We're talking about Black Sheep.
"Last I heard it was 167," I tell him.
"That kinda sucks."
Lately, I've been all kinds of down on the writing gig. Career wise, if you want to call it that, I've definitely got this feel of not moving anywhere. Dead book, ignored in my own country, and a few other whiny moments I could add there, but won't cause I hate the sound of my own whine, and there are people much worse off than me. I got cool things, after all: I get nice reviews whenever I get reviewed, I get offers for shit other people don't, and I've made my life the way I want so I can do this gig. Lot of folk can't. Most days, you get the feel that I'm doing better in the pros column than the cons, but I've been working away at this for thirteen years now and, as I've gone through the last few months with limited cash, and a book time line that's increased simply cause of Life during the last year (starting a business, girls, traveling, the usual) it's starting to feel as if I've got more in the negative side, and my little goal, of reaching a point where I can write what I want and be assured of having an audience that justifies my continual publication, feels like its slipped a bit.
I've been talking bout this round my friends for the last few weeks, and they're probably sick of it (S in particular). There's that line in Raymond Carver's 'Why Don't You Dance?', where he notes that the woman in the story is trying to talk it out of herself, to find some way to come to an understanding, or at least peace of it, if you follow, and I've been trying to do that. Sometimes I'll tell myself that a real job with real money and real benefits and real holidays is the ticket, but it never is. I don't much give a shit about any of those things, after all, and you have to do what you love. But it'd be nice if I did have that dead movement feeling. If I didn't feel as if it came from things outside my control, and things that I have done--this blog cuts both ways, after all, and there's a part of the readership who're thinking that going nowhere is what I deserve--and the niggling sense that I might be pushing through the wrong markets for a bit. That last one I'm not sure of, but the thought sits there.
Anyhow, like Raymond Carver says, you try and talk it out of yourself until you stop cause you're good with it. Or something like that.
Mostly, I figure the feeling will hang round till either I hit that sweet patch of things going right, or when I start getting more money, and I can afford to go places, and do things, once again. That shouldn't be so long, I don't imagine, as everything is being dragged back into school.
But, with that said, it's not all whiny bullshit here today.
No. Instead, I also give you Kevin Rudd eating his own ear wax: