I haven't posted in nine days. That's the longest hiatus since I started this blog. Sometimes the realities of life impinge, y'know.
I have baseball on the mind. And we novelists and ballplayers are in the same profession, aren't we? Entertainment. The goal of both is to provide recreation, enjoyment, and diversion. So why aren't we treated the same? The major league minimum salary is $380,000. Wouldn't that be sweet? So why not reorganize novelists along baseball's lines. We could have 30 major league publishers where the minimum is the aformentioned $380K. Each would have minor league affiliates chock-full of writers, whose talent would be nurtured by salty old coaches until they are ready to be called up to the majors.
Wednesday I watched the season finale of Friday Night Lights, the only network show I watch. My friend Jeff Shelby has already expounded on its uncertain future and what might happen to the network executive who dared to cancel it. As corny as the show can get sometimes, as unlikely as the series of last play wins is, I will shed tears if it's not back in the fall. If you haven't seen the show, all episodes are available online.
In my last posting, I discussed the probable insanity of novelists. After all, we live in an alternative universe and record what we find there. Look at this from last week's Times Book Review: "Researchers suggest that because the 'wrong' side of the brain helps process [their] words, hallucinators may generate inner speech that is not attributed to the self." How our brains are wired can help determine whether we are suited for life as novelists?