About Improvement And Foosball
Swimming the deep waters can be scary. No, I’m not talking about actual swimming, but that’s how this writing thing goes. You say one thing, you mean another. Symbols, metaphors, tools of the trade, I suppose.
Back to the deep waters. Seriously, I’ve been treading the likes of Joyce, Virgil, Marquez, Kafka—dudes of that ilk. Personally, I’m more court jester than artist, but that’s today. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll be a little more like those cats.
Not that I ever will be. But studying and ranking myself with the best is the only way to play. You don’t get better in any sort of arena unless you pit yourself against stronger and more talented competition. Some say writing isn’t a competition. Maybe you say your line of work isn’t a competition. Bollocks. It’s all a competition. That doesn’t mean you have to carry yourself like a jackass. On the contrary, fight the good fight against better opposition and lose. You’ll improve and grow humble at the same time. Overall, that’s a win.
The master doesn’t take lessons from the apprentice. The first officer doesn’t overrule the captain. I could do this for days, but I feel my bluntness is probably reaching the redline.
Truly though, the alternative is rather gross. Playing down and reveling in it—it’s narcissism, and it doesn’t do you any good.
Because I’m partially insane I’m picturing a dad in an undershirt in a smoky basement playing his son in foosball. He’s winning, over and over, blowing smoke and obscenities in the kid’s face, laughing at the little guy. Let’s make the little guy in this case seven years old. Oh, and the dad’s out of work. Cause screw him. Pick on someone your own size. Better yet, pick on someone bigger. What, you think after reading Ulysses, I don’t set the book down feeling I got punched in the face? Total face-punchage. Price of improvement. Cheers folks.
See you after.