Old Emails & Cheap Wine

Although I own several bottles of wine from some great vineyards of Northern California, last night I stopped at a liquor store and some bought a jug of cheap port. I suppose I wanted to save the good stuff, but for what I’m not sure. Or maybe I wanted to channel the ghost of Jack Kerouac, who loved to get high on Christian Brothers port and write (although he did die of cirrhosis of the liver, so maybe I shouldn't be doing that).

But even a couple glasses of the sweet purple stuff couldn’t stir up the creative juices. I wanted to resurrect my “new” novel (the one I began in 2004), but I only wrote a few lines and then quickly deleted them.

From there I decided on a nostalgia trip back to 2004, and once again began digging through my old emails. There is something nice about reading your old letters while listening to good music and drinking cheap wine. You might learn something about yourself, or it might just be entertainment. Both happened with these two emails that I’m posting. They were to my friend Jen (who now writes a great blog- Pink & Blue on my link list), and the subject is writing and the quest to have a career with words.


From: Mike
To: Jen
Subject: Re: Swag Bellied Pirates
Date: Sunday, May 16, 2004 1:23 AM


"The truth is that I am still poor as a church-house rat and I have been severely beaten many times, just for telling the truth. My life has been a series of tragic misunderstandings."
-Hunter S. Thompson

If I had one quote to describe my six years in Los Angeles, I think that would be it. Poor, beaten, and misunderstood.

No, it hasn’t been That Bad. Hyperbole is a sport, and when you're feeling low it's nice to exaggerate your life in a heinous way. Especially when you've been drinking. Actually, I'm doing pretty well. I'm living with a terrific girl, and when we're together life is good. Have I sold a script? No. Have I sold my novel? No. And that's the core of the self-loathing: my failure as a writer. So I've begun to look for a Real Job. And reading those Help Wanted Ads makes me even more depressed.

But enough about that. You're pregnant, and I'm sure you don't want to hear one of your old friends whine. And I don't have much energy for that kind of gig. Shit . . . you're pregnant, Jen! I'm 33 now, and most of my friends are married and have children. So I should be used to it by now, but I'm not. I still think of the girl playing darts, drinking a pint after a night at Uno's, and wearing that damned backpack. And you still are that person, but now you're having a child. And that's wonderful! I am truly happy for you and your husband.

As for things with my girlfriend, we're still trying to figure stuff out. (Never end a sentence in a preposition, but screw that...I'm rolling.) We want to move to another city, but we can't decide on San Francisco, Seattle, Chicago, or Boston. Those are the "mutually accepted" locations, but on some days I would give anything for a job in Key West, Honolulu, or Tahiti. Maturity has never been a strong suit.

Anyway, let me know how the move went and how the baby stuff is doing and how you're adjusting being back in America.

-Mike


From: Mike
To: Jen
Subject: Re: self loathing
Date: Friday, June 04, 2004 3:27 AM


"Every word I put down now must be an arrow that goes straight to the mark. A poisoned arrow. I want to kill off books, writers, publishers, readers. To write for the public doesn't mean a thing to me. What I'd like to do is write for madmen . . . or for the angels."
-Henry Miller

Jen,

I think my problem (and it may be yours also) is that I've been so concerned with my career. Writing for the public (be they readers, editors, or critics) is wrong. It might bring about a sale (like the many stupid books and movies out there), but it will be ephemeral and empty. Writers write because they have to . . . the story or poem or essay sears their brain and tunnels out to the page.

Ahh, but if you want a career (and who doesn't), you have to have some grasp on the marketplace. And if you want to be able to spend your time writing (and not waiting on tables or shuffling papers or digging a ditch or shaking your butt from a stripper pole), you need that success. A Catch-22 shit sandwich (with extra rancid mayo), and it inevitably leads to self-loathing and complaining to your friends. So you have to make a decision, and I've decided that I'm done with screenplays. Whatever I end up doing now for my income, I'm going to keep on writing stories and novels. But I refuse to waste any more time laboring over scripts. I have so much I want to say, and I don't want my voice to be shackled by acts and plot points and trying to appease the 15-24 demographic.

Which brings us to you, Jen. You are a writer, and a damn good one, even if you haven't produced anything recently. Maybe most writing stems from longing . . . but why can't it be a longing to express feelings of happiness or even to simply interpret interesting experiences? Living in Italy, getting married, having a child- these are moments in your life that you will (at some point) want to communicate. Maybe it will be next month, or maybe it might be next year, but you will one day wake-up and jump at your computer or notebook with your hair on fire, just longing to express yourself. And you won't do it for a smarmy lit magazine or for a possible book deal . . . you'll do it because you have no choice.

Jesus, talk about preachy.

For the last year I've thought so much about writing and my career, and even getting married and having kids. Heavy stuff . . . the topics that usually send me to the nearest bottle of rum. But I still haven't found any answers, and I don't suspect I will anytime soon. So I plod onwards, with a desire not to take myself so damned seriously so damned often. The harsh realities of life will always be there, but as long as I pay attention and keep writing stuff down I will be happy more days than not. And hopefully you will be too.

Mike