Before I say goodbye to the first decade of the 21st century, I want to take one more chance to recognize the fatuousness of a ex-California-now-New-England literary poet/journalist who I've had issues with in the past. In this post, I'll omit his name, but refer to him instead as The Rooster From Wooster.
Here are a couple of pearls of intended self-reflection from The Rooster's blog:
Sometimes, it's hard not to think that the urge for fame or success, for validation, makes tame monsters of us.
Thursday, December 3rd, 2009
Thursdays are for pimping
I feel like I'm busy all the time, but it doesn't always feel like I've accomplished anything. Still, I turn around and there's something or other I wrote, or was interviewed in, or edited, or whatever. It's as though the process has become so commonplace that I fail to register it. This is not a good thing. Becoming jaded is dangerous, at least for me: it robs the writing process of its magic, makes me stop caring. None of this is good, and it's an impulse I need to watch out for.
Hope you were as impressed with The Rooster's crowing as I was.