October 10-11: No Significance, Sleepless Nights, Nobel Prize for Literature

In order that some sense of mystery should still be preserved, no revelation will yet be made concerning whose upper arm sustains the bruise.  This fact may safely be made the subject of suspense since it is of no significance whatsoever.

There will be no suspense in this blog post.  And most of what I write will have little to no literary significance whatsoever.  I have had a week of mostly sleepless nights, due to projects and work I needed to complete.  I am beat.

I apologize for my absence last night.  My excuse is simple:  poetry.  I was leading my monthly workshop at the Joy Center in my home town.  The theme was fears and phobias, and I had a great evening of poeting with a group of talented writers and friends.  These workshops have become one of my favorite monthly events.  Yesterday, I got home from the workshop at around 11 p.m., with every intention of typing a quick post before I went to bed.  Didn't happen, obviously.

And I have a feeling that, when I get home tonight, I will probably not have a whole lot of energy.  I'm feeling a little exhausted already.  As soon I eat dinner, I have a date with my pillow and blankie.  (Yes, I said "blankie."  Don't judge me.)  My body makes me do this every once in a while.  I think of it as a reboot, where I have to reset in order to continue to function properly.

Before I call it a night, however, I must make mention of the fact that, once again, the Swedish Academy has overlooked me for the Nobel Prize in Literature.  In fact (since no literature Nobel was awarded last year because of a sex scandal within the Swedish Academy), I had double the chances of winning this year--winners were announced for the years 2018 and 2019. 

Again, there is no suspense here.  I waited for the call this morning from the Swedish Academy's new Permanent Secretary, Mats Malm.  I had my cell phone at the ready at 6 a.m.  I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited.  Eventually, Mats walked through the white doors into the main hall of the Swedish Academy and announced that the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature for 2018 was the Polish writer Olga Tokarczuk and the winner of the Nobel for 2019 was Austrian writer Peter Handke.  Once again, my literary accomplishments went unrewarded.

Almost immediately after the announcement, I received my annual text from one of my best friends.  It simply read:  "Dammit!  The Nobel Academy is blind.  I am so tired of you getting robbed!"

Never fear.  One of these years, the doors to the great hall will swing open, and the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy will enter.  The reporters' cameras will go machine gun crazy taking pictures.  The Secretary will clear his throat and announce:  "The Nobel Prize in Literature for the year [fill in the blank] is awarded to the American author Saint Marty for a body of work that crosses the boundaries of intellect and emotion, mapping the continents of experience with a depth of dark wit and wisdom, giving voice to the voiceless immigrants of the human condition."  Or something like that.

Until that time, Saint Marty will sleep peacefully tonight, knowing that, some December in the future, his trip to Sweden is coming . . .