All the chickens come on home to roost
Plump bodies blotting out the sky
You know it breaks my heart in half, in half
When I see them trying to see them fly
'Cuz you just can't do
Things your body wasn't meant to.
—The Mountain Goats, "Dilaudid"
If you read it, you remember that last Sunday's post about long-term projects, "When to Not Persist," was kind of a downer. I had to 'fess up to having drifted away from my book project ambitions (in my fellowship we call it "going back out," i.e., falling off the wagon. Returning to our former state—in this case, my natural state of sloth, inertia and ennui). I had been feeling guilty about this, and it was liberating to man up and come out with it.
So now, good news. I've switched gears and changed projects. I've decided to take John's advice and slam out a book about photography. Starting with a brief autobiography of my life in photography, then switching to an insider history of The Online Photographer. Then I'll recount some of my adventures and misadventures in the various industries and people I've intersected with. Next, a section about the aesthetics of art and practice. Finally, I'll write down my reflections about the changing state of the art over the time I've been involved with the medium. (I just made that all up on the spot. Sounds okay, though.) Along the way I'll sing like a canary and tell tales. I like telling stories, and I got a whole bunch of 'em, and if I leave them sit there on the hard drive, one day the hard drive will just fail and then where will all the stories be? Lost and gone forevs.
No timetable, and of course I'm notorious for not finishing anything, so there's no guarantee this will ever become something.
If it does become a book PDF, however, every loyal booster who contributes via Patreon will get it for free, so you don't have to worry about missing anything. Anything I manage to finish, you'll get, no charge. That's not to say I'll finish anything, but it means those folks won't miss it.
The best-laid schemes o' Mikes an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
—Robbie Burns, "To a Mouse," tr. mod. auct.
I would think this one's going to be a piece of cake, though, because I'm not going to worry about it too much. I'm just going to start writing. It's all in my head already, so I can just write off the top. Like writing a letter. And that goes fast.
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