Monday, August 23, 2010

Commaless Musings And 'ly' Adverbs

Sometimes (more-so now than in earlier years) the serendipitously implanted idea of my being a 'talented' writer appears to me to be nothing more than a persistent fantasy floating on the surface of my consciousness somewhere above that wholly submerged and temporarily preserved myriad of flotsam and jetsam that imaginatively claims to be my unified and biologically human... self.

It is true that I am able to select from an apparently disintegrating plethora of weakly remembered words and arrange them into cohesive sentences and insert these symbolic indicators into seemingly sensible paragraphs that eventually form themselves into a semblance of some sort of sequential and ostensibly substantial story. I have done so too many times within my overly extended span of wasted years.

And one long-harbored and significant suspicion has now become a solid and clear and definite fact.

To me.

I have nothing worthwhile to say.

So . . .

Each of my attempts to construct a substantial poem or a consequential short story is fated to be a futile (empty) effort.

And the dream of my writing an original full-length novel is ludicrous.

Without a valid talent personal failure is assured.

But yet I can still blog. And therein without the interference of editorial fiat I can without guilt eschew unnecessary commas and employ as many ly adverbs as I please.



  1. Gene,

    Of course, I could write this note and send it to you care of private email message. But I'm not going to do that, because you put yourself out here today.

    Right? you ask. Your final paragraph is right.

    The rest of what you wrote here today is a sincere expression of confusion, doubt and sadness.

    And so what? All of us talented writers sometimes wallow in the muck.

    Write what you want to write, rather than what you dream of writing.

    I've been reading Boardwalk Empire for the past few days, because HBO is soon to show a "miniseries" about one part of Atlantic City history, and because I -- Commanding Officer of The South Jersey Sicilian Working Class, and All Round Old Man -- was born in Atlantic City. You see, I and my father, mother dad and brothers made AC famous, not the politicians and racketeers that Scorcese and crew chooses as the story's main characters.

    I have little hope that Scorcese will even touch upon what the history of Atlantic City was to a working-class Italian slug and his family. So I now want to write that story.

    I don't give a hoot if what I write turns into a novel, a short story, a paragraph-divided plethora of commas and other typographical symbols, or just a letter to myself and to Gene Chambers.

    And you, good friend and talented writer, are not allowed to disappoint me by writing too much about your thwarted dreams and not enough of what you want to write.

    Stop hiding, Gene.



  2. Thank you for the comment, friend Anthony. Some real food for thought there. I will try not to disappoint you. No promises, though.