me and Jack
I've now been officially retired for three months- or, onto my encore career as a full time writer. The whole deal is still very strange. I can feel the weight off my neck- my job was very stressful- and I am really enjoying not having that same pressure- but I do feel a bit lost. I think my identity was very tightly wound up with my work, and now I just can't seem to settle down into one thing. I feel like I need to solve some important world problem- shouldn't I be working on world hunger or malaria or even something local, like Boise's problem with finding markets for glass recycling? I can't just enjoy knitting socks, I have to plan how to knit socks for the homeless, out of lanolin rich wool that will also help ward off frostbite. And in among all of this I'm re-evaluating my writing. The unexamined life is not worth living and all that.
Since my retirement I have considered new careers as a cheesemaker, dairy farmer (mini jersys) bookmaker, bookstore owner, artisan sock knitter, historian, POW hunter, and whatever the person is called who develops systems for recycling glass.
So let me quote from Ann Charters biography of Jack Kerouac- "then, as an adult, the fantasy of being the greatest writer in the english language since Shakespeare and James Joyce, and when that sucess didn't come, in desperation, sucessive fantasies of being a drifter, a railroad brakeman, a Zen mountaineer, a holy mystic living on simple foods cooked along lonely streams...This stream of fantasies, visions, myths, dreams, vanities- Kerouac used all these words for them- made up his life. They were the legend that he felt his life became..."
Let me say, first, that I believe J.K. is one of the greatest writers in the English language. Let me also say that it has always been my intention to be the same. Clearly Jack and I were kidnapped by the same gypsy tribe, and sold to American parents in Lowell, Mass and Ingelside, Texas. There is no question in my mind the same blood runs through our veins.
I'm frustrated with my writing- I am frequently told by people what's wrong with it, and sales are mediocre. Many readers seem to have an expectation of a certain amount of sex to be delivered up per story, and this is what they are paying for;- they feel cheated when there isn't as much as they expect. I feel the cold shoulder from the GLBT community because I am not one of them, but am writing of them. The quality of my own mind is delivering up drivel, trying to make all these critics, myself included, happy.
So Jack drank, and hitched across country, and I feel like doing the same thing. I can't since I am a mother but I do eat pizza to excess and knit socks and refuse to write like I'm punishing myself. I'm not willing to admit Jack isn't a great writer, one of the greatest, and I also am not ready to give up on myself. But I think the only thing to do is become, in my mind, a drifter, a railroad brakeman, a holy mystic, and to write something great. I know that I can, just like Jack knew that his new style of writing was something miraculous. But the new identity will have to be something-- new!
It's hard starting over, because you have to start at the beginning again, but each time you can reshape your identity. When I was a kid, we moved every 2 years- my dad was in the Navy. I loved moving. Between 2nd and 3rd grade, we moved from Connecticut to South Carolina and I changed my name to Sally. (Mother still calls me Sally sometimes). When we moved the next time, I changed it back to Sarah.
I don't know what I'm going to change it to this time.
I think I'm going to ride along with Jack for awhile. I've got two more stories coming out as Sarah Black- Tuareg and Sockeye Love. Sockeye Love is a good story- deeply heart-felt- and a good one to finish on. But after that, I'm going to be writing as someone else. If I can figure out how to do it, I'll write stories that mean something, that can ease pain and soothe a troubled heart and change the world. That's what Jack was trying to do and that's what I'm going to do. I better go knit some more- my toes are cold, and think up a cool new name.
Since my retirement I have considered new careers as a cheesemaker, dairy farmer (mini jersys) bookmaker, bookstore owner, artisan sock knitter, historian, POW hunter, and whatever the person is called who develops systems for recycling glass.
So let me quote from Ann Charters biography of Jack Kerouac- "then, as an adult, the fantasy of being the greatest writer in the english language since Shakespeare and James Joyce, and when that sucess didn't come, in desperation, sucessive fantasies of being a drifter, a railroad brakeman, a Zen mountaineer, a holy mystic living on simple foods cooked along lonely streams...This stream of fantasies, visions, myths, dreams, vanities- Kerouac used all these words for them- made up his life. They were the legend that he felt his life became..."
Let me say, first, that I believe J.K. is one of the greatest writers in the English language. Let me also say that it has always been my intention to be the same. Clearly Jack and I were kidnapped by the same gypsy tribe, and sold to American parents in Lowell, Mass and Ingelside, Texas. There is no question in my mind the same blood runs through our veins.
I'm frustrated with my writing- I am frequently told by people what's wrong with it, and sales are mediocre. Many readers seem to have an expectation of a certain amount of sex to be delivered up per story, and this is what they are paying for;- they feel cheated when there isn't as much as they expect. I feel the cold shoulder from the GLBT community because I am not one of them, but am writing of them. The quality of my own mind is delivering up drivel, trying to make all these critics, myself included, happy.
So Jack drank, and hitched across country, and I feel like doing the same thing. I can't since I am a mother but I do eat pizza to excess and knit socks and refuse to write like I'm punishing myself. I'm not willing to admit Jack isn't a great writer, one of the greatest, and I also am not ready to give up on myself. But I think the only thing to do is become, in my mind, a drifter, a railroad brakeman, a holy mystic, and to write something great. I know that I can, just like Jack knew that his new style of writing was something miraculous. But the new identity will have to be something-- new!
It's hard starting over, because you have to start at the beginning again, but each time you can reshape your identity. When I was a kid, we moved every 2 years- my dad was in the Navy. I loved moving. Between 2nd and 3rd grade, we moved from Connecticut to South Carolina and I changed my name to Sally. (Mother still calls me Sally sometimes). When we moved the next time, I changed it back to Sarah.
I don't know what I'm going to change it to this time.
I think I'm going to ride along with Jack for awhile. I've got two more stories coming out as Sarah Black- Tuareg and Sockeye Love. Sockeye Love is a good story- deeply heart-felt- and a good one to finish on. But after that, I'm going to be writing as someone else. If I can figure out how to do it, I'll write stories that mean something, that can ease pain and soothe a troubled heart and change the world. That's what Jack was trying to do and that's what I'm going to do. I better go knit some more- my toes are cold, and think up a cool new name.