Finally, I told myself not to give up.
Keep on going, keep on doing it.
I’m 58 and I have been writing seriously for half a century. I keep going, I stop sometimes, it can be a few years. Back it goes. I am at the keyboard, doing, hoping.
I am too caught up in success, the prospect and the lack thereof. It is no wonder, where I grew up, where I am from. It is cultural, from the generations of Jews striving, in affluence or not there yet. At this point, it is quite possibly genetic. Worth in life = achievement and accolades and the attainment of commercial gain. That’s just it.
It should be for the joy, the fun – yes, I often find it fun – the practice. Craft. Do it for the craft! I try. I try.
I have known profoundly snobby and unhelpful jerks and also wonderfully generous people in the arts. I am grateful to all, for different reasons.
I am back at the foundation of AH HERE WE GO, a novel nascent 15 years ago, and then renewed with great vigor before the pandemic. I am so thankful for how that return to the manuscript came into being.
Things fell through. They fell through 28 years ago with my first book. The deal fell off the conference table at Grove. I’ve repeated the word “fell” three times; no accident there. I was devastated. In the future, other disappointments. It is par for the course, in the arts. Expect the crestfallen.
I am sweeping negativity out of the door, into the gutter and down the sewer with a garden hose.
I’m 58, I’ve not yet published. So fucking what. I’m good at what I do. I know it. Professionals in the arts (different industries) have told me so, sometimes unreservedly. So I have some exterior bolstering of my personal knowledge.
I was thick in the manuscript this afternoon. My printer snagged, and so I went here, to the cork board.
Writing is the best feeling ever. What happens after, in the course of bringing work forward, to the marketplace, does not feel good.
Update 12/17/2024:
I love what I do. I am not a failure.
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