Standing On The Shoulders Of Giants

I've been trying to write this goddamn book for years.

Really, years.

The first time I started it, I was maybe 14.  I gave it another whack when I was 19.  At 25, once I knew everything there ever was to know in life, I sincerely had an honest go at it.  For the four years I've had this blog, I've tried every year to use NaNoWriMo as my motivation.  I even had a team of fellow wanna-be writers to dream work with for a while, but we always ended up wine-drunk and no good ever comes from wine-drunk.  Unless you're the guy who's getting the tip at the end of the night.

It's always been the same story, it just keeps getting longer and more convoluted the longer I wait.  Now that I'm comfortably wedged somewhere between menstruation and death, and I have all new motivation to get this thing going (see: greying hairs, kids hitting puberty, bunions), still I just can't.  I blame this on the fact that I've read too many good books already.  Maybe I'm just lazy.  Bygones.

When I go through my "serious" phase on my blog, like I seem to be in now, and sorry about that*, I can't read other people's blogs because I can't sort out my own thoughts from all of yours.  When I go through my "oh my god I'm so close to 40 I could pick its nose" phase, I can't read other people's books because it makes me cringe that I still can't do that after all these years.  Reading The Bloggess just makes me want to go work at McDonald's.  I'm not the only one, either.

That said, when I got into it with one of the eleventy-hundred people at the mall trying to push their credit card down my throat, when I explained that I think credit cards are the downfall of modern society, but thanks, and the guy went from sneering at me to really asking me why I thought that and we got to talking, not just pitching, he asked me what I did for a living.  I didn't hesitate for a second when "writer" fell out of my mouth and landed on his tie.

Apparently, I think I'm a writer.  Which explains why I can't read anything right now.  I can't even listen to anything more that the first Live album and The Kings of Leon at the moment.  Both of which are great, but not that great.

I got through Marshall Karp's book with flying colors, mainly because he's kind of hot and more mainly because Beth asked me to and mostly mainly because they gave me three bags of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups afterwards.  Also because it kicked ass.  Also also because his book isn't the type of book I'm trying to write.

The main problem I have is that I want to write the kinds of books I like to read, and I've read them all.  A million times over.  I am a repeat reader, and I am happy that way.  I read authors, not books.  I love authors, and so I love what they write, even what the thing they write goes on for fucking ever and makes me wonder if it isn't time for him to retire.  I'll still read it because I love that man and I can glean what I love about him through his ether-induced ramblings.

So, naturally, I'm a little concerned about how long it's going to take me to get to, and then through, Chuck Palahniuk's new book that's sitting on my desk right now, all autographed and shit.  AUTOGRAPHED.

Zoeyjane and I drug all of my kids and all of her kid down to a bookstore where he spoke for 90 minutes and then autographed copies of his new book.  My boys loved him.  They talked to him after and he talked back and now they want to read all of his books, which of course I said no to, until they're ten, which makes me the worst mother ever but do you know how awesome it is when your kids appreciate the stuff you're into?  Best.  Feeling.  Ever. 

Ever.

So I've got this new book sitting there on my desk, and I've got his older book Choke which I still haven't read for some crazy reason, and i've got World War Z as well because it was screaming at me from the endcap in the store, and I just can't bring myself to open any of them right now.  Because if I do, I'm perching myself up on the shoulders of these authors who have done what I dream of doing, I'm seeing how far down the fall is, and I realize that I'm left just cold.

And so, for now, I'm going to light my own fire and hunker down and let the world wait while I find a way to tell this story.  While I find MY way to tell it.  But I better do it soon, because god damn do I want to read about the zombie wars.

*Really, I almost got weepy all over my final American Idol recap of the year.  Weepy, I tell you.