Did not mean to be gone so long. WordPress ate a long post I’d composed on Tuesday — I know, it was stupid of me not to have saved it as I wrote — and I took that as a sign to get back to work.
It’s been a frantic week. When I left my job, I set a freelance goal to meet each month, an amount roughly commensurate with paying half the mortgage and keeping us in health insurance. This still leaves me indebted to the good offices of Mr. Tingle but it helps lighten the load. This Tuesday was disheartening — as I worked away at the kitchen table for $13.50 per hour, my stepson’s car went into the shop for $500 and the hemlocks in our yard were diagnosed with some creeping plague, also $500 to treat. In other words, working very hard from early in the morning I earned $121.50 (pre-taxes); and our outgoing expenses were $1,000 base. There are times I look up from my computer and think of the mortgage, my stepson’s mounting college tuition, our heating bill, the dentist — and I’ll get a swirling fear that’s like a debtor’s version of vertigo. A sense that the center will not hold and we will fall into ruin.
(And meanwhile, such an insane bibliophiliac is your friend CAAF, that I can’t stop clicking on the subscription information for the Times Literary Supplement, which Mr. Sarvas tells me is the bomb; and the Amazon listing for the seven-volume set of Rising Up, Rising Down, which the Rake has made alluring. What the fuck is wrong with me?!)
Which is all, I guess, a long way of saying that when I’m away, it’s not because I don’t like this blog — it’s one of my favorite things — but because I feel like there’s a lot at stake right now. And the writing has to come first, and after that, helping Mr. Tingle with some money. Then I can blog.
What this does not mean is that I am unhappy or feeling sorry for myself or anything like that. If I am emitting a low whining sound like a mosquito, I do not mean to. On the contrary, I’m often stunned by my good fortune. Last year, at this time, I was in my cubby at the plumbing-supplies firm, feeling depressed and claustrophobic and entertaining visions of myself as a pathetic figure at age 60, saying, “Yes, I hope to write a novel some day,” with no one believing me anymore. My cubby was a tall narrow closet that I called the Vertical Coffin (which is one of those jokes that’s so dark no one laughs) — I thought the only thing that could make it worse is if little clods of soil started dropping through the air vent overhead.
So yes, I’ve made the leap and I’m very glad I did. But sometimes I can’t help but look down and say, “Holy fuck, what have I done?” as I flap my wings around. Just to push that metaphor off the ledge.
The plumbing-supplies firm was kind enough to include Mr. Tingle and I in their holiday dinner on Monday. And while I may not miss my cubby, it was fabulous to be with everyone. A waiter left a bottle of Chardonnay unattended at my right elbow. Luckily, Mr. Tingle was at my left and able to intervene whenever he could tell I was about to bust out with a Hilarious Anecdote for the table. “I wouldn’t tell that story,” he’d lean in and whisper. And the next morning I was relieved I hadn’t told, especially the Funny One About Adultery. So thank you, Mr. Tingle.
In summary: To save you from a barrage of repetitive “I’m sorry” messages, please know that while posting may be intermittent, my intentions are good and I heart each and every one of you. My plan is to post when I’m able and I can enjoy it, and in return for your patience I’ll try to make it as smart and funny as I can. (Of course, this is no guarantee of either smarts or funnies — but, you know, points for effort.)
Also, I’ll try to leave off the excessive personal anecdote and loving of my fellow bloggers and actually write about books. But before I do: Happy belated anniversary, Ed!!
Fuck books, I want more confessional CAAF. Not that you’re adept at the litblog thing–au contrare, you totally rock. I’ve no doubt you and the rest of those meddling kids on your blogroll have forgotten more books than I’ll read in my lifetime. Lizzie always urged me to post about things that interested me or I was passionate about (never mind that most of the time they were bodily functions, sporting events or idiotic things writers say). The point is, the post above captures your life as a writer and all of its attendant pleasure, angst and uncertainty. I find that to be invaluable. Don’t ever change, babe.
And lunch is on me.
Comment by Jimmy Beck — 12/9/2004 @ 1:13 pm
Not that you’re NOT adept at the litblog thing…doh.
Comment by Jimmy Beck — 12/9/2004 @ 1:43 pm
What Jimmy said. Totally.
Whether it’s personal anecdote or lit-blogging, it’s always good stuff at Tingle Alley (and when you combine both, as you did in your post “Writers who expand our reality,” well, the results are something else — best post I’ve read in all of blogdom in months, if you ask me).
Comment by Michael — 12/9/2004 @ 2:29 pm
Yeah, books are good but personal anecdotes even better! If you are too busy to dig up anything much content-wise, just post the occasional line to say hello. We love Tingle Alley. BEST of luck with this, and may some windfall wealth fall into your lap to discharge some of those wretched expenses! (My most recent one like that was at the end of the summer–having to replace my office computer–compounded by rage that my employer wouldn’t pay!–and get a root canal and crown and buy 20 copies of MY OWN BOOK, priced by Cambridge at $75 for reasons I do not understand, to distribute to various colleagues in a questionable effort of self-promotion–none of these what you’d call luxury expenses–credit card city….)
Comment by Jenny D — 12/9/2004 @ 2:48 pm
Absolutely what Jimmy said. Let’s get VHI: Behind the Tingle.
Comment by Ed — 12/9/2004 @ 5:07 pm
“I thought the only thing that could make it worse is if little clods of soil started dropping through the air vent overhead” B-b-b-brilliant. Have to chime in with everyone above— love the personal glimpses. You’re living the dream, baby– albeit close to the ground.
Comment by bluepoppy — 12/9/2004 @ 5:47 pm
I agree wholeheartedly. I love the personal posts. Your sense of humor is the best.
Comment by bookdwarf — 12/9/2004 @ 6:19 pm
You all are too sweet and wonderful. And thanks for the feedback re: personal posts. Sometimes I feel fearless about putting them up; other times I feel like a twittering idiot. Like people are coming here wishing for a more intellectual experience than I can offer that day. There are days where, if I’m entirely truthful, the entire post would consist of nothing but the word “duh” with a line of slobber. And I feel like I should be offering a brilliant textual analysis of “Pale Fire” or something.
Thanks thanks thanks.
Comment by CAAF — 12/9/2004 @ 6:37 pm
The reason we hang out here is the reason you want people to buy your book when it’s finally ready to be published–voice. You’ve got it, kid. Let it sing.
Comment by Sarah — 12/9/2004 @ 6:37 pm
Nabokov, schmabokov.
Comment by gwenda — 12/10/2004 @ 9:26 am
Who’s this Schmabokov person? If he/she writes like CAAF, order me a dozen or so!
Enjoy,
Comment by Dan Wickett — 12/10/2004 @ 5:12 pm