Definition of the Day – Novelist: a creature that lives in a deep, narcissistic hole.
Having a book come out is like a season, and a strange one at that. One of the things that characterizes the season is Google and the constant trolling for new reviews. Ordinarily I avoid vanity Googles because of the way it messes with my head, and during the Season, I’m always reminded of why that’s the case.
The great temptation is to use this blog as a platform to vent and gloat, to hold up those comments that prick for ridicule, and to wave those that thrill like a flag. As a place to pass judgment on the judgment of others. We’re hardwired to throw words at words for our own advantage, to call attention to those that promote, and to bury those that condemn – and I feel the instinct as keenly as anyone, I suppose (especially when it comes to strawman distortions of my views!).
But it’s a mugs game, ultimately. It really strikes me this time around how its a matter of averages, the way your words pop into the heads of others, the kinds of flavours they have, be they shitty or sweet. The novelist – or the blogger – has precious little control over how their words strike individuals – pretentious or profound, arrogant or self-effacing, humourless or witty – so they have to aim at populations and keep their fingers crossed. It all feels so bloody random to me anymore. The only constant is the tendency to make universal yardsticks of our idiosyncratic responses. Seven billion centres of judgmental gravity, and counting.
The only thing that really matters is that Vancouver beat Chicago – and with Luongo in net, no less!
Yes. Playoff hockey, man. Now that’s a season.