One thing I like in Chicago, during the blustery, wintery-windy times, particularly in Fall and Winter proper, is how the wind can make street signs sing. Basically, any of those hollow-bore metal poles that support things like "No Parking" signs and what-not -- when the winds are strong enough, they become like giant flutes, and will carry the sound, resonating up and down them, like how you can make a beer bottle sing, only this is galvanized metal being played, not glass.
Now, it requires a pretty strong wind to do it, but when you pass several of them, all sounding at once, it's neat -- this ghostly city song played, a duet between Man's works and Nature's whims. A chorus of banshees. Usually the poles dance a little, too, buffeted by the winds. It would be fun to find one of the reliably windy areas and put a tape recorder there to capture the sound, although without the poles for context, it's probably not quite the same.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Leaden Skies
Music: "A Passing Feeling," Elliott Smith
Love that song. Most of Elliott Smith's stuff I find I like. A shame he snuffed himself, since he had talent to spare, a great synthesis of songwriting and lyricism. I always hear the Beatles a lot in his sound, like their late era. Perfect music for the leaden wannabe winter skies over the city today.
I never complain about the weather -- to me, any weather is wonderful. There are joys and horrors in all things, and I don't whine about weather. I snapped a photograph of an old building in my neighborhood. It was perfectly framed by the overcast skies and the clawing branches of the leafless trees around it.
My headphones (which I wear nearly all day at work, when at my desk, playing music), catch the static electricity when I move my feet, and make little hissing sounds and popping noises if I deliberately move my feet about on the old workaday carpet here in Bizarroworld.
I'm going to bundle various short stories into a collection and try to pitch that to some agents. Figure might as well have a couple of things going out at the same time, by way of big projects. I've got more than enough stories for a sizable collection, and individually, the stories seem to not be catching the interest of what few venues there are for my fiction, so maybe compiled they'll have some appeal. Have to try, right?
Love that song. Most of Elliott Smith's stuff I find I like. A shame he snuffed himself, since he had talent to spare, a great synthesis of songwriting and lyricism. I always hear the Beatles a lot in his sound, like their late era. Perfect music for the leaden wannabe winter skies over the city today.
I never complain about the weather -- to me, any weather is wonderful. There are joys and horrors in all things, and I don't whine about weather. I snapped a photograph of an old building in my neighborhood. It was perfectly framed by the overcast skies and the clawing branches of the leafless trees around it.
My headphones (which I wear nearly all day at work, when at my desk, playing music), catch the static electricity when I move my feet, and make little hissing sounds and popping noises if I deliberately move my feet about on the old workaday carpet here in Bizarroworld.
I'm going to bundle various short stories into a collection and try to pitch that to some agents. Figure might as well have a couple of things going out at the same time, by way of big projects. I've got more than enough stories for a sizable collection, and individually, the stories seem to not be catching the interest of what few venues there are for my fiction, so maybe compiled they'll have some appeal. Have to try, right?
Monday, November 16, 2009
Movie: ALIEN
I watched "Alien" on DVD the other night. I haven't watched that movie in a very long time. Of course, the scares associated with it are long faded, so I just watch it out of appreciation of Ridley Scott's former cinematic skill as a director (I say "former" because I think he's sold out a bit over the last decade or so). The movie holds up well, still looks futuristic, it's nice seeing those various actors younger, and the alien's monstrous as ever.
One amusement for me was how the lifeboat shuttle only can take three crewpeople -- this on a ship that has seven people aboard. That little details amused me. It's a space freighter capable of lugging 20 million tons of ore, and the Company puts one lifeboat aboard that can only handle three crew? That little detail speaks volumes about the Company's priorities, where the crew is concerned.
That's something I explore in some of my own SF stories -- a kind of "fuck you" attitude toward its astronauts on the part of the sponsoring agency. I like that sardonic flavor of it, versus the old-school "Men In SPAAAAAAACE" grandiosity of the 50s and 60s. I like the idea of the poor bastards being hurled into space and screwed over by the people who are ostensibly there to help them -- I explore that in my story, "Mission Control."
Anyway, I liked that little detail, along with the ship's computer, Mother, being all but nice and kind to her "children" among the crew. The mission's a setup from the outset, the Nostromo is intended to pick up the alien organism from the get-go. And I loved the voice for Mother (which you only hear on the auto-destruct sequence, as she counts down her own death with machinelike precision -- that moment always resonates powerfully with me. I like that detail, since it is just so inhuman and haunting). The voice for Mother isn't the typical sexy female computer voice, but rather, it's the carping, officious tone of a mean old matron -- you can just hear it. Again, Scott's attention to detail back then was wonderful, and yielded rich rewards.
