I am closing the gap--only six weeks or so behind on my New Yorker reading. I piled through four last week, ashamed that I still had "March" under some laundry in the bedroom. Meanwhile, on the plane, I hit David Denby's pc on Susan Sontag , which I enjoyed so much it made me read faster, it made me hungry. Hungry is not the right word to describe it, but maybe you know/have this problem too...? When I like something: a book, a person, a song, skateboarding, pet cat Monkey, a pretty xerox--I get a funny impulse to ingest the thing, I want to possess it--and the closest way I can imaginate that is chewing it and eating it up. I want to take in it's richness, all, and be of it. Meanwhile, I went out and bought every Sontag book they had at the used book store in Seattle, which was three. She's a stranger to me. I bought nine books last week, I was so hungry. Plus another four yesterday, but one was a present and one is mostly just pictures of women in prison.
Sometimes I get afraid to write. Most of the time. I can write this thing, it's easy weight. The other stuff, it psyches me out. I'm trying to make friends with it, since "the writing" is almost-all-the-way my job now, but most the time I am stepping over it like an inert body in a doorway. I saw Johnny T, on the street two weeks back, a man whose business is on the other end of a book contract I signed a good three or four years ago. I said to him, the truth, actually: I got 80% of the thing printed and just sitting on my desk. It's been there since mid-July. I accidentally started to throw it away, last week, and plucked it from they alley trash with an "oops". Now it's dirty and is housed on the porch, I see it every time I leave. Maybe. Maybe soon.
Also, some other writing I liked from the NYRKR.Posted by Jessica at September 22, 2005 11:33 AM | TrackBack