One Week In

September 2, 2008 at 3:39 pm (Uncategorized)

Ahh, the first week of school.

Just as not-dangerous as I remember it to be. Kind of hectic, though. Just a little.

I do have some work coming; I’ve volunteered to do transcriptions of video interviews, got an informal interview for that on Wednesday, and another informal interview for a really ritzy job on campus on Thursday. Assisting with program promotion. Pretty effing sweet.

I – whoops, had to pull my fly up, just noticed that – really need to buckle down and get some more ideas into my story. I haven’t dedicated the time to doing it, mostly because I took a week to get a feel for the schedule around here.

It’s become clear to me that if I’m going to do what I want to do (which is write) I need to be more focused on this, and be able to say “No” to hanging out with friends once in a while. I love my friends dearly, but one thing leads to another, and pretty soon, lunch has turned into a late-night game of poker that I am, by some unfathomable grace, winning.

I also have a motivational picture – I went into a bookstore last week and asked the proprietor if I could take a picture of his window. He didn’t give two shits, or much less, the requisite one shit, so my odd request was granted. It now stares me in the face from above my computer, a little bit out of my reach and on my wall. Why? It’s easier for me to imagine my book right next to a slew of others. Visual element and all that.

Lastly, i hate that I love Neil Gaiman.

Allow me to explain. it’s a love affair that started years ago, when I read Terry Pratchet’s “Good Omens”, which he co-wrote. I liked it a lot, but nothing really struck me.

More recently, I saw his re-write of Beowulf, and Stardust. I liked it even more, and heard that he wrote books. I am wading in dangerous waters.

I am at a library, looking for a book by Jonathan Safran Foer. I am close to the G’s, and think, “Hmm. Gaiman is G. Perhaps there’s something in there, I heard Anansi Boys was good.” I find American Gods instead. I read American Gods, and I loved it. I am treading water.

I move to Bryn Mawr only a week later. There is a comic book shop around the corner from me. I go to the comic store, knowing that Gaiman started with comics and graphic novels. They have two whole fucking SHELVES for Neil Gaiman. I picked up 1602, his little spin-off / September 11th parable about America. I loved it.

And as I have the first volume of the Sandman collection on the way ($7, including shipping – suck it), I need to find a way to pick up the other nine for as cheaply as possible.

I’m fucked.

I’m drowning.

I’m swallowing his words in between desperate gulps of air. I’m asphyxiating on his prose.

His characters are filling up my lungs, and my blood is mixing with dangerous levels of his dialogue.

Neil Gaiman is killing me, and I want to thank him for it – better yet, I want to pay him for it.

It’s not like getting into, say, Metallica, and saying, “Oh, I need all of their work; hmm, that’s only about 6 CD’s, that ain’t too bad. Do you take American Express?”

It’s like saying, “Wow, I really love Led Zeppelin, I need everything they’ve ever done. Their essence has been imprinted on my soul. And their live stuff’s even better? Shit. I don’t need all of these internal organs, right? That seems fair to me, just give me that Zep, man.”

All unintentional murder aside, he seems like a charming fellow. I can only aspire to do the same thing to unwitting souls in the future. I just wish he’d have been more considerate, I have bills to pay.



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