What did happen here?
• I lost interest in snappy chatter about books. What fun we could all have had with the Padel/Walcott fuss! But everyone was talking at once, and did I really have much to say? Plus I’ve got pro ties to publishing now, & it’s harder, more depressing to make jolly jokes about the poo of that world when you spend desk days tying little ribbons on aforementioned poo & going along with the idea that a new novel from Mark Haddon matters.
• I lost interest in the present, and wasn’t sure this was the right place to talk about the past.
• Not really convinced this needs bullet points after all. But we’ve started now & there’s no way I know of to delete text on a computer.
• Anyway, I began to feel the web was a lot of noise, y’know. Addictive noise, like My Bloody Valentine, but noise nonetheless. I could spend ages writing a blog post, but it didn’t feel real in the end, like it was a waste. So I wrote a novel. It’s 70,000 words long, because that’s how long a novel is, but no-one’s allowed to read it. It’s too good.
• Scene changed. Things got crowded! And things got professional. And things got commenty. I saw things shifting to the conversational, but didn’t want to switch on comments because I liked the monotonous plains of my tyrannic empire. The pro attitude – Guardian Book Blog, LRB blog (HOLY SHIT the £27m family fortune debt of the LRB almost got me writing again. £13m spike fees I’m guessing. ) – gets you polish, but breeds bores. & dear Lord that world of saying clever things on Twitter, starting something on the Facebooks, etc etc. I’m anti-social. This is why I like it here and inside books.
• I kept meaning to write this post explaining why I stopped updating, but felt it was too self-indulgent (it is – but it’s not yknow becoming the blog theme or anything); also I always believed I might come back and post regularly, & then who’d look the fool for turning his back on the web and shuttering the old place eh?
• Lately though I’ve been getting the urge. I think it’s something to do with Martin Amis, like he’s a vegetation god proxy we killed after Yellow Dog, and now he rises again with The Pregnant Widow & the literary world seems bright and funny and worth mocking again.