So why do I want my books (pardon my assumptions that 1) i’ll ever get published and 2) i’ll produce multiple works) to sell well?  Why do I want to be widely read?

The theory is that I have something to say and thus am obligated to spread the word(s).  At the moment I have no idea what it is.  But I’ll find it and write it and you’ll read it and that mediated connection, more than crafting some labyrinthine gem, supersedes my personal preference for arduous art.

Now, optimistically presuming that that discovery and subsequent production happens, what happens if the book, probably by some devilry, succeeds in the hedonism of the commercial marketplace? Will I feel like I sold out if I sold well?  Will I feel like my ideas must have been dross (or, worse, vacuous) if they have such widespread appeal? These would be a nice questions to encounter but are not at all relevant because this vocation demands a certain amount of self-effacement.  For now I ought to focus on writing what I have to say, and let it be shelved or bought how it may.

And that, really, is the rub.  What happens after printing is irrelevant.  I don’t write to people, I don’t write for people, I just write.  If I do it well (which, as you can see here, rarely happens), hooray!  If I don’t, bummer, try again.  Neither capitalism nor criticism has any bearing on my sense of production.  I do what I can, then I’ll let some press try to do what it can.

The Chinese writer Gao Xingjian wrote

In the history of literature there are many great enduring works which were not published in the lifeimes of the authors.  If the authors had not achieved self-affirmation while writing, how could they have continued to write?

Exactly.  I know when I’ve written quality (term used loosely for this author, which is also a term used loosely) and when I’ve written scrap.  The former gets saved and cherished and eviscerated in workshop, the latter gets posted here.

And yes, I’m aware that I already failed at my one-per-week vow as quickly as the disciples in the garden. Personal computerlessness hindered my posting ability, but the astonishing availability of public computers nullifies that excuse. Between now and next Friday, two posts shall emerge to atone for my transgressive omission.

In these guilty moments, I scrub a gamut of cleansing efforts, from justification to vows to rationalization to amnesia. But never sanctification. Never from me.

And so, I need God. I need God to cleanse me. If He didn’t/doesn’t exist, I’d invent Him so I could have Someone worthy enough to wash me. I can’t accept absolution from dirty hands, especially not my own, the filthiest of all.

This sort of realization brings great doubt. When I realize how I want to believe in God and how useful He is, I realize I might be working into belief, not actually having faith. This is a great danger, believing something because it sounds good and helps. I hear it often in all churches. Conservative denominations like a wrathful God who demands Pharisaic perfection. Progressive orders like a loving God who accepts everyone. Fruit flies like a banana.

The pain of truth is that we might not like it. I believe that God does judge. He does have standards, and we fail to meet them. I don’t really like that, but a perfect God can’t be any other way. Fortunately for me and my filthy flesh, He also loves and gives a Way to help us satisfy His law. Through grace, mind you, not works. Certainly not through my works of dirt and mud.

Then again, all things can be worked for good.

Now, I spend most of my days concerned with composing. Whatever the topic/medium, I bunker down and trudge through it (usually). But now I’ve found a missing link. When my articles are completed, I don’t always know what to do with them. Sure, I’ve submitted plenty, but I haven’t really seen those envoys return to my harbor.

So there’s this gap. I create, but, as far as I can tell, my creations haven’t gone anywhere, not even the ones I’ve printed and mailed. This creative stasis has cast me into a new conundrum. I’m truly baffled for how to propel my work across some vague chasm from my place into a brave new world of publication and renumeration.

The truly intriguing part is how I’ve found this to be a spiritual bummer. Obviously my bank account suffers from not bridging the gap, but financial shortcomings are hardly new. But with my soulful connection to my work, deeper wounds than the pocketbook variety have struck me. It’s a bit of an agony now, but I hope this ignorant labor will pop out some hideous progeny.

(Now accepting applications for publishing midwives.)

But as I was laboring on a recent task, I realized that I was living a parable. In the story of the Prodigal/Lost Son, the titular protagonist returns from his wanton ways (which I consider to be an allegory for college) in a desperate shape (i.e. unemployment, poverty - basically my life). To escape from this bitter state, he returns to his father, gives something of a stock apology, and asks to be a hired hand. Give him credit for not getting greedy and asking for a return to full sonship, but it’s still shrewd at best and manipulative at worst.

So yeah, well, that’s what I’m occasionally doing. First it was driveway sealing, then gutter cleaning, then landscaping. Up next is some painting, followed by furniture moving, and I bet it will be finished by building a house.

And all these years I had thought I was the older son. So not only was I deceiving myself that I was staying loyal, but I was missing out on all the debauchery and prodigality. I really blew it.

Let’s not go through my daily hours, lest we all be bored to tears and thoroughly amazed at how often I get sidetracked, but let’s rather look at one particular item that literally runs away with several of my hours every week: track. And I encourage this madness!

So, stating the obvious, I value physical fitness. I rarely run with anyone else, so obviously I value time alone and also others’ self-esteem; I would hate to crush anyone’s pride by inevitably crushing them on the roads, since I’m secretly the love child of Steve Prefontaine and Jesse Owens, with Lance Armstrong’s trainer.

But there are many ways to value physical fitness. Why running? Why not weightlifting? Or pickup basketball? Curling looks cool, and I used to be very into rock climbing (thanks to soccer and Kevin Hess, a broken ankle was too much for that pursuit to surmount).

Some of those are impossible due to facility restraints; others rely too much on having other people, which doesn’t fit with my tendencies. The most apparent opponents are running (the current king), weightlifting (the occasional fling), biking (my transportation thing), and hammocking (the lovely swing). Biking and running are actually brothers; one is just a cheater and uses a machine. Not manly, and thus not for my pure athleticism.

So what does it mean that I picked running over lifting?

• I prefer to be moving. Mobility seems like a valuable tool; I hate to be rooted in one place. This is probably a warning sign for potential girlfriends.
• I’m not a defender. I don’t fight; I fly. I’m probably not the guy you want as a sentry.
• I don’t value raw strength, only effective action. I do lift weights to some extent, but it has always been directed toward increasing speediness (with a little nod to sexiness, which brings me to number D…)
• I like short shorts.

The last point is probably the most cogent, and certainly explains why I could never have been a basketballa. The different values of different sports is an intriguing investigation that may blossom here.

No matter the distance, I’ll refuel authoritatively at an Italian restaurant, whose pasta will later be washed down by an epic lineup of beloved brews:

• Men Who Dreamed Oak Aged Vanilla Ale
• Edmund Fitzgerald Porter
• Gouden Carolus Grand Cru of the Emperor 2005
• Bells Two-Hearted Ale
• Dark Night of the Soul Oak Aged Doppelbock

I know, I know, no Dogfish Head and no Thomas Hardy. But I didn’t have any on hand when I packed, and I haven’t seen any in stores. I promise to supply some of each when Christoffermas, observed comes around in two weeks.