An Open Letter
Usually, I spend my days reading and writing, always drinking coffee, sometimes drinking beer, sometimes drinking wine. I don’t write enough when I am drunk though. I write well, but I don’t write enough of it. Novels are so fucking long. The minimum length for a reasonable novel is something like 100,000 words. Typing with Times New Roman 12, we are talking about 180-200 pages of text on the computer. Coming up with that much stuff – far be it from being actually GOOD stuff – is hard. Being a novelist requires discipline, a trait I sorely lack. So now I am keeping away from the sauce. I find stupid ways to waste time and mental energy anyway.
I spent yesterday playing Civilization III. I felt bad about it. I gave the disk to Csilla to liberate me from Evil. Without the disk, I cannot play the game. Not playing is a good thing. I played America. After 7 hours of non-stop playing, I managed to kill the French, the English, the Germans, and all the Aztec cities on my continent. That left me with my own continent by 1730AD! Yay! I will treasure this dubious achievement as my last and final Civ III thingie.
I got an email from London, finally. The publisher said that assuming the rest of my manuscript is the same quality as the first two chapters (it isn’t – the last 10 chapters are MUCH BETTER), he wants to publish my book.
He is reading the manuscript now. I am awaiting his decision, hopeful, since he REALLY liked what he had seen so far, and he has read the thorough summary as well before he responded in a positive manner.
The book is a tawdry erotic novel. Terribly filthy, evil stuff, 80,000 words of debased Corruption. If it gets out there, I will be solely responsible for mountains of … ugh … well, you know. Male Effluvium. Erotica does not pay too well, of course, so I have been working on Birds of a Feather. God only knows what genre it is. I guess it could be called a horror/thriller/fantasy mix.
I actually go to cafes now with my laptop and write. When I am done, I take the tram and read a good book. The one I am reading now is Hemingway’s Movable Feast. When I think about this I am not sure what I should do – rejoice that I get to do this in this day and age (instead of working in a cubicle on bullshit) or laugh at myself for having the gall to rub it in your face.
Still, why am I so depressed?
I spent yesterday playing Civilization III. I felt bad about it. I gave the disk to Csilla to liberate me from Evil. Without the disk, I cannot play the game. Not playing is a good thing. I played America. After 7 hours of non-stop playing, I managed to kill the French, the English, the Germans, and all the Aztec cities on my continent. That left me with my own continent by 1730AD! Yay! I will treasure this dubious achievement as my last and final Civ III thingie.
I got an email from London, finally. The publisher said that assuming the rest of my manuscript is the same quality as the first two chapters (it isn’t – the last 10 chapters are MUCH BETTER), he wants to publish my book.
He is reading the manuscript now. I am awaiting his decision, hopeful, since he REALLY liked what he had seen so far, and he has read the thorough summary as well before he responded in a positive manner.
The book is a tawdry erotic novel. Terribly filthy, evil stuff, 80,000 words of debased Corruption. If it gets out there, I will be solely responsible for mountains of … ugh … well, you know. Male Effluvium. Erotica does not pay too well, of course, so I have been working on Birds of a Feather. God only knows what genre it is. I guess it could be called a horror/thriller/fantasy mix.
I actually go to cafes now with my laptop and write. When I am done, I take the tram and read a good book. The one I am reading now is Hemingway’s Movable Feast. When I think about this I am not sure what I should do – rejoice that I get to do this in this day and age (instead of working in a cubicle on bullshit) or laugh at myself for having the gall to rub it in your face.
Still, why am I so depressed?
posted by Balázsy András at 2:13 PM
2 Comments:
The Civ series is evil. I lost a relationship to Civ II. But that's ok. The game was better than the girlfriend anyway.
When you get published you're sending us autographed copies, right?
Everybody needs to eat more soy. Except me. I eat enough already.
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