Ron Sutphin used to tell us about Albert Eisentraut and the “one cubic centimeter of bullshit” that is an important addition to anything you do.
When I write a book, aside from my coffee table books about discarded dental picks and garbage cans overflowing with bags of dogshit, I’ll write a book that’s kind of James Tate mixed with Patti Smith. A book that leaves the reader wondering if any of that really happened or it was all a dream or if they call it poetry then anything goes. A book that stumps the librarian because it defies classification. A book that doesn’t fit in on the nonfiction shelf at one of the few remaining brick and mortar bookstores so they have to display it on a folding table near the checkout line. A book that contains more than just one cubic centimeter of bullshit. A book that contains a bit of truth but dumbfounds because it’s written from the point of view that hovers on the fringes and sits in the corner watching the petty details of everyday life.
Until I write that book I recommend this one: