written by

Lately I've been reading a bunch of books that I feel like I could have written. Not that the books are poorly written; just that I'm feeling especially arrogant about my writing skills this week.

When I left Japan, one of the things I told people I was going to do was write a book. This was so I at least sounded like I had a plan, instead of just saying I was going to live at my parents' house until I got my shit together. And it sounds sort of impressive: I'm going to write a book. I have important things to say; so important that I'm going to have them forever bound between lightweight cardboard or laminated card stock.

I have the makings of a modest book on a gaijin (foreigner or white devil) living in rural Japan. The plan was to incorporate my diary entries with the monthly updates I sent out for the three years I was there. The complete disparity between what I was doing and what I was feeling is the part that really interested me. It sounded like it was fun, and it was, but I was going nuts by the time I left. Because it's mostly written, having done all the work in the midst of it all, all I have to do is fill in a few of the details.

If you check the bestsellers list you'll note that my name isn't there. This is because I'm a slacker.

My second book, also non-fiction, will be about my mother's and/or grandparents' lives prior to, during and after WWII. This is much more difficult to write because I don't know all the facts personally. And it means a whole lot of research into wartime history and I'm a bit terrified of war. My mother still doesn't like talking about it and my grandparents are aged, time clouding their memories. The seemingly impossible challenge keeps me from starting.

My third book is to be about my father's family's move from the Old Country to Canada. They were a colourful bunch. And writing this one would mean I'd have to write another book about the town I grew up in, since the area became what it is because of them.

My problem is that, depending on the day, I can't begin to fathom who would buy a book about me by me, or about anything I have to say. Sure, sometimes I'm wildly amusing. But other times... I'm just not. A whole book is obnoxious. Unless it's good.

All I really want is to walk into a library, look my name up in the catalogue, and find a book that I've written in the stacks, circulating. Like Paul Varjak walking into the New York Public Library to find "Nine Lives." But most libraries don't have card catalogues anymore so it's just not the same.

My original plan was to write smutty romance novels, two or three a year, to supplement my regular income. I'm very good at writing smut. The girls at work and I discuss books we could write, complete with working titles and what the cover art would look like. The formula basically writes the book for us. Now we just have to fill in the details.
http://www.worldoflongmire.com/features/romance_novels/

Incidentally, I can apparently buy and listen to records in the future, as today is February 20th and the album I'm listening to isn't going to be released until tomorrow. But I have the actual, liner-notes-and-everything, CD purchased last week. Hmm...

Currently listening :
Everything Wrong is Imaginary
By Lilys
Release date: 21 February, 2006