rlbourges

Falling out of bed

In Animals, Artists, Current reading, Drafts, Hautvoir, Local projects, Music, Sanford Meisner on April 23, 2014 at 7:24 am

Either Little Nemo or Krazy Kats being a good starting point, this morning. Little Nemo provides the title. Some day, when I’m grown up, rich and famous, I’ll buy the whole set of his adventures aboard the wondrous bed. (Only realize now, years after writing the scene, how that bed inspired a moment in something I wrote a few years back.) As for the antics of the Krazy one and Ignatz, I’ll own the fabulous reprint of their adventures too, when I’m grown up, rich and famous*. Patron Saints, the whole lot.

Of course I read William Styron’s Darkness Visible last night. It arrived in the mailbox yesterday, along with Graham Greene’s Our Man in Havana which I’m saving for another time. Of Styron’s report from the front lines of depression, I retain his disapproval with the name the condition carries. I agree. Depression sounds wimpy; something like low-level bellyaching. Whereas when the condition strikes, it makes you wish for a broken limb or other recognizable pain you can wrap in a cast, instead of battling the urge to bash your brains in against the hardest surface available. His comment, too, about watching TV from the confines of a psychiatric ward giving him the sense that “the place where I had found refuge was a kinder, gentler madhouse than the one I’d left.” (A temporary state of mind, I might add.) This said, his slim volume could have been even slimmer – but I suppose reading about someone else’s fall into the Grips of Despond is akin to a detailed account of a dream filled with details and no sense of direction.

Falling out of bed. The let-down when the story says: I’m finished now. But I’m not finished, the writer says. Wait. You can’t walk away like this. We were just starting to get acquainted. Don’t you want to tell me what happens to so-and-so? Or how such-and-such fits in or doesn’t? You’re leaving me behind, with nothing else but the sorry business of checking for typos, and trying to convince perfect strangers they’ll want to read this one, boy oh boy, is this ever a story like they’ve never read before. (Said strangers being told the same thing by every Jack or Jill sending them a query letter + synopsis + fifteen first pages. The I don’t wanna feeling so strong in me, I don’t even want to click on the dread categories Revision, Synopsis and Querying. Just now realize I’ve been calling the thing a draft through every single re-write. Hoping for some miracle, maybe. The arrival of Little Nemo’s Bed on Stilts to carry me off to the grown-up version of Slumberland.)

Lucie and her cast of imaginary friends. There’s work to do, Lucie says. The imaginary ones couldn’t care less.

* well… maybe I can afford this one if a few more people decide to sign up for a workshop. C’mon, people. This is an appeal straight from Coconino County.

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