It’s ok to admit your failures, and so far I’ve gotten just one email for the anti-hero photo contest, and Murdock forgot to attach his photo, so it’s time to switch it up. I’m still giving away the j fisher hat, but now it goes to the first person to identify the author of this passage and the title of the work. It has nothing to do with fishing, but it’s one of my favorite excerpts from one of my favorite writers. Email me the correct answer to fishingjonesATgmail.com or post it in comments and, if you’re first, I’ll send you the hat…
“I left Vicki , went upstairs, crouched over the typewriter, and looked out the window. It was hopeless. All my life I had wanted to be a writer and now I had my chance and it wouldn’t come. There were no bullrings and boxing matches or young senoritas. There weren’t even any insights. I was fucked. I couldn’t get the word down and they’d backed me into a corner. Well, all you had to do was die. But I’d always imagined it differently. I mean, the writing. Maybe it was the Leslie Howard movie. Or reading about the life of Hemingway or D.H. Lawrence. Or Jeffers. You could get started writing in all sorts of different ways. And then you wrote a while. And met some of the writers. The good ones and the bad ones. And they all had tinkertoy souls. You knew it when you got into a room with them. There was only one great writer every 500 years, and you weren’t the one, and they most certainly weren’t the ones. We were fucked.”
UPDATE: Correct answer provided by Salty of BWTF. “No Neck and Bad As Hell,” by Charles Bukowski.
