So I’m spending a lazy morning in my thinking chair on the back patio and, as happens, thoughts come to mind. The genre of my ponderings, this time, is romantic self-pity suspense, though I am not sure that is a legitimate category.
I got to thinking about Kevin Costner’s Field of Dreams. I’ve discussed this before, I think, but I can’t quite remember because I don’t always pay attention to what I say. I am not alone…and that is what I got to thinking about: what if, unlike Kevin’s character in the movie, you built it and no one comes? Or, in my case, you write it and no one reads. True, I’ve whined about this topic periodically, I write/no one reads, but I am old enough now that I can be a curmudgeon and get away with it…maybe.
I realize it would be a bit weird to collect all the rejection letters from literary agents and publishers and tape them in one of those fancy scrapbooks you can get nowadays with all the little stickers and cut-out thingies to enhance the visual presentation. My rejection scrapbook would have daggers, meat grinders and all kinds of tears and blood-dripping frames around each rejection. I suppose the crafts class at the “Paper Your World” shop would view it pretty grotesque compared to most of their prissy lacy foo-foo efforts. But I digress.
I know in my thyroid that someday my novels will be discovered and then maybe buried again, but it is my blogging that will surely be cited as the personification of literary greatness. When people google me a hundred years from now, up will come my blogs and the googler will stare in amazement at the literary treasure trove he or she has uncovered. And, of course, included will be my memorable acceptance speech for the Pulitzer I won posthumously. Yes I did, indeed, come back just to present this speech since it was my life’s sole (soul, too) ambition to win the great “P” and no one—noooo one—was going to deny my grasping it with my own hands…even if my fingers were long void of flesh. But again, I digress.
Writing and having no one read what you write has to be like opening night at your Broadway musical when the curtain opens and you look out upon a theater void of any audience. Or, as the big debut of your Oscar-worthy movie begins flickering on the screen, nary a squirrel has crossed the red carpet to come see it. Or, to milk this further, after hundreds of hours in the kitchen you have finally perfected the perfect soufflé and there it stands, at least ten inches above the ridge of the soufflé pan, worthy of an Eating Well Magazine cover shot…but no one is there with fork in hand or drool on chin. You get my point.
It no longer surprises me (liar) that some of what I think are my best blogs receive absolutely no response at all—bzzn (that’s text abbreviation for “butkus, zero, zilch, nada”). I’ve written two lately that I really think were worthy efforts. One was titled “Walt Screwed Us” and the other “Going Back With All Your S*it.” But, apparently, I was the only one who thought them exceptional because I wrote/no one read. Hey Kevin—did you hear that?? Yeah, I said I wrote and…oh never mind.
By the way, for those fans of our Contributing Editor, Ron Carmean, I am happy to report that he has survived the surgeon’s hatchet and weeks of grueling rehab abuse. His back has returned to its semi-original shape and he is hobbling around at home, continuing his recovery. There is no doubt in my mind, now that baseball season is officially underway, he finally has something else to focus on. Ron’s dog, Jake, meanwhile, is having a giggling good time commanding Ron to…heal!