The Vault Part 3: I Hate Tibor Fischer
So the other day I was reading a Guardian interview with some veddy nice fella who's gotten all kinda nice kudos (especially French ones) and he was pretty gloomy about writing. Said it was torture. I am paraphrasing, but that was the upshot. He's. Not. Wrong. In my experience, writers who blithely flow across the page, never feel blocked or anything else but saccharine-pleased with the three billion words they wrote today, yes, those fuckers? In my experience their work is reallllllly bad and self indulgent. Writers need to be pissed off about writing. I'm not sure why. Having said that, I remember once having a chat with the strangely-sexy novelist Tibor Fischer en-route to Korea for the British Council, and I ranted about insecurity and blocks and he looked at me like I was an alien. He might have wanted to be sympathetic, but the bottom line is, boyfriend got the trifecta: talent, self-belief, and a damn good agent. I think I hate Tibor Fischer.
But you know what, I'm bitching, but in doing so, another thing happens. I can feel a little bright blue voice behind my right ear, and its whispering at me: "But yeah, but don't it feel goooood when it goes right? Better than anything and everything." And I get tingles all over the place and I can't stop smiling at the possibility of that one perfect word or phrase, or the memory of someone in the audience crying or laughing at the exact right moment, or even the quality of the light in a student writer's eyes when he just...gets it, and I think: back to the magic. Cause it don't really feel like it has anything to do with me. There are all these stories swirling around in the Universe, and you just take a deep breath, close your eyes and grab one. Yep. Is so it go, as we say in the land of Bob Marley. Am I going to be writing in this breezy, semi-blue manner in this blog? Sure. You're welcome to come back, too. PS. Tibor Fischer wrote a short story collection called Don't Read This Book If You're Stupid. Hell, you gotta love him.