So this is the awkward stage in my life, these few months before my book comes out, where I’m kinda thinking that maybe something will happen when it does, something will change and I won’t have to work anymore, or in any case I won’t have to work in the same sense that I’ve known all these years since I left University, i.e. going into an office from Monday to Friday and working for a big corporation and waiting for the weekend and then repeating the following week and doing this until I’m 65. Is it 67 now? When have they set ‘retirement age’ for? 68? It feels like someone just pulls these numbers randomly out of the air, completely arbitrarily. As if I’m going to live that long, as if any of us will. And until September when the book comes out, I’ve kinda already given up on all this full-time employment business, and I’m blindly hoping that I’ll ‘break out’ or become a ‘literary sensation’ (because it’s 1922 in my head) or ‘find fame and fortune’ and I’ll be able to spend the rest of my life (or whatever’s left of it anyway), casually working on subsequent novels, living off huge advances, but really just traveling up and down the west coast of the United States, flying to properties that I own or rent in desired holiday destinations as perceived by the residents of metropolitan cities in the western hemisphere (Cabo is an actual place, right?) and taking unplanned trips to southern European capital cities – even Athens – where I’ll be getting drunk outdoors on warm Wednesday nights with mixed groups of ‘cool’ locals and other careless travelers who don’t have to get up in the morning to go to work. And I’m counting on one novel to accommodate this for me, one measly novel that would probably need to sell more than fifteen million copies for the plans that I have in mind to actually materialise. And I don’t think it will, though I do like it a lot and I stand by it like no one’s fucking business. So 2011 is my so-called ‘wasted year’, the year that I’ll look back on when I’m 45 and think, God, was I young and dumb or what? Because nothing’s gonna happen, none of this anyway; instead I’ll bum around for a few months, the book will come out and sell a few hundred copies, I’ll do a few readings here and there with progressively sparser attendance before it finally clicks that this is not how things were meant to work out for me and I’ll go back with my tail between my legs and ask if my desk is still there, same person as before, only minus the false impressions and a little more broken. Well, a lot more broken actually. So yeah, I guess this is a one-off stretch in my life right now, where I have a few months of ‘hope’ (read: ‘delusion’) ahead of me before it all crashes down, and it’s an interesting and precarious stretch where I can sell myself as someone who’s about to do something…before my remaining years arrive, which I’ll have to spend as someone who almost did.
Exit Through The Wound is out in 99 days.