baseboard whine

so i just finished ("finished" being one of those words that probably will never apply, but i just finished-ish) my novel, the one i wrote under the influence of hormones, dreams, and ursula leguin in eighth grade, rewrote during my lunch breaks at safeway under the influence of proust, postmodernism, and a deepseated argument with w.c. williams three years ago, got onto the computer last year at bishop's ranch under the influence of awkward social situations, bad macaroni salad, worse chicken salad, and agatha christie, and have finally rewritten for i think the second-to-last time on google docs, under the influence of more postmodernism, recent deaths, and hart crane.  i don't just think it's as good as it's going to get.  i think it's good.  i'm sure there are problems, but most things are accounted for, and it's about what it's actually about at this point.  it's only confusing at points, and the preponderance of "its"s and "that"s have been cut down on: it's readable, if heavily punctuated.

now i have to try to get it published, and i read a thing that said that people use short stories to build a reputation with...i don't think i'm recognizable as a good short story writer.  my techniques for writing prose are about the same as my techniques for writing poetry: they're highly instinctual--i throw together what seems to want to be together, and don't always try to worry through the connections (or am not always able to recognize the connections i've made).  besides which, it seems meaningless to write short stories when what i want to write are novels (or in this case, a novella).  it's not that i don't want to try other forms of writing; it's just that i'm not a writer, but someone who has written something that i think is good enough to be published.  writers are people who masturbate with language, who fetishize words' possibilities of meaning (and it's awesome; i love it when they do that [usually]).  i, however, don't do that--i don't think that the words themselves are any heavier than the meaning they convey.  when it comes to words, i'm not controlling--if i could use a thousand words to describe one sensation, i would (and have).  words are like a rubik's cube; trying to solve them is improbable--pain is like a falling leaf because it becomes disattached from the moment in memory; music is like a falling leaf because it muddies the distinctions between sound, vision, and movement...an andes chocolate mint is like a falling leaf because it makes you want to touch its skin.  i'm pretty sure i'm not making myself clear.

the thing is that i've put so much of myself into this dang novella that if i don't see it published i don't think i'll ever be able to write anything major ever again.  i shouldn't allow myself to see myself as so weak--but i do; i can't help it.  of course, the wound from having finished it is pretty fresh.  i should wait a week before prognosticating diresome crap.

the worst part is that there's singing, but i can't just sing--i can't just sing anymore than i can just write.  at least not right now.  GOD, i just think of the amount of EFFORT i put into this book--the amount of MYSELF i put into it--i barely want to OWN it, i don't want anyone i know to READ it, and yet i really want to see it in print, so i can let the story go...  or something (now i'm talking like Kaya).

okay.  i'm going to give it a try.  i'm going to look up an agent online, and i'm going to apply to NEC and SFCM.  i don't want to be a famous author.  i just want to let this story go, to let someone else see it for what it is... i guess, to expose myself, but maybe not--maybe just to expose the story.