Luckily this large and airy room – the perfect place to take your lunch – is largely unknown to the crowds of tourists below who parade the aisles of the market, jostling with their trays, looking for an empty table. Farmer’s Market is for some reason a big tourist attraction, a Los Angeles landmark. Thankfully, most visitors don’t notice the staircase that leads to the big dining hall, which, as I say, is usually quite peaceful.
I began to write. “To write, just for the sake of writing” is a great thing, said Dave of The Funny Names Blog. It’s true. there’s a certain pleasure, an inherent personal value, in writing. Several years ago when I first started blogging, I commented to Eric Alagan – that is we conversed, or conversated if you like, via the comments section – about the validity of blog writing.
My position was that blogging is not “real” writing. To me writing meant writing a book, some short stories, or long literary essays. Blogs were by their nature briefer. I also felt that writing for the blog would detract time and energy from the “real” writing.
Well, looking back, I must say that I was 100% correct. Empirically, (and one must always be empirical when one can!) I’ve blogged hundreds of posts, but I’ve written zero novels, just a few stories. In short I haven’t written very much. Now, don’t get me wrong. I like a lot of my posts. I enjoy “writing” for this Bumbastories gig. However, my “literary” production is definitely down.
Unlike writers who make a living from writing (a group about as numerous as hens’ teeth, and equally as appealing) I have always been unable/unwilling to write commercially. I don’t throw in any gore or gratuitous sex (although I am nonetheless a firm believer in sex when it’s gratuitous) For me, the writing is so time-consuming that it seems a pity to write anything that I don’t like, that isn’t genuine.
“OK. So when are you going to start the next novel?” you ask.
“Soon'” I say. After some of that gratuitous sex, maybe.