Tag Archives: writer

Trash Talk

Birth of Sasquatch

… Like in a movie, the writer types and concentrates hard and then he rrriiiipsss the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and sets the last page down on a stack of paper that is at least one whole ream and that’s when the writer’s editor calls him on the phone and the writer says “yeah, yeah, I have it now, I’ve just finished, I’m taking it down to UPS and overnighting it to you, it will be there tomorrow morning, on your desk, bright and early” and as the writer sets the manuscript down on the passenger seat of his 2004 Subaru and fast-draws his seatbelt across his precious body he feels a sense of accomplishment and then pulls away from his log cabin and goes down the winding drive to the main road. Suddenly, an eight-foot-tall Sasquatch steps in front of the car and the car’s bumper taps the Sasquatch’s shins and it gets rageful and punches a hole through the engine block of the Subaru with one paw and punches a hole through the chest of the writer with the other. The Sasquatch takes the manuscript because he has heard that after humans take shits they like to wipe their asses with expensive paper and the Sasquatch thinks if its good enough for the humans …

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… Or it’s like when you watch a movie about a journalist breaking the big story but she lives in a small city and her editor thinks she’s an asshole because she never gets her work in on time but when she does it wins all the Pulitzers so why the editor is pissed is a mystery, maybe he has hemorrhoids and needs to use baby wipes when he shits, but anyway …

The journalist lives in a rustic/modernist loft above the city that she writes about, the beat she covers, the stories that are under her purview, and the journalist is sitting at a sleek writing table in front of industrial-strength windows and there is a purple, floofy couch behind her with looseleaf papers and news papers and an iPad strewn all over it and the journalist is listening to an audio recording, transcribing a quote and playing back the audio to see if it matches what the source said, and she types and types and then there is a call from the editor that the journalist lets go to voicemail because he’ll understand once he sees the fucking story, the important thing is to get it all down on paper even though nobody uses paper anymore (eww paper) …

She takes a shit and uses her bidet and as she does, checks her phone. There is a message from the editor saying “this better be worth it” and she thinks you betcha boss man it will be, just give me a sec and as she’s about to leave her bathroom and rush back to her desk and click SEND, there is a knock at the door and she doesn’t want to answer it but maybe it’s the super coming to fix her kitchen sink so she says “hold on a sec” and then the doorbell rings again …

She opens the door and before her stands a Sasquatch wearing coveralls with his name, Maurice, stitched in cursive on his breast pocket and he’s carrying a toilet plunger and he punches his hand through the journalist’s chest and watches as the life drains from her eyes. The Sasquatch proceeds to the bathroom, rips the bidet out of the wall and carries it off like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest …

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Or its like the writer for the new Netflix show who is on set to take notes from the producers who feel that the show needs a new love interest and they want it to be hot and steamy but the thing is the show is about Sasquatches and their lovemaking has yet to be told in any media whatsoever and the writer doesn’t know what to write and he is at his wits’ end (which admittedly isn’t very far) …

This writer wears a helmet and body armor because he’s heard of the Sasquatch-on-writer crime that strikes whenever some bullshit cliched character shows up on a TV show or in a movie: the serious writer living in a cabin in Vermont, the overpaid journalist working some backwater like Utica, or …

The writer for the new Netflix show, he’s a nerd and he likes things that are meta. I’m not sure how I’m going to murder this asshole but I imagine he could get killed through the only open part of his body armor which would be the butthole, yes that’s perfect, all the Sasquatches take turns on his butthole, and now Sasquatch lovemaking has been told through this media so problem solved …

But maybe a more fitting end is that this writer turns into a Sasquatch but not from a Sasquatch bite but from having a Sasquatch take a shit on him, you see the reason there are so few Sasquatch sightings is that to make a new Sasquatch a Sasquatch has to shit on a person, and then that person turns into a Sasquatch upon the next, full toilet flush …

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Self-esteem

It’s been ten years since I published my first book.  I am nowhere near done with my second, The Straw Man.  I never thought it would take longer for Straw Man.  I should be better at this, right?

Is it ok to not want it anymore?  I want to be free of the expectation that it will be the RIGHT thing.  I want what I write to be good, or fuck it.  But I don’t care about what sells.  I never was a “book seller,” I was a writer.  I never was a “successful writer with a plan.”  I just like to do it and it helped me.  It always helped me.  It always made me feel good.  Even if it was bad.  Even if the feelings were bad.  Especially if the feelings were bad.

I have low self esteem.  I rarely feel comfortable in any setting outside of my house.  Even around my family I can feel awkward.  Not my wife and kids, but the rest of them.  They stare at me like I’m an alien.  As they go, so goes the world. 

When I was young I was jealous of all of my friends.  They were confident, seemingly without effort.  In contrast, I rehearsed what I said three times before I spoke, which was often too quiet.  “Speak up!” my friends would say.  Everyone would laugh.  When I would get angry, they acted as though I was overreacting.  Being too sensitive.  I shyly smiled instead.  Not because I was shy but because it afforded me the opportunity to stifle my anger.  Count to ten, then utter, “What I said was …”  Hating myself for it.  Hating them.  That’s exactly right:  although I had close friends, I hated them in those moments. 

When you have abundant confidence, things come to you too easily.  I had to work harder.  Rehearse the comment three times so that it landed; otherwise, be silent.  It wouldn’t just be kinda funny, it would murder.  It wouldn’t be sorta smart, it would be insightful.  It wouldn’t be sad, it would make you cry.  That’s exactly right.  I wanted tears.  I wanted them to feel pain.

When I was confident about my ability to do something, it was always after diligent training.  Martial arts.  Playing the trumpet.  Writing.  But I still couldn’t behave with confidence.  I perceived every slight or criticism as an attack on my fundamentals.

But today those things aren’t me.  This is who I am:  I am loyal, maybe to a fault.  If you go against my family, you are on my shit list.  I’m thoughtful and I care about others.  I’m a nurturer, clearly.  I mean, all I do it futz around taking care of the house and the kids and my wife and the dog.  I might complain or be tired of people’s shit, but I do it.  I always do it.  If I hated caring about others, I wouldn’t do it.

I am not afraid of taking complex information and breaking off a piece for myself.  Whatever I can use.  As I grow older, I find I don’t fear failure as much as I did.  So yes, I haven’t finished Straw Man.  But I don’t fear it becoming a mess.

Now I will eat peanut butter and go to bed.

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