Further, the age of the crew is a nice touch -- nobody's really young aboard the Nostromo. That is a great detail, this sense of mortality and age among a weary, worn crew. It wouldn't have worked if everybody was young and strong and pretty.
Also, I love how most of the crew smokes. In the close confines of a space ship (even a gigantic ore freighter), where oxygen is, at least in theory, at a premium, having them smoke was great.
One amusement for me was how the lifeboat shuttle only can take three crewpeople -- this on a ship that has seven people aboard. That little details amused me. It's a space freighter capable of lugging 20 million tons of ore, and the Company puts one lifeboat aboard that can only handle three crew? That little detail speaks volumes about the Company's priorities, where the crew is concerned.
That's something I explore in some of my own SF stories -- a kind of "fuck you" attitude toward its astronauts on the part of the sponsoring agency. I like that sardonic flavor of it, versus the old-school "Men In SPAAAAAAACE" grandiosity of the 50s and 60s. I like the idea of the poor bastards being hurled into space and screwed over by the people who are ostensibly there to help them -- I explore that in my story, "Mission Control."
Anyway, I liked that little detail, along with the ship's computer, Mother, being all but nice and kind to her "children" among the crew. The mission's a setup from the outset, the Nostromo is intended to pick up the alien organism from the get-go. And I loved the voice for Mother (which you only hear on the auto-destruct sequence, as she counts down her own death with machinelike precision -- that moment always resonates powerfully with me. I like that detail, since it is just so inhuman and haunting). The voice for Mother isn't the typical sexy female computer voice, but rather, it's the carping, officious tone of a mean old matron -- you can just hear it. Again, Scott's attention to detail back then was wonderful, and yielded rich rewards.
Further, the age of the crew is a nice touch -- nobody's really young aboard the Nostromo. That is a great detail, this sense of mortality and age among a weary, worn crew. It wouldn't have worked if everybody was young and strong and pretty.
Also, I love how most of the crew smokes. In the close confines of a space ship (even a gigantic ore freighter), where oxygen is, at least in theory, at a premium, having them smoke was great.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Scene: Shoplifters of the World
I was waiting in line at CVS, a long line, since they only had two registers going, behind this cute young thing buying herself a knee brace, and I heard a commotion behind us in the store. Apparently some guy had been caught stealing eyeliner, and was being confronted by someone -- this sharp-voiced Latina. I wasn't sure if she was an in-store Loss Prevention type or what, but she confronted the guy about the eyeliners, told him to empty his pockets. We're all turned in line to watch this fracas, and the guy, who looks to be perhaps Latin, himself, or Italian, or some other olive-complected soul, with a heavy black coat, a ball cap, and a black goatee-type beard, walks slowly out of the store, with the woman on his heels, telling him the cops were coming, and that she got a good look at him. She was on a cell phone at the time.
The babe ahead of me looked at me like "Huh?" (I could see she had braces on her teeth, which was a nice accompaniment to the knee brace she was getting) and I just said "Busted."
Nobody stopped the guy from leaving the store, although the Loss Prevention people (?) kept after him, watched him slowly walk down Armitage, busy trying to be inconspicuous. After purchasing my stuff, I went to the curb and last saw him near the Irish bar down the way, the River Shannon.
Meantime, I wondered: Eyeliner??
The babe ahead of me looked at me like "Huh?" (I could see she had braces on her teeth, which was a nice accompaniment to the knee brace she was getting) and I just said "Busted."
Nobody stopped the guy from leaving the store, although the Loss Prevention people (?) kept after him, watched him slowly walk down Armitage, busy trying to be inconspicuous. After purchasing my stuff, I went to the curb and last saw him near the Irish bar down the way, the River Shannon.
Meantime, I wondered: Eyeliner??
Scene: Furry
The other day, on the bus ride home, I saw a gay guy clearly out cruising. It amused me, because he was pretty old, but was ogling everybody who boarded, looking for play. That, and his outfit. Oh, my. First, he was balding at the top of his head -- so, he had that bit of a tonsure going, but that didn't stop him from zazzing up his gunmetal gray-silver hair with some product, so he had it spiked up ahead of the tonsure, which was an odd image if you saw him from anything but head-on.
