Diary of a Nonentity, or, What To Do the Day After Your New Book Does Not Appear On A BIG
Prize List, or, Speak To Me, HP Lovecraft:
6 a.m.
Lie in bed a little longer. There is no hurry. It is September, in Edmonton,
and therefore dark. One should never rush into darkness.
6:25 a.m.
Make coffee. Stare at the coffee while it brews. It is also dark. Like your
heart.
7:02 a.m.
Get dressed. Yes. You should. Pyjama pants are not cute after forty.
8 a.m.
It is just you and the dog now. Everyone else has left for the day. Stare at
the dog so long he begins to shift nervously and avoid your gaze. Try not to
feel snubbed by him.
9 a.m.
By now you should be seated at your computer. You have checked Facebook, Gmail,
and your work mail. Twice. You have googled the title of your book, just to see
if anyone -- say, Neil Gaiman, or Cormac McCarthy, or Guillermo del Toro -- has
expressed outrage at this obvious and inexplicable oversight by the prize jury.
Finding nothing, google Guillermo del Toro. You have heard that plans for his
film At The Mountains of Madness are
again in motion. Read everything you can find on the matter. Google “Guillermo
del Toro images.” Google monsters. Google madness.
11 a.m.
Lunch. Coffee.
11:30 a.m. Email a writer friend. Pretend your intention
was not to discuss the prize list. Say, I was not surprised. (This is the
truth.) Say, Of course one is always disappointed. (This is also the truth.)
Say, I was pleased to see “random name of any writer appearing on list” was
there. Try not to say this twice. You have never been a good liar. Make plans
with writer friend to meet for a drink later. Agree you won’t even discuss the
list (HA HA HA).
11:40 a.m. The dog is making eye contact again, but
cautiously. He wants to go for a walk. You are not in the mood. Instead, you
stand in the yard staring at him again so long he is paralyzed by your black gaze
and unable to urinate. Leave the dog alone. For godsake.
12:15
p.m. A photographer arrives to take your picture for a newspaper
piece on your new book. He gives you a funny look at the door. You wonder if
you should have showered. You put on a clean shirt. And lip gloss. What do they
want from you? There is nothing to celebrate. There is no party here. Stare
directly into the camera. Do not smile. This is not an occasion for smiling. There
will be no more occasions for smiling. The last occasion was yesterday morning
when your life still had purpose and you watched that Youtube video of the golden
retriever relaxing in a soapy bath. You should have appreciated it more, then.
Your mother-in-law is right: you have always taken things for granted. When the
photographer asks what you like to read, tell him, The Death of the Author. When
he asks you to hold a copy of your book, hold it straight out in front of the
camera, right in their faces, like Spike Lee, thinking, This, this, you bastards.
12:50
p.m. Text your husband for the fifth time to say you’re
pretty sure you’re not going to write another book. Say, What’s the point? Say,
I can’t believe I’ve wasted my life. Say, I feel dead inside. Say, LOLZ. Say,
TTYL.
1:00 p.m.
Do not feel hurt that he is no longer responding. He is probably just busy.
1:15 p.m.
Send him one more text just to make sure he’s getting them. Say, Are you
getting my texts? Say, I feel dead. Inside. Say, I have no more words. Say,
Also can you pick up milk. And dental floss. Say YOLO.
1:20 p.m.
Doesn’t your blog need updating? You stare at the page. You have nothing to
say. Instead, you play around with the template. Consider a new career in web
design. Take forty minutes just to change the colours but feel inordinately
pleased with yourself. See, you are no loser.
You have skills.
2:08 p.m.
Do not under any circumstances look at the new novel you started working on
before you knew you had wasted your life. Google something. It doesn’t matter
what.
2:31 p.m.
Still nothing from Guillermo.
2:32 p.m.
Ok, just one look at the novel, then. Fiddle with the opening sentence. But it
is no good. You have not the heart for it. Dead, etc.
2:40 p.m.
Write something else. Something for the blog, why not, anybody can blog, right?
You don’t have to be a writer. You are not a writer.
4:17 p.m.
You have written. Therefore you arrrre…still not on that effing prize list. Still,
you feel less dead. Undead, perhaps. A phrase comes to mind: Work is its own
cure, you have to like it better than being loved. You can’t remember who said
that, but you think maybe it was Anne Sexton. You hope it wasn’t Anne Sexton.
4:20 p.m.
Your children arrive home. Put your work away. Progress, in spite of yourself.
When they ask how your day was, say, Fine. Say, Good. This is, actually, the
truth.
When they
ask why the dog is under the couch, tell them you haven’t the foggiest, he has
been weird all day.
