eorge Carlin once said he played Spy at the Airport. “Your job? Find him!”
The other day I was left on a seat in the terminal, waiting for an unlikely meetup (long story, but I didn’t know any flight information for the arrival). Since I had to sit for hours and watch for a specific person, I watched people.
And I’ll say this – unlike the 70’s when Carlin referred to this, there was nobody I would categorize as being particularly spy-ish. I can’t imagine someone who’s fought their way up the bloody rungs of the KGB dressing in flip flops, spilling Doritos or flopping into a chair like a skydiving whale. Everyone had a phone and glazed eyes. And everyone looked like they dressed by diving head-first into a hamper. Slobs. (I’m such an elitist)
Possibly because I had my thick copy of Don Quixote on my lap and I’m at the part where two characters discuss the writer’s dilemma – does one create a masterpiece for the few, or a raunchy play for the vast, low masses.
I look at my efforts – my Fire and Bronze, my Wenamon and Indigo, and wonder who in this crowd of bone-head, phone-jacking illiterates is really going to read my books. Oh, they’ll read Harry Potter like lemmings but as far as it being a gateway drug to reading in general, I don’t think so.
If you are a writer, you’re going to be asking this for yourself at some point. Just who am I writing for? For an audience? For me? For money? For praise? And will this vast sea of overweight phone-fixed noodleheads actually find a flickering spark of interest in anything I write?
Good luck with that.