Having Trouble Finding the Holy Mountain

Today is a day of odd confluences. This morning, after waking up to another rejection, I turned to Twitter for a rant I was rather sure only one person would read. I’ve included an edited version below.

I remember hearing a podcast where JMS (of Babylon 5 & Sense8) told a story of being a young writer in a rut. After a few publications, none of his stories were being accepted. So, someone slipped him Harlan Ellison’s phone number. Not knowing any better, he called Harlan and got him on the phone. One section of the 45 minute call involved his writing. Ellison’s notes? “Well, you were writing OK, but now you’re writing shit. STOP WRITING SHIT.”

As I look upon another rejection, and also see where other folks I know are having success at submission, I think about that anecdote. And I ask myself. It just reminds me how few folks I have who can (or feel comfortable) assessing my shit. Most will say “Hey, that’s cool shit!” Which is great, but not helpful. When I look for new writing groups to help me with my shit, they tend to say “Sorry, we don’t do genre shit.”

Unfortunately, I can’t afford a professional shit analysis right now. And I know, everyone says, “Hey, don’t worry what everyone else thinks of your shit. Just keep working on making the best shit possible!” The problem with this advice is, well, how do I know I’m producing the best shit possible? Maybe I’m writing the wrong kind of shit? I honestly don’t know. I just know – this shit ain’t working. It’s getting sent back up the pipe.

Where’s a gastroenterologist/plumber when you need one? (Also, reminds me, need to collect stool samples from the cats before tomorrow’s vet visit…)

It was early in the morning, I admit. But, it seemed like a good thread. I woke up while writing it.  And then, the synchronicity hit. As I paged through my twitter feed, I also saw that today, Filmstruck announced it would be featuring the works of Alejandro Jodorowsky.  This included his lesser seen debut and his later biographic films, but the most important addition to this conversation is The Holy Mountain.

There is an infamous scene where a thief, who has ascended the tower of the Alchemist (played by Jodorowsky) receives a demonstration of the Alchemist’s power and ability. The thief takes a shit into a glass pot. The Alchemist puts it into a strange device, and dons kabbalistic garb. He forces the thief to sweat out his own impurities.

And then, mixing the elements together via the alchemical device, he sets about purifying the shit. We watch, over a series of shots, as the turds are converted into the most precious substance of all.

“You are excrement,” says the Alchemist. “But you can turn yourself into gold.”

Right now, I get the sense that my writing is excrement, but I don’t have the experience or knowledge to turn it into gold. And I’m unsure how to do so. There’s no red tower for me to climb. No surrealist at the top, waiting like to induct me into the great mysteries.

I’m alone on this road, looking for the holy mountain. And right now, I’m not sure if I’m constipated, have dysentery, or just a little too much corn in my diet. But my shit is not gold. Not yet.

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