Where I'm At!

Author's Note: I suppose this inextricably "Joel Walkowski" update is in order. It's been a crazy week. I don't know if any week will ever affect me like these past 168 hours have. It's been a wild whirl of tumult, confidence, and fear. I'm not sure I know how to handle it. I realize that it's really cramping my style and that I don't really know how to deal with it. Like all other issues I have trouble sorting out, I'm turning to this here NewHindenburg.

On June 8th, 2008, I was published for the first time. I entered a contest at the behest of my mother and after a long editorial process, I found myself in print in last Sunday's edition of the New York Times. It was a great feeling, to wait at Starbucks with long lost Sticky for the print version to arrive.

To be honest: the sentiments, anecdotes, and stories offered in my essay didn't mean that much to me. On the day I wrote the essay, I was in the rare zone of I don't give a fuck. When the time came for the essay to be edited and thus printed I was in the same place. I still didn't give a fuck.

I let it hit the newsstands. What I wasn't accounting for was that it would hit the hearts and minds of many others. As it stands I've received over 100 emails offering me advice, begging me to write again, and offering that the article really hit home with them. I know I wrote the article, I know it was my baby, but I was woefully unprepared for how resonant the article would be.

It's shameful to admit, but I've been shirking off the novel (which will be great) in order to google myself and various basketball news. The problems posed by such a personal (and in my case innate) piece are well wrought and far ranging.

The reviews have been staggering in their praise and candor. I've read e-mails from middle aged women recounting their sex lives. I've gotten asked out on several dates (via Facebook nonetheless). I don't know how to respond to these overtures. Yeah, I guess it hit you, but what can I do.

My typical response has been: "Thanks for reading. I'm an alien."

I'm thinking I might be an alien.

What I offered is pretty near and dear to me. I believe in it. I want to be in love with the perfect woman, to be coddled and held til the cows come home. I didn't know I was such a romantic. I know I wouldn't have acknowledged it without the embrace of others.

The piece has fucked with my head. For the first time I see power in these fingers, but I won't let what's gotten into my head to enter my work. It's been a two hour process to get ready to write. In recent days it has become a six-seven hour process to make myself vulnerable and honest enough to do the sort of work I want to do.

Thank the Universe for camp.