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Friday 7/22/22

* The third Beatles book is going to be called Understanding All You See: The Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever" and the Transcendent Connection Between Childhood and Genius. Or Understanding All You See: Childhood, Genius, and the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever." Something along those lines. As a general rule, I like to keep the title of a work--including subtitle--at thirteen words or less.


* The one-act play will be called Dick Bag.


* I am being told more of The Year of Doing Nothing and Everything, which I will refer to in these pages as The Year going forward, for convenience. It is a love story unlike any love story, because it is about something a love story has never been about. It is a love I have known, lived, and that I live. And it is that love I am giving to this novel.


* "Master of Romance" is a masterpiece. There's still a bit more to do. It became 3400 words. It's the most erotically-charged fiction I have ever seen--more so than any erotica. More than something like Nicholson Baker's The Fermata. But it's something much deeper, far more moving. Busted and beautiful. There's a lot happening in this story, plot-wise, and it emerges as we go along. We don't expect what we come to find, but it's natural, originates and comes to us naturally, when it should. There is no fiction writer alive right now who understands this or how to make a story this way. They shove something at you. It's all given away right away, and what is there is virtually nothing. This story is a journey, a road, with straight patches and bends. Any straight road will eventually bend.


* Read Edith Nesbitt's 1907 ghost story, "The Portent of the Shadow." Quite flawed. Not a lot there. Tolerable diversion.


* Ran 1000 stairs, did 100 push-ups.


* Every attempt to get any money coming in the last two days went nowhere. A lot of work, a lot of writing, all for nothing. Almost everything ignored. I wrote this brilliant piece on David Ortiz. I actually wrote two versions of it for different places, trying to get one of them out there. I offered it to two people--Anne Brennan, Gwenn Friss--at the Cape Cod Times. I'm an infinitely better writer than anyone at the Cape Cod Times. They probably don't even pay for op-eds. I'm exponentially more successful than anyone who writes for the Cape Cod Times. I've written an amazing book about Cape Cod, which the Cape Cod Times would not cover with so much as a line. Wouldn't even respond to an email about the book. You're telling me that people on Cape Cod wouldn't be interested in knowing about Buried on the Beaches? Really? You didn't want your readers to know about the book all about Cape Cod by the person who has done what I have done? That's doing the best job by your readers? Cape Codders? Again, really? I was born there, too. What did they do with the piece I sent them? Same thing they do every time. They ignored it. How do you defend that? How backwards is that? Is all of it? That I'm even offering you this? And I'm sure they were shocked that here I was, knocking on their door, which no doubt they talked and gossiped about, and then you act like this? How do you justify that? What is that? Total incompetence? Bigotry? Sexism? All of it? What are you doing? You don't even reply to that person? Because it's totally out of the ordinary and worlds different from anything else coming across your desk and no one else like that is getting in touch with you. The people who write for you are like a gardener trying their hand at the old prose, and a retired high school English teacher. So this is news at the office. And you ignore this person who approaches you and offers you the amazing work, either for free or nearly for free? Does that make you orgasm? Is it exciting for you to get to be a total asshole to someone like that? Is that what we're doing? You're just going around to losers, petty talentless arrogant losers who are also enormous cowards, trying to score some revenge because they see you as this thing they could never be, these envious sacks of straight-up human waste, and asking them to maybe be less of a talentless petty arrogant coward of a loser. Why hide it at this point? That's what it is. Me saying so isn't going to make it worse when it's this obvious. What could be more obvious? And I'm supposed to what? Sit back and let it happen? Cheer it along? Say, "Hey, that's great!" It's not even possible, if your life depended on it, to even begin to pretend that it could somehow be the work, the track record. We all know that it's not any of that with me. Nothing is more absurd or impossible to believe. And you look at the pure drivel that runs. Stuff that you can't even read with a straight face because it's so bad. Stuff regarding which you can call up a friend and say "Listen to how terrible this is" and you read some and you both either howl with laughter or you're just so depressed that mentally ill bigots are in charge of anything, and here they are, virtually the only kind of person in an entire industry, at every level of it--even though it's really all the same and there are no real levels in a sense--and this is what they put out, which they get away with because the've made it so that no one cares. And it's everywhere. Cape Cod Times, Washington Post. It's all so terrible that you can't even get through any of it or take it seriously. It's like some joke that that could even be what someone looks at and says, "Yep! Put it out there!" Is there anyone out there who can write worth a damn, or anyone at any level of this industry with any basic competence, self-assurance, and a little mental stability? Any vague vestige of character? Sanity? A brain? A soul? A conscience? Self-respect? Anyone?


* I'm pretty much ready to light some people up on here like they cannot even imagine being lit up.


* I pitched things on the first episode of Cheers and the fiftieth anniversary of James Herriot's All Creatures Great and Small as a needed antidote to the kind of miserably performative disdain I was writing about on here the other day in that post about sourcing joy.


* Enough of this. This has gone poorly. Regroup. I am angry. I'm going to channel that anger. I'm going to write a lot, create a lot, and do a number of other things that some people are really going to wish had not happened, which they will not be able to combat or undo. And they're going to do what after? Defend themselves? Where? And they can't. Come back at me? Not going to happen. Too scared, too in the wrong. Treat me horribly? Already are. Tell others to do the same? Already did. So what then? Nothing. Save that I do what I need to do for what ultimately needs to, and will, happen.