A man with base instincts, I pride myself in probity. A man with salty lips for the drink, I'll tell you I'm fond. Good intentions and soothing words galore, I'll be the first to tell you I come up short in the Friend Department. I don't see nothin' wrong with an unrighteous shortcut to a Good Feeling and I likewise won't bear false witness about the method and means. I run polar to the bombastically sanctimonious and on meridian with the most noble in the alley, in more ways than I'm terrified to admit.
Upon this mantle of self-bestowed honor I am building a nest of lies. I am asked the purpose of my relocation to New Orleans and I invariably respond about the seven-year itch and the need for more space. The chance to belong to a community and maybe the taste of dad-gam delicious Cajun fare. If we're really talking, I just might mention that I want to fall in love. But so convinced in my own deceit do I become that even I forget the true reason. At least in conversation. Every now and then I get those Quiet Nights, the ones where I put on a little music, pull a little bit from the pipe, exhale and stare out at a quiet city downwind; the ones where I stare into the still pond and see my reflection from the outside. And I remember. It's just one I don't really want to tell.
I decided to write my first novel with the same glee my younger version would have received 50-yard line seats for a Buffs game, the whole endeavor teeming with excitement and entitlement, not a little pride and fear. There was a sense of purpose and identity. There was an engineer's trust in the machinery and a pioneer's faith in the destination. There was an agent who showed her own confidence in my thought bubbles and a few friend's lent their paddles for encouragement along the way.
And then I saw how the sausage was made. Not the writing, at least in terms of production. It may not have rolled off the assembly line with a degree of efficiency pleasing to Mr. Ford, but it did roll, and I'll be goddamned to hear anyone say that thing don't got a gas pedal and a passenger seat. I just don't know if I rolled out a pristine 1934 Bentley or a rust-colored and blood-stained 1984 Chevette. The market is supposed to decide that for me. But the market is not deciding. Or, better said, my salmon's not yet allowed to spawn in that stream. I've not been given clearance from the tower and entry into the Big Presses, the sidewalk rags, the urban journals we're all supposed to have read before having brunch with the Sleek-Framed Spectacled of the learned world. My only remnants are odd blogs and the giant manuscript taking a giant shit on my hard drive. It's lonelier than sad masturbation and piercing like divorce with the same exact, aspired and unattained middle that towers above the two each time. Say hello to the writer, working at his day job. Say hello to the writer, feeling sorry for himself. Say hello to the quiet one agonizing over his existence and ordering another drink.
Somewhere in these depths I saw another novel. Set in New Orleans. Written in contemporary times. There is no other mind that could see or voice that could deliver, so I, north of thirty and inching further, had to decide if It was going to be done. It could just be another fuel-inefficient, busted mid-80s domestic with a negative Blue Book value; could be the first feasible electric. All I knew was that I was the only automaker with the blueprints.
So I decided to write and that implied the relocation and that has led to all sorts of life disruptions and disassociations. And my well-concealed shame at not actualizing the dream the first time around means that I'm not quite comfortable telling the body public. Better to talk about cost-of-living and year-round okra. In my guise and soft untruths and unmooring from home port I have at least not forgotten my purpose, if only on these Quiet Nights. When the bus arrives and the bags are unpacked, I will appreciate the space and the chance to read my book by porchlight. I'll manufacture the rent and learn a strange custom or two. And when the time comes, the destiny returned and words sweating off my tongue, I'll sit down and pound the keyboard each night for an hour or two, see what comes out. For a couple years at least, I'll be content to be a work in progress and a rare among the Gray Hairs to keep chasing them silly flies called dreams. O a writer's life for me.
Upon this mantle of self-bestowed honor I am building a nest of lies. I am asked the purpose of my relocation to New Orleans and I invariably respond about the seven-year itch and the need for more space. The chance to belong to a community and maybe the taste of dad-gam delicious Cajun fare. If we're really talking, I just might mention that I want to fall in love. But so convinced in my own deceit do I become that even I forget the true reason. At least in conversation. Every now and then I get those Quiet Nights, the ones where I put on a little music, pull a little bit from the pipe, exhale and stare out at a quiet city downwind; the ones where I stare into the still pond and see my reflection from the outside. And I remember. It's just one I don't really want to tell.
I decided to write my first novel with the same glee my younger version would have received 50-yard line seats for a Buffs game, the whole endeavor teeming with excitement and entitlement, not a little pride and fear. There was a sense of purpose and identity. There was an engineer's trust in the machinery and a pioneer's faith in the destination. There was an agent who showed her own confidence in my thought bubbles and a few friend's lent their paddles for encouragement along the way.
And then I saw how the sausage was made. Not the writing, at least in terms of production. It may not have rolled off the assembly line with a degree of efficiency pleasing to Mr. Ford, but it did roll, and I'll be goddamned to hear anyone say that thing don't got a gas pedal and a passenger seat. I just don't know if I rolled out a pristine 1934 Bentley or a rust-colored and blood-stained 1984 Chevette. The market is supposed to decide that for me. But the market is not deciding. Or, better said, my salmon's not yet allowed to spawn in that stream. I've not been given clearance from the tower and entry into the Big Presses, the sidewalk rags, the urban journals we're all supposed to have read before having brunch with the Sleek-Framed Spectacled of the learned world. My only remnants are odd blogs and the giant manuscript taking a giant shit on my hard drive. It's lonelier than sad masturbation and piercing like divorce with the same exact, aspired and unattained middle that towers above the two each time. Say hello to the writer, working at his day job. Say hello to the writer, feeling sorry for himself. Say hello to the quiet one agonizing over his existence and ordering another drink.
Somewhere in these depths I saw another novel. Set in New Orleans. Written in contemporary times. There is no other mind that could see or voice that could deliver, so I, north of thirty and inching further, had to decide if It was going to be done. It could just be another fuel-inefficient, busted mid-80s domestic with a negative Blue Book value; could be the first feasible electric. All I knew was that I was the only automaker with the blueprints.
So I decided to write and that implied the relocation and that has led to all sorts of life disruptions and disassociations. And my well-concealed shame at not actualizing the dream the first time around means that I'm not quite comfortable telling the body public. Better to talk about cost-of-living and year-round okra. In my guise and soft untruths and unmooring from home port I have at least not forgotten my purpose, if only on these Quiet Nights. When the bus arrives and the bags are unpacked, I will appreciate the space and the chance to read my book by porchlight. I'll manufacture the rent and learn a strange custom or two. And when the time comes, the destiny returned and words sweating off my tongue, I'll sit down and pound the keyboard each night for an hour or two, see what comes out. For a couple years at least, I'll be content to be a work in progress and a rare among the Gray Hairs to keep chasing them silly flies called dreams. O a writer's life for me.
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