Death is Eternal #391

Monday. March 11, 2024. 2,186 words.

Another week, another Death is Eternal. It has been like this for the past 63 weeks, and I don’t see it changing anytime soon, which is good! Although changing can be good, it can also be bad, and if I lost this streak, that would surely be bad, right? Right, faithful reader? Also, speaking of change, I meant to ask but didn’t have the opportunity before: Have you noticed the change I made to the newsletter? If so, leave a comment. (A hint: less AI, more human.)

Contents

1. The Journal

2. Writing: The seers

3. Bye!

4. Life (from March 4 to March 17, 2024)

5. Death is Eternal review #267: Superboy by Jeff Lemire, Pier Gallo, and others

6. The end

1. The Journal

On a brisk morning during a business trip, my manager’s voice broke the monotony of the journey. “There’s a gift waiting for you in the office,” he said, his tone betraying neither excitement nor obligation. Yet, within his words, a subtle undercurrent of anticipation swirled, tugging at the edges of my consciousness.

The announcement stirred within me a conflicted whirlwind of emotions—gratitude intertwined with guilt, each vying for dominance. Gratefulness swelled within me like a rising tide, buoyed by the realization that despite my recent induction into the company’s ranks, they deemed me worthy of a Christmas offering. Yet, guilt gnawed at the edges of my conscience, a persistent reminder of my absence from the communal office space. Though the company espoused the virtues of remote work, their unspoken preference for physical presence lingered in the air like a silent reproach. If a gift awaited me, it implied weeks of neglect, a fact that weighed heavily upon my conscience.

Days later, when I finally crossed the threshold of the office, the package beckoned from its perch upon my desk—a silent sentinel awaiting my arrival. A pang of uncertainty gripped me as I surveyed the neatly wrapped parcel. Its existence was a testament to my manager’s thoughtfulness, a gesture that bore the weight of unspoken obligations.

With trembling hands, I peeled away the layers of paper, revealing a 100% cotton drawstring bag nestled within. The fabric, soft to the touch, whispered secrets of craftsmanship and care. Within its depths lay the true treasure—a notebook adorned with a pen holder, its pristine pages a canvas awaiting the strokes of inspiration.

A genuine and unbidden smile stretched across my lips as I beheld the gift in its entirety. It was a token of appreciation, a tangible manifestation of goodwill that bridged the gap between employer and employee. At that moment, I knew that I could not relegate this gift to the annals of neglect—it demanded acknowledgment, a response befitting its significance.

Yet, as I contemplated the purpose of this unexpected bounty, a dilemma emerged—a clash between tradition and pragmatism. As a journalist by vocation, my instinct was to utilize the notebook for its intended purpose—to capture notes and immortalize them upon its pristine pages. And yet, the practicalities of modernity intervened, casting doubt upon the feasibility of such endeavours.

For years, the digital realm had served as my sanctuary—a haven of efficiency and expediency. In the cacophony of newsrooms past, the clatter of keys had supplanted the scratch of pen upon paper, offering sanctuary amidst the chaos. The allure of instantaneous retrieval had seduced me, promising liberation from the shackles of physicality.

And so, with a heavy heart, I resigned myself to the inevitable conclusion—this notebook, a relic of bygone eras, could not find solace within the confines of my daily routine. Its destiny lay elsewhere, a fate dictated by circumstance and necessity.

And yet, even as I consigned it to the realm of the unused, a pang of regret lingered—a whisper of what might have been. For within its pages lay the potential for transformation—a conduit for self-reflection and introspection. And though the allure of digital efficiency beckoned, the siren song of tradition echoed in the recesses of my mind—a melody as haunting as it was alluring.

If the purpose of the gift wasn’t for note-taking, then what purpose did it serve? The answer lingered like a riddle, waiting for me to unravel it. A notebook, yes, but it proclaimed itself a “journal”—a subtle distinction with profound implications.

