I have no strategy or preferences. I am only needy. The main thing is I like readers. Love them, hate them. That's why I do stuff now.
But there are problems. One is that I have no place. I never chose a spot or a context. I just went promiscuously from one landscape to another, one discourse to another. I have origins but no place. Therefore no network, no magnifiers, no social capital, no machine.
The other is that my craziness about authenticity means I have no way, at a very late date and age, of allowing editing anywhere near me. I have thirty years of notes and a recently released imagination, so I am unusually prolific, although not on a yearly average. And I just don't let anything catch up. Not book making, not anything. In this, I write through people, a kind of resonating, despite the plan. I am the worst kind of writer. Not the tiniest bit elitist, not an aspirant genre monopolist, always leaping, leaping, around.
Even though that all is true, due to my story, it does leave that story, a strange story, which is strange to market. I'm not an outlaw academic, an urban contrary, an abused middle class survivor. I'm an old deported guy, years in the bush who, like Alice, has, bemused, come home having missed the entire narrative of the century, accompanied by the white rabbit, talking in tongues and completely detached from mainstreet perspectives.
I need a Tom Fool editor and a network.
I sent a book, The Bush, to a big New York publisher, or at least my son did, and they wrote back saying that it had got to the final committee or something. I may be in a few slush piles. I ain't someone sent down from Oxbridge so slush it is. And I don't fit any small press house styles that I know.
Need a tomfool agent or editor, need discovery. I need someone to make a project of the collected works (now in the garage or on the hard drive).