In a way, it's nice that no one reads blogs anymore. I can write pretty much whatever I want. Not that I would. There's not much I can write that won't get me in trouble. The rest is beyond dull. My life is composed of small routines, not intense dramas. I have a relatively comfortable life. I've never wanted much in the way of material goods, so I've never felt a need to struggle to get them. Life is always easier when you don't expect much.
Right now I'm going about what has become my usual Friday night routine. I'm at The Bean on Third and Stuyvesant, which used to be St. Mark's Bookshop. There's a book in my bag on the floor by my chair that happens to have a bookmark from that store (though the book is a library book). After work I usually walk over to Poets House, where I read or write, or try to. Then I come here and use their Wi-Fi to listen to WFIU on my phone. I've been doing this for a few months, I think. Ever since the beginning of winter, which seems too far back to remember. When it's winter it seems like it's always been winter.
I can't decide what to do next with my life. I don't want to go back to school, but I'm starting to worry that I should, before it's too late. What I really want to do is write books and become a successful, in-demand writer, getting solicited to write for magazines and so forth. Of course, I really have no idea how to go about doing that. I'm not a reader of magazines or websites. I don't know how to get started in that world. I'd love to be able to write a novel, but all my attempts have so far come to nothing. I'm working on one right now, but it's a half-hearted effort, and totally amateurish. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. It's about a guy traveling from New York out west somewhere, possibly to his hometown, when he gets sidetracked by a femme fatale in the spooky backwoods of western Pennsylvania. She leads him into a kind of sex odyssey involving strange characters and possibly supernatural elements. When I started writing it last summer, I was in the middle of watching the new Twin Peaks. All I seem to know about writing fiction is to imitate whatever I'm reading at the time.
Is anyone reading this?