To yield to its intended purpose meant embarking on a journey of self-reflection and introspection—a journey fraught with uncertainty and doubt. Past attempts at journaling had been fleeting, ephemeral wisps of commitment scattered to the winds of inconsistency. The dichotomy of my nature, a do-or-die resolve that demanded daily devotion, clashed with the chaotic cadence of life’s unpredictability.

In those initial days, enthusiasm blossomed like a delicate flower, each entry a testament to unwavering dedication. Yet, as the relentless march of the time wore on, the fervour waned, eclipsed by the relentless onslaught of daily obligations. One missed day led to another, a cascade of neglect that threatened to engulf the fledgling habit in its wake.

Faced with the spectre of failure, a dilemma emerged—a choice between two conflicting imperatives. On one hand, the weight of guilt bore down upon me, a reminder of the precious gift languishing in neglect. On the other, the burden of unfulfilled commitment loomed large, casting a shadow over my conscience.

In the crucible of indecision, a resolution emerged—a gambit born of necessity and desperation. To pit one problem against the other, to engage in a battle of wills where the stakes were nothing less than the preservation of sanity. And in this delicate balance of opposing forces, a fragile equilibrium was found—a fragile truce between guilt and obligation.

Yet, doubt lingered in the quiet moments of introspection—an ever-present companion whispering tales of inadequacy and self-doubt. Was this the healthiest approach, to pit problems against each other in a futile attempt to maintain equilibrium? The answer eluded me, obscured by the fog of uncertainty that shrouded my thoughts.

And yet, amidst the tumult of conflicting emotions, a singular truth emerged—a nugget of wisdom gleaned from the crucible of experience. Rollerball pens, with their smooth glide and elegant script, lent an air of sophistication to the act of writing, as long as you are not left-handed or plan to write more than one line at a time.

The end

2. Writing: The seers

Photo by DiChatz on Unsplash

Let me begin by stating that this essay is bound to stir up some controversy. Secondly, I want to clarify that I’m not drawing from any specific personal experience or targeting anyone in particular; it’s simply an observation that struck me recently. I hope these upfront disclaimers not only mitigate potential backlash but also pique your interest and encourage you to delve into what I’m about to discuss.

Anyone with aspirations of becoming a writer... Actually, anyone who has aspirations of becoming a writer, is an avid reader, a LinkedIn user, or has encountered entrepreneurs and coaches has likely come across the oft-repeated narrative that successful authors faced countless rejections before finally achieving recognition and success. It’s a tale we’ve all heard, but have we ever stopped to question why it’s so prevalent?

To break into the traditional publishing world, aspiring authors typically need to secure representation from a literary agent or convince an editor that their manuscript is worthy of publication. Both avenues are fraught with challenges, often leading to a barrage of rejections. Yet, this process is flawed because it presumes that agents, editors, and publishers possess some mystical ability to foresee literary success. In reality, they’re just as fallible as the rest of us.

Consider the case of Frank Herbert and his seminal work, Dune. It is widely regarded as one of the greatest science fiction novels of all time because it helped create and popularize the genre. However, Herbert faced a slew of rejections before Chilton Books, a publisher primarily known for trade magazines and automotive manuals, took a chance on him. The irony is striking—traditional publishing houses, which claim to possess unparalleled market insight, failed to recognize the potential of a groundbreaking novel. In contrast, the only one who saw the book’s potential was someone whose job was to write instructions on how to use the glovebox of your car. Isn’t that telling?

Agents, editors, and publishers often assert that they know what’s best for authors, boasting their expertise in understanding market trends and reader preferences. Yet, the reality paints a different picture. If their predictions were infallible, the publishing industry wouldn’t be grappling with shrinking markets, and tales of bestselling authors enduring millions of rejections before selling millions of copies wouldn’t be commonplace.

In truth, there are no seers in the publishing world—only the capricious hand of fate. Luck plays a substantial role in determining which manuscripts catch the attention of industry gatekeepers. So, the next time you receive a rejection letter, remember that it’s not a reflection of your talent or the merits of your work; it’s merely a roll of the dice in a game where luck often trumps insight.

There are no seers, just dumb luck.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of Death is Eternal, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.