I’m filling the cracks that ran through the door and kept my mind from wandering where it will go, which is another way to say that I think I’m done with messing with the book file, yet…
I seem to continually open it up and add something or another. Just a few lines. Things I had originally cut out, I am now putting back in. I have the luxury of doing this until the editor removes the file from Dropbox, and that hasn’t happened yet.
But I just can’t help it. I’ll remember bits and pieces of my life and stick ’em in there. I guess I will never be finished with this book. It’s just that I’ll think about something and it will hit me out of the blue — Bam! Why isn’t that in the book?! Wouldn’t people want to know that someone almost killed me with an ax-hammer? Or about how I got mugged in Florence by three Gypsy kids? I keep forgetting this stuff. Then I think it should probably be mentioned.
However, I could keep thinking of more stuff, and more, and more still. It could seriously never end! I have a million books in me! Because, yes, I have lived a million stories. I have at least lived hundreds. But shouldn’t I just leave it alone already? I feel like one of those artists that say how a painting is never really “finished.” I hate it when those artists say that. I never understand those hippy-dippy artists. They usually live in Berkeley, or have taken a lot of acid, or just don’t like to finish things.
Re-writing, editing over and over, it’s not like a painting so much as it’s like music. You can always make it better. You can always remaster what you’ve played, or you can go back and re-record the whole song. You can throw that song out and record a different song, a better one. If it’s your first impression out into the world, it’s fucking nervewracking! You want to get it “right” and you do not know what “right” is. You can only rely on yourself.