Three years

I sent an op-ed to the San Diego Union-Tribune, the last honest daily on earth. The piece was titled "In Defense of The Stupid" and the opening sentence said: "I am an idiot." Always good to lead with a simple, unexpected proposition.

Obviously true. I spent three years writing every day. Four adventures with Chris & Peachy, three volumes of essays, an autobiography, an audio drama, Film School in One Lesson with 61 diagrams and screenshots -- and finally Partners, a long bittersweet swan song that took 1000 hours to craft, a couple pages each day with occasional gaps of wonderment and slow cooked glimpses of the way forward. Brigid was right. The best work I've ever done.

She's also right that it can't be reviewed publicly, too hot to touch, addressed to straight male readers. A huge joke on all concerned. There are no such critters. I penned 68,000 words for nonexistent tough guys, an extinct species. Google won't show it as U.S. literature, relegated my magnum opus to Amazon's Mexican site, targeting caballeros who can't read English.

A better man would say screw it, plug along and publicize it to newspapers and bloggers who won't review it. I don't think I can do that. I'm finished, knocked out, down for the count and blacklisted as a novelist. Three fucking years of my life. Every atom of talent wasted.

Now what?

Last time I hit a brick wall was 20 years ago, and I thought about going to Hillsdale, to get a job as a short order cook. Makes as much sense as anything else.

Adios, amigos.