Onward and Upward

Ignore this post. Heed warning.

To write about your own writing seems pompous and vain, but of course, I will go ahead and do it anyway.

I haven't written much in the past week. And this upsets me. Mind you, I still manage to write almost everyday, but when I justify the productivity of a day's writing by saying, "oh, I wrote that 30 Rock recap, that's enough," my dedication is lacking. When I don't write on a daily basis, my mind falls into some kind of cafard; a pit of self-loathing. I feel anxious when I don't write, and my attitude suffers.

Today, I again felt down because I haven't been writing, so I wrote a short introspective piece on why I need to perform my only creative outlet more diligently. Here is an excerpt:

To even dream of being a writer and not to write on a daily basis is like a boy who dreams of being a basketball player but never dribbles the ball. It is a lie; as useless as calling myself a "ballerina" or an "actor". I do neither. Why do I have the audacity to call myself a writer if the ball of my pen never touches a page?

I continue on and evaluate the advancements I have made in my writing over the past year. Boring stuff for my typical blog reader so I will forgo the explanation on the rest of my introspective piece and tell you this:

I vow to write more than I did this week. Not for the blog, but for myself.

OK, enough of that.

I was perusing a bookstore near Molly's work and found a compilation of John Cheever's short stories that was autographed by the author. Having recently finished and adoring his novel, Bullet Park, a look into the destitute and pervertedness encompassing life in the suburbs, I wanted to buy this autographed book. The faded red hard-back cover reminded me of some of the 70's relics from my parents bookshelves, and this only increased my urge to purchase the book.

My fantasies of holding an autographed Cheever in my hands were quickly shot to shit by the purveyor of Skyline Books. He told me the book cost $100. While this price is actually quite low, it's $101 dollars more than I have to spend. I shook my head woefully and asked if he had any John Cheever for sale under $8 dollars. Again, he said no. I quickly left the enticing fiction section and occupied my time with a picture book.

The day wasn't an entire loss, however. Later, as I was digging through my wallet for a subway pass, I happened upon a forgotten Borders gift card. What a treat. Mr. Cheever here I come. And I mean that last sentence in the most literal way possible. I needn't tell you Mr. Cheever's homosexual exploits and a depraved 'party apartment' that nearly killed him before he sobered up and wrote his most critically acclaimed pieces. Or wait... sorry, I've been reading too much of the New Yorker.