Goddammit. Bloody hell. Bugger all.
In the past few weeks I've signed contracts to write two books. Let me be clear: I want to write these books. One might actually be read by ordinary folks and even make me a wee bit of money: It's about Margaret Thatcher; I mean, who's not interested in Margaret Thatcher, total she-devil and anti-feminist persona?
The problem with signing book contracts is that then you actually have to write the damn book(s).
Which means: one must not lose entire work days because one has a headache. Even if it's a nonstop motherfucking killer I'm gonna die headache.
Sooooo, what does one do, when one loses several entire work days because one has said nonstop etc. headache?
One gets depressed. One gets tired and cranky and bitchy. And one feels really really sorry for one's self.
Except:
Ordinary men and women and (God help us all) children are fighting for their freedom and their lives in Libya. And oh dear God, those beautiful Bahrainis are being mowed down by Saudi troops. And Jesus Jesus Jesus, entire cities destroyed and hundreds of thousands on the move and a nuclear holocaust impending. . . and one's heart and one's soul and one's spirit reaches across continents and oceans to Japan. . . . and I bet not a one of those Libyans or Bahrainis or Japanese cares about their literary legacy or their professional careers right now. I bet "Damn, my head hurts" is not a phrase of much meaning out there, on the edge of cosmic significance, right at this moment.
And yet, there's the Lucipherian ego, the Satanic self, the demonic part of me that screams, "Excuuuuse me!!!! I'm having a rough time here! My head really hurts! I don't wanna think about you people." And I feel so guilty for such horrible, self-obsessed, oh-so-trivial thoughts, and then, in the ultimate confirmation of Original Sin, I find myself utterly absolutely furious at the Libyans and the Bahrainis and the Japanese for making me feel so goddamned guilty. . . .
Jesus Christ. Oh dear God.
Have mercy.
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