Enter Title Here. Confirm Navigation. My computer’s in my pocket, with me in the toilet, between my legs when I’m driving, on my lap now. It’s a pet that doesn’t need water or parasite treatments, a pet that talks back to me with little prompts and commands. It opens portals, portkeys to others around the world.
Don’t publish everything you write. That’s good advice, I read. It used to be, I’d create telephone books worth of rants on typewritten pages, but it didn’t go anywhere and no one read it. We don’t even need telephone books anymore; people won’t know what they were someday and think it a bad idea.
Now, your drafts are as good as paper in some sense, and more lasting. But the irony is, it all feels impermanent and we treat the format that way. I take my time with a handwritten card because I know I’ve only got one shot at it: it may get saved, and I only use pens.
I’ve had a hard time posting the past few days. I’ve tried writing about that but the truth is, I don’t like reading about other people’s problems writing. I have a backlog of drafts but when I read them, it makes me feel limp.
Bob Dylan has a line in the song “Queen Jane Approximately,” from 1965: “That you’re tired of yourself and all of your creations.” He’s part talent, nerve, and passion. The nerve seems to string it together.