I’m currently reading a book of interviews with a (dead) famous Dutch cartoonist. These interviews were taken a few years before his death and they don’t make for joyful reading. The artist, though much loved by the public, didn’t feel he got enough respect from the cultural establishment.
When I read that I was again quite glad I mostly write for my own amusement – but then, for the first time in my life, I looked at my writing life through a slightly different prism:
In a way, I am a horrible, neglective parent. All the books, short stories and poems I have written – those children, if you like: I’ve never done anything for them, or with them.
I conceived them, spent time dressing them up the best I could and then I didn’t even bother to send them out in the world.
Oh well, don’t expect me to change much. I don’t think you will see me hunting for publishers and/or agents any time soon but yeah, I will admit I’m probably not deserving of these many children.
So it’s a good thing they sleep in digital files and on scraps of paper and that I, when I am out on one of my walks, don’t run the chance to run into one of them – and end up like Oedipus’s dad.
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