The Sisyphean task of the writer is to try to create a book which gives the thrill and satisfaction of being a reader. But the writer’s own book can never do this for the writer. Other books may still do this to the writer, but the writer can never derive equal satisfaction from their own work. Like the cursed on the deck of the ship, there is water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. The surest sign of an amateur, or someone who is preoccupied with making products of their writing, is the way the work never fails to slake. If you are pursuing something more, you must relentlessly investigate the qualities of your thirst.
"On a stage a horse or a dog that is not plaster or cardboard causes uneasiness. In the theatre, looking for truth in the real is fatal." (Robert Bresson)
"She wasn’t lonely or unloved. Well, she was unloved in the deeper senses of the word but that was fine, she’d had enough love of the deeper types, painful and ever echoing, the rancorous marriages that make it hard for you to earn a dependable solitude." (From DeLillo’s Underworld)
Many thanks to Matt Debenham (@debenham) for inviting me to chat with him on his podcast What Are You Reading?
We talk text adventures, old tech, dead tech, novellas, pinball, publishing, and Medium.
Have a beer with this podcast and it’s pretty much what you’d hear if Debenham and I were sitting at the bar with you.
The first installment of the serialization of my novella is up:
Next installment goes up on Saturday, June 7th.
Next week, a novella I wrote will be serialized on Medium. You can learn a bit more about the project here:
Project launches on Wednesday, June 4 with two short releases.
Soon to be serialized over at Medium. Text adventure. Brotherhood. Elegy. Fishing.
"The biggest single problem since 1980 has been that the publishing industry has been led by the nose by the retail sector. The industry analyzes its strategies as though it were Procter and Gamble. It’s Hermès. It’s selling to a bunch of effete, educated snobs who read. Not very many people read. Most of them drag their knuckles around and quarrel and make money. We’re selling books. It’s a tiny little business. It doesn’t have to be Walmartized."
-Andrew Wylie, interviewed in New Republic
The idea was the lavender of Albuquerque,
to depart from two airports and converge
in a desert city with central meaninglessness
and we had two tickets for that meaninglessness.
One minute I am standing
beside you, parallel in blue
and the next a pain shoots through you
I don’t understand
until I feel it, too.
I have not been entirely honest.
Albuquerque did mean something to me.
It was the imaginary final destination of all our vacations
when I asked my father where we were going.
We’re going to Albuquerque he said
even when we were only going to Mr. Lucky’s Restaurant.
And just now I remember he was still alive when all this happened.
So I must have told him I was going to Albuquerque,
to see the great mystery city of childhood,
which would also have been dishonest.
I was going for many reasons,
not the least of which was your astonished dark hair
against a white sheet in an adobe room.
When I was young I found a letter in a garbage can
written to my father and it was not from my mother.
Grounded, I drove down to where you were.
A hurricane hedged its bets inside the Gulf of Mexico,
and when it passed with no discernable damage
we read Calvino’s Cosmicomics aloud to one another
in parks in afternoons in twilight in the spectrum of lavender.
It was night. Everything was just beginning.
Was this about the formation of our universe?
Was this just about the Big Bang?
Was this about all points of departure?
Was this about all final destinations?
Look how far apart we are now.
My father is dead.
As the man sang: Your signature is red.
I did drive through Albuquerque in a later spring,
when I had finally gathered the mass required to crush
a heart openly.
I descended into Albuquerque at night
in the turbulent vortices between big rigs,
and the idea of Albuquerque’s lavender remained an idea,
because I couldn’t see it
and I couldn’t smell it
and I couldn’t touch it
and Albuquerque was just a flat, black pit in an unfinished valley,
its grid a reflecting pool for old and older stars,
like driving across the floor of a child’s mind imagining Albuquerque.
Still life with shimmers.
When Julie was fifteen, she spent a year abroad in Spain. A week after she left, her parent’s home burned to the ground. No one was injured. The fire started in a neighbor’s renovation next door, but spread easily up the row of narrow old homes, and after two hours battling the blaze, the fire department declared their house a complete loss. It was a breaking news story shot from a helicopter and never followed-up on again. Though she didn’t know it, Julie owned more in her suitcase in Spain than her parents or younger brother owned in San Francisco. The academy in Spain had a policy about acclimating the students to the program, which meant they could not communicate with anyone in the States for the first three weeks of their residency. It was known among faculty as a period of intense and unstable bonds for the students. Because of this, Julie learned of her family’s disaster some time after they had adjusted to the rituals of their displacement. Her parents had moved on from the disorienting trauma and into the rhythm of inconvenience and pragmatic survival, feeling the comforts of home like a cramp in a phantom limb. Occasionally they turned onto a street which would lead them to the gutted house instead of the friends’ house, where they were living. They thought of wearing outfits which had gone to ash. Her father would look at the watch on his wrist and think of the others in his collection with their cracked and blackened faces and wonder why this one over the others should survive. Julie could have deferred her enrollment and returned in a year, but in truth it was convenient she was away. With Julie gone, her parents could rent a smaller apartment during the reconstruction, something more affordable. It would take almost the entire year to rebuild. Because her parents were past the initial shock of the loss, the Facetime conversation was more sedate than it might have otherwise been. If it had happened earlier, her parents would have called her home in an instinct to gather all that remained, to bring her within some imaginary boundary of safety, where they could affirm a wholeness. When they eventually told her, she wanted details they were beyond providing. Her step-mother answered almost any question that would help her see the house by saying, “it’s gone Jules, all of it’s gone,” though Julie only wanted a few small, concrete details to make it real. One insurance photo would have sufficed. Her bedroom had been a hot spot in the fire. It was closest to the redwood deck which had first ignited. She had one dream about it and only one dream: The fire letting itself in the sliding glass door. After that, she took her parents at their equanimity. It was hard to force the feeling of a deeper absence of a place when she was already absent from the place. So she let it go. The reconstruction was complete a week before she was due home. They rebuilt the house with the same floorplan as the original, though there had been the possibility of renovations and re-imagined rooms. By the time Julie returned home from Spain, the house was the same and not the same. It was a shell of familiar spaces without the wear due the familiarity. It smelled of new paint and hardwood floor varnish. The livingroom’s flatscreen was larger. Her room was her room without evidence of her, as though a cleaning service had been too thorough. The wrong furniture was in the right places. And in a way, Julie fit perfectly with the new house. She came home with the subtle physical changes of time and her Spanish adventure. Her parents had come to expect all that would be returned to them would be returned to them in a new form. Her small unfamiliaritities felt anticipated, a part of the portfolio of loss and restitution. Not all were obvious (the short hair, the habit of lining her lips), but what was hidden (fumbling frottage with an Irish boy, the ill of a Portuguese Rioja) was also part of the gap. The fire had also made her an expatriate of her family. Aligned on the couch, the brother half her age nestled against impending bedtime, she saw herself outside the year of their displacement. Their referent was a disaster she had missed, and somehow, that was her fault.