Tuesday, October 07, 2003
What else should I be
All apologies
At some point last night, in a bright crevice between self-doubt and depression, it occurred to me that perhaps it's time to "lighten up" here in the blog, before someone else at a reading asks Neil Gaiman to tell me to lighten up. So, I sat down at the iBook this morning with every intention of all but apologizing for my concerted and unrelenting glumness. After all, I finished the book. It was a very hard book to finish, the hardest to date, and now I should be glad of THE END and, if not celebrate, at least lighten up. Yeah? But as Poppy so eloquently wrote of her own newborn, The Big D, in her latest livejournal entry, it's not really finished. Sure, the pregnancy has ended, but where the hell's the money for a good pre-school coming from? Murder of Angels won't really be finished for quite some time, and, meanwhile, there's all this other dren. I'd love to lighten up. I would. Really.
No, really.
I think, though, that I feel some duty (probably misguided, I'll grant that) to exist here, in this space, as a counterbalance to writers who drone on and on about the "joys of the craft" and blah, blah, blah. There seem to be so many of that sort, those pleasant souls, and so few who, like me, find that writing — the act, the business, the art, the theory, etc. — is not dissimilar from any other chronic pain. I swear, sometimes it seems there are writers who are trying to recruit other unsuspecting innocents to this life of constant uncertainty and unbounded frustration. Then maybe I'm the anti-recruiter. Of course, I've become a cynical anti-recruiter, so I know that none of what I say will sink in, that I'm no match for the anglerfish lure romance of the "writer's life."
Pretty lights. All you ever desire in that dangling glow. Just reach out and grab it.
Pretty lights and fast jaws and sharp teeth.
If I had a choice in the matter, I think I would be no one's inspiration, ever, at least not as regards writing. Or, rather, if I must inspire, if I have no say in the matter, let it be only by way of my work, not these damned footnotes.
Footnotes, at best.
As Jhonen V. said, "I feel sick."
Anyway. Smiles and happiness and sunshine.
I'm still pondering whether or not to change the title of Murder of Angels, to avoid confusing the excessively literal of mind. I feel like I should at least say that this isn't really a book about angels because, yes, Virginia, people really are that stupid. I keep thinking of the readers who complained about Silk not really being about "a war in Heaven," you know, the way that all those Prophecy movies were. Or the Publisher's Weekly reviewer who complained that despite the title, Silk was neither smooth nor sexy.
And speaking of Silk, here's a paragraph from a recent Amazon.com "review" that does absolutely nothing to spark that faith I've never had in humanity:
The characters, however, are a weakness in my opinion: they're losers, people who actually care about the difference between deathrock and Goth, kids who have no apparent interests, goals or dreams beyond drugs, casual affairs and garage bands. I'd say that -- without using the criterion of literal age -- there are no adults in this book. I had a hard time sympathizing with these pathetic, soullessly conformist waifs.
Jesus. Why do I even bother?
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