I haven’t been keeping up with the blogging lately, and I blame work for that. Not that I’ve been super busy per se, just the fact that I’ve been reassigned to a new department and have been elbow-deep in training. My mind’s been stuck in “Am I doing this right?” mode, which means I haven’t been listening to podcasts on writing, etc. In the midst of the transition, one of my writer friends at the company was laid off (The Poet, who provided her poetry as lyrics on Black Ring’s “Rough Sect Sessions”), so there goes someone who I could have daily writing conversations with, should I choose to. I need that level of immersion to talk about writing and its related topics. As it stands, I can tell you about numerous details of the inner workings of phone books ‘til your heart’s complete and utter death of boredom.
I think this may relate to my inner circles and self-promotion in some ways. See, call it the Libra in me, but I can’t focus on one thing that much. My brother can talk to you about cars (parts, repair, the differences between a ‘67 Camaro RS SS and the ‘68) for hours, but I just don’t care about that level of detail in anything. I think Pirsig would call me a Romantic in that sense. But it’s that level of immersion that helps you get accepted into the circles of your interests. Do I want to be in those circles? Eh. I haven’t seen a reason to be. And if I am accepted because I know X and Y, who’s to say I’ll actually like anyone there? I would much rather prefer to casually find and like an individual that brings me into a circle than the other way around.
This laughs in the face of self-promotion, though. Knowing someone is everything, according to some. Connect to others, make yourself available, immerse yourself. But what if you just don’t give a damn? Salon’s been running a fair amount of articles this week about gender inequality within the publishing world, specifically fiction/novels. I glance over the pages, but…Is it the fact that it deals with published authors (or those who’ve attempted standard publication)? Is it the fact that I’m supposedly part of the majority of jaded white male writers? I don’t know. Nor do I care. But I have this nagging feeling that I should.
How is one supposed to work him/herself into a group with a particular set of interests/politics if one just isn’t interested in any of it? I want to write. I want others to consume. My other interests and desires connect me to people who share their own experiences/interests, which provides fodder for the writing and so on. Beside the political/business advantage of having “connections”, what can immersing myself in writing circles do? “Oh, you’re entire life is driven by the need to write too? Cool! We should hang out and compare our sickness!” Replace “write” with “drink” and you have codependency. Replace it with “eat human flesh” and you have a level of folie à deux.
“There are all zeros around here” – Ladytron’s “International Dateline”