Dear God,

“I am in hopes that as time goes on the value of such solitary retreats will become more and more evident and we will gradually begin to be able to have these advantages, beginning with a few days and so on.” Merton

Often while reading Merton I find I trail beside him with no problem, gently drifting along with his thoughts and language. Then I read something like this, and I’m reminded how far apart we are. I wonder if I have even begun to embark on any type of spiritual journey. I know that Merton said, somewhere, that in the spiritual life their are only beginners, but I’ve never desired to receive the permission to — Actually, that’s not true. I’ve been wanting to go on a solitary retreat for quite some time now, it’s just a matter of money. Maybe this is not a good example. This is better: “I hope to get in three or four hours a day of meditation besides my other office prayer, and the work I have to do…” Unless by meditation he means smoking a joint and going for a hike, I have trouble relating to this. 

It’s almost the end of the fourth of the six weeks I’ve stepped back from my novel. It’s been good. I think I’m making head way as it stews in my subconscious. Also, I need to use less comas in my writing. I spent too much time with The New Yorker this past year.

Last night Marlon James won the Man Booker. In an interview he said he almost gave up writing ten years ago, having a novel of his rejected 70 times. On the one hand (I could use a coma here, but the introductory statement is short, less than five words) it’s absurd that someone would reject him. On the other, it’s not. (I like the coma here, because it instills a short pause; but there’s some agreement that this shouldn’t be the use of punctuation, and because I left it out in the sentence above I should have done so here for consistency.) A Brief History of Seven Killings is accessible but challenging. It’s long and slow in parts, but it’s the violence that makes it hard for me. I fell in love with Demus and Bam-Bam — that’s the magic of James — and having to watch while… Well, I don’t want to give it away God. In case you’ve yet to read it. I think you would like it, except it’s a fucked up book. It’s like Bolaño’s 2666 in some sense, which I still haven’t finished. I pick it up again every so often, but after six or seven pages of rape and murder, rape and murder I’ve had enough. I understand what he’s doing, or at least I think I do, but my stomach is weak.

Sometimes, I admit, I have trouble making my characters suffer. I walked out of the Karate Kid when Danielson got beaten by the Cobra Kai for Christ’s sake. I’m a royal pussyhole, as Jones’ unapologetically batty-man Josey-Wales might say. Shit, maybe I shouldn’t be a writer.