Every so often I get something close to overwhelmed by what seems to be the lightweight and frivolous nature of my life, all the more so when important and meaningful things are happening in the world. It makes it difficult to post my thoughts about the differences between writing that squirts out whole and complete and writing that requires endless revision and reworking. Even though that's what's been on my mind lately, it just doesn't seem to matter all that much. I suppose that in reality the lives of many people are the same way, and they get through each day by ignoring that in one way or another. Usually I do that as well, but some days I'm better at it than others.
Over the past several days I've tried to remedy some of that by working on one of what I call my "serious" pieces. Unlike the two currently on the sidebar, these stories never seem to come out right. Lots of revision, rewriting, and focusing on structure and detail in a way that threatens to suck the life right out of the tale. If one of those ever sees print, I'll be a happy man, because although I like the shorter, lighter pieces just fine, it's these other ones that I really sweat over. They're the ones I work on so long that eventually I have to give up and shove them in a drawer somewhere for a year until I can read them in a fresh way.
It's strange. Sometimes a piece will emerge almost wholly formed, requiring nothing but a little spit and polish. Anchovies and Sumerian Pot were both like that. But for some reason I tend to value those works somewhat less, as though I cheated somehow. At some level I probably believe that it's not really writing unless I've battered my fists against it and invoked the damnation of god during its forging.
Which is nonsense, really, because I continue to maintain that it's the reception of the story by the reader that determines whether it works or not, and much of the difficulty I have with the "serious" pieces stems from my deliberate intention to convey something specific. So instead of thinking about the eventual reader, I'm wrapped up in my own ideas, which, I think, impedes the characters. They get stiff as they try to play the roles I've given them and read the clumsy lines I've written. I'm trying to get them to express my ever-so-interesting ideas about sexuality and identity while they're just waiting for me to leave the room so they can fuck.
So anyway, if anybody was wondering where all the damn content went, that's where. Bit of a funk, you see, and it's not the kind with a tight bass line.
I'll get over it.
Over the past several days I've tried to remedy some of that by working on one of what I call my "serious" pieces. Unlike the two currently on the sidebar, these stories never seem to come out right. Lots of revision, rewriting, and focusing on structure and detail in a way that threatens to suck the life right out of the tale. If one of those ever sees print, I'll be a happy man, because although I like the shorter, lighter pieces just fine, it's these other ones that I really sweat over. They're the ones I work on so long that eventually I have to give up and shove them in a drawer somewhere for a year until I can read them in a fresh way.
It's strange. Sometimes a piece will emerge almost wholly formed, requiring nothing but a little spit and polish. Anchovies and Sumerian Pot were both like that. But for some reason I tend to value those works somewhat less, as though I cheated somehow. At some level I probably believe that it's not really writing unless I've battered my fists against it and invoked the damnation of god during its forging.
Which is nonsense, really, because I continue to maintain that it's the reception of the story by the reader that determines whether it works or not, and much of the difficulty I have with the "serious" pieces stems from my deliberate intention to convey something specific. So instead of thinking about the eventual reader, I'm wrapped up in my own ideas, which, I think, impedes the characters. They get stiff as they try to play the roles I've given them and read the clumsy lines I've written. I'm trying to get them to express my ever-so-interesting ideas about sexuality and identity while they're just waiting for me to leave the room so they can fuck.
So anyway, if anybody was wondering where all the damn content went, that's where. Bit of a funk, you see, and it's not the kind with a tight bass line.
I'll get over it.
It's funny, but I feel the same way about poems vs. fiction. I find poems radically easier to write, and just let them pop out as is, with very little revision (and rarely send them out), as compared to fiction which requires sweat and craft.
Consequently I take the poems a lot less seriously, as if they're just fluff thrown off by the dandelion of my brain.
Characters are not looking for a director, but i see you know that. Accept that you can tell a story, and get out of your own way, she said in a kind and caring manner. Advice from someone who couldn't write her way out of an inebriated paper bag.
Anne - your writing is wonderful. You and Mr. Wood have inspired me to begin once again. After all, it isn't as if I have a blog, I can pitch the crap in the trashcan. I don't know how you deal with the pressure. I'm thin-skinned, I guess. I make art that I rarely show to anyone and now I will start writing and not share that either (again).
Cheaper than therapy.