Most of you will be aware that it’s Wednesday. Today I openly apologise for my tardiness, but yesterday I wasn’t really that sorry. Usually I can clack away through a hangover but on this particular Tuesday I could barely cope with the brightness of my silver laptop, let alone open it. So like I said, today I can be sorry, as I feel less sorry for myself. Solipsism to the max.
My body is still whimpering and as my sudden lust for water would indicate - I’m in recovery mode, so forgive this post’s fragmented steez. Sometimes when drunk I believe I’m actually Ernest Hemingway and choose nothing but the finest hard liquor and engorged nouns. Sober and sore, I am of course aware that I am not Ernest Hemingway, engorged nouns and hard liquor do very little for my charm. Last night, when finally able to feebly trawl the web I was cheered up by the sight of writers in swimming costumes. It felt just as exhilarating as seeing a teacher wearing jeans outside of school.
I love Jonathan Franzen. I haven’t mentioned him enough recently. Some believe him to be a bit of an arsehole because since 2011 it has been unofficially uncool and way too obvious to hate on social media. Does J Franz care? No. He doesn’t. He thinks you’re an idiot for using Twitter. This man will not be your Facebook pal. Nor will he laugh at your Google+ puns. I think it’s adorable, and yes I’m OK with that sounding patronising. It’s sort of the point. The Guardian put up an essay of his, of which he has written a few, and as ever it makes me wish he was my novelist-best-friend that he mentioned in articles and interviews. Imagine! ‘Then Kat Patrick, my normal-friend, said J Franz, novelist-best-friend J Franz, why don’t you just use the 140 character limit as challenge? I had to agree.’ Feasible. Anyway, usually I probably overdo the links on these posts, too much wurdz, so I’ll keep it simple. Read this and try and get past his autocratic opening to the middle and ending sentiments.
Actually, I might take a moment to remind you all to complete your weekly reading of David Foster Wallace’s Kenyon address and get your perspective on life back in order.
Also I suppose I’ve also not bothered to directly lead you to any fiction for a while, I chomped down on this over the weekend and it made me feel strangely homesick for blighty, where motorways are a bit like illegible signatures. All squiggle and no sense.
(Reason you should read the J Franz piece: ‘what is fiction, after all, if not a kind of purposeful dreaming? The writer works to create a dream that is vivid and has meaning, so that the reader can then vividly dream it and experience meaning.’)
I mean, COME ON.
Right – o. I’ll be back next week, behaving less like a randomizer. Promz.
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