So it falls on me to kick off The Long Goodbye, our month-long farewell to our loyal readers, commenters, fans, and friends.
Ironic, since that Chandler title was the first crime novel I read as an adult.
I’ve been mulling over how to go about this and what to say for most of the afternoon without much to report in the way of success.
Talk about writer’s block. (Don’t worry. I won’t.)
Part of my problem is the weird tar baby of emotion I’m wrestling with.
I could be a good sport, chuck all that and just say how truly lovely it’s been, because it has.
I’ll leave that to someone else, though, someone better suited for it.
What I’m left with is grief of course and a certain numbness, mixed with no small amount of doubt and frustration, all mixed in with the usual frantic angst, being behind in everything, plus some small relief at having one less task to tick off my To Do list—a craven, chickenshit relief, admittedly.
There’s also a very considerable amount of guilt. I feel like I’ve let all of you down.
And guilt invariably invites along to the party his old friends self-loathing and resentment—you needy bastards, you imperious word gluttons, how dare you…
I wonder if this isn’t the natural way of things, that every human effort expands then morphs and ultimately fades away, or if that isn’t softy-lofty self-serving bullshit.
I can’t escape the sense that I fundamentally misunderstood something—I didn’t choose the right topics, the right tags, the right tone, the right time.
I trusted more what I knew I could write well than what you actually wanted to read.
And I know this is but one more symptom of the disease we call the writing life, this constant, cancerous uncertainty, not just in the merits of our words but this nonstop crowing for an audience that so often—no, invariably—feels like half tap dance, half begging.
In short, I’m seeing the end of Murderati as a personal failing, which I know is nonsense but Christ, you feel what you feel and that’s the curse of it.
I’m reeling and seething and unprepared to miss this, to miss all of you as much as I will. The fucker snuck up on me as I was getting ready to write this. Who knew?
I’m tempted to identify those of you I will particularly wonder about and wish I could talk to, check up on, encourage and console, but my brain’s such an overworked mess these days I know I’ll forget someone and then feel deservedly wretched.
Why did anyone let me kick this thing off? What were you thinking…?
What I should have done is put up the several hundred YouTube videos I’d bookmarked, planning to use them for Jukebox Hero of the Week.
What I should have done is said nothing but: Thank you.
What I should have done … there’s a plank to walk.
Meanwhile, my terminally, pathologically, ruthlessly cheerful girlfriend is sending me links to fun stuff on the net, hoping to buck me up.
Things like “Can Music be More Effective Than Drugs?”).
Things like the trailer for Trance, the latest offering from Danny Boyle, an art heist caper featuring Vincent Cassel and Rosario Dawson (I’m so looking forward to this — Gee, maybe I’ll talk about it on … Oh. Right.)
Yeah, I’m crabby and cranky and moody and meh.
I’ll miss this. Miss you.
I have a bunch of announcements I could make, about things coming up, but it feels obscene to do that here and now. Look for it on the Murderati Facebook Page or my Fan Page (Christ, like us already, will ya?).
So this is how the month-long dirge—I mean celebration—begins. Forgive me. I’m just a crappy liar.
I’m sure Zoë will be in a much sunnier frame of mind tomorrow—or pretend she is. So stiff-upper-lip, that woman. Bless her murderous little heart.
I’ll try to get into the swing of things by my next, final posting.
In the meantime: Murderateros, do your best: Cheer me up.
Tell me everything’s gonna be okey-dokey and swell!
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Jukebox Hero of the Week: Maybe the Divine Miss M can work some magic: