Pure Writerly Moments 3

Introduction - How did I get here?

The mid-life crisis is such a cliche. I try to avoid cliches like telemarketers, jock itch, and settling for less. Yet, every short story collection I write seems to start off with some kind of existential crisis. With The Lexical Funk, I wrote about "Burnt Out College Student" blues – not believing in writing, feeling neglected, the burden of my intellect...such cliched bullshit. But I feel like I have gotten to this point in my life feeling defeated. Honestly, though I haven't cried in a long time, I feel that this might help. Like an orgasm for the soul. Great big sobs might be like multiple soular orgasms.

There are these two cackling morons that live next door. Japanese cackling morons are the worst...he, he, he...They drill into my head the fact that I am an unloved, unsuccessful 41-year-old "writer". He...he...he. The thin walls of my efficiency apartment make me realize just how inefficient I have been as a human being. Efficient people can afford thicker walls or even houses in wide open spaces. When they yell about their monetary success it echoes through the halls of their palaces. But at least I am never alone in my less-than-mediocrity. He...he...he. Yes, you morons are as unsuccessful as me!...And I am as unsuccessful as you.

An aside: I strongly believe that the 1980s version of Bill Murray that resided in such movies as Meatballs, Stripes, and Ghostsbusters could help me through these dark times. He would punctuate every dark moment with some absurd motivational speech. "Yes...we are mutants! The unsuccessful...the outcasts...but we have one thing other people don't...this half-off coupon to Hungry Howies Pizza..."

I started writing these essays and short pieces for a project called Pure Writerly Moments. This new project would be different. But I didn't know what that project was yet. Perhaps it was a way for me to die on my own terms. Perhaps it was a way towards rebirth. As I began writing the stories, I realized that I wanted them to be honest, personal, written in one or two drafts. I wanted to find an authentic "voice," the same voice that I had found when I was writing my high school friend a letter. If I were writing this book of short stories to fans who had known my work and wanted me to be more of who I was, what would they want me to write?

There is the story idea I have called 100 ways to kill Bill Murray. It would be like my Groundhog Day, but the only way to escape groundhog day would be to kill Bill Murray in an acceptable way. All the while, I realize that I am trying to find the perfect way for me to die. (Why the obsession with Bill Murray?)

Suggested guidelines: Be comfortable, one or two drafts, the only research you would need is in your soul. Be natural.

So, I have these questions written down. Apparently, I'm supposed to answer them in this opening chapter. Are you in essence a short story writer? How did you lose faith in that?

The answer to the second question is remarkably simple – I got rejected. A lot. I sort of lost faith in my process. Back when I was a short story writer I would write a story, I would revise it, I would submit it. I would get rejected. I would let it sit and then I would revise again. However, the rejections just kept stacking up. If rejections were wrinkles I would look like I'm 232 years old.

At one point, while I was living in New Mexico, I would collect the rejections in a shoebox. Like most collectors, it was a kind of fetish. Only years later, when I was a little past thirty and taking care of my mom, did I have the sense to throw them out.

There are few good reasons to hold on to the past. I have a distinct memory of my first year teaching in Japan. We had an older teacher, someone in their fifties, who lived downstairs in a company apartment and had been hoarding old Japanese newspapers. She could never adequately explain why she was hoarding them. Her roommates, new teachers with less of the hoarding mentality, would encourage her to throw them out. Eventually, the older teacher had to move out. But she left those fucking newspaper behind. And it was her younger, non-hoarding roommate who had to throw them out.

I suppose I took that a bit further. Not only did I throw away the rejection slips, but also (at some point, hard to know when) I threw away my identity as a short story writer. If that was the source of the rejection, after all, why hold on to that as well?

But to return to the question...how did I get here? Forty-one...hair thinning, few social engagements, yet oddly happy with my books and free time...I feel myself, stuck, diminishing? What's the word? Unevenly thriving. I just finished watching a kid's movie – Mary Poppins Returns. That seems like a win. When in doubt, watch movies that others have recommended to you. Also, gather music recommendations from people...I feel like my music has gotten exceptional lately.

There are no straight lines that occur in nature...I forget where I read this. Probably the book Seeing Like a State by James Scott (a book on the failures of urban planning). I must be a statist at heart because I want the story of my life to be a straight line.

If the last twenty years have been my dark forest...twenty years of dark forest rejection...then perhaps I just need to learn how to live in that forest, possibly forever. The idea when I was younger was that by the time I was thirty, I would have the girl, multiple successful books, and a wide variety of free time activities and ventures to occupy my time. Last year (2023), sitting on the beach at Wakimisaki in Nagasaki, it sort of felt like success...I guess that's kind of the message. Some days you will have these wonderful moments that feel like all your childhood dreams have come true. Other days, you will feel like an impotent teenager again.

It's strange: My first instinct is to hit hard. But, I am essentially a non-aggressive person. Also, hitting hard seems to just move me backwards...but so does hitting softly...

I have this written down – When all else fails, do things the old fashioned way: . Thank you, "Deadpool," you are my generation's prophet.

I wonder if that applies to short story writing. It must.

I am looking for a title...This is the End...perhaps that should have a question mark in it...This is the End?...Is this the End?...Another title that comes to mind...Where Will I Be Tomorrow?...This is an allusion to the idea that things are so unstable in the 21st century.

And they are! It's only a matter of time before an AI will be able to write better prose than me. It will only be a matter of time before I too am addicted to data-driven AI-written personalized novels on demand.

*

Is this relevant to an introduction? I don't know. On March 10, 2023, I took a trip to Mogi. Long time ago, I used to go to Mogi with my then-girlfriend. This was 2005-2008. During that time I wrote a long short story about Mogi. Anyway, back to the present. I went there and spent five hours wondering. I walked from the city to Miyazuri beach along the coast. The sun was hot and I forgot to bring sunscreen. I burned pretty badly. I had my copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude with me. I read, hoping to capture some of the magic of my youth.

Like the mythical city of Macondo, I felt like I could retrieve something simply by remembering what it was like to be younger and more hopeful.

Surprisingly, the old fishing village seemed full of life. But alas, even visiting the bakery and sitting beside the bay watching the fishing boats failed to revive that magic. I tried to remember what it was like to dream of living there for a year or more...to read old books and write short stories. But something in me no longer wanted that. And it begged the questions: What did I want? Where am I? Am I looking for a new beginning or am I looking for a way to end?

If the answer cannot be found in Mogi, not in Macondo, then perhaps it can be found in these pages.

To begin again...first I must utter the magical words: "I am a short story writer."