I've gotten back into my early-morning writerly groove again; I'd tried to write at other times, but in our tiny apartment, with the boys jonesing for attention, I just can't swing it. So, for now, back to writing in the margins of my day. The morning is still the best, since I'm a natural early riser, and my brain is fresh, and there are no distractions (well, besides THIS, but I'm waiting for the old computer to warm up, so while it's doing that, I'm writing you).
Anyway, it's going well, this new piece. I've been easily clearing 1300 words a day, which is a decent clip for me. I would like to get over 2000 words a day, so we'll see how that goes.
I read an article in SALON about yet another memoir written by a privileged young woman (Sloane Crosley -- even her name sounds privileged, no?) Anyway, it left a bad taste in my mouth, highlighted the insider/outsider firewall that commands publishing. As somebody puttering around far, far outside that wall (heh, like a grubby, kilted Celt confronting Hadrian's Wall), it makes me peevish to see a 31-year-old with her second book out already, somebody with a perfect publishing pedigree (went to an elite liberal arts college, slummed around at an Ivy League school later, then miraculously got a job as a publicist -- indeed, New York City's most popular publicist, if you believe the hype (how does one get that job as a 20-something? Connections much?) And then, of course, a book deal (first book optioned out to HBO, and lord knows the fate of the second). And memoirs, no less. Well-connected from A to Z, reaping the rewards of it.
Sure, I'm envious. Why not be? What galls me is the retrofitting of such a fairytale history -- akin to adroit eraser rubs along the page to the theme song of the "Mary Tyler Moore Show" -- and we don't see the paperclip chain of connections, privileges, and opportunities that paved that golden road for her. Instead, we're to believe she did it all by herself. Not unlike that Russian spy gal who evangelized her pioneering spirit in America while taking Kremlin Kash to fund their lackadaisical spy mission in Cambridge. Bull-fucking-shit. Just once, I'd like to see somebody write "Thanks to my parent's wealth and connections, I got into the best schools, and because the Editor-In-Chief was a classmate of my mom's at Smith, I got a job at Fuckbird Publishing, where she introduced me to Celebrity X, who wanted me for her publicist as soon as she saw me, and blah blah blah blah." At least that would be honest and forthright.
As a member of the American Underclass (and let's be honest, here -- if you're making under $100,000 a year, if you've not gone to an elite school, if your parents weren't rich and/or connected -- you're a member of the American Underclass, intended only to be a spectator in our culture, not a participant -- anyway, as part of that, I chafe at seeing yet another memoir written by (and for) the children of privilege. I don't care that you trekked to Lisbon on a whim, Ms. Crosley. I hope nobody else does, either.
Alright, the old Dell's warmed up at last (my name for that computer remains "Shitbox"). I'm going to write the living fuck out of the story I'm working on.
