Days Walking Down Sniper Alley

I am sorry there has been a lack of entries recently. There are entries I want to write – among them ‘Geno Washington’s Fight Club’ and ‘This is how Mr. Grasso Kicks Out the JAMS’ – but life has been difficult. I have moved away from ‘slashing my wrists’ in public (seemingly much to the annoyance of some readers), but I am currently experiencing somewhat unravelling circumstances.

I feel like I have spent days walking down Sniper Alley. When bullets strike too close, turning stone to violent storms of dust inches from your face, there is a gradual erosion of the soul. This is one reason for the dearth of new material on English Dreaming, English Rain during August.

Although I have my ‘funny book’ going to Frankfurt, I have also been working on the proposal for a project with the working title Counterfeit Truth. When you pour words professionally, sometimes there are not enough left for personal use. This has also been a factor hitting the blog over the last couple of weeks.

While I have no intention of whinging or dwelling on it, the final factor in the ongoing drought is my health. Trying to write, trying to forge the words and bind them together when pain takes all your strength is one of the ultimate acts of resolve. Imagination and will is the root of all magic. I understand that on days like these.

Who Would Win

Yesterday I sent Sean Twist the proposal for my latest book idea called Who Would Win. I had put the proposal together quickly over the weekend after an editor picked up on something I said when machine-gunning ideas around. Today Twist sent an email pointing out that not only am I ‘certifiably insane’, but that the pitch is: ‘a brilliant idea’.

Today, 10 minutes after being sent the four-age proposal and two sample spreads, my potential new editor sent me the following email: ‘Looks great, reads really well. I'm going to push to get this into work soon. How much you want to write it?’

All this unexpected praise for a book I do not particularly want to write.

Now I know that sounds like the usual bout of author whining, but there are many books I do want to write. I want to write books combining travel and the exploration of secret history, travel and the exploration of folklore. I want to write a biography of the indole alkaloid ibogaine, a biography of Luke Haines. From Sherlock Holmes XIII to The Far Lands, there are a couple of novels gestating in me that I would love the chance to deliver to a publisher.

However, at the moment the only book a publisher seems to want from me is a ‘funny book’. I know I have said in the past that the only ‘funny book’ I wanted to write was ‘Who would win a fight between Mahatma Ghandi vs. Mother Teresa?’ It is just that now there is a real possibility someone will pay me to write that exact tome, I am doubtful about bashing it out. I am just not convinced I can do 200 or more pages of droll.

I will readily admit I get a mild buzz out of the proposed book’s central concept and with the right co-author it could actually be quite enjoyable to write. There is also the fact I could do with some funding right now. Of course, when the potential editor says: ‘How much do you want to write it?’ what he really means is: ‘Ask whatever you want, at most we will only offer you enough to pay the rent for three months.’ There is possibility of agent involvement in the negotiation to make things more equitable, but at the end of the day the size of any fee will not decide the issue. The real question is whether I want to do something that merely entertains or should hold out for a deal to publish a book I actually feel is a good use of trees.