So I've decided part of my literary inertia is related to a literary schizophrenia (bear with me). While I am something of a Renaissance Man, a sometime teacher, and all around muckamuck, I have some sort of literary ambition. To date these have resulted in roughly 5 poems published for student publications and one poem accepted in a literary journal of small note. I have yet to finish a respectable short story, and have been planning a novel for some time, which I plan to start this summer. Now, I have also recorded music and one song has been picked up by a television show, apparently the best way to earn some cash if your band is not on the Vans Warped Tour (or maybe even if it is), but somehow this raging success hasn't quelled my literary ambitions. One of my problems is certainly lack of focus. I recently finished reading a novel, (see previous posts), have begun another one (Updike's "Terrorist," which is slow going so far, not as easy to get into, and frequently puts the word "diss" in the mouths of contemporary teen characters, a term that went out of use sometime in the last decade, but which the boomer generation still uses when they want to sound "relevant"). But this opens up new questions regarding the relationship between reading and writing. This must be a question every writer has to answer for themselves. Is it helpful to read a lot while trying to write? Is it helpful to read selectively? To read widely? Does it affect tone and style drastically? With my sponge-like personality, this is an almost definite "yes." I suppose the dictum "novels aren't written, they're re-written" must come into play here, with tonal wrinkles getting ironed out in the third and fourth drafts, roughly. I have also dipped into Billy Collins, Li-Young Lee, begun (again) Northrop Frye's study on William Blake called "Fearful Symmetry" and set aside two books by a former professor to read, which I couldn't find this morning precisely because I had "set them aside" to read today. And yet this "sode reading" takes up roughly all of my free time alongside grading student work, laundry, and catching the occasional Lakers game. Now, I would also like to improve on the guitar, perhaps record a demo of original material, learn the piano, etc. In addition to which my impatience suggests to me I should have all this done by the end of the month, instead of by the time I'm forty, which is the more likely scenario. I often like to think to myself "wait until Summer," during which I certainly will have more time, but, it must also be said, results in a reduced sense of urgency, seeing as I won't be waking up at 6 am every day, with a jolt of coffee to allow me to keep pace with the 9th grade student's energy level. I also don't mind the occasional blog entry to keep the juiced flowing. Then I think, hm, my clearest writing seems to get done when I am in shape, which I certainly am not, so I put frequent exercise on the agenda as well. In addition to which I will be going to an IB conference in late June and to Frankfurt through much of August. You see the problem. I am pulled in too many directions in a three day span, let alone the time it would take to fashion a coherent narrative of considerable length (a paraphrase of EM Forster's definition of the novel). And yet, a kernel of hope remains. Can I prioritize well enough, in terms of reading (research for the novel before random forays into side reading...although this could yield unexpected results). Part of writing, or producing any kind of substantial piece of art, must be the ability of exclusion, of blocking out that which is not essential. Ah, to be Rilke, and utterly crap on all that is not our art (see marriage to Clara...which sounds dangerously close to "Karla," phonetically speaking, that is, eh heh, heh eeehhh).
No comments:
Post a Comment