all about it below. I look forward to downing some Writer‘s Tears while reading your stories.
It has been a long time coming.
After the utter failure of Onwards & Outwards as an e-book, I decided to strive with my head to the proverbial wall of rejection and put some resources into putting my words into print.
In all honesty, I did not even really want to read my novel as an e-book. Call me a Luddite, but I am still unconvinced by long fiction in digital format. Some of my favourite things about reading happen in the visceral aspects of our material world. I was cheating myself by taking the easy shortcut and presenting my words unto the Universe as lifeless kilobytes…instead of dead trees.
You can do a quick search & probably find Onwards & Outwards paperback at your favourite online retailer. If you are in Canada, and specifically western Canada, message me and I can hook you up.
I would love to spend the next few months travelling around, particularly in warmer climes, to do readings and peddle my book and generally be the vagabond poet I was born to be. But alas. Much like this book, I too am of this material world.
At best, you can be in on the pyramidal ground floor of a cult classic. Or you can have some emergency 5×7 50 lb crème toilet paper. Either way, I think you will enjoy this.
Trust me. We’re friends damnit.
Today I briefly considered joining my provincial writer’s guild. I thought being part of a guild will help validate my writing. Like being part of the club will mean I was in. I could make witty lit small talk at book releases and at the guild’s annual conference. Maybe I could run into Ibi Kaslik again and we would have one too many G&Ts and hop into a cab and let an ellipsis say the rest…
I visited the guild’s page, to remind myself why I have refused to join in the past, and I saw their notice about National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), which is November—or, if you are a writer, every fucking month.
The guild is advertising events in and around the provincial capital, far from my city in the middle of the prairie. But it looks exciting: parties, write-ins, presentations from authors. It is an encouraging event…as the guild’s website proclaims, NaNoWriMo is, “for anyone who has ever thought fleetingly about writing a novel.”
Fleetingly. That is a funny word, especially in reference to novels.
I never want to read a novel by someone who had a fleeting idea about it. That is the problem with pulp novels, isn’t it? I could never articulate it before, but the word ‘fleeting’ is poignant—what I find most irritating about ‘cookie cutter’ authors like Danielle Steele and E.L. James is that their work is flippant. Like they were making tea—or *cough-cough* reading a popular teen trilogy—and thought, fleetingly, ‘Hey, I could write a book.’
Sure, why not.
Anybody can write a novel, just like anybody can be prime minister or anybody can be a reality TV star. So go ahead and join NaNoWriMo, and write your 50,000 words, and leave them unedited to collect digital dust on your hard drive. Why not? Because maybe your whim to write is fleeting. That is fine. But let those who are haunted be read. Haunting words are anything but fleeting. And they are not exclusive to November.
