December 29, 2011 by Marcus Speh
I began with my father and I want to end with my mother, who is somehow linked to my inability to go deeper in my writing. I feel that inability painfully with the text I’m struggling with right now—here’s an excerpt from the beginning:
«The writer left the embassy. He knew that he was an alien, normal in one world but not normal in this one. He wasn’t unhappy about it. He was already planning on turning anything that made him unhappy, anything that solicited an emotional response, good or bad, into his art. He wasn’t worried about being the copy of a man from Mercury. He was worried about one thing and one thing only: his voice.»
Picking up on my gloomy pre-birthday mood, my lovely, talented, gorgeous wife wrote me a funny birthday card:
That cheered me up. Not so bad the story, so far. 48. Plenty of love and lots of looking at the stars. Perhaps we’ll spend the day coming up with many more D-words, driving the demons of death down the drain…
Since it’s my birthday, here’s the unabashed vanity part of this post; I’ve had publications all over the place in December: Northville Review; Airplane Reading; Fatboy Review (ongoing for 12 days until January 5th, 2012); Dogzplot; Letras Caseras; Necessary Fiction (including the first publication of my daughter’s art) and The Rumpus. Very, very happy about that & thanks a lot to all the editors!