I was having a rough night and I thought reading some of my book reviews would cheer me up, when they only confused the hell out of me.
“An original read. His style reminds me of Nabokov and I found myself re-reading certain sentences just for the pleasure of their phrasing. I was surprised and delighted by this sparkling collection.”
“I guess these stories are kind of like poetry. Some made sense, most did not. I think the whole meaning was out of my ability to appreciate people who write stuff like this. Not making much sense.”
Some nights I can totally love the first review, but I love it like a child loves Superman. I love it’s limitless nature.
Most nights I swear my entire life is the second review. I guess if I hit myself on the head and forgot I wrote the book and then reviewed the book I waver half my days writing the first review, and the other half the second.
What does that say about me, to waver as such, am I adapting and evolving between optimism and reality, swinging back and forth like a pendulum? Am I depleting brain chemicals, one surplus, one well, and then the next?
They both read the whole book though, complete strangers, owed me nothing, cared nothing for me, but word after word they read it all. Who knows, one hundred maybe two hundred maybe just twenty wrong words in a row and they could have thrown it out, never bothered. It’s so strange to me.
I thought I had a new job, a third craft beer bartending job at a third bar, for exactly a week it was guaranteed. It fell through and I had no way of seeing it coming but boy did I invest in something that wasn’t certain and that’s foolish.
I’m fairly certain someone else is having some fun at my expense, to which I suppose I also find entertaining, though I am not sure why they would bother it still marks me as foolish
And their I am again, wavering, between hope and intelligence, I am both someone who convinces strangers to read one hundred and seventy-five pages of my thoughts alone and someone who falls foolishly into traps set a foot by other peoples thoughts.
To be honest the novel is on an indefinite hiatus, the person that it was dedicated to and inspired a large amount of it is no longer in my life.
I did go to Portland and wrote two new short short stories which are in the editing phase and I think last I read them I was still in love with them.
I will be attempting to publish them and as soon as they are rejected I will post them here.
I love them because I do not fool them and they do not fool me, we are parties of mutual entertainment. We are parties with a relationship so well defined it is spelled out, and that kind of communication is, I think, mutually admired.