He was wearing some pointy-toed shoes (maybe calf boots? I can't actually remember that), and some fashionable jeans. But the real cornerstone of his ensemble was his fur coat -- waist-length, not a long fur coat, but a brown fur coat -- beaver? Not sure. It was clearly the centerpiece of his get-up, accentuated with some shiny rings. The grizzled rooster hair and that fur coat, oh, man -- priceless! I wanted to photograph him for the sake of fashionable disaster posterity -- a sartorial Hindenberg, he was, and yet he carried it off with a flinty-eyed, hard-won kind of swishy dignity, I suppose: he didn't pretend to be anything but exactly what he was, and he was so clearly out for whatever he could hope to get that night.
Quite a look he had going, like some European sexual tourist run amok. He got off in the Gold Coast, for parts unknown.
He was wearing some pointy-toed shoes (maybe calf boots? I can't actually remember that), and some fashionable jeans. But the real cornerstone of his ensemble was his fur coat -- waist-length, not a long fur coat, but a brown fur coat -- beaver? Not sure. It was clearly the centerpiece of his get-up, accentuated with some shiny rings. The grizzled rooster hair and that fur coat, oh, man -- priceless! I wanted to photograph him for the sake of fashionable disaster posterity -- a sartorial Hindenberg, he was, and yet he carried it off with a flinty-eyed, hard-won kind of swishy dignity, I suppose: he didn't pretend to be anything but exactly what he was, and he was so clearly out for whatever he could hope to get that night.
Quite a look he had going, like some European sexual tourist run amok. He got off in the Gold Coast, for parts unknown.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Scene: Grrl Freitag
I was writing on the bus, on the way to the HP, and a hipster chick sat next to me, dug out her copy of the New Yorker and briefly read it, before popping on some headphones and chilling out. She was average height, black hair, slightly sallow complexion, assiduously plucked eyebrows, black knitted beret, black leather jacket, black skinny jeans, melon-colored socks and black Keds-style canvas sneakers. She had a big turquoise ring on her left middle finger that was two triangular pieces of turquoise pointing toward each other, off-center, like two ships passing by. The overall ring was fairly big. She had a worn, dusky silver-toned messenger bag with "FREITAG" as the label, which amused me, made me want to snap a picture of her -- especially with the whole black ensemble going, except for the nerdy socks. I would have liked if her name was "Tuesday" -- that would've been perfect, seeing Tuesday with her Freitag bag on a Thursday morning.
She sipped at her coffee, kept stealing glances at my notebook while I was writing. Normally it bugs me if people are trying to read over my shoulder (HATE that), but my handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, so I doubt she could read much. Reminds me of when I used to take the South Shore train line, and a couple of teenaged girls marveled at my handwriting, watching me write in a notebook, and one said "What LANGUAGE is that?" in that nasally teenaged way of talking, and I told her it was English, and she asked to see it, and I showed her, and she said "Dude, that writing should be a font!"
Details about Grrl Freitag, let's see... her hair was a brown-black shag, from what I could see, since she had on that beret. The eyebrows stood out to me, just because she'd definitely worked them over a bit -- just short of the point of being too much, in my view, with my whole eyebrow thing. Her upper lip was utterly hairless (a good thing in my view, and if her eyebrows got that kind of attention, no doubt the mustache had no chance!) -- I bring up the upper lip only because she kept nursing her coffee, kept venturing tentative little sips, because obviously it was hot, so it was this kind of dance with her lips perched atop the white Starbucks coffee lid, a beverage tango. With the sun streaming in, her face had turned to gold, which showed a lot of detail, the steam rising from the cup.
That's about it. She loped off the bus, and I kept writing.
She sipped at her coffee, kept stealing glances at my notebook while I was writing. Normally it bugs me if people are trying to read over my shoulder (HATE that), but my handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, so I doubt she could read much. Reminds me of when I used to take the South Shore train line, and a couple of teenaged girls marveled at my handwriting, watching me write in a notebook, and one said "What LANGUAGE is that?" in that nasally teenaged way of talking, and I told her it was English, and she asked to see it, and I showed her, and she said "Dude, that writing should be a font!"
