So much for my foray into on-line respectability. My little “thank you for visiting” place-holder here, a gesture in the direction of what has served as an on-line resume, it also served its purpose, I suppose. At least it gave me something for resumes and applications, hundreds of which I sent out, none of which were successful, few of which were even acknowledged. Which leads me to believe, after these last non-gestational nine months, that I should fly my true colors again. Me, back. Me, writing. Me subverting the dominant paradigm, or at least pretending I do.
I admitted once to a friend, a pretty well-known professional writer friend, that I am probably much more interesting as a character than as a writer. “Oh, that’s not true,” he cooed in response, presuming (somewhat patronizingly) my comment to be some sort of self-denigration. We were dating at the time, and he no doubt hoped to get lucky that evening. But I have in fact had a wonderfully “interesting life.” It embarrasses me to say so, but I have. Seared somewhere deep in my brain after all lies the T.S. Eliot condescension regarding “people with interesting lives,” and particularly people who seemed proud of that fact. Philistines! The work’s the thing, yes? Discipline. Sacrifice. Accomplishment.
Well, I try. Ideas swarm, but do little to ground me at keyboards. I worry too much: money, love, word order. It’s so hard to find just the right balance between inspiration and distraction.
But I’m back, a desperate stamina asserting itself against all odds. To hell with the pretense that I am a normal job candidate. My resume outs me on that one. As good as I am, I am not anyone’s sure bet in these economic times. On to projects which may or may not realize themselves. Riding Buses. Reflections on magic. Sheep and the Faery of Inwood Hill. Interlacings of fantasy and our dour real world. Class. Art. Beauty. Transcendence. Engagement. Justice. Hope. I draw maps. I make notes. I dream.
Dawn Aberg 