Originally Mad Wife was going to be all about editing. It's the book I wanted to be this hybrid text, my one, lyrical (anorexic?) work...it is now 30,000 words of dead weight maybe never to be read in that context....which I began this blog to essay about, which was turned into the bulimic essay collection Frances Farmer. But originally, I was interested in editing. Specifically the historical context of the modernist marriage, all of the husbands editing their wives, then this idea of editing, or destroying behavior, these wives.
I think of Paul editing Jane, the red pencil while on the Tangiers bus (this is how I picture it). I knew he was my enemy Jane said of meeting Paul. Tom editing Viv's pieces for The New Criterion.
Something so patriarchal, potentially, about editing another.
When John edits me. Extinguishes, destroys. It feels like an amputation. He is reading the essay collection, before I send it off to Chris and Hedi at Semiotext(e). He is loving it. Except the first chapter. The introduction. Yesterday we fought over the introduction. It is too messy he says. Too all over the place. Just cut it all off. An introduction I labored over so desperately is it too belabored? I begin to fight for my words like they are my orphaned children.
You must not speak to Zelda in superlatives, Scott wrote Zelda's doctors about her manuscript of Save Me the Waltz.
I cannot edit myself. I am suppose to take a knife today to the incest-text, in the hope of sending it to Action Books for their reading period. I cannot seem to edit myself. This makes me, I imagine, less of a writer.
I am Henry Darger with his thirty thousand pages.