You know how in the front of a book, at the very beginning, forward of the forward and the epigraph and the acknowledgements and all that noise, there will be these blurbs or testimonials for other authors? Sometimes when I read those I sit and wonder what writers would say about my book, provided I had a book. Call me vain, but I wonder, and it’s really kind of what makes me want to write a book.

I don’t have a book. I do have a vast, 75,000 word sprawl of patchwork paragraphs and chapters. It’s all connected in a way. It’s all written by me, about me, and mostly for me. It became for me when I got overwhelmed by the size and lost interest in the work of writing. Every so often I entertain thoughts that I’ll send it to an editor who will do the work for me and make sense of it. God only knows if there is any sense to be made of it. It ended up being an exercise in catharsis. Once it was all vomited out into pixels, actually doing something with it felt pointless.

Then again, it would be nice to have four or five pages of praise. You know what I mean. This is the shit that I think about it when I’m reading someone else’s work, or works by people who weren’t afraid to put in the work. Not that this is a knock on myself, though that happens plenty. It’s just a statement of fact. Laziness and avoidance are no strangers to this household. The come in and stay every so often and sometimes it’s not like they’re not welcome.

Fantasy is better than television, more often than not.

These are the thoughts that go through my head when I’m cruising the depths of arcane pop music on Youtube or Bandcamp. This is what I found today, by the way:

The intertoobz has made the world very small. Not always in a warm and cozy sense, but in that I can find any fucking thing if I type it into a search engine way. Hey Google, hook me up with 60s psychobilly and punk from Japan! Yes, thank you. You can find anything from anywhere and you can get it translated as well, should you not speak Japanese, or Aramaic or any other damn thing.

I guess maybe scraping the net and putting it here with my words is also part of making the world that much smaller. Who knows who will toss in a random search and find this mess, my World War III diary. Hey who knows? Stranger things have happened. Not that I am sitting here waiting to be discovered and asked my thoughts on all kinds of things, but kind of am.

Insert resigned shrug here.

Yah, so what will they say about the novel I’ve not written?