3 by 40, 5 by 50

Let us begin this bit in the year 2000 (Anno Domini). The Author had just entered his 30’s and, three years out of graduate school, had sold his first novel, L.I.E., to the Random House conglomerate for a sum of money that, at that time, seemed remarkable. (From The Author’s current position in space-time, a locale which will be explored in some detail below, this same sum would make little impact on the debt that has since steadily accumulated about his Life Project like barnacles affixing themselves to a ship’s hull unabated for decades until they outweigh the crumbling ship itself.) Feeling flush with this initial success and certain that he was about to embark on a literary career of some substance, the Author made a promise to himself that seemed, at the time, like the quintessentially low bar: “I will publish 3 books before I turn 40,” was the promise, one the Author spoke aloud so that the universe would hear.

This ritual of speaking a promise aloud had always served the Author well, a fact that we at Poets & Suicides have verified through official and unofficial records, transcripts, photographs, polygraph tests and other evidential esoterica. For instance, the Author — who was once a serious Division One college runner, running being an activity at which, we editors cannot help noting with some pleasure, cowards often excel — would occasionally make a promise aloud just prior to embarking upon one of his more strenuous workouts, e.g., “I will run each of these 8 400s in under 70 seconds.” Once the promise was made, the Author felt there was no choice; if he did not do as he promised, the universe would know, henceforth, that his word was meaningless, and would never respect him again. He might be vomiting aside the track between repeats. He might feel near unconsciousness. He might begin to fantasize about dying. But he would run the 8 400s at the promised tempo. Everything seemed to depend upon it. The Author released similar promises into the universe regarding his commitment to writing (“I will write for at least an hour a day for the next month”), his determination to break bad habits (“I will not consume processed food today”), his commitment to music (“I will run through these chord inversions 50 times a day this week”). The promise-to-self, spoken aloud, was a religious oath for our Godless Author, and he did not call upon its power too often, but only when he suspected that, without the oath, his determination might flag.

Those of you who have followed the Author’s career (i.e., none of you, because there is no one reading this, it is written into the void like all of the inane verbiage comprising the Poets & Writers compendium) are aware that the Author has exactly two books in the world. The second, ANTHROPICA, was released just last month, during a global pandemic and in the run-up to a presidential election that has collected so much anxiety around itself that it seems to have animated, Frankenstein-like, and to have knocked upon the door of ever last sad and angry American. Which is to say the publication was slightly overshadowed by the contours of the American Suffering Project and that the book has gone largely unnoticed. But this digression notwithstanding, our editorial point is that as the Author approached 40 — an event-horizon now more than a decade in the past — he could feel a terrible black creature beginning to animate within his chest. It was a physical feeling, a kind of flapping or throbbing that the Author mistook on several occasions for some sort of cancer or other internal affliction, so real did it seem, so tangible. But in fact it was merely the manifestation of the broken promise, the failed oath. The Author knows (sort of) that it was not his fault that he failed to put out 3 books by the time he’d turned 40. After publishing L.I.E. and before entering into his 4th decade of life the Author wrote 4 books, each of which he was convinced would not only see “the light of day” but find a healthy readership, entering him into “the conversation,” or as the Author’s children — who are in love with a certain piece of musical theater — like to say, putting him “in the room where it happens.” But the fact remains: these books went unclaimed, the Author went ungraced by the gatekeepers of the literary establishment, and the oath went unconsummated.

An oath is only an oath so long as it is kept. Beyond that it is just another lie.

In an attempt to release himself from due punishment for this breach of contract, the Author made a desperate renegotiation with the universe. “I will publish 5 books by the time I am 50.” And the Author is considering this reconsolidation of his dignity on this particular day because it is his birthday, and he is turning 51, meaning that even the more forgiving interpretation of his promise — one that allowed for this 5-book milestone to be reached not before turning 50, but while the Author was “50 or less,” so to speak — must now be subjected to the universe’s judgment. We note here with a comedic glint in our collective editorial eye that the Author did not come close. He is three books shy. And he knows better than to continue this charade. (“7 by 60,” for instance. 60. What a terrifying ring that has. The Author does not fear death, but he is strangely and deeply embarrassed by aging. He can feel himself drifting away from culture itself, from the kinds of meaningful acknowledgments afforded a younger person by the world at large each day but that are withheld from those who have grown ideologically rigid and thus obsolescent. It is embarrassing to have conversations with students. To remove a shirt at the beach. To struggle with new software. To develop ailments consistent with the latter half of middle age. And it is only going to get worse, he knows. There is so much shame in aging. The Author did not know to expect that, and he regrets his very existence here among you younger and smarter and more accomplished people. Please forgive him, or else punish the fucker until he screams.) He realizes now that the consequences of this broken promise, whatever form they take, must be received and endured with grace, for it is the only possible grace available to the fallen Author. Worse yet, he knows that the ritual of the oath-making is itself permanently ruined. Its magic depended on its incontestability. Like so many things in the Author’s life, “5 by 50” has turned out to be a mirage, one that, upon dissolution, reveals only the vast desert through and across which the Author has always traveled in a desperate and ridiculous quest for something, anything, else.

Happy birthday to the Author! May he continue to exist so that his broken promises have a target upon which to enact their righteous revenge. Also, he is accepting gifts at this time. Alis grave nil, friends! May language release you from its lies!