Another day on the web searching agents. I found an excellent interview with Lynn Nesbit in the Poets & Writers archive. She makes many significant points:
1. Voice is what makes Joan Didion an excellent writer.
2. Everyone is desperate for a good novel.
3. There may be more writers than readers.
4. The best way to get an agent is to get published.
Last night I read Bakhtin, to settle my mind before sleeping. This morning I read John Banville's review of Beckett's second volume of letters, after trying to select three 1,000 word selections for a short short story contest.
About Beckett, Dan Gunn says: "For the letters attest not just to the dogged endeavor to write, against odds which often seem insurmountable, but also to the author's determination to enable his 'creatures' (as he occasionally calls them) to live and make their way in the world: letters to publishers, to translators, to academics, to journalists, to theatre directors, to theatrical agents, to radio producers."
I am always talking about money, which is and is not the point.
I am concerned with making a living, and as you read many artists biographies, there is always a concern about finances. Rent needs to be paid. Food needs to be bought. Support needs to be given. That's all basic, and as I've said before, I write about it all the time.
What I don't write about is why I'm doing this in the first place.
It's about these creatures. Beckett had his. I have my own.
Like Winston, the Tripmaster Monkey, I'm married to a painter, and I often feel we, writers, don't have anything to show for our work. I have manuscripts. And in some way they don't exist if no one is reading them. I can't describe what this is like. L'Innommable. This project may lead to words for this torture. I am not sure. These are my Blue Nights, trying to find a way to hold on to some aspect of life, my own even, and what I have left, here, in this world, my creatures, who are be smothered by closed minds and deaf ears.