Arts
I left my editor’s office as unsure of myself as I’d ever felt. He didn’t care about the words. Only how the words sounded on the podcast. It was absurd to write this way. This wasn’t even “writing.” Even as I say these words into the microphone, I know how futile the whole the enterprise really is. All I ever wanted to do was write a book that would make Alpie, my prized alpaca, proud. Alpie, if you’re up in heaven, listening, I love you, good boy. They put me in touch with the guy who owns the podcast, or who is renting us the podcast feed? The whole thing is very confusing to me. Anyway, the guy is a goddam nutjob. Jeff. He immediately started talking about some conspiracy theories that I absolutely don’t want to be associated with. You know the ones. In the end, we seemed to come to an agreement about it since we’re now intertwined in such a way. I know my editor doesn’t like when I get off subject and so I can only imagine what he’s gonna think about this chapter. It’s really none of my concern. I can’t seem to write the book straight in this way. If I have to speak it as I go; if I have to have an open-ended “contract” wherein I get paid by the megabyte then I should ramble; let’s space this thing out; y’all want book length? Let’s. Fucking. Go. I can talk all–“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Mer, have you lost your damn mind? Stick to the script!” I looked down at the paper in front of me in the recording booth except the recording booth was just my editor’s bathroom and we definitely weren’t in the penthouse anymore…. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support