Self-Esteem Read Free Page B

the poisonous sound and depraved lyrics he heard blaring from inside.
    Kill, kill, kill. Die, die, die. Fuck, fuck, fuck . Etc.
    These kids , Crawford would think. What can we do?
    In the end, Cal won the battle of the Erectum poster because Crawford just didn’t give a damn any more. It was pure perseverance on Cal’s part, and it was worth the accomplishment. Cal relished the idea that his father would have to tolerate a picture of some skinny punk’s leather ass on his wall with what looked like a boner on the wrong side. Every morning he looked at it with such admiration.
    “Be kind to yourself, bitch,” he said, high as the devil.
    One wall of Crawford’s study was covered in the ritual sycophancy of being one of America’s foremost self-help writers, “which also means one of the best-selling,” he liked to add. The plaques, the pictures, the awards and the newspaper clippings hung neatly in rows behind Crawford’s writing desk, which he lovingly called “Old Bessie.” The wall he called, not so lovingly, “the Wall of Shame.” He didn’t like it that way, of course. It was merely a concession following a series of negotiations with Dorothy, which included his proviso that the collection be hidden from most houseguests. One of his first awards was a plaque he received from a small town in Wisconsin proclaiming “Dr. Crawford Day.” Accepting the undesired plaque in person was bad enough, he felt. But Dorothy saw it differently.
    “We can’t just throw it away,” she told him.
    “Maybe we can’t, but I can.”
    He finally gave in, and the small museum of his accomplishments was hatched. Then it grew, and grew, and grew some more. But he resented all of it. The Wall of Shame certainly didn’t serve the purpose his well-intentioned wife thought it would. Dorothy saw such a display as a source of inspiration, something that could give “perspective.” But Crawford knew the presence of these things was anything but inspiring — demoralizing, in fact. They haughtily reminded him of what he might have been, mocking what he believed he might someday become. His degrees meant nothing to him. Even his doctorate — the one item he might have wanted on the wall — brought shame. Instead of representing accomplishment, the honorary degree represented fraud — giving him the sense that he would never contribute anything of value, not as a scientist nor as an artist.
    But Crawford was typing, his bloodshot eyes staring blankly at the blue screen.
    “For you try and you try and you try,” but that’s okay. Keep trying!
    “Ah!”
    I can’t write pessimism, he thought. I can only live it.
    I can. I can. Still. Keep going. You’re not just a writer. You’re a novelist. You’re a damn novelist.

    Two cups of strong coffee and Crawford’s hangover wasn’t any better. Since he had not had an all-nighter in a while, this one was particularly bad. Like many struggling boozers, Crawford cradled a morose attachment to self-inflicted soreness, to mind-numbing pain. It was like an old friend he had known for years and couldn’t abandon. Although unpleasant, hangovers made him subconsciously aware that the rest of the day could only improve — perhaps the rest of the week, perhaps the rest of his life. He also knew they were one of the few deterrents that might keep him from drinking himself to death.
    Crawford noted that this morning his slight paunch hung over his Levis just a little more, pulling his standard white T-shirt a little tighter. But he had to put a stop to that kind of thinking. That was the byproduct of a superficial generation that flipped through celebrity magazines in checkout lines — not what a serious novelist concerns himself with.
    Don’t end a sentence with a preposition.

    William Faulkner never fretted over his belly, Crawford guessed. And why would he? He had bigger fish to fry. Or he had higher mountains to climb. Or he had better shit to do.
    Avoid cliches like the plague.

    Or