A Perfume of Sensibilty

“That distinctive singular stamp of himself is one of the main reasons readers come to love an author. The way you can just tell, often within a couple paragraphs, that something is by Dickens, or Chekhov, or Woolf, or Salinger, or Coetzee, or Ozick. The quality’s almost impossible to describe or account for straight out — it mostly presents as a vibe, a kind of perfume of sensibility — and critics’ attempts to reduce it to questions of “style” are almost universally lame.” ~ David Foster Wallace

“Perhaps the mission of those who love mankind is to make people laugh at the truth, to make truth laugh, because the only truth lies in learning to free ourselves from insane passion for the truth.” ~ Umberto Eco

“All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you: the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

Writing has actively been on my mind lately. It is always somewhere in my mind, be it back burner, slow simmer, deep trepidation – whatever; it’s always there. That’s why I say “actively”. It’s almost as if I actually have the volition to work more on the novel. Chances are I do have that volition. What, maybe even a sentence a day? Yeh, that is doable. Such a practice would sensitize my mind to the probable fact that this is going to happen. The work will progress. It’s not so much a plan as it is a simple statement of fact. Yet when I am depressed I get into one of those what’s the use zones, babbling to myself that no one is going to read it anyway, and if they do read it they would think it to be weird. In fact, I think you can bank on it being weird. It’s (loosely, maybe) about magic, the paranormal, deities and archetypes, scam spirituality, mental illness, and social outcasts who are rather relieved in regards to their marginalization. The working title is “The Final Convenience” and it will be centered around Dulce, New Mexico, which is the purported location of a seven level underground alien UFO and research base. There really is such a legend; you can google it. Those friggin people are tripped out, but it is really quite fun for me to read about and listen to the stories that surround the legend. I’ve only been to Dulce once. That was before the novel was even a twinkle in my eye – I just wanted to see what the town looked and felt like – having read some of the woo woo tales people tell about the place. I suspect my literary aspirations were kindled on that trip. It’s kind of a long drive from here. The scenery along the way is sometimes breathtaking. I want to go back one day, have some lunch in a local restaurant, just kind of vibe in to the place. Sniff out that “perfume of sensibility” that Mr. Wallace mentioned in the opening quote. Someday. Ya know, rent a nice car, have some fun with it. But for now it is coming up on sunrise, and I really must go have a look at it. Sunrise, that is. Today is laundry day. A relatively early trip into town, then back up a ways to the laundromat, will be followed by a requisite nap, then early dinner at a friend’s house. Maybe I will talk about the novel during dinner. Who knows. But I certainly ain’t gonna talk about the laundry. I do have my limits, don’tcha know. Now, onward.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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