The notorious abode of Vivian, aka “Pretty Woman,” and Kit
Welcome to Hollywood! What’s your dream?
Everybody comes here got a dream.
This is Hollywood, land of dreams.
Some dreams come true, some don’t,
but keep on dreamin’ – this is Hollywood!
Always time to dream, so keep on dreamin’.
The price of a dozen writers has gone down from a dime. Everybody is one. For a fraction of a fraction of a cent of the cost of your monthly internet addiction, you can enter infinite worlds, Worlds of I. And here you are in my World of I.
I’m mostly embarrassed to be in this position, caught in the compromising midst of wishful thinking. Mentally half clothed, fumbling around with zippers and buttons, yearning and thirst.
It’s strange, being observed here sipping the occasional glass of whine, half trying to make something happen, half waiting for it to. But writing is the thing. Everyone’s in on it. I’m no different. I want to make a living at it just like everyone else who’s fascinated with every nuance of every word.
Writers are glorified, and yet some of the best writers have been the most mentally tortured creatures on the planet. The list is long, but look at Faulkner, only because I’ve been reading a bit about the guy lately. He was a piece of work, had a personality stranger and bigger than his 5’-6” self.
He was a reverse snob, sticking his nose up at technologies, driving a car with rusted out floor boards, losing all manner of peculiar belongings out the bottom as he motored along. He went on horrific drinking binges both to mourn failures and celebrate successes. He was a scoutmaster until a preacher complained about his drinking.
At Ole Miss, he pulled off a big D in English, was denied membership to a literary society, and flunked out as university postmaster because he had strange ideas about the position, taking off early to play golf, holding up delivery of magazines until he’d read them himself.
His early books were financial flops, and even when he did get it together between 1929 and 1932, before he won the 1949 Nobel Prize in Literature, the Ole Miss faculty voted against awarding him with an honorary degree.
Most folks in his hometown rolled their eyes at his mention until he was dead cold. Then they started warming up to being the subjects of his stories, the backbone of the south, the “little postage stamp of native soil” that Faulkner made famous.
This is a common template. A tortured soul wanders the earth for a substantial chunk of time, simply existing with a painfully sensitive eye for every little, living detail and a heart readily ripped apart and spewing at the slightest hint of some perceived injustice. They’re as strange as the years are long and rejected because of it. Then some thing they’ve written down that the public happens to pick up and be pierced by, hits the literary fan, and shit goes everywhere.
Faulkner, Hemmingway, Joyce, F Scott Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Kerouac, Capote, Poe, Dorothy Parker, Dylan Thomas, Tennessee Williams, O Henry, John Cheever, Raymond Chandler, Hunter Thompson, all tortured souls who had to smooth themselves down with alcohol.
Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Tom Wolfe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Emily Dickinson, Henry Thoreau, Mark Twain, Robert Frost, Mary McCarthy, Lillian Hellman, and Flannery O’Connor, Edith Wharton, William Golding, Upton Sinclair, a mixed bag of insane, tortured and mildly bothered, who managed to avoid the bottle.
Either way, I’m game. Sign me up.
And Happy Birthday, dear blog. I hope you like the facelift I got you. Here’s to another year of flirting with Mr. Bigtime.
CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE:
Las Palmas Hotel, Hollywood from http://www.ubernights.com/images/birthday.jpg
Marilyn Monroe, kiss kiss from http://i266.photobucket.com/albums/ii249/ceraaaa/Women/monroe-3.gif
Marilyn Monroe, happy first birthday http://members.wwisp.com/~tara/images/marilyn_birthday.jpg