Dog Poop in Crissy Field Saves America

This post is part of a series about things that are saving America for me.

Yesterday I was in a huge funk. No one was buying my books, I wasn’t awarded the grant I wanted for my jazz class, a white supremacist had recently killed a young woman in Charlottesville, and Trump was still president. A huge funk is probably an understatement, but let’s not go into that.

I’d heard that some right wingers were coming to Crissy Field, a park in San Francisco. Since right wingers don’t really need to rally because they control the executive branch, the legislative branch, and soon the judicial branch, we all know what the rally really is.

Enter artist Lil Tuffy (Tuffy Tuffington on Facebook) and his event “Leave your dog poop on Crissy Field.” 400 people planned to attend the event the day before the rally and let their dogs poop, not cleaning it up until after the rally. I live too far away to participate, but we commenters had a grand time describing the food we’d feed our dogs that morning and imagining Nazis stepping in a pile, being disgusted, and taking another step right into another pile. It seemed the perfect solution. No one had to be at the rally and endanger themselves, but our disgust would be known to the “right wingers” and, when they got home, their mothers.

Soon, people started to comment about the sanitation problem. Some were easily unveiled as anti-leftist trolls, but some were simply San Franciscans concerned about disease. Talk about party poopers. Friends, our country is at a crossroads. Can we all lighten up and imagine a slippy, slidey, poopfest to take our minds off of the seriousness of it all?

I wonder if this is part of Lil Tuffy’s performance art. Watching a hilarious idea get shit on while the Klan removes its mask and the EPA gets gutted. By all means, let’s not let our dog poop sit overnight. That might ruin America.

Well, thanks Tuffy. America was saved for me today if only for a little while.

 

On Giving Up

Writers have a social media community. We’re all friends with other writers, and we all encourage each other with daily mantras like “The world needs your novel,” and “You have a unique voice,” and “Harry Potter was rejected 37 times.”

I’ve been writing for eight years or so, and the last year I’ve also had a jazz group for girls. I’ve been posting about the lack of women in jazz, and while some people seem as concerned about the situation as I am, my class has not grown, and I’ve had few volunteers to help me teach. I have only sold a handful of novels despite regular social media posts (and social ones, too, not just sales pitches) and today my proposal for a grant for the jazz class was rejected.

It turns out the world does not need my novels. People keep saying “Write because you love it!” and the truth is that I don’t love it anymore. I’m tired of writing to myself. I don’t care what anyone says, we don’t write for ourselves. We write because we want to touch others or to be known as a great writer, or at least to make a damned dollar. I have spent thousands and thousands of hours writing and reading about writing, and for what?

I’m done. I’m done writing, and I’m done sharing people’s books who do not share mine, and I’m done thinking “This contest win will convince people to buy a book!” And while I’m keeping my jazz class until it dwindles to nothing, I’m not writing any more grants or passing out any more flyers. I’m not asking for any more volunteers, and I’m not making any more videos about how I hate the blues scale. The world does not need my novel, or it would shell out 99 cents. Apparently my contribution to this world is not the next great novel, and that’s okay.

And apparently the world does not need my jazz instruction either.

I’m done.

For now.