Listening to: “Time to Pretend” – MGMT
Phew, finally got a bit of a reprieve from this crazy carnival ride called Having Three Jobs. Praise be to the theater gods for a slow weekend.
Though I shouldn’t count my chickens yet–it’s not people with oodles of free time who are still at their offices at quarter to seven on a Thursday night. So I got some more shit to do. Yeah. Go fuck yerself.
Ah sorry, dear reader. I don’t mean you. I mean other you.
I think I’ve finally had something of a breakthrough vis-a-vis “The Price of Rootlessness.” Finally got an end of the road in mind for ol’ Charlie and Scats. It was an idea I had awhile ago, but thought was too stupid to make work. But I think it might just be stupid enough to be the best line to follow. Now I just gotta write the fucking thing.
Midnight’s Children has made me feel like it’s OK to work on a wide canvas. Rushdie was but a humble adman working in London when he was writing what would become The Great Indian Novel. When it comes to fiction, there ought to be no such thing as hubris (in the drafting stage, anyway).
My preoccupation with comic book autobiographies continues–I just polished off Fun Home by Alison Bechdel. A highly literate, layered, melancholy, funny little thing. Probably won’t have the staying power of Persepolis, but it’s pretty great shit. I usually don’t like reading autobiographies all that much (Another Bullshit Night in Suck City and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius aside), but there’s something about the genre in graphic form that seems so right.
I think it has something to do with the fact that life is messy, memory is never linear, and the combination of pictures and words allows for much more tangents. “Wheels within wheels,” like Lethem says in Motherless Brooklyn.
As for my own story, and all those who keep asking me what’s up next: I’m working on it. Sometimes everything gets so crumpled together, all you can manage is a day at a time. I’ll adopt the long view when I get the chance.