You know, I don’t really have much to share this time around. I finally submitted a story to The Anthology, but that was the very last minute and is only hopefully considered good enough for publication. I mean, I wrote more for The Johnsonian as well, but they didn’t take it. Their rejection was understandable; I’ve been so darn negative lately. I need to write lighter pieces with names like “Why I Love Scrubs,” or “21 Things To Do On Your 21st,” or “Pineapples Are So Tasty, Yum, Yum, Yum!” In my place, The Johnsonian picked up Patrick Key’s beautifully-titled “Age should bring a tastes.”
I’d be devastated if anyone sincerely believed that I’m a misanthrope, but I do admit a tendency to utilize misanthropic qualities from time to time. My reconciliation is that my beliefs are to build a better foundation, not destroy an institution. Still, it’s hard for me to avoid feeling more pious when compared to others in my age group. I don’t mind someone writing “Key,” because that could be a typo or any person’s quick glance at an unfamiliar name. “Age should bring a tastes,” however, is more or less an affront on the English language. How does that get approved? How does an editor sleep at night? I’ve never been a newspaper editor, so I can’t rightfully play backseat driver and assure everyone of what better a job I’d do. Commitment to craft is important, though. I’m starting to think it’s why I write so little, despite wanting to write so much. I am always concerned about quality, and that fact can put me in paralysis.
The Where the Wild Things Are film adaptation is a remarkable success because, despite the original book having only 48 pages, the additions are thematically consistent. Unlike most adaptations that have to snip and cut important elements to fit a running time, the film works as a logical extension of the basic themes expressed over forty years ago. I recall reading the book a few times as a child, and I recall it frightening me with its authenticity. So much of children’s literature is inauthentic or, at the very least, scrubbed with gloss. Honesty always makes the best writing, and, in the classic “Superman sucks, or, shut up about Jesus for once” context, I’d rather read about how I am rather than how I should be. Where the Wild Things Are also makes me incredibly self-conscious, because I don’t know how to write stories so rich and multilayered. I say “I liked the game Super Star Wars a lot,” and all that means is that I liked Super Star Wars a lot. I may throw in some introspection, but that work never has hidden references to The Golden Bough. Then again, I’d feel worse for forcing any of that.
Other than my constant, internal game of duck-duck-goose, everything is going swimmingly. When not working on school, I’ve witnessed a treasure-trove of good material, including the sixth season of 30 Rock, Evangelion 2.0, High Fidelity, and Lincoln. I even found the best song of all time in the Saints Row: The Third soundtrack, and I’ll probably pick up Crystal Castles’ third album sooner rather than later. And I’m actually writing on my desktop machine again, though it’s without a proper graphics card. That should be delivered to me sometime tomorrow, and if that installs properly, I won’t have much more to complain about.
I apologize if I ever come across as demeaning. I’ll try to keep balance between the immediate ideal and the eventual ideal.