(Spoiler Alert! This post is actually about the book that
I just put up on Amazon.)
It’s a good thing that there are so many reasons not to
write, because the world is chock full of unread books already. You can go
ahead and write another one if you care to, please feel free! No one is likely
to notice anyway, and the work of writing a book is torture. If you think it
will make you feel better, however, go ahead and write a book. If you find the
act of writing relaxing, or amusing, go ahead, write to your heart’s content.
At least writing is a safe, quiet way for you to channel that persistent urge
to harm yourself.
Or, don’t. Don’t write a book. No one will notice that
either. People by the millions don’t write books on a daily basis.
Some people feel compelled to write. They feel like they
are so full of wonderful stories that they must write them down for others to
enjoy. They are afraid that they will burst if they keep all of that great
writing bottled up inside. Others feel a strong impulse to write as a way of assuaging
the morbid fear of death that most of us feel, more or less. We feel it,
whether we acknowledge it or not, because we know it’s there waiting for us. It’s
like that man standing behind us on the subway who may or may not be reading
the newspaper that he’s holding, folded so compactly, and carefully. Probably displaying
today's obituaries. How did he get on the subway carrying that scythe, anyway?
Then there are those people who are so diffident that
they can hardly leave the house, much less hold down a job. Such delicate flowers
often get the idea that writing may be their best shot at making a living. You
can do it alone, locked in a room, it’s perfect. You can write sad stories
about lonely people, because after all, they do say, “write what you know
about,” or you can describe the fascinating adventures of cowboys. It’s up to
you! You’re the writer; you’re the boss! Writing turns out to be an awful way
to try to make money. That much should be obvious to anyone, without needing to
try it out just to make sure. The only deader end than writing is fine-art
painting, mostly because the overhead is much higher. All of those art supplies
are expensive.
I have always had a feeling of familiarity with the
printed page. I remember pouring over printed pages at a very early age, long
before school. Long before my sister was born, which happened when I was four.
Long before I could read. I had seen the adults spending what seemed like a
long time quietly staring at these pages, so I thought that I’d try staring at
them. It was like looking into my future. All of the adults seemed to be able
to discern patterns on these pages, they must be doing something. I was a
confident sort, so I naturally assumed that I would soon be able to do what
they were doing. I set out to learn to do it, and in fairly short order I had
it figured out. These were words, just like the spoken words but these were made
up of symbols. The pages delivered a variety of things, like entertainment,
often with photos or comics attached, or information, everything from stories
about pirates to the listing of programs that would appear on the television.
It was all very wonderful. I thought so then and I still believe it. I’m a
reader.
How about writing?
I don’t remember giving it a thought until I was thirteen,
probably a thirteen-year-old high school freshman. Underage to purchase adult
magazines, I became adept at quietly smuggling them out of the many candy stores
in town. The magazines were quite a challenge. The ones that I was most after
were on the top row, so it was hard to disguise the required grab as some other
motion. You had to time it just right, unobtrusively waiting until the shop
owner was beginning some action that would take his attention in another
direction for the required time. You couldn’t be staring at him either, you had
to be a regular spy about it. The move was to reach for the middle rack, pick
up a magazine, like a car magazine or something, and smoothly continue the
motion upwards and fit a good “men’s magazine” behind the car mag. Then simply
hold them both with great nonchalance and start leafing through the car
magazine. When a good opportunity presented itself, you reached up with the car
mag in your left hand and replaced it on the shelf, while with your right hand
you were placing the men’s magazine under your shirt and tucking it into your
pants. I was a natural. I never got caught.
Much easier to lift were paperback books. All of the
angles were better. You could place yourself with the rack between you and the
owner; the product was easier to handle and stash away. They were no challenge
at all. I took books that I liked, like Dr. Fu Manchu books. I took and read “Junkie,”
by William Burroughs, which opened my eyes about a few things, I can tell you.
And I helped myself to any pornographic novels on the rack, although they were so
awful that I stopped taking them unless they contained nude drawings by Frank
Frazetta. I wish that I still had a couple of those, because I’m sure they go
for good money over on the e-bay.
Reading the text of one in my room, I realized that
someone had been paid to write it. “Paid too much,” was my first thought. I
allowed myself the comforting thought that if I was ever really hard up for
money as an adult, I could write these things. I’ve never been ambitious, so I
did not immediately assume that I could write more sophisticated subject
matter.
Never been ambitious! That’s putting it mildly. My major
ambition has always been to be left alone. I grew up in a jungle, surrounded by
fangs and claws. Left to my own devices, I would prefer to do nothing, because doing
anything at all opens the door to criticism, censorship, mockery, humiliation,
or worse. Life, regrettably, requires us to do things almost constantly, so
doing nothing is almost never an option. Now, having achieved old age, I find
that it is easier for me to expose myself to the dangers of the public gaze.
Three decades of public speaking and writing for the court and for my classes
have toughened me up a bit. And who cares at this stage of the game? How
terrible could the results be? Whatever happens, it won’t last too long. And
nothing at all matters anyway. Fuck it, release your words into the stream of
commerce. One of the rules of luck is putting yourself in the places where luck
may run into you. You never know what will happen.
There is now a book on Amazon that I wrote and self-published.
It is drawn from the pages of this blog. This first effort at self-publishing
is called, “Political Rants: Lefty Vitriol in the age of Obama and Trump.” It’s
got a very attractive cover that I got from a “pre-made covers” website. It consists
of a selection of my highly opinionated blog posts about politics. There are
two more books on the way. One is made up of posts on general topics; the other
is posts on the subject of myself. I was looking back over the twelve-year
history of Spin Easy Time one day and I found that I was quite pleased with a
lot of it. I also noticed that the writing had gotten a lot smoother as time went
on. I began to wonder if it might be readable as a book, or books, and I finally
decided that it probably was.
I did this under my own name, in spite of the dangers. When
one has reached my age, one has been sufficiently humiliated by life not to
care much about humiliation anymore.
Having begun, the odds are good that I will continue. I
may tackle other non-fiction material that has never appeared on the blog.
There are subjects that I have touched on, but not explored in detail. I might
even go nuts and finish a novel that I started about ten years ago. I got about
half-way through a first draft and became discouraged by the unlikelihood of
ever getting it published. That, of course, is no longer a problem. You just
self-publish on Amazon and the others. After that it’s a matter of marketing. I’ve
got the time, and I enjoy the process. If I break even, I’ll be happy. Happy to
get some additional readers! Sure, I’m a validation whore, I admit it. That’s
pretty mild stuff in the spectrum of vices, so I think my place in heaven is
safe.
The above song by Rockpile is from their 1980 LP, “Seconds
of Pleasure.” Dave Edmonds and Nick Lowe fronted the band. This song is by Nick
Lowe. Dave and Nick remain alive as of this writing. Dave is seventy-five; Nick
is a few months younger than me at seventy. I hope that they are both doing
well, and I wish them the best of luck in what I call, “The Place of Bad Roads,”
where many of us now live. If you really want to have a rocking good time,
listen to Mr. Edmonds’ LP, “Girl Talk.” It’s a barn-burner.
Listen while you read my book!
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