Saturday, May 14, 2011

Doing My Jobs

People are asking about the book I'm writing. They want to know what it's about. It's about a man named Jake. Jake is me, not me. Jake is going through some of the same things I'm going through. Jake has seizures. Jake likes men. Jake works at a museum. Jake has something living in the walls of his duplex. Jake is sure he wants to be alive. Jake likes bodies of water. Jake isn't afraid of ghosts or dogs. Jake is a person, not a place, but sometimes he is a place. I don't know what happens to Jake. When I find out, I'm not going to tell you, I'm going to show you. We will meet AT JAKE in 2013.

My favorite reaction about my book has been indifference. One of my friends said, "Writing books is your job. Why are you so excited about doing your job?"

Everyone has two jobs these days. This one and that one.

I hate it when people say they love their jobs, because then it means I can't trust anything else they say.

At my other job, the one I love, the supervisors keep saying they hired a hot new man. I haven't seen the proof, but maybe the proof is in the pudding, in which case I have to eat all the pudding and then maybe there will be a hot new man on the bottom of the dish.

Sally says hot new men are trouble. I say only if they open their mouths. Sally says they always open their mouths.

I would like an entire shelf of preserved animals in jars. I'd like to think the stillness of dead animals is beautiful. Maybe someone could draw me a squid in a jar. I would put it on my wall. I would like more art that's not mine. I don't need any of this, but I'd like it.

I've filled my fountain pen with a reddish-brown ink. If I've promised you a letter, you'll get it this week.

There's a tiny hair on one of the labels at the museum. It's in the display case with the Chinese porcelain rabbits. The rabbits are white with green glazed ribbons around their necks. They have precise little claws and red eyes. One of them has pink skin inside its ears. The other, blue. One boy, one girl. Ladybugs get in this case in the summer and I have to call someone to get them out. I want to call someone about the tiny hair on the label, but it's just a hair, after all.


  1. Good job.

    My word verification was "unkulli."

  2. Your blog makes its home on the edge of reality, where the fiction bleeds through. I sometimes wonder what is bleeding. Your book is real, certainly, and the museum, but Sally? I wonder if she exists. Same goes for the hair. Not that it matters much. You'll make them real, if they aren't already. It's only you job, after all.

  3. Abbi, I won't give away which things teeter on that edge. I will say Sally is real and so is the conversation we had about attractive men being trouble. She's inspired a character in my book. I'm sure she'd love to know that, so let's not tell her.

    Robb, you risk your life commenting here. xTx will crawl from a shadowy corner and suck out all your juices. I don't know. Maybe you're into that.


From the mouths of beasts.