when i read about you <insert comma splice here should you so desire> i have in mind the you(s) i read about in the sunday book review pages of both the l.a. & n.y. times–& i think, “oh, that would have been a good topic, why didn’t i think of that?” or “could i manage to create & maintain that story line for however long?” or “would there be a unifying theme in all of the works as there were in colm toibin‘s recent short story collection, the empty family?”
when i read about you this afternoon in the new yorker; a short story written by robert coover that was concise & stream-of-consciousness-y & short & ever-so-slightly magical & it made me think (actually gave me hope) that there might be a place somewhere for my own writing. for as much as i enjoy my blog, i, like so many, feel that it should somehow go somewhere, you know, take me somewhere. oh shit, let’s be frank; i’d like to make something of my creativity. it doesn’t have to be a giant something, i often think that the recognition would be enough (if you’re a publisher or literary agent, please disregard the previous statement,) but that validation would be immeasurably (not true, it definitely could be measured) reassuring & encouraging.
when i read about you i know there’ll be a lot of rejection & that i have to just keep moving forward with it, because, at last, it seems to be coming out of me at a clip faster than ever before. it’s possible that the medium is the message (in this case, the ease with which each of us are authors in today’s digital hour/second–i would have said ‘age’ but my god, it’s more than that, isn’t it?)
when i read about you, i am startled & amazed by the diversity of ideas that have bubbled up & yet how each of you (you short story writers, you memoirists — is that even a word?), seem to plumb the depths & pipes & brick-lined paths of your lives to bring us each a new life & i despair of ever finding that within me. it’s not the first book, or even the first story that has me running scared; it is the second & the third (look at that monster, that bête noire of a never-ending-stream of books & stories, stephen king, should you not understand with what terror i think about the actual act of writing as a living, he is, after all, a monument to expressiveness.)
when i read about you i believe now is the time that writing has become my favored way of communicating who i am, what i think; it is not just words that come together as thoughts, but it is the physical me, the ‘pinch me’ me, me who will cry if you hit me & smile if you kiss me me (meme, it’s not lost on me–i’ll stop that now,) do you understand?
& finally, when i read about you, a little bit of me calves, a continent of ice breaks off & bobs into the frigid sea of your intelligence & your you, your intangible essence, the blue of your iris, the hair on your knuckles, that jagged little incisor that peaks out between your lips when you smile, all of those parts that make you, make me.