Here’s a confession:
I often go back and reread my old posts. And I find I’m entertained by myself.
What does this say about me? Does this make me an asshole? (Not a belligerent, kick-sand-in-your-face kind of asshole, but more of the boorish, self-satisfied type). Or maybe we all do it. If you’re keeping an open blog rather than a private journal, then in some small or large part, you are proud of yourself. Which isn’t wrong in and of itself; I suppose the trick is not to be overly proud.
I also go back and reread those two lonely issues of Armada once in a while. We did a good thing there, and I don’t know that we’ll ever get back to doing it. I read them and I’m amazed at the level of writing, especially the work that came from absolute strangers. And the work from our friends—I knew that to be great long before we published it, but seeing it the context of a journal makes me appreciate it so much more.
And my story: I’m proud of that. It’s not very often that I think about writing fiction anymore; usually only after I’ve just talked to Bill. But after glancing over “Michael Meagher” a little earlier, I have been thinking about writing for most of today. It’s a good story, and it has inspired and disheartened me ever since. I think of it as this unrepeatable phenomenon—the work of a few hours; emerging fully-formed from the frothing foam, riding a seashell (as it were). But reading it again, I remember how different it was in the original draft. I rewrote and rewrote and rewrote that goddamn story until I was sick of it. Then I put it away, gave it to Bill for editing two years later, and then rewrote some more. I suppose I’ve realized that I'm no more or less skilled than I was when I wrote this story, it’s just the discipline that’s missing. And that can be fixed.
I often go back and reread my old posts. And I find I’m entertained by myself.
What does this say about me? Does this make me an asshole? (Not a belligerent, kick-sand-in-your-face kind of asshole, but more of the boorish, self-satisfied type). Or maybe we all do it. If you’re keeping an open blog rather than a private journal, then in some small or large part, you are proud of yourself. Which isn’t wrong in and of itself; I suppose the trick is not to be overly proud.
I also go back and reread those two lonely issues of Armada once in a while. We did a good thing there, and I don’t know that we’ll ever get back to doing it. I read them and I’m amazed at the level of writing, especially the work that came from absolute strangers. And the work from our friends—I knew that to be great long before we published it, but seeing it the context of a journal makes me appreciate it so much more.
And my story: I’m proud of that. It’s not very often that I think about writing fiction anymore; usually only after I’ve just talked to Bill. But after glancing over “Michael Meagher” a little earlier, I have been thinking about writing for most of today. It’s a good story, and it has inspired and disheartened me ever since. I think of it as this unrepeatable phenomenon—the work of a few hours; emerging fully-formed from the frothing foam, riding a seashell (as it were). But reading it again, I remember how different it was in the original draft. I rewrote and rewrote and rewrote that goddamn story until I was sick of it. Then I put it away, gave it to Bill for editing two years later, and then rewrote some more. I suppose I’ve realized that I'm no more or less skilled than I was when I wrote this story, it’s just the discipline that’s missing. And that can be fixed.
Comments
Of course, I'm easily entertained by cereal box ingredient lists and instructions printed on bottles of detergents.
Who the fugg am I to say what's good?
I like how Blogger doesn't let me put my blog information in the comments anymore.