Details about Grrl Freitag, let's see... her hair was a brown-black shag, from what I could see, since she had on that beret. The eyebrows stood out to me, just because she'd definitely worked them over a bit -- just short of the point of being too much, in my view, with my whole eyebrow thing. Her upper lip was utterly hairless (a good thing in my view, and if her eyebrows got that kind of attention, no doubt the mustache had no chance!) -- I bring up the upper lip only because she kept nursing her coffee, kept venturing tentative little sips, because obviously it was hot, so it was this kind of dance with her lips perched atop the white Starbucks coffee lid, a beverage tango. With the sun streaming in, her face had turned to gold, which showed a lot of detail, the steam rising from the cup.
That's about it. She loped off the bus, and I kept writing.
Yessssss
I worked on "Wash, Spin, Rinse..." all morning. It's hot. It's humming along very nicely. It is very much in the spirit of Richard Matheson, one of my influences -- it's my own thing, in my own style, but somebody who likes Matheson would find a lot to like in this story.
It tickles me, writing longhand again. While I don't write as quickly as I type, I like being able to write at will. Of course, with a laptop, I get the best of both worlds, so that just puts a laptop at the top of my to-get list.
But anyway, the story's humming along beautifully. I should be able to bang this one out and then delve back into the PC at home and wrap up the ones I'd mentioned the other day.
It tickles me, writing longhand again. While I don't write as quickly as I type, I like being able to write at will. Of course, with a laptop, I get the best of both worlds, so that just puts a laptop at the top of my to-get list.
But anyway, the story's humming along beautifully. I should be able to bang this one out and then delve back into the PC at home and wrap up the ones I'd mentioned the other day.
Writerly
I started working on "Wash, Spin, Rinse..." yesterday, on the bus ride home. Writing longhand, as is my lot for the moment, until I can afford another laptop. It's going to be an interesting story, I think. The voice of the character flew out of me, male protagonist, snarky, sarcastic, cynical -- sound like anybody you know?
I know I was going to wait on it, but the character's voice started going and I just had to take dictation, get it down. I have these fab Papermate pens I bought at the store the other week -- they're click-pens with black and white patterns on them. Love the patterns and the black and white. Just kinda Mod, I think. I may have to buy a few more packs of them, just to have, before they disappear.
I know I was going to read "The Road," but I paused in favor of an "American Gothic" anthology compiled by Joyce Carol Oates. That's keeping me entertained at the moment, keeps a shade of Halloween alive well past the holiday itself.
I know I was going to wait on it, but the character's voice started going and I just had to take dictation, get it down. I have these fab Papermate pens I bought at the store the other week -- they're click-pens with black and white patterns on them. Love the patterns and the black and white. Just kinda Mod, I think. I may have to buy a few more packs of them, just to have, before they disappear.
I know I was going to read "The Road," but I paused in favor of an "American Gothic" anthology compiled by Joyce Carol Oates. That's keeping me entertained at the moment, keeps a shade of Halloween alive well past the holiday itself.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Not On My Hands
I find when confronted with Halloween-hued Peanut M&Ms (said hues being: black, orange, purple, and chartreuse), I selectively eat the purples and the oranges, getting them out of the way, saving the black and chartreuse ones for last. There are only two left, now, in my little dish: one black, one chartreuse. Those colors, together, look lovely to me. Wicked, like a witch's kiss.
Their time at last has come....
Their time at last has come....
Idea Man
I was surging last night, just had a ton of ideas. I kept jotting them down on a slip of paper, which I kept on me all night, just in case more came (they did). Love when I'm on the creative upswing, surfing the waves of my subconscious. Stories I have to finish...
Of course, I have to repeat the process of pimping stories out to markets, which is proving a little more difficult. I may bundle a baker's dozen of my short stories as an anthology and see if I can get any agency's interest for those.
Speaking of that, I sent out another query for the book. Fingers crossed. I really, really hope something clicks for this one.
- Smartbomb
- Vista
- Old Hickory
- Deadline
- Wash, Spin, Rinse, Shoot, Repeat
- Statuesque
Of course, I have to repeat the process of pimping stories out to markets, which is proving a little more difficult. I may bundle a baker's dozen of my short stories as an anthology and see if I can get any agency's interest for those.
Speaking of that, I sent out another query for the book. Fingers crossed. I really, really hope something clicks for this one.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Scene: Poke-Poke-POKE!
