Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Old Dogs

"Don't get your panties all in
a bunch, I was coming to the
good part about the drunken cat."

I initially wrote this (the part written in bold) on April of 2012 feeling down in the dumps and by May of 2012 I was languishing in a melancholia that engulfed my 67th birthday by May 9. "Happy Birthday to me" fell on my two deaf ears. 

"I tried many times to begin a new novel, yet I feel a complete lack of motivation for writing fiction, afraid of writing a non-fiction that may reveal my 'real self' being overwhelmed in the fluidity of an obnoxious self-indulgent weird depressive state, better put as a "who-cares-old-dog" mentality. I "bark" about politics, lying politicians, and people in general, along with other nonsensical life debates, having little use for the illusion of what others deem thoughtful considerations. A loss of the need for writing corresponds with my banal pursuit of meaning which is more like a game of triviality rather than any pursuit of knowledge." Then memories catch up with the ache in my loins -- a Biblical reference, surely -- and a multitude of memories leap into my brain screaming at me to quit complaining as I'm one lucky-old-dog to still be aching or breathing for that matter.

Now for the revised part:

Still, lucky dog or not, my writing has suffered direction and purpose if either ever existed in the first place even as I wrote Drunken Duck. To say it has not been a commercial success is an understatement, and reviews even by those I know personally have been complete silence or off-handed criticism or the kindly-meant caveat "the least you can say is you completed and got your novel published." I'm not complaining, I'm simply stating fact. If, somehow I count the silences along with the well-meaning criticisms and caveats, as possibly unfavorable or noncommittal reviews, I've had one favorable critique by a woman who I know from the office at my condo complex who after reading my novel said, "Wow!" Whatever she meant by wow, I didn't ask, I took it as a compliment. One is better better than none.

To finish, if I remember correctly the criticism of Van Gogh was ferocious and he didn't sell a painting until after he cut his ear off and was dead . . . I've had some sales and I think I'll keep both of my ears on for the present time if for nothing more than to listen to Lady Gaga.

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