Spanish Sahara is exquisite.
Dear Apsiring Writers (including myself):
Take note. While toiling away, trying to write a meaningful story that justly captures some aspect of the human experience, remember that publishing, like any creative pursuit, is first and foremost a business. You could write the greatest tale that has ever been told, but if no one believes that’s it’s marketable, no one will publish it. Meanwhile, someone who is famous for tanning, teasing her hair and getting excessively drunk in public will get a book published almost instantly because the publisher knows it will make them a lot of money.
- 33% of high school graduates never read another book for the rest of their lives.
- 42% of college graduates never read another book after college.
- 80% of US families did not buy or read a book last year.
- 70% of US adults have not been in a bookstore in the last five years.
- 57% of new books are not read to completion.
- 70% of books published do not earn back their advance.
- 70% of books published do not make a profit.
Knowing all of this, publishers pander to the lowest common denominator. They are far more likely to publish a terrible book that will sell a million copies than a brilliant book that will sell five hundred copies. Taking a gamble on a book they know almost no one will read is simply not worth their money.
However, you can at least try to take solace in the fact that in twenty years, people will still be reading, analysing and loving Poe’s work, yet no one will remember or care who Snooki is.
This song always makes me happy.
To Build a Home by Patrick Watson (with The Cinematic Orchestra)
The girl in the video makes me even happier.
One thing is for sure: I’m not myself right now. I’m an emotional minefield, impossible to pass without tripping a switch. When I’m my normal self, I’m considered to be calm and collected, but in these few days I instead react irrationally. I try to remain composed and unconcerned but I can’t hide what is frequently anger, frustration or fear. Playing passiveness simply doesn’t work. Nowhere else do I experience such strong negative emotion. Is this because I’m not used to such close familial attachment?
As a child, closely-knit family integration was non-existent. When I’m put into an environment of intimate family bonding, I’m awkward and clueless as to how to participate. I react by imitating others. As much as I’d want to avoid pinning this flaw up to some Freudian hypothesis, I do believe my lack of genuine compassion stems from the absence of a mother’s say in my early years. My father did well to clothe and feed me, but there is only so much an emotionally tongue-tied Scotsman can do to make up for a “mother’s touch.” This would explain why I freeze up during hugs, am speechless when I’m complimented, unmoved by another’s suffering and unaware when it comes to acts of familial bonding. I simply didn’t experience such things as a child. I have no sense of attachment.
So, 20 years removed from her, to be with her now I am ashamed to say I act like a child. It seems I’m learning how to receive a mother’s say 20 years later. I tell you, it’s hard being told what to do when you’ve been doing things your own way for a very long time. Harder is to read her true feelings and decipher her criticisms and verbal lashings. Is a mother ever pleased with you? It seems like they always have an opinion on what you’re doing wrong and what you could be doing better; after I’ve cooled off I can accept this as their love, not disapproval. But getting to that point of rational thinking definitely requires a sojourn in a very angry place. Thankfully, after writing all this out, I’m at peace.
If you laugh out loud by yourself, does that make you crazy?