Wednesday, January 16, 2008

I go to the American Library to get some writing done. Second floor behind the stacks there are tables and outlets. Several people are writing here- I notice, in the corner, a guy I know. We nod to each other. We have the same first name- that’s where the similarities end. He’s working on his second novel. I’m sorry I should clarify- he didn’t just write a novel, he had it published. He’s working on his second one, which will, undoubtedly, be published.

I’m staring at the empty white screen of my computer, the curser is blinking. I’m cursing the blinking curser. I hear the successful Misplaced Kiwi behind me. His fingers are flying on the keyboard. It sounds like a goddamned semi automatic weapon back there. The wind howls on my side of the room. A tumbleweed tumbles by, a dog barks. I’m trying to find one of the clementine oranges I packed in my bag- it got squished- things are sticky in my bag. The other guy probably ate lunch before he got to the library.

How can anyone think with all that typing going on? I ought to complain to the librarian but they don’t like me here, something about a book they claim I never returned- librarians are such liars. Notorious fabricators- the smell of mendacity is thick upon them. That whole notion about a button down librarian taking of her glasses and shaking her hair out to reveal a sexy lady is a total lie. They are just mean spirited nuns but without a God and no fear of Hell to keep them in check.

I must concentrate- finish up the short story- get the new one going. I need to send a story out.

“His cigarette pierced the lugubrious night.”

Oh Christ that’s crap.

The other Misplaced chuckles behind me. Is he laughing at me? No, no he’s laughing at what he wrote- maybe. He took time from his rapid fire typing to laugh at what he wrote. It was probably pretty funny. Damn, look at him with his purple shirt and full beard- no missing patches on his beard. My beard looks like a dog with mange- if my beard was a dog it would be put down. Probably bought that purple shirt with the royalties from his first book. What a show off. Jerk.

I looked his book up on-line. It’s about a guy who works in a video store- I used to work in a video store, and mine had unusual porn in it. Damn, I should have written about it. His book got good reviews. Bastard.

He’s from New Zealand. I’ve never much trusted New Zealand and it’s people. Aren’t they basically Australians with very dark and disturbing secrets? They seem to lay low- too low. Other than the Hobbit movie, what do you know about New Zealand? Nothing. Don’t spout out some crap about good hiking and majestic view, you don’t know that. What you think you know about New Zealand is what New Zealand wants you to know. Trust me- we need to keep an eye on that crowd. They are biding their time- waiting, waiting, waiting. Just waiting to plant their seed on our women. Where the hell is New Zealand anyway? I ought to march over to him and say- “New Zealand, New Zealand? Where is Old Zealand! New Zealand my ass!” Forget the Chinese or the Carcassonians- they are just street punks compared to New Zealanders.

Listen to that New Zealander go -he’s hitting those keys a mile a minute- it sounds like tap dancing . I want to scream, “Hey man, writing is a journey not a destination!” But I don’t really know what that means. He’s probably writing some great New Zealand coming of age story. All I’ve got is a modern version of Mary and Joseph living in Ireland- Joseph is unemployed and drinks heavily. They move a lot because they don’t pay their bills. Mary is smoking a Woodbine in bed; Joseph is passed out next to her. She hears a voice, “ONTO YOU A CHILD IS BORN” She takes a deep drag off her cigarette and she says in a thick Irish accent “Oh Christ not another”

Yea, that’s what I’ve got in my bag of tricks. Man oh man I used to make pretty good money. I should never have quit my job. This move huge mistake.

New Zealand guy is working away- his glasses are perched on his nose- he looks scholarly. He does not look up from his laptop. I’m trying to eat a squished clementine without the damn librarians getting up in my face. I’m downloading an illegal copy of “Grey’s Anatomy”- I want a butter cookie.

11 comments:

LDP said...

Dear Mr. Misplaced,

I am an attorney representing a certain aspiring author. My client has asked me to inform you that your use of the phrase, "His cigarette pierced the lugubrious night," may be in violation of the copyright laws of the United States.

Further, my client asks that I urge you to cease . . .

Hey, where'd he go? Nevermind.

Parisian Cowboy said...

Funny.... I had the same feeling recently. A friend of mine sent me an e-mail saying a guy we knew just published his first novel. I actually don't like this jerk. But still, I am jealous. And you're right : New Zealand sucks. We should beware of a country inhabited by Hobbits and sheeps.

Demetrius Romanos said...

This post alone is likely better than New Douchlord's whole tome! F- 'em!

Panic in New York said...

F***ing blimeys. Oh no that's another island.
Who keeps eating all the butter?

Panic in New York said...

I think New Zealand is on George Bush's list of cities to bomb.

Anonymous said...

I was typing out my new visa details into porn memberships...

dryanna said...

I've seen that rainbow flavored "author" before lurking in the stacks while annoying the other wtiters using the library as their office. He looks down his nose at any form of literature that isn't the the great New Zealand novel. Is there such a thing anyway?

taryn said...

i'll buy you all the butter cookies you want. a carton of ice cream too (the good french kind you like).

CA Mac said...

Hey there, Bisquick. I can relate to this one. Yesterday, i saw one of my grad school buddies on TV. I was SO happy for him. I lie, I was so jealous I couldn't see straight. Cheers, CA

Visit camacconnell.com/blog

midwest transplant said...

NZ can't be all that great when the guy wound up here, right?

Colleen said...

When I read this post, I immediately thought about the movie, "Cold Comfort Farm". The protagonist was writing a book and always got stuck at "...the golden orb."