And it does no harm to repeat, as often as you can, “Without me the literary industry would not exist: the publishers, the agents, the sub-agents, the sub-sub-agents, the accountants, the libel lawyers, the departments of literature, the professors, the theses, the books of criticism, the reviewers, the book pages–all this vast and proliferating edifice is because of this small, patronized, put-down and underpaid person.” (Doris Lessing)
Speaking of liminality, yeah, “to hell with you,” but my wet eyes are still asking for that big bear hug, that “please welcome me into your fold.”
Most people don’t even seem to understand how one can say she is a writer without regularly publishing. Our entire being is not defined by the actual verb that lives in the title but some institutional acceptance of it.
(Sometimes I meet people and they think a MFA has something to do with finance or accounting.)
I’m tired of being nothing but a student of life, people!
However, putting yourself out there with a defiant is-ness while wanting people to accept you (AKA “writing”) is sort of like taking a piss in your pants and wanting people to stick around and like you.
I’ve never done this but I’ve seen my mom do it while laughing.
(Sorry, mom. I love you.)
When she’s peed her pants, it’s like she’s human and now her pants are all wet and uncomfortable and everyone knows she’s peed her pants. And we all think it’s really funny but also really sad. We know she’s getting old.
And she continues to laugh, now at herself. And it is a very confused, painful yet humorous moment.
(This analogy is falling apart.)
Like the bladder, the moment is loaded.
(Give me another chance.)
The question from last week: how does the writing with its own social structure, its own liminality rejoin the outside world, “the surrounding social structure?”
The answer is something simple I learned from my dog.
(Oh, canine bearer of wisdom!)
It is something that I repeat to my self, as often as I can: “Don’t pee on yourself, Nancy; pee on others.”