T 6303

He steps out of the shower and into the unforgiving light of the washroom. She sits on the toilet peeing. He sighs. We’re not sexy, he says.

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T 6302

Her boss came over to her desk and said, You need more emotion here. She sighed. And added an exclamation mark to the text. There, she said.

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T 6301

He storms into the company kitchen and starts breaking things. He’s overworked, his colleagues whisper. Where are the damn donuts? he yells.

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T 6300

The room emptied and they were left alone. In love. He said, I’m still in therapy. She touched his hand. I can make you worse, she promised.

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T 6299

I step into the elevator. Is that deodorant or perfume? I ask. To no one but everyone seems offended. And I feel alone surrounded by people.

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Sometimes The Honesty’s Not Too Much


I was just GMail chatting with a friend and she told me she was at an event with a writer and he was asked: Can anyone be a writer? And the writer was honest enough to say NO. I’ve been asked this as well. I often respond with a question of my own (which, I must admit goes against one of the most fundamental teachings of my father, but I digress): Can anyone be a football player? The answer to that is obvious. And yet the answer to the first one isn’t. That’s bullshit. Of course it is. Anyone who answers it in the affirmative better check their pants because they are on fire.

We like to tell kids that they can be anything. And at some point, very early on, that’s probably true. And then it isn’t. The “you can be anything” school is damaging. The affirmation movement is about easy outs. Things are hard work. There are a lot of things I’d like to be but can’t. Not won’t. Can’t. So what? There’s honesty and then there’s patronizing. Right?

Perhaps the question should really be “Can anyone be a good writer?” But then again, who defines what’s “good”?

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In Between Days

I have started writing my next novel. I’m not making an announcement, just saying it, in a non grand way (well, why say it at all? you may ask and you would be right to ask it). But after a good six months – it’s more than that, but I’ve been rather single minded the last six months – of thinking and note taking and more thinking and tinkering, and odd moments of discovery (one of the big breakthroughs came while I was dismantling a chicken) I think I have something and have started the actual writing. Not that the last novel is done. It won’t be until it’s published (and that’s more than a year away) and then it still won’t be done; it will need marketing and talking about and selling. My editor will get the manuscript back to me in about a month (she claims) and then I’ll need to work on it some more. But in the meantime, I have a book, it is mapped out, though I’ve already thrown a wrench in the map – mixed metaphor alert! – and that’s a good thing, writing a novel is a process of discovery and I’m still discovering this story, the voice(s), the ticks that drive the characters. I may become a bit more silent on the social networks here on in, at least for now, as I work on this book, and hope that it doesn’t take as long to complete as my last one. I already have some drama: my agent is retiring (and, as I told him, retiring on your own terms is the result of a life well lived), meaning at some point, I have the agent thing to do all over again (here is the story of my last novel and agent search) and this time, I suppose I’ll need an agent who isn’t near retirement age… (cue the accusations of ageism!)

Writing is exquisite torture. It really is. It is not something that a sane person ever chooses. Rather, it chooses you. Like a pet. Your choice is to ignore your chosen art or not. That’s it. You either decide to do this thing or to put up with the incessant clamor of its overwhelming need. Frankly, it’s a hard fucker to ignore.

Post script: After writing this, I got to work. I really did. This was the result:

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My Very First Stupid Insignificant Tweet

Twitter has been rolling out personal archives to all users and I recently received mine. This is my first tweet (and it’s not what I remember):

 

And this is my first Twister (which I do remember):

 

In the past, I’ve said that just a few days passed between my first tweet and my first Twister. I lied. It was almost a week. In that week, I tweeted about needing another vodka on a flight, I tweeted the contents of a home cooked meal and the wine that accompanied it, you know, basically all the stuff that people who dismiss (or at least who used to, if you dismiss it now you basically hate media) Twitter used to say. I mean, I didn’t care about it either. I read over the few (and thankfully, there are very few) with a growing revulsion, like what you feel in your stomach a few hours after dousing a taco in too much hot sauce. But the fact I got some information wrong (I’ve told the media my first tweet was about the vodka and I’ve repeated it on numerous occasions) says something about memory, about our own reliability to tell our own stories, and also about my need to make my own history sexier (because vodka is sexier than conference calls). Meaning: never believe what you read. Too much.

I started Twitter by creating stuff. The world has too much of it. I think I’ve moved on. I’d like to think what I do there has a point. Except when I’m making jokes about things. That’s just stuff, too.

 

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T 6298

He catches her kissing her laptop. He says, You love that thing too much. She says, Send me a Tweet. And he does. And she reads it. And cries.

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T 6297

He grows tired of making money. It’s never enough, he tells his wife. That’s my line, she says. And he realizes he’s let her down once again.

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