When it’s thirty-degrees and the sun begins to disappear in the middle of the afternoon, you can pretty much guarantee it’s not going to be a busy work day. In my stuffy little nook I spent my afternoon sending in resumes for various job positions across the country. Only time will tell where the hell I’m headed.
The more I think about the suggestions I’ve received about the book, the more I’ve come to realize that including more personal asides for the purpose of pace/spacing was inevitable. I think my own self-consciousness was preventing me from wanting to be too present in the story, but a book of just interviews would certainly be boring, no? I don’t remember if I’ve ever read a book of just interviews, either. Granted, I never learned how to read, so that kind of handicaps my ability to explore the local bookstore to see if any such texts exist. In case you’re already typing in Google to try and prove me wrong, I mean just interviews. Not essays or letters or anything. I don’t think the love notes from Henry Miller to Anais Nin count. The point is, I’m willing to listen to your advice. My friends speak and I listen. I’d probably make a horrible celebrity. Every time someone told me which movie to film or recommended Andy Wallace mix my record, I’d be all, “Y…yeah? You think? Okay.”
Who was the first photographer who looked at his subject and said, “Now why don’t you put your hand on your face? No no no! Don’t cover your face, just rest your head in the palm of your hand.” That guy is responsible for some of the worst portraits in the history of this medium of art. And what’s the deal with authors always choosing that photo as their headshot on the dust cover of their shitty books?