I didn't recognize Muttonchops McGee when he first got on the bus. Actually, I think I almost recognized him, but couldn't quite place him -- red-haired guy with an Edwardian kind of visage to him -- somehow, familiar. I realized once he sat down that it was Muttonchops McGee, but he'd shaved off his signature 'chops. It was his thing. He was a regular feature on the Hyde Park bus. He'd habitually grow his hipster hair out very big, would have these massive muttonchops going, and then at some arbitrary point in the year, he'd get shorn like a sheep and would repeat the process all over again.
Today he looked almost respectable in his blue jeans (holes in the pockets that may have gone all the way through the jeans, not sure), well-worn white canvas sneakers with black laces, a suitably autumnal sweater and an oxford shirt, and a windbreaker. He boarded the bus with his characteristics stone-faced and drowsy bearing, and I would have ignored him but for one thing: he had a woman with him. Girlfriend? Lover? Both?
Bride of Muttonchops McGee was smartly attired -- brown herringbone jacket, navy blue knee skirt, zebra pantyhose, shiny black ballet flats. She was pretty in a bitch-mouthed kind of way -- blue eyes, thick brown hair in a shoulder-lengthed shaggy cut that was tousled just so. Not bedheaded, but just city breeze-blown, or something. Her nose was prominent, eyebrows sculpted, expression someplace between weary and contemptuous. The perfect bookend for Muttonchops McGee.
I watched them while I half-read my Hawthorne ("The Man of Adamant;" and I have to say that while Hawthorne in youth was my broccoli-and-medicine, I have come to strongly admire him over the years, his work and boldness to stick a thumb in the eye of the Puritan morality -- maybe the rise of the fundamentalists makes it extra-satisfying, and that Hawthorne had the courage to call out their hypocrisy way back then. Very bold. Bravo!) -- anyway, the couple dozed in their seats, both of them, side-by-side, their heads bobbing. Muttonchops McGee looking grave even in half-slumber, and his babe's expression not much changing. I noticed she had headphones leading to her bag, a black iPod or equivalent MP3 player of similarly slender and sleek design. She had a claddagh ring of silver on her left middle finger. Maybe that meant they were fuckbuddies? Not sure the code of the claddagh, only know that it's a fun word to say.
On and on the bus went, their heads like gyroscopes, tracking the passage of the vehicle toward the HP. Sometimes one of them would half-awaken, only to drowse off again. Eventually, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he did not react.
Finally, reaching the University campus proper, she basically woke up, her expression not much changed from what it was when she was dozing, and Muttonchops McGee just stay there, eyes shut. Then she poked him in the ribs with an elbow: Poke.
No reaction. Poke-poke.
I could see her eyes on him, head turned.
Poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not acknowledge, did not react.
Poke-pooooooooooooooooooooke.
That last one a long poke, like an extended Morse Code poke rendering, the telegraph operator leaning on the switch awhile. McGee finally opened his eyes, looked at her in annoyance, then leaned a bit away so he was out of range of her elbow.
She smiled to herself, resumed poking. Although the poking was surely annoying, it made me smile, the playful way she was trying to wakeup her douchebag boyfriend. She continued, not realizing I'd noticed this whole little exchange:
Poke. Poke-poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not stir. Then the bus reached their stop, and she got up and walked past him, and McGee opened his eyes and got up, and the two of them walked out, her slightly ahead of him, not reacting overmuch, and then he caught up with her, was talking. My bus went on its way, leaving them behind.
Today he looked almost respectable in his blue jeans (holes in the pockets that may have gone all the way through the jeans, not sure), well-worn white canvas sneakers with black laces, a suitably autumnal sweater and an oxford shirt, and a windbreaker. He boarded the bus with his characteristics stone-faced and drowsy bearing, and I would have ignored him but for one thing: he had a woman with him. Girlfriend? Lover? Both?
Bride of Muttonchops McGee was smartly attired -- brown herringbone jacket, navy blue knee skirt, zebra pantyhose, shiny black ballet flats. She was pretty in a bitch-mouthed kind of way -- blue eyes, thick brown hair in a shoulder-lengthed shaggy cut that was tousled just so. Not bedheaded, but just city breeze-blown, or something. Her nose was prominent, eyebrows sculpted, expression someplace between weary and contemptuous. The perfect bookend for Muttonchops McGee.
