Astronomical

I’m discouraged. I've been writing feverishly for the past several days, but tonight it all seems so hopeless.

I went to the Border's at Sunset & Vine to see an appearance by Maggie Gyllenhaal signing her DVD release. I went on my way to the gym, mostly because Jake Gyllenhaal is my starfucking impossible dream of late. (See below.) Oddly enough, I never saw Brokeback Mountain, for reasons that are kind of complicated to explain, though I have nothing against the film and hail it as a landmark piece of iconic cinematography. Anyway, my other reason for going to Border's was to peruse the Writer's Market for a place to submit a story I've been working on. And that just killed my night.

First of all, there isn't a single mainstream gay magazine that publishes fiction. That's depressing enough in itself. If I were some brainless, barechested Adonis in my early- to mid-twenties, I might be able to get ink in one of these rags. Maybe if I set fire to myself in the lobby of one of their offices, I might be able to get a blurb: "Unattractive, unfashionable troll litters magazine."

So I'm looking at the magazines that do publish gay fiction, and I didn't see the point in submitting myself to some vanity dog and pony show in an effort to get selected in a magazine no one but my immediate friends and family is going to read. I could just publish my stories on this blog for a lot less trouble and aggravation.

And that, by the way, brings me to this blog. I can count on my fingers the number of people who read it. When I began it, at the urging of a friend who can no longer be bothered to read it, I had high hopes that I might be able to generate some kind of buzz. If I worked really hard at it, maybe people would e-mail links to my blog 'cuz they thought it was interesting, and eventually someone I'd never met before would be recommending me. Yet with the exception of one cool chick in Idaho, my readership is actually less now than when I started. In spite of appearances, I'm a pragmatist at heart. And I don't see the point of writing if no one reads it. Ars gratia artis makes no sense to me. Art only has life and power and vibrancy in the consciousness of others. I can babble to myself and not be heard.

Not to put too fine a point on the whole thing, I believe that I have talent. And I believe that I have something to say. My dreams are the only thing that has sustained me. But as the years pass, I see them wither and die the closer I get to the autumn of my life. There were so many wasted years! All because my biochemical glitch nailed one foot down. And I was always running, always moving, but never going anywhere. Spiraling into endless circles of futility.

My hope for success is the only thing I have to fill my life. It's not as if I have a whole lot else going on. I've got great, terrific, amazing friends, yet I don't have a circle of friends to speak of. And I spend practically every Friday and Saturday night on my own. I certainly don't have any romance in my life, not even good sex. I haven't had a boyfriend in over fifteen years. I have a job, a place to live and a couple of cats. Of course, that’s a start. And it’s a helluva lot more than a lot of people have.

So I'm discouraged. I want a drink. And some smokes. And some pills. As it is, I’m making love to a box of Booberry. I blew off the gym. But tomorrow I will wake up again, fight the good fight and reaffirm my faith that it's all worthwhile.

Can you blame me?