getting published in the New Yorker?
I just got rejected in that magazine, while I was talking to my best friend.
Pure automation—thank you for submitting… but no thanks. Antiseptic, is the word.
writing every day?
I fail at that.
getting published? I did that.
getting your name in the paper? That was a different century.
being a novelist? It could be, but there are so many novels I don’t want to read, and millions I don’t even know about.
I think being a writer is…
when I wake up, dissatisfied with my life, and I think about my options…
and each one, is full, of a kind of realism, that makes me sick.
What I imagine the world to be, is…
only my imagination.
I accept this,
but I also understand that I can do something about it.
My world is divided into two realities:
the one where I am boring, and turning pale, like the walls, I work within
and the one where I am driving a speedboat, over blue water, to a green island, with a deserted beach
where my typewriter sits, in a limestone villa
and I can crank-out thousands of words, just to stay there
a bit longer.
Back in the real world, people wonder why I haven’t moved on with my life
and it’s because…
I have become a real writer.
is the best place to be
There is nothing like it
beyond the island
of my fantasy.