Tibor Nemeth said photo shoots are weird. He’s right.
Yesterday I sat for my author photo, courtesy of the aforementioned Tibor. It wasn’t a terrible time—thanks to Tibor, he of the Lance Armstrong/Michael Jordan/Tiger Woods photo shoots—but still. I kept reminding myself to relax and breathe and think about something other than the camera. A Buddhist monk said to try not thinking about an elephant, and see where that gets you; I should’ve thought about an elephant.
So it continues to rain, good for the thirsty veggies in our garden but bad for tomatoes. We found a rotting mouse in the basement, jaw agape, fur scattered—Gothic undertones are in abundance these days. Holliston is soaked, the skies are a pewter wash, and Scout lies in his bed, gazing at the backyard.
“How’s summer school?” goes a few of your emails, and I’m happy to report summer school is nearly finished. I have two books in the pipeline: JTB, in need of edits and restructuring, and book #4, in need of another 200 pages. The Matt Scudder graphic novel project—there, I’ve spilled the beans; yes, that Matt Scudder, from Lawrence Block’s long-running series—is in the hands of a publisher. Larry and I await word.
Thirty-six is turning out to be a strange year. I feel ageless in some sense, and told Rachel that my loyalties are slipping away. By that I mean anything hinting of favoritism—to country, religion, ideology—seems wrong, and repulsive, and deserves to be shed like an old skin. I suspect this is the result of my existential un-mooring a few months back. A quest to slice away bias, perhaps, as much as one can do without getting ridiculous. Of course I’d take a bullet for family and not some stranger—let Kant judge—but that’s favoritism I can accept (especially since the odds of having to take said bullet are extremely low).
But as I stare out the window of my shed, rain pattering on the roof, I realize perhaps the only place I feel truly comfortable is in my own head. This isn’t any revelation—how many other writers say the same thing?—nor is it a requirement for the writing life. It is, however, a requirement for a life of mostly solitude. And writers face that life. Most days it’s welcome, and easy, and better than pretending the most recent invitation will be fun. But when it rains, and the shed is too quiet, and I’ve abandoned Rachel to the creak and crack of our home…those days the writing reveals itself to be one thing: a push against loneliness.
Of course this always helps.
Comments on this entry are closed.