I cannot remember doing anything with any art. Perhaps it is freelance writing/editing, but not even working on my book (or the rough approximate of what might be considered a book) is enough to spark that "in the zone" feeling. Hours spent at my manuscript after hours spent at(more) someone else's is only mind-numbing at best.
While I clean up some spotty grammar or heavy (MOFUGGIN HEAVY) dialect, I may inadvertently co-mingle works. Suddenly, little so-and-so, a winsome and gregarious girl, becomes madly fixated on what we can actually have control over and whether or not the deeply entrenched paradigms are actually just arbitrary notions put forth by the ruling classes to keep us proles slaving away at a lifestyle oft yearned for but hardly attained. That's not quite something a nine-year-old worries about.
Perhaps I will just snap one day and combine every work I have ever edited and throw in some of my own pieces and create the most unholy abomination that has ever crawled forth from Unwieldy Labyrinthine Pan-genre Narrative Island.
Does it bother anyone else that place-names don't have punctuation other than the hyphen?
I feel that my creative flow is slowly disappearing, or rather, evaporating in the dry heat of lit-as-occupation. One day, when I am 86 and can't leave a bed, someone in some academic circle won't be touting my poor novels as high art, but as an example of a dying medium and commentary on the final generation of people who still believed in "The American Dream."
I do. I still believe. Vote Stephen Colbert 2008.(less)
"I need you to help me locate a missing person." Bill Crimsley, a balding man in a cheap suit slapped a photo down on the desk of Walter P. Trotter, Private Investigator. After several tense moments of silence Walter P. asked,
(more) "Did you make an appointment through my secretary?"
"Listen, this is a matter of life and death and every second we delay-" Walter P. put up his large hand.
"Yeah yeah yeah... have you been to the police?"
"Then what are you talking to me for? They usually solve the case before I do anyway." Walter P. frowned like a wrongfully accused child, his mustache danced on his quivering lips. "No good lousy police."
"Well I've been to the police... but they haven't started an investigation. They... uh... don't take my claims seriously." Bill Crimsley, Circus Clown, appeared to have some sort of crick in his neck.
Walter P. cocked a thick eyebrow. He held up the photograph. "So who's the guy? Your boyfriend?"
"What? No... uh, we're not, I'm not-"
"Yeah sure buddy," Walter P. cleared his throat. "Anyway... what's the story? Where ya last seen 'em, did you have a fight, is there any history of spousal abuse?"
Bill Crimsley touched his face and examined his clothing, bewildered and frustrated.
"Damnit, he is not my boyfriend! He's my partner! He's a magician and last night at the end of his gig he disappeared!" Crimsley was panting slightly with effort. "The audience all thought it was part of the show... He steps behind a curtain, I pull the secret lever, the trap door opens up and down he comes. Only this time... he actually vanished."
Walter P. tapped his pencil on his mug. "Hmmm, well for starters, are you two sure you're not dating?" (less)
"You should read more," the dentist offered immediately after firing me for not getting him onto the front page of the WSJ, "that's how writers get good."
Well, thank you for introducing me to The Legend of Writ, but I've gotten a handle on this newfangled "communication" whatsit. I(more) knew for the entirety of my employment that the dentist's biotech side venture didn't really need a technical writer, but I stayed on, putting together presentations and writing SEO fluff. As it turns out, he didn't want any of it because all four of his writers were supposed to be working our magic and making him famous.
Just an aside before I go on: if you find yourself thinking "I am a good communicator, but no one around me is a good listener" you probably know nothing about communication.
He would call his 15 minute stream-of-consciousness styled infodumps "downloads." Each time he downloaded, the writers were supposed to be inspired by it--a fragment of his intellect--and mold it into... I have no clue what he thought we were supposed to utilize from it. God forbid having a question, contacting him was a Sisyphean task.
I can deal with ridiculous bosses, but to have advice given to me from a dentist (granted he was a decent fellow and an excellent dentist) about a craft in which I am eight years educated is as heinous as... I don't know... let's say a bloody technical writer giving a dentist tips on flossing.
I only have one regret "working" for Dr. Youmustbejoking.
Upon being fired, I didn't answer his advice with,