Jon Bauer's Blog, page 2

Beginning a new novel is quite something after you've finished one. In some ways it's harder because you know what you're getting yourself into. (Although this writer has an uncanny facility to forget suffering; needing to be reminded even of the things he loathes.) And yet there is a sense of comfort; that every dark thought of futility or insufficiency whilst writing now just echoes pointlessly around the cave hollowed out from mining out the previous work.

And yet, and yet, having...

An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

The world goes round Repins, the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,

at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers

the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands

and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:

There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile

and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk

and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets

which...

I made a speech at the launch of the Sleepers Almanac (short story collection) and some have said lovely things, so I thought I'd append it here.

You'll have to voice it in your head in that speechy way.

Have you ever had that moment on a dance floor where, mid-boogie, you look around and think, what the hell are we all doing? I had a moment like that when I was thinking about tonight. All these have been designed, printed, bound, cut, driven thousand of kilometres around the country; put...

I got a beautiful postcard in the post today from the UK. In the below image, Watts wanted to paint on a universal theme. And explained that hope need not mean expectations. Suggesting rather the music which can still come from the remaining cord on the lyre. 

Perhaps that's why she's blind. Without expectation. And having to crane in close to hear the few sounds remaining to her.

In classical mythology, Pandora opens the box that dispenses disease and pain to the mankind. Hope alone remains...

I read Lunar Park. I read American Psycho, twice (nobody talks enough about how funny that book is. The actual violence in it was often superfluous, though the threat of it wasn't.)

I went to see Brett speak on Friday night and was nervous, since I knew he'd basically refused to take the spoonfuls of question his last interviewer had been trying to feed him. I was worried it would be some obstreperous, self-important display of ego. And in some ways it really was that.

Ellis is an eaten down...

The book's out. It moons at me from shop windows as I trenchcoat my way round town at night. When I see it, it's like a girl I once loved who is now on a poster. Or a mannequin in a shop window. A familiar distance. It kind of looks sad in that darkened bookshop. Although I always grin back at it.

The reviews are coming in and are all, except perhaps The Age, glowing. I'm top of the sales charts through Readings, but I know that's probably a short-lived blip.

So now what? 

I can't go on waiting ...

Rocks in the Belly launched last night and Aviva and Cate gave wonderful speeches. And luckily I can make amends here for my slightly wobbly one.

I kept the names to a minimum last night, reluctant to list them, which does no real justice to the occasion or those mentioned. Besides, the best thanks are done privately, from the heart. And I knew I'd be reluctant to speak from the heart in front of 150 people.

While I was writing the book I daydreamed outcomes of course, and the moments you...

Having a novel in the hangar, ready for launch, is not as simple as everyone thinks.

 "Oh you must be so excited," they say.

We often do this. We polarise our idea of what something will be like, and then plonk it on the person it's happening to. And I do that too, to my own idea of the future. I make it all one colour – good or bad.

Things are never all good or all bad though, are they. Or are they? Maybe it's just me that complicates things. Mr Ambivalent.

My debut novel, Rocks in the Belly...

I wandered up the high hill yesterday, almost at the top of the island. I was aiming for Homer's school and thinking, over the sound of the cicadas, about books and writing and Melbourne, and that no matter what you do, no matter how yawning and far away the future looks, time pedals its legs.

It feels stupid to ever impatiently anticipate anything, because no matter where it is in the ether of the future, it is also, always, imminent. If feels like that. Even the things you've squinted at...

Here's the news:

It's raining here today. I thought you might like to know that, especially if you're in Austraya. It rained yesterday too. So there.

I didn't get to sleep till five last night, for no reason at all. Though you can over siesta. When does a siesta graduate to a sleep?

Siesta sounds way cooler than a nap though, doesn't it. If you say you're going for a nap, you feel like a bit of a grandad. Going for a siesta though – way cool. Sounds more like a snowboarding move than a sleep.

I'v...