March 10th, 2009

The Literary World Up In Arms





Over the past months I’ve been deep into the writing of a comprehensive memoir of my childhood, early adulthood, and my relationship—such as it was—with my father. An enormously difficult task, which would have been a breeze had he been less an unredeemable tyrant.

As I've been monotonously repeating at every opportunity, an honest and accurate account of the facts in chronological order is not sufficient. Memoir conventions demand that autobiography be shaped into a story, a drama, a breathless succession of conflicts resolved, great needs finally met, and overall a joyous transcendence of a toxic legacy.

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Camus Revisited






At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.


Camus' meditation on Sisyphus does nothing for me. I can’t grasp how accepting the futility and absurdity of all my efforts can ever make me happy.

Fine. Finito.





Before dawn this morning I finished FELLINI’S ANGEL. The time now is 0625 Hours. It’s done. 75,821 words. Let’s round it off to an even 76,000.

What do I feel?

Nothing.

I’ll let the goddamned thing sit for a week, then give it a final read. And then I’ve gotta let it GO.

I’m still astonished at my neutral emotional state. I’m not dancing around, giddy with relief and delight. OK, maybe I’m glad that I don’t have to WORK on it today, as I have for the past two years, I can just piss the day away.

I need to pick an excerpt to include in my agent queries. Okay, here’s one.

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