Perhaps there is too much input, too much infotainment crowding in my mind, rendering me unable to produce any kind of output. I hate that. I know I have things to say, important things, at least for myself and to the people around me, but it feels like I can't get it out properly because something is blocking me. It's not that I don't have time or opportunity to do it, there are no kinds of physical barriers, only this mental blockage that bugs the shit out of me. With so much inspirational stuff bombarding me every day in the shape of Californication, underground movies and rock music you'd think I'd be able to write that damned second book. But no. The only things I can muster are a couple of lousy poems and this shit blog.
Yeah, you heard me. Second book. I did write one and I am waiting replies from various publishers. But I don't think they'll accept it. And it is because of a funny (well, scary really) reason, and that is that it's too literary. There are a lot of references to early 20th century Swedish literary works and the sad thing is that the publishers of today will probably miss out on that. You see, in Sweden (I can't speak for any other country, but I imagine that it's better in the US with agents and the like) publishers don't know enough literary history, or they just don't care. The only thing that matters is if something will sell, and this is because we are a small country with a few large publishing houses and a couple of smaller ones, and none of them are able to take risks with narrow or underground literature.
Well this isn't really the saddest thing. The worst part in all this is that it is not good literature that sells today, no, what really gets publishers wet are easy-to-read crime novels and 24-year-old celebrities' autobiographies. No chance for proper books or poetry to get published unless you're already known from TV or a fashion blog, and that has been the sad state of Swedish publishing for a while now.
Remember in Californication when Mia steals Hank's novel and the publishers call it a modern day Lolita? That kind of story would certainly sell in Sweden too, it's just that the publishers wouldn't call it a modern day Lolita, they would just call it "modern", because they don't know who the fuck Lolita is.
Anyway. I thought I'd just finish off today with a poem that I wrote a while back about the Iraqi war. Enjoy the lousiness of it.
THE SOLDIER'S LAMENT
What Duty brings this sorrow to my heart,
Keeping me in lands forlorn, from my native soil apart?
I try retreating to that inward eye
And calm my senses with remembrance of my childhood's sky,
That woundrous mix of shades of blue and joy;
-- Why can't a man forever be
As innocent and happy as when he was a boy?
-- Alas, I cannot see;
My inward eye is blinded, my childhood's sky is dark,
Blinded by a Flashbang, that horrid, uncivilized spark.
My home this desert camp has been
And the hostile Iraqi sky is all I've seen;
For two long years I've watched my comrades die;
For what? For Duty and a governmental lie;
And until they realize that this is wrong
I'll march to my grave singing this despondent song.
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