Where are You, Admired Writer?

Where are you, John Rowell, the author of the gay short-story collection, "The Music of Your Life"? I grew so attached to your book after checking it out twice from my local library a few years ago, I bought it from Amazon, and I had hoped that with all that time passing, you would have set up at least a blog to keep the world apprised of any writing projects that may lead to seeing your name on a book cover again. All I have to go on is the interview you did for Barnes & Noble at the time of your book's release, and your own book recommendations, which I'm still using. Not that I mind basking often in the radiance of your personality throughout those stories, but I want something new. I want more of that personality, that elegance of voice, and that assured style. Come on, man, where are you? Perhaps you think keeping a blog is too vain, but you do have fans. Well, at least me. That's one I know of.

Speaking of fans, where are the others who like "Subways are for Sleeping" by Edmund G. Love? It's a multi-story chronicle of the homeless living ingeniously on the streets, the fire escapes, the flophouses, and the subways of New York City, and though Love has a straightforward writing style, his observations are fascinating. Not that I need a community to appreciate more the people profiled in this book, but I'm just curious. It's like whenever I watch "My Dinner with Andre"; I always wonder how many people in the world might be watching it at the same time.

I'll get to those "scraps of literacy" soon enough. It's just been one of those down weeks, and so was the week before this one. It stems from whenever I set out to write a movie review for Film Threat, that feeling of intimidation in writing for such a prestigious site, one that looks out for all indie filmmakers who want their work noticed somewhere. And it should be us, since the name has long been synonymous with giving independent filmmakers due attention, starting with the magazine years ago.

I always hope for the kind of review that comes from something in a film, some hook that lets the entire review spill forth without having to do any "real writing," that is, thinking hard about what to say. Plus I've become perhaps a bit too obsessive over making sure that the writing reads well, which isn't such a bad thing, but it started with my editor's observation that I use too many commas and not enough periods. I'm mindful of that now, but I fear reading over a piece too much, even after letting it sit for about a day, worried that any perceived freshness will be sucked right out of it. I don't know. Maybe it is that, maybe it isn't. Maybe I just need to write more and in turn, be less cautious and more fearless. Being cautious is good, but not so much that it threatens to choke off your creativity. I'll get it together again soon.