10 April 1983: As Rick Bloxam
This is part of the reason I avoided getting one of these things, because I was enjoying the authorial hermitage stereotype, I truly was, you know, the only people who read the things I wrote were people who read the things I wrote, not a great population in total, but.
But this is exactly why I didn't want one of these journals, because then something like this would come up and instead of any sort of mystique I'd wind up saying something like this.
I just wrote an ending. It may not be the ending (I think it is, but we'll see how I feel about it in the harsh daylight, sod off, daylight) but it's an ending and that's one more ending than I had before. Mind, I could have done something obnoxious, broken the fourth wall, and ended it without resolution because that is life, after all, when is anything resolved, but that's the beauty of fiction. Though I am all about the harsh reflection of reality via the written word, I would generally prefer my readers not to walk away annoyed that I've reminded them that the world is a broken record skipping through the top 40 pop songs that all sound the same while you slave away at the job you tolerate for the sake of a paycheck.
(And yes, John, I'm talking about you.)
I would like to tell you that it is brilliant, but intellectual dishonesty is just not my forte. The best any of us can aim for is mediocrity. This is why we have editors.
Hell of a journey. I'll enjoy the next month or so of edits (if it's that long, or longer, we'll see what they think) so I can spend a bit more time, but I genuinely hate letting go of manuscripts. It's over. Now what the hell do I do?
Henry, you asked for an update and in case you're reading, the plays are on their third printing. If you aren't reading, you need to take a day off because you even have me worried and I've only been hearing rumours about the overwork. Fame is not worth your sanity.
I should eat.
But this is exactly why I didn't want one of these journals, because then something like this would come up and instead of any sort of mystique I'd wind up saying something like this.
I just wrote an ending. It may not be the ending (I think it is, but we'll see how I feel about it in the harsh daylight, sod off, daylight) but it's an ending and that's one more ending than I had before. Mind, I could have done something obnoxious, broken the fourth wall, and ended it without resolution because that is life, after all, when is anything resolved, but that's the beauty of fiction. Though I am all about the harsh reflection of reality via the written word, I would generally prefer my readers not to walk away annoyed that I've reminded them that the world is a broken record skipping through the top 40 pop songs that all sound the same while you slave away at the job you tolerate for the sake of a paycheck.
(And yes, John, I'm talking about you.)
I would like to tell you that it is brilliant, but intellectual dishonesty is just not my forte. The best any of us can aim for is mediocrity. This is why we have editors.
Hell of a journey. I'll enjoy the next month or so of edits (if it's that long, or longer, we'll see what they think) so I can spend a bit more time, but I genuinely hate letting go of manuscripts. It's over. Now what the hell do I do?
Henry, you asked for an update and in case you're reading, the plays are on their third printing. If you aren't reading, you need to take a day off because you even have me worried and I've only been hearing rumours about the overwork. Fame is not worth your sanity.
I should eat.