Whether or not I become an overnight literary 'success' -- I'd find it almost impossible to retire. From the next book, the next short story, the next stanza or the next article. From a way of life that has taken its toll -- on my marriage, my social life (whatever the hell that is), and even a good chunk of my sanity. Even through an open door I see chains. And the chains are paragraphs and stanzas; smells and voices and screams and laughter.
I can quit the education business. But I can't stop listening. To the voices in my head that demand I take dictation.
Which of my jobs can I afford to lose? At school, I'm at least sane. And when that's gone...?
Fuck. I just want to stop. And smell the coffee. Or the fish. Or whatever it is my wife is wearing. Before it's too fucking late.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
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