Snake swallowing its tale
Yes, the misplaced homonym is intended. If we write as an outlet to maintain sanity, why is the writer’s life beginning to drive me insane? I’ll do what I’m sure some writing seminar is built around not doing: give away the answer at the outset. BECAUSE WHAT I’M LIVING IS NOT WRITING; IT’S MARKETING! So fuck that. I learned yesterday from a friend in the know that the best way to build my brand is to give away as many Kindle downloads as I can for free. Digital kindling. Sure, why the hell not; I can embrace the koan that to impart value I have to let go of the idea of value. But even to do this, I have to create passwords and navigate the backpages of some arcane system, when all I really want to do is write. Years ago I went through the workshops that clarify why I write, but I think I got it wrong. It was something lofty about uncovering meaning. The closest I can come to an honest answer today is, to scratch that itch. No one needs an audience for that. In fact, it feels better without one, since it can be damn embarrassing. The writing life provides unique rewards, but they are not financial. The more we stress to measure success in books sold and deals inked, the more writing resembles manufacturing, used car sales, or investment banking. So, as I say at the end of most of my emails, WRITE ON – and leave the rest (in Yeats’ felicitous phrase) to “the noisy set of bankers, schoolmasters and clergymen, / the martyrs call the world.”