09/27/2008: "What's Up"

Hi All,

Well, again, let me apologize for so long between entries. As I said, I was not able to access ye olde blog. I thought maybe it'd been outdated or crashed or whatever happens to obsolete things. In any case, no. It's okay.

So, what's been going on in the month and a half since I last posted? Short answer: bubkus. I mean, overall. I mean, relating to writing, which was the reason this blog went up in the first place.

Other than that, I'm driving a special needs bus. There's a shortage of bus drivers in this city, and my rent needed paying, so: a match made in heaven. Quite seriously, though, I love the job. I love the kids I drive and get to see and hang out with every weekday. It is, in a weird way, exactly what I need.

But ... 33-years-old, driving a bus. No family. Not a whole hell of a lot of social outlets. Did I see my life unfolding in this fashion? Well, no, although to be honest I never saw it unfolding in any sort of realistic way at all. Yesterday's history, tomorrow's a mystery, etcetera.

The truth is (beg pardon if I belabour this), I had some great shots on the writing side of things. There are arguably (and by that, I mean 'inarguably') a lot of writers better than me who never got some of the breaks I got. I've either wildly exceeded my initial expectations or wildly under-exceeded them; I was either going to be a huge bestselling writer or a complete flop and a bum. Well, I'm somewhere in between. I seemed to be heading towards the midlist, at least, but I think I landed somewhere short of that. Anyway, I really did have some great opportunities. I did my best to make hay of them out of respect to my folks, who supported me, my editors and publishers, who supoorted me, and of course, selfishly, my own self, as it was my ambition to be a writer since I was in grade 10 or something. Obviously I tried to put everything I could into the simple writing, on the page, and if that couldn't square things I like to think I tried other avenues to propel my thimbleful of talent into something with 'legs,' as they say. That I came up a little short, or a lot, or however you look at it, is undeniable.

Do I think it's all over? 33 and all used up? Even if I did, I'm far too stubborn to let it go down like that. But the simple truth is: it's going to be an uphill slog. I have, as they say, 'history,' and not a terribly rosy one. There is a process of atonement, or remuneration, or living down past mistakes that a lot of writers have to embark upon at this point. Or not.

But mainly, for me, the time has come---in fact, it's way past due---to open my life up a little more. You can't just live for writing. At least, I can't. Anymore. Even when I had the financial wherewithal to keep myself afloat solely through writing, I wasn't as happy as I am now. I know that probably sounds like a rationalization---and even though I'm pretty self-aware about things of this nature, there's no saying it isn't, in fact, a rationalization---but the happiness I felt before came through the simple knowledge that I was subsisting doing what I loved. But there was very little tangible sense of what I was doing, which is why I became such a rigorous 'word count' writer: 500 words a day felt like I was doing work, filling a quota, like any working person does. But I'd look at them and wonder if they were any good---and even if so, if I buttressed them with 70,000 middling-to-shitty words, well, it hardly mattered.

Which is why I enjoy my days now. I get up, sign out, pull on the old safety vest, go pick up my kids. We drive along talking about Futurama and Family Guy and video games and what might happen should one of them instantaneously morph into a werewolf on the bus. I drop them off at school. I pick them up and get them home safely. They share elements of themselves with me. I appreciate that. I feel terribly essential to somebody else's life, if only momentarily, tangentially, for a few instants in any given day. This may be the natural reaction of a 33-year-old childless male. Anyway, it's a practical feeling, a feeling of being useful, that I haven't felt in awhile. It's not going to help me on the other fronts in my life that have lagged in recent years: the driver who runs a route counter to mine, who I meet at the schools, is Audrey, a 60-year-old grandmother. She's certainly a looker for her age and sweet as pumpkin pie, but happily married and I'm not a homewrecker and besides, the other day I showed up a little scruffy and she said I looked like a hobo so the chances there are slim.

Does this mean I've stopped writing? You know, sometimes I wish I could. I mean to say: I wish I had the strength to scale back, if not totally abandon, something that gives me as much grief as joy. But I don't have that sort of strength, unfortunately. But I'm strong enough, I think, to compartmentalize it into a place where it's manageable, my expectations are manageable, and I allow myself to enjoy other aspects of life. A lot of my dread, from the moment my first book was published, came from: What if it doesn't work out? Because I have another 50 years left. You don't want to be an angst-ridden 80 year old crying into your glass of buttermilk and dentures about how I coulda been a contenda or some nonsense. I'm not saying it's not a possibility---I'm saying I'm going to do everything in my power to avoid it. A lot of any creative aspiration is ... listen, you've got to have an exit strategy. You've got to come to that clear-eyed understanding that things don't always eventualize or unfold as per your imaginings. You can't become a bitter old (or young, or semi-young) bastard. You know? It's weak. Hopefully you realize that your life can have meaning, purpose, that you can still find value in yourself and be of value to others after certain options have expired and certain chances have passed you by. Because, 99 percent of us, I'm pretty sure that's what happens. You pass through the eye of the needle or you don't. You can't sit around the rest of your life sobbing 'what ifs' and 'if onlys.' I mean, no, you CAN, but why? But it's a rough transition. It will be. But a human being is multifaceted and capable of many things. So maybe it's really a mental trick that needs to be played---and once it's played, you're free a little bit.

So. Where does this leave this blog? I don't know. As I said, it was put here to chronicle my writing and sundry matters related thereto. I know I veered off over the years, but still. I don't want it to become one of those "I had toast with honey this morning---that's new!" daily minutae affairs. And do I have work out there, circulating? Irons in the proverbial fire? Yes. But even if one of those irons is plucked and even if it happens, against all odds, to earn me any sort of financial legs, I've no intention of quitting my job. I would write more about my 'life' on this blog, but I am now working on some nonfiction work (spurred by the odd success of that steroid article, which has since sold in 10 countries or something---glossy photos of my fat, needle-stabbed ass strewn cross the globe; wheee!), and so writing of it here, for free consumption, sort of seems antithetical.

More crucially, most of the strange, weird, oddly enjoyable benefits of writing and publishing my books has been the opportunities I've been afforded to travel, meet people, get into fights, get the snot kicked out of me, take illicit substances ... basically, everything that happens to me away from the computer screen. So, in a way, nonfiction may suit me better. I'm out there, engaging with the world, instead of inside, in my fetid writing room, imagining how life might impinge upon my made-up characters. And my folks and friends say that I am a different person when I have a job other than writing that gets me out, interacting. Otherwise I'm like a weed growing under a dank porch. I'm starving for sunlight, thus the reason why I'm trapped under there---the writing---takes on added weight. It needs to sell, it needs to be liked, in order for me to rationalize my solitary existence. That's too much freight to place on something I started to do out of a love of writing and a desire to share the way I look at the world---as perverse as it may be---with others.

So, a long screed. Been awhile coming. As I said, I am writing. It's not even really an option for me not to. If there's a free hour, I'm working on something. But I'm not so concerned anymore whether it sells, whether it accelerates my career---my career, right now, is a bus driver; this is how I see it, as this is how I'm paying my mortgage---and if something happens, great. If not, it's understandable in the grand scheme of things. The wheel will probably come around and give me another shot, which I may or may not make better use of. I'm not counting on it, it no longer HAS to happen in my current mindset. I'm not going to drive a bus the rest of my life, either, much as I enjoy it. But it's a baby steps process right now. One foot ahead of the other. I'll work my way clear. I most often do.

So. Check every so often, if you'd like. I don't know when the posts will come, what they will be about, of if you'll find them the least bit interesting. But they're FREE, goddammit, and written by a goddamn BUS DRIVER, for the love of gawd, so don't expect to much!

Very best,
Craig.