I watched them while I half-read my Hawthorne ("The Man of Adamant;" and I have to say that while Hawthorne in youth was my broccoli-and-medicine, I have come to strongly admire him over the years, his work and boldness to stick a thumb in the eye of the Puritan morality -- maybe the rise of the fundamentalists makes it extra-satisfying, and that Hawthorne had the courage to call out their hypocrisy way back then. Very bold. Bravo!) -- anyway, the couple dozed in their seats, both of them, side-by-side, their heads bobbing. Muttonchops McGee looking grave even in half-slumber, and his babe's expression not much changing. I noticed she had headphones leading to her bag, a black iPod or equivalent MP3 player of similarly slender and sleek design. She had a claddagh ring of silver on her left middle finger. Maybe that meant they were fuckbuddies? Not sure the code of the claddagh, only know that it's a fun word to say.
On and on the bus went, their heads like gyroscopes, tracking the passage of the vehicle toward the HP. Sometimes one of them would half-awaken, only to drowse off again. Eventually, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he did not react.
Finally, reaching the University campus proper, she basically woke up, her expression not much changed from what it was when she was dozing, and Muttonchops McGee just stay there, eyes shut. Then she poked him in the ribs with an elbow: Poke.
No reaction. Poke-poke.
I could see her eyes on him, head turned.
Poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not acknowledge, did not react.
Poke-pooooooooooooooooooooke.
That last one a long poke, like an extended Morse Code poke rendering, the telegraph operator leaning on the switch awhile. McGee finally opened his eyes, looked at her in annoyance, then leaned a bit away so he was out of range of her elbow.
She smiled to herself, resumed poking. Although the poking was surely annoying, it made me smile, the playful way she was trying to wakeup her douchebag boyfriend. She continued, not realizing I'd noticed this whole little exchange:
Poke. Poke-poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not stir. Then the bus reached their stop, and she got up and walked past him, and McGee opened his eyes and got up, and the two of them walked out, her slightly ahead of him, not reacting overmuch, and then he caught up with her, was talking. My bus went on its way, leaving them behind.
Scene It
Alright, here's how it goes: a title with "FICTION:" on it is exactly what it says it is. Whereas, a title with "SCENE:" on it is something I've seen that I'm recounting. Get it?
Counting
1092 words. Not bad for the underside of an hour, although just a sliver compared with what I used to be able to turn out, with time and space (e.g., a 1.5-hour commute each way -- that was the time of 5 to 6000 word a day. God, I loved that).
With time and space, I can go and go and go. During my glorious time of unemployment in 1999 (I can't remember how long -- maybe three months?) I'd write hours daily, uninterrupted. I loved that. That was when I knew that's what I wanted to be. Christ, hard to believe that was ten years ago -- what a difference 29 to 39 makes. When you're 29, you're still in the most-favorable demographic, the 18 to 34 age group, the "youth market" -- but when you're 39, you're halfway to being forgotten, at least to the lame marketeers that slice up the populace into audience demographics.
Gen X is screwed, relative to earlier generations, because we have beans for earning power -- in the past, you turned 39 and you were entering your peak earning years. I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us, it's just not there (at least going the conventional 925 Grinder route).
Now, however, fewer and fewer of us "make it" by this age. So many of my peers depend heavily on their folks to float them, one way or another. God help you if you don't have that to fall back on.
It's very warm in the apartment this morning; the radiators are hissing and I'm sweating. Steam heat is great, but it does tend to make a place like a sauna, if you can't get the valves just right. At the moment, that seems to be the case.
With time and space, I can go and go and go. During my glorious time of unemployment in 1999 (I can't remember how long -- maybe three months?) I'd write hours daily, uninterrupted. I loved that. That was when I knew that's what I wanted to be. Christ, hard to believe that was ten years ago -- what a difference 29 to 39 makes. When you're 29, you're still in the most-favorable demographic, the 18 to 34 age group, the "youth market" -- but when you're 39, you're halfway to being forgotten, at least to the lame marketeers that slice up the populace into audience demographics.
Gen X is screwed, relative to earlier generations, because we have beans for earning power -- in the past, you turned 39 and you were entering your peak earning years. I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us, it's just not there (at least going the conventional 925 Grinder route).
Now, however, fewer and fewer of us "make it" by this age. So many of my peers depend heavily on their folks to float them, one way or another. God help you if you don't have that to fall back on.
It's very warm in the apartment this morning; the radiators are hissing and I'm sweating. Steam heat is great, but it does tend to make a place like a sauna, if you can't get the valves just right. At the moment, that seems to be the case.
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