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January 15, 2004

Even though the subtitle I’m about to lay on you sounds like the name of a bad personal power seminar at a Ramada Inn, I will use it. Which is probably fine because the title I put at the top of the page for you sounds like a rehab slogan or a first day on a bad job. But the less I edit myself, the more I get written. Okay, so . . .

YOU WILL GET IT IF YOU WORK FOR IT

You will get your first break. Because the law of the universe seems to be: Pick something you love to do and do it as steadily as a bad habit, for ten or so years, and somebody will want a piece of it. The only catch is that sometimes it takes way less than ten years, and sometimes it takes way more than ten.

“Man, finally!” you will think to yourself.

“Jesus, not bad after all of these years of doing it for the sake of doing it,” you’ll continue thinking to yourself.

And you’ll maybe add a few thoughts like “Sweet, sweet, God above . . . this is going to feel good. Things are going to change now. Make it grande, God. Let’s turn this mother out.” And then maybe you’ll stop talking to yourself and God in this kind of horrible monologue that’s a sort of impotent cross between a soft, white suburban teenage gang thug wannabe, a Starbucksaddicted mother of three, and an aging C-list playboy. And maybe I’d have given your character some better lines back there if I had been writing a little more of late. But I haven’t been. I’m arguably a little out of practice at the moment when it comes to my writing, because I got that first proverbial break and instead of writing and staying in practice and shape, l immediately and accidentally took a break. And I’ve kind of been sitting here since. Between books one and two.

March 15, 2004: They Run That Cops Show During the Day!

I don’t really know why I’m doing this. It’s completely lame to be sitting here between books. As a matter of fact, I would kick my ass if I were you. Like these cops on my TV busting in on the malnourished stoner type of guys who are sitting shirtless in La-Z-Boy reclining chairs watching their TV, drinking the tall can of presumably pretty warm beer from an anemic refrigerator, thinking they are too smart and fast to catch. Honestly, come and get whatever has been given to me if I stay as soft as I have been these last eight months or so, because it’ll be easy.

April 11, 2004

I don’t believe in writer’s block—I’m not working up to a big analysis of why one can go for so long without writing. I don’t go in for that whole thing of like (Spinal Tap accent in place) “Look, man . . . it’s impossible to [insert any form of creative work] right now. I can’t do it, and I don’t know when . . . [dramatic pause] or if . . . I’ll be able to do it again, man.” I mean, it ain’t backbreaking work, writing. And there’s no sense in making a precious and larger-than-life practice of it. I think that things like music, writing, filmmaking are all blue-collar jobs, and I think that it all just gets worse and worse the more people try to position themselves or their craft as anything more lofty than what basically amounts to a job in the service of others. One of my all-time favorite quotes about the creative process of writing comes from Neal Pollack: “I don’t see writing as some sort of holy act. When the phone rings, I answer it.” Having said all of that, it has taken me a month to sit back down in front of this page. Maybe you can’t control when inspiration will strike, but there is something to be said for the discipline of showing up so that when it comes around you’ll be there waiting.

May 8, 2004: Holy Christ, This Thing’s On and People Can Hear Me

I spent a long time writing in obscurity. You’ll spend a long time writing in obscurity. Jesus, Seattle for instance. Moved up there and all I did was write and work to pay the rent so I could write. Five years there, a few years of the same drill before that in Northern California. Then four years in New York doing more of the same. Twelve years isn’t a ton of time, relatively speaking, but this seems like it should be easy by now, writing. I think part of freezing up is that it’s new and strange to have a lot of people look at your work after years of relative obscurity. And it’s not like my book is some huge best seller, not at all. At the time of writing this, it isn’t chasing anybody off the top of the charts. It’s not even really chasing anybody off the middle or even the bottom of the charts. When it comes to certified supermega selling success, mine is a book that, at best, hangs out in some of the same places as books that are on the best seller lists. At the same time, I would be lying not to admit that I’ve had the surreal experience of seeing my mug in People magazine on an airport newsstand on my way out to my first book tour. And in Entertainment Weekly, on CNN headline news a couple of times . . . been asked a lot of questions about why/how/when/what it means/why it’s funny on tons of radio stations, read a lot of what critics on newspapers across the country had to say good and bad, and last week had an offer come in from a publisher to translate the book into Chinese and make it available at retailers in China, where apparently there has been some demand for it. China? No matter how much I worked for it or hoped for it, it’s a little weird to realize that people are actually reading what I wrote down. For me, I think it was a little easier to write thinking that nobody was listening. On the other hand, there are a lot of people out there with more talent than me that would like to have that problem. Damn it, I had not really thought of that until I wrote it in that last sentence. Jesus, that’s heavy. Okay, now I think I’m going to freak out about that, too.

Wednesday, July 20, 2004, 1:04 A.M. Eastern

Kevin, the editor of this fine collection, has e-mailed me and asked if my August first deadline would still be feasible. It’s seven months since I started this very short piece of writing. I am up late. I have opened a brand-new blank Microsoft Word document. After I close the document that you are reading right now, I will take the new blank document and make it the start of my second book. Even though I tried to be all tough guy about my creative process and the work of writing, I am secretly under my breath asking something bigger than I that I think may reside far above me in the sky or clouds or universe to please let me stop running from the work I get to do. And I wrestle between that line of thinking and my belief that writing is nothing so precious that it needs nine tons of mustered strength, random travel, and a favor from God to approach. So, then, here’s the essay about writing. Now for the second book.