Andrew Roe

Ethan, double-verbing:

“He got died.”

Somewhat related to the previous post I suppose…

A Guardian article, which has received some significant linkage, asks the question: Is writing for a living a joy or a chore?

Here’s what Mr. John Banville had to say:

“Whether we are writing a novel or a letter to our bank manager, we have the eerie sensation that we are not so much writing as being written, that language in its insidious way is using us as a medium of expression and not vice versa. The struggle of writing is fraught with a specialised form of anguish, the anguish of knowing one will never get it right, that one will always fail, and that all one can hope to do is ‘fail better’, as Beckett recommends.”

The “never get it right” part: Yeah, that hurts.

And Beckett, too. Yeah, Beckett.

The other day my almost four-year-old son pulled a copy of Endgame from the bookshelf and pretended to read it. Or maybe he did read it, who knows.

There’s a writer I know who has called it a day. He/she has decided to stop writing.

This is someone who has published two books, received glowing reviews, appeared in Best American Short Stories, and last I heard had completed a novel.

Now he/she is done.

And I understand, I do.

There’s probably nothing worse than hearing/reading about a writer bitch and moan about how hard it is to be a writer. So I won’t. Go. There.

But I will say that I do think of quitting. Frequently. Especially lately.

Despite these bouts, though, I always seem to stumble my way back to that Beckett quote: I can’t go on, I will go on. Or something like that.

But it makes me sad that this writer has stopped. The reading world has lost a light. And we need all the light we can get.

So…

I suppose it was inevitable: I caught this nasty stomach flu bug thing that’s visited every member of my family — well, that is except the cat. He’s probably next. No one is immune.

To quote Maria:

“This is epic.”

I’ll spare you details.

Me: “Ethan, did you know Henry and Celia threw up last night too?“

Ethan: “Yeah, I know.”

Me: “Everyone’s sick except Daddy. You. Mommy. Henry. Celia. Everyone’s sick.”

Ethan: “Daddy, if you get sick I’ll take really good care of you.”