bookfraud

In the two days prior September 14, when I first put this to paper before getting busy with self-loathing and other forms of procrastination, I saw copious amounts of footage showing New Orleans under water, and eaten at least six meals. I had put in about three hours commuting, 17 hours at the office, and16 hours in the land of nod. I’ve investigated the efficient frontier and portfolio management, read of Augie March’s adventures, and seen Kurt Angle put a serious pain on Jon Cena. Two hours of “Law & Order,” two hours grooming, and 90 minutes in the gym.

Nothing, not a second, writing fiction.

Welcome to my world.

As I continued to rage about what happened to the Big Easy, I seem to have reached a creative dead end, in writing fiction, blogging, letter-writing, and other forms of correspondence through which I make my living and spend my idle hours (or used to spend them). I’ve got three short stories that are in reasonably good shape for submission to lit mags, but I haven’t lifted a finger. My novel isn’t selling, yet I resist the obvious — the damn thing needs another revision. I fuck around with a blog entry, delete it, and then lurk on other blogs without commenting because I feel like I don’t have anything worthwhile to say.

Henry slept, and slept, and slept

All writers go through funks like this. In my case, it lasts a few weeks; others, it can last decades (Henry Roth, for instance). There are some of us who can write through thick, thin, and otherwise, but those modern graphomaniacs like Joyce Carol Oates or Christopher Hitchens are the exception.

There are several convient excuses: work is difficult, and my herniated disc is acting up, and Wife is busting my chops. (One out of those three is false). Mine is that I’m just frickin’ tired. I just want to watch television or read a magazine or eat a ham sandwich.

Just the blahs or depression or lack of interest in anything but SEX SEX SEX, I don’t know. I’m starting to question my priorities, with this writing thing. Maybe I’m meant to be a couch potato, my religion the NFL and The Sopranos. Maybe I should just resign myself that I’m an overglorified typist. Maybe, as I peruse the pages of Mr. Bellow’s novel, I should resign myself that I’m never going to write an opening sentence as perfect as “I am an American, Chicago born” and give up.

Or maybe I just need to shut the fuck up, and start snapping sentences on the computer. I’m going to submit this now, without proofreading or editing of any sort. I will wake up tomorrow, re-read it, and think about what I shall do with the rest of my numbered days. Not that I’m a drama queen or anything like that.

I’ve been negligent in posting, I realize. I was going to post something on rewriting and editing fiction, but I can’t say I’m in the mood.

Not to get into detail for now, but the events of the past week in New Orleans have broken my heart. The Big Easy is my favorite American city, perhaps my favorite city in the world. I’ve visited there at least 10 times, mostly when I lived within driving distance but also since I’ve moved far away.

I’ll spare soaring tributes to New Orleans’ culture, food, and architecture, because with people dying, it isn’t appropriate. The pictures of bloated bodies floating down streets, children going without food and water, and people expiring because they don’t have medical care make a tribute to New Orleans superfluous, even offensive. In addition, there are many people in Mississippi, Alabama, and other parts of Louisiana suffering mightily. New Orleans isn’t alone in its agony. Suffice it to say that the New Orleans that I love — and I have loved the place mightily since I first set eyes upon it, about 17 years ago — is gone forever.

But I will, briefly, vent my rage at the incompetence and callous indifference of politicians. As many journalists, talking heads, and bloggers have made clear, this didn’t have to happen. Warnings about levees were ignored. Money was not allocated for repair. It was well-known that a major hurricane would probably flood the city. It would be easy to lay all the blame on George W. Bush — and he certainly deserves most of it — but there was failure at all levels of government.

A streetcar named Desire no more

And then there was our president, grinnin’ and winkin’ on Friday as he landed in New Orleans, joking about how he used to party there. He seemed genuinely hopeful that Trent Lott would rebuild his vacation house, bigger and better than ever. He couldn’t understand why people could possibly be mad at him or FEMA or Homeland Security for dithering while New Orleans died. It’s not his fault that the levees broke! Why get mad at him because he systematically dismantled the government agency that was supposed to lead disaster efforts, and appointed a hack who got fired from a job managing horse shows? Bush can’t be held responsible for the performance of a government repsonse! You should see what happens when there’s a terrorist attack!

Hey, did he tell you the one about a Black, a Jew, and a Catholic that walked into Pat O’Brien’s?

Bush’s frat-boy demeanor during all this makes me ill beyond words, but I shouldn’t be surprised: after all, he was making jokes about finding those missing weapons of mass destruction while people were being blown apart in Iraq.

It’s too bad that an affluent suburb of Houston wasn’t hit, because I have a feeling the response would have been exponentially faster than it was for poor, largely African-American New Orleans. (I am tempted to launch into a diatribe about the failure of the government and the poor, but that’s for another time).

I’m going to take a walk and vent some more.