Chum

I’ve written 6 novels, one book of inspirations, and whatever Conversations with Idras is. I’m working on novel #7. The “lucky” number, right? This is where it all falls into place, where all the tireless/tiresome/terrific effort leads to…well, it leads to me writing the 8th book. It always does, it always will. This act of communion Is always about the work, even when part of me pines for a 2-person tub, a phat piece of cash, plus being high-fived the moment I enter a library. Those desires, though, are simple “me” things, nowhere near being the work. The work is when the soul of a book inhabits the brain and I have to express it. The work is guiding myself to do something different each time even if I’m using the same flavors. Right now—like most everybody else—I’m writing under a deficit. I’m tired. I’m losing words. Losing hair. Watching governments take our patience and treat it like it’s a flimsy plaything for crushing. Being called “chum” these days indicates a state of being rather than an indicator of friendship. Our world is propelled by systems that think they’re sharks. Systems that think that, in some way, social predation is naturally ordained. “Nobody trusts anybody now, and we’re all very tired,” said MacReady from John Carpenter’s The Thing. True, bullseye words for all time up to now.

So what’s the work about? Knowledge. At the same time as being tired and distrustful, we know we do trust each other, we do love, we provide rest. We need things from each other, not as predators but as gifters to gifted. That’s when the work moves and removes. That’s when the work clicks everything a notch closer to something worthwhile.

Lucky 7 might flop in ways that’d make a tuna super horny. There’s no knowing in advance and never a guarantee. Swim the waters, stir the waters, even if you’re chum. Consider art as sex: less in the doing, more how it’s did, with past success only evidence of paying attention to needs outside your own. Me? The instant I feel a pen in my hand I know one absolutely true thing, that we know a lot more than we give ourselves credit for. We crave connection, beauty, explanation and apology. Art can definitely be how we greatly apologize for all the sharks ‘n shit. Art’s where we give ourselves time to think or be brave enough to be confused. Might not even be an “or”. Art is totally, finally, being able to sit back and craft/refine/retell/appreciate (and in its floundering way negate) the Blues.

So if we’re going to create…there’s no point waiting on luck. We’re—that’s right, you and me, get up—doing the thing while we’re living the lives. See how this became us? We’re all in this together, babes. One big ocean. Seven books for me, a surprise kiss for thee, and that overriding prayer that a god opens their god eyes to actually see something…because we do. We see the world. It is huge, it is heavy, and it hurts so fucking much.

We hope one of the 7 million gods sees us doing something beautiful amidst all that. Maybe the creative sucker would learn something, maybe whip up an 8th day, a magical zone where unnecessary hardships are put to rest. Can you imagine that kind of luck?

Sure you can. Bring it.