It might be the things I wrote yesterday, in part, which have me in this mood. But I know it's not only the things I wrote.
I'm sick of the internet, of Blogger, LiveJournal, Amazon, hypertext, e-mail, the whole goddamn mess of seemingly (but not actually) instantaneous communication.
I'm sick of video games.
I'm sick of the little plastic spouts with their convenient screw-on caps that juice cartons have to have now, helping to insure that no part of our lives can be free of petroleum byproducts.
Maybe I'm just sick. I think I have a minor sinus infection.
But if all that there is for me in life is this writing gig, then I'd really appreciate it if I could just focus on my writing. Not on reviews (both real and Amazonian), or sales figures, or return rates, or cover art, or schmoozing with other authors, or popularity, or any of that crap. Just the writing.
Forget the signings and public appearances. Forget the interviews. It's nothing that has anything to do with writing. Celebrity and art are always at odds, even minor celebrity. You might win the hearts of the masses, but then you have to keep them happy, or they'll turn on you in a heartbeat. And they have sharp teeth. I'd rather not bother winning them over in the first place.
I'm trying to say something important about writing and about being an author, but I'm afraid that, for whatever reason, I'm not being very clear.
If it were only a matter of writing my stories, of sitting in this dark little room, writing my stories. If it were only a matter of being the best artist that I can be. That's exactly what it never can be.
I have long bemoaned the online journal as a place to whine and self-pity. I certainly shouldn't be perpetuating the problem myself.