3 cups of coffee and I'm still trying to awaken, and best be kind yet firm with the onslaught. It bothers me to no end that those who are in theory going to teach the next generation of children and take care of the down and out seem totally clueless most of the time. "Those who can't, teach" has a whole new meaning.
It seems unfair that Snooki can get a book deal but people would probably rather read her ghostwritten tales about the Dramatic Shores of Jersey than my own particular strip of coast.
I'm trying to start over on the Great American Rustbelt Novel because I can't seem to get anywhere with what I've written. It's not for lack of source material, but a lack of ability to string together a cohesive narrative with characters that remain interesting and seem somewhat believable, to write something that I would want to read, because there's a gaping void when it comes to describing the landscape that I call home, with its general strangeness borne out of existential despair in cheering for losing sports teams, fatalism with a gnawing sense of Catholic guilt chased with a bizarre sense of humor. "Through the Windshield" came close, but was too Bukowski-ish for me and it'd be nice to have a tale that wasn't a murder mystery or bland boosterism.
So I keep trying and observing and trying to keep writing every day even if half of what's in here is totally lame, seeking revelation in writers far superior and the general weirdness of the everyday.
And this needs no comment.