Hail to thee, blithe spirit, and all that

In Absurdlandia, Current reading, Drafts, Hautvoir, Local projects, Poetry, proto drafts on March 24, 2016 at 8:23 am

As things stand now, every single word of fiction I’ve ever written will die with me.

No, this isn’t about self-pity. This is about painful truths. I write in English. I live in France, as far as imaginable from the literary powers that be. Most people around me couldn’t care less about writing, whether in French or in English.

I’ve stopped contacting agents since I assume – perhaps wrongly, but I doubt it – they will not be interested in the slightest by what I write and how I write it. When I started blogging, I held the naive belief I would find kindred spirits that way. Kindred spirits turn out to be few and far between. As for the pretty bit about shooting for the moon because you may miss it but you’ll reach the stars? Excuse me but most of space is empty – or whatever other name you want to give to dark matter.


On the list of minor annoyances this morning: the discovery the computer I acquired some two years ago is considered “obsolete” for the latest gizmo updates. I’d hate to hear what the latest gizmo folks would say about the computers at the Social Centre over here. No, this isn’t Africa. It’s not the cutting edge either.


I didn’t even know about Anne Bronte until I read about her on The Guardian yesterday. After reading the hatchet job one of her famous sisters did on her kid sister and her writing, I immediately ordered The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Apparently, in an earlier book, Anne Bronte wrote about the less-than-romantic life of a governess in homes where no passionately desirable and wealthy owner dwelled. If The Tenant proves to be good reading, I’ll order the other book too. No wealthy and desirable heirs in my life; the parents of the kids I coach don’t fit into that category and I’m a few months short of my seventieth birthday.

Thursday, March twenty-fourth, two thousand and sixteen


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