E., Live for Booker, then ...
Wow, you are down brother. The collapse of the Cafe D'troit is hitting you harder than I thought. Have you found another place to take your morning coffee and write your morning pages?
Writing is one of the hardest arts. First, there's no store for buying raw materials. Writers summon up their words by the five ordinary senses, seeing what the muse demands must be seen, hearing what the imagination wishes to hear, smelling what the bloodhound of the soul picks as the trace of a trail. In other words, writers put their bodies on the line every day just so the wordsmith inside has life to precipitate words. And you have the Dickensian habit; you walk everywhere in the city looking for the story of the Dirty D.
Good for you, and keep at it. Second, no one knows you are a writer unless ones work is easily accessible. I was better read when I was passing notes in third grade. Reading is a private act that is declining --- but it's what is required for our work to show in reality. No readers, and all our stitching and unstitching has been for naught. Another writer is going to recognize you instantly --- I can pick a writer out in thirty seconds based upon diction, choice of words. But that doesn't pay the mortgage.
Third issue is the biggest problem. Your life becomes a fiction under the control of ones own pen. This one drives me totally nuts. It's hard to look in the mirror without writing a few lines for the mooncalf staring back. There is no cure for this writing of ones own story at every opportunity --- except writing it down on paper and trying to sell it and making certain the story includes a few good vacations, a tale of true love, dinners with good friends and an ultimately happy ending.
So until that happy ending, find yourself a new coffee house, collect alms if you got to, and keep that pencil dancing over the blank pages until the dance of language triumphs. Wilbo
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