In sickness
I am alive.
It is unfortunate that such a thing is an even greater uncertainty in these times, and not because whatever random 90s disaster movie turned out to be true, but because of our bizarre relationship with objective truth.
I haven't posted in some time, and not for lack of thinking about it. The walls of my apartment have been my world for the most part since the "virus season" began. I leave once a week for groceries, sometimes for walks, but generally my world has shrunk down to a scant few square feet. I work in this chair. I recline on that couch. Sometimes, I share time with friends through my internet connection on yet a third chair. I've learned a lot about myself, and one idea is that without work, I have little reason to go anywhere. Still, the adjustment of being forced to stay at home was difficult. I had strange dreams and stranger thoughts. I wrote a short story, and had the idea to write more, to get together with other writers and commit to a bundle of thoughts about our time in quarantine. I wanted to stamp this time, artistically, in the same way we did not have the time or poise to catalog other moments in our history.
That didn't take off at all. And like many memes, nor did I explode with creativity and productivity. The edits on the 4th novel are almost done, and the cover art commences. The relationship I am building with the artist has been very enriching. Just today he asked me about the virus response in my country. He was very kind and did not point out that his nation is faring far, far better than mine. He also asked to read my work. I was humbled, and set about getting him connected with how to download the first book, which is free in ebook. While doing so, I found that I actually had a review. Someone had downloaded the book, read it, and then commented:
This came with 1 star. "Zitzka" has 17 other reviews, none of which I looked at. When I read the review, I had a quiet moment. Deathly quiet, like a whisper in space. And then I thought, "someone read my book, and reviewed it. That's awesome." And then I heard everyone that has been supportive of me, their consoling compliments and empathetic sighing. But I meant what I said. Feedback is a gift. Even if it is horrible, even if it disagrees, that is still time and effort someone put in, and I am grateful for it. I think maybe the most difficult thing to do in this world is to get someone else to care. I have some estimation of how many copies are out there, read, unread, downloaded by mistake, and the first person to take the time to respond isn't someone who liked it, but someone who didn't get it at all.
And that is what got me back here, typing this. And I know it wouldn't have been the same had it been a 5 star, congratulatory explosion of praise. That I would've kept just for me, maybe told some close friends. But this was discouraging, and absorbing that discouragement felt important enough to put down somewhere publicly. They won't all be diamonds. They can't be.
I wish I was as motivated by nice things. I wish I remembered those positive moments just as crisply, but that is not what I'm working with. Or maybe that's something I should be working on. After all, I am still alive, so why not grow?
In the meantime, I think I'll write some more.
It is unfortunate that such a thing is an even greater uncertainty in these times, and not because whatever random 90s disaster movie turned out to be true, but because of our bizarre relationship with objective truth.
I haven't posted in some time, and not for lack of thinking about it. The walls of my apartment have been my world for the most part since the "virus season" began. I leave once a week for groceries, sometimes for walks, but generally my world has shrunk down to a scant few square feet. I work in this chair. I recline on that couch. Sometimes, I share time with friends through my internet connection on yet a third chair. I've learned a lot about myself, and one idea is that without work, I have little reason to go anywhere. Still, the adjustment of being forced to stay at home was difficult. I had strange dreams and stranger thoughts. I wrote a short story, and had the idea to write more, to get together with other writers and commit to a bundle of thoughts about our time in quarantine. I wanted to stamp this time, artistically, in the same way we did not have the time or poise to catalog other moments in our history.
That didn't take off at all. And like many memes, nor did I explode with creativity and productivity. The edits on the 4th novel are almost done, and the cover art commences. The relationship I am building with the artist has been very enriching. Just today he asked me about the virus response in my country. He was very kind and did not point out that his nation is faring far, far better than mine. He also asked to read my work. I was humbled, and set about getting him connected with how to download the first book, which is free in ebook. While doing so, I found that I actually had a review. Someone had downloaded the book, read it, and then commented:
Confusing
Needs a bit of editing and I never did get the point of he story or the essence of the main characters. I didn't understand the world they lived in.
This came with 1 star. "Zitzka" has 17 other reviews, none of which I looked at. When I read the review, I had a quiet moment. Deathly quiet, like a whisper in space. And then I thought, "someone read my book, and reviewed it. That's awesome." And then I heard everyone that has been supportive of me, their consoling compliments and empathetic sighing. But I meant what I said. Feedback is a gift. Even if it is horrible, even if it disagrees, that is still time and effort someone put in, and I am grateful for it. I think maybe the most difficult thing to do in this world is to get someone else to care. I have some estimation of how many copies are out there, read, unread, downloaded by mistake, and the first person to take the time to respond isn't someone who liked it, but someone who didn't get it at all.
And that is what got me back here, typing this. And I know it wouldn't have been the same had it been a 5 star, congratulatory explosion of praise. That I would've kept just for me, maybe told some close friends. But this was discouraging, and absorbing that discouragement felt important enough to put down somewhere publicly. They won't all be diamonds. They can't be.
I wish I was as motivated by nice things. I wish I remembered those positive moments just as crisply, but that is not what I'm working with. Or maybe that's something I should be working on. After all, I am still alive, so why not grow?
In the meantime, I think I'll write some more.
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