I’ve been writing novels since I was young. I’ve worked weird jobs that have no relation to each other. My career path is something like a haze, not a line. I’m tired.
Been reading about Herman Melville. His career imploded when he published his masterpiece, Moby-Dick. The public hated the nihilism, the existential angst. Only in the 1920s was his artistic reputation revived. He was already dead. This brilliant, sensitive man struggled economically and emotionally and died a failure.
I don’t have the power of awards and publications, foundations and fellowships behind me. I work for my bread. Not that hard, maybe, but I show up and do it. I’m a working stiff in the knowledge marketplace. Nobody is reading my books, that I know of. Agents don’t get back to me. Editors are silent. It’s a raging poo-party, and thank you for reading.
Friends and family encourage me to try traditional publishing, after two self-published ramblings fell flat. I’ve grossed some $400 from publishing, if I remember right. Expenses of over $2000 offset this to a fat net in parentheses. At least I’m a saver.
Don’t go into art if you aren’t an artist. If you want a bourgeois life, be bourgeois. Believe me, you can’t mix the world of your middle-class upbringing and the world of your upward aesthetic ascent. The one is downward focused, plumbing the earth; the other charts the heavens, but will never get there.
Still, I relish this life of disappointment, frustration, and indefinite suspension. Without the angst, what source would the art-urge have? I know fully that I live in my own reality, cut off from you all by strange walls of craft and imagination. I call myself a writer, but who else does? You’ve never heard of me, or else you know me personally. If you do, I thank you. Don’t give up on me. I have more writings coming soon. They will disarm some of you, disturb some others of you. Some of you will nod and say, “that’s just how it is.” Some of you will wonder if I’ve grown up at all. Luckily, it doesn’t matter.