It was Saturday. It was raining. I had many writing deadlines looming, several work deadlines overdue and a shocking number of boxes still to unpack from the move that was, um, six weeks ago. Rainy Saturday + unwillingness to write for fear of what will end up on page=trip to bookstore.
Plus, Black Swan Green was not yet in my possession.
Rain always adds texture to my atmospheric bookstore high. Saturday was no exception. The sky was murky, full of clouds heavy with mood. "We might spit out some rain, we might not, but whatever we do, it will be cool and will further the introspective vibe we've been conjuring up all day." The streets were wet, the air was cool. I couldn't whip up better book hunting weather if I tried -- it had all the right ingredients. I even found free parking around the corner. I walked in the front door and was assaulted. By these:
Now. It could be that I'm a snob of some sort. It could also be that I'm a jealous writer of some sort. Or, it could be, that these are less books and more...I don't know...things that not so bright girls read on the beach after they've just broken up with their boyfriend...right before they flip back to the Us Weekly magazine they were reading moments before. I could feel the irritation creep into my neck, finding a home in my already-sore-with-tension shoulders.
How is it that many brilliant writers are struggling in vain and yet books like this get published? More painful still, someone, somewhere, actually said aloud "I know, let's do a sequel!" I think I stood still, in front of this matchy matchy froggie display for five full minutes. Possibly more. I was taken aback -- and I hate it when people say taken aback, because really, there are usually better ways to say that. Yet for this matchy frog moment, "taken aback" is apt. "A bit ill" would also be apt. Okay. So. This girl wrote some frog books. It's time to move on. Perhaps she is lovely. Perhaps the books are well-written, insightful commentaries on kissing frogs of all species from all continents with a socially responsible message about stepping into another's shoes before judging and not discriminating against size, colour, shape, background, poisonous tendencies, etc.
No matter. I sought out my David Mitchell prize and I put the frog business out of my head. I drooled over several titles in the lit journal section and found A Public Space, a promising new lit mag. But the frog thoughts resurfaced. Clearly you are jealous. Instead of maligning her and her frog books (which, again, could be brilliant), you should congratulate her. I mean, after all, she finished two full books. That is more than you can say, Miss Counterbalance. And really, who are you, as a writer, to be commenting on the lives of other, obviously more successful writers?
I pressed on. Discount Vollmann. Sale Murakami. As I was making my way to the table of just-out paperbacks (Never Let Me Go has my name on it), I was assaulted again. By these:
(The sound of silence as I stand and stare at the table. Dumbfounded. Taken so aback I'm front. Agape at the pink and blueness of it. Shrinking slowly into myself as I realize that, these writers were paid to write this. They are working writers, whereas I'm more a working writer in the sense that I work all day so that I can write all night. Which is not the same as getting a paycheck to write cute little books. They are probably at home right now writing other stuff while you are standing here staring at these books and whining.)
And that, my readers, is the truth of it. These may be brilliant books and I may be forced to see the error of my judgment soon. They may also be drivel (likely) and one day, I might end up crossing paths with one of these working writers who will not take kindly to my blog posts (unlikely). But the lesson is this -- at least they are writing. They are not at the bookstore procrastinating. So thank you, matchy matchy booky books for pointing me in the right direction. Unlike reading Maso or Mitchell and thinking "I'll never be this good and so what is the point", I'm left feeling more like "What the hell. If they are publishing this malarkey, I really do have a chance!" So. There's the moral. All wrapped up neatly with clearly outlined deliverables, timelines and next steps.
So. Now. With the moral of the story out of the way and with my own writing schedule now rigorously mapped out to ensure I stay on track, tell me. Seriously. Are these books as irritating as I think they are, or do I just need to lighten up a bit?
