Writing about writing
I have this astonishing ability to write about writing, with a net result of zero. I haven't really finished anything since high school, unless you count a volume of really bad poetry circa '98-2000. I have countless plots, but I've never started any of them. It's torture because I know I want to be a writer, I want to write, I want to be creative and express myself in a productive and artistic way, but there are some things holding me back.
Should I write about myself? Should I start when I was a kid, living in Florida? Or when I was a teenager in Tennessee?
What kind of narrative should this be? First person, third-person, stream-of consciousness? Clean and clockwork exposition, or Kerouac-style spontaneous prose? What IS my voice?
Sometimes I think if I just sat down and wrote, just wrote 10 pages of nonsense, maybe I'd find a perfectly-composed paragraph in the middle, subconsciously tucked away, sandwiched between mountains of useless babble. 10 pages to get one paragraph... wow... That's a horrible ratio and I don't think I'm that mindless a writer.
I know my friend Matt's probably shaking his head and saying, "Just write, you damn fool. You aren't a writer unless you write." I can say with true humility that he's surpassed me in talent and vision when it comes to observing and commenting upon this vast seething pool of bumbling mongoloids we call humanity. And I only wish I had a microbe's worth of his determination.
I could hide behind the excuse of having two jobs, but that's lame. Any true writer is going to apply himself and dedicate himself to honing his craft every chance he can get. And ever since I started working at The Winds, in Yellow Springs, I have more than enough inspiration and material. The people there are rich mines of oddity. I can only really fess up to laziness, that's true. I'm a lazy, lazy person.
I've always said there are two stories inside me, waiting to get out: the first is a galaxy-shattering space opera of apocalyptic proportions, in the grand epic style of E. E. "Doc" Smith; with a dashing hero, a damsel in distress, and gargantuan spaceships duking it out with nukes and big-ass f***in' laser beams. The second story is a fictionalized autobiography, about a nerdly little dude (me) coming of age and whatnot. A rite du passage? Did I spell that right?
I'm hesitant to start the first story because a) it's been done before, and to perfection, in Doc Smith's original stories; and b) topping his stuff is pretty much impossible. And I have trouble starting the latter because I'm riddled with self-doubts... I'm only 26, I'm mainly self-educated, I lack common sense (among other things). I'm astoundingly ignorant of trivial and confusing matters like finance, politics, cars, sports, fashion, etc. I tune that shit out. I've been tuning it out for 26 years and now that I need them, I don't have those topics to draw upon. I kinda havta "fake" it.
I guess this all comes in the wake of the news of my friend's first published book of poetry. Kathryn Stridsberg has written an excellent volume of introspective and emotional verse entitled "Detachment" (which you can order here, btw) and got it published. I'm more than proud for her, I'm ecstatic. She is the first friend I've ever had who actually got a book published. This, then, is what I've been craving for, I guess: elbow-rubbing with published poets here in Ohio. I took it for granted when I was in Dayton and Chattanooga. It seems like all my friends in Tennessee were artists of some kind, or possessed of some weird and entertaining talent. I miss that up here; but I guess kids like that aren't so far away after all. (And although you could say there's the smallest microscopic twinge of jealousy, it's only because I know I can do it, I'm just too damn lazy.)
I suppose I do have plenty of material. And I've heard enough tall tales and witnessed enough sordid affairs to fuel a trilogy. It all comes down to the battle between me, and my mind (and my body, too). I can either re-double my efforts, stick to my guns, and just write, or I can babble away in long-winded fashion on a weblog.
Ideas churn.
Should I write about myself? Should I start when I was a kid, living in Florida? Or when I was a teenager in Tennessee?
What kind of narrative should this be? First person, third-person, stream-of consciousness? Clean and clockwork exposition, or Kerouac-style spontaneous prose? What IS my voice?
Sometimes I think if I just sat down and wrote, just wrote 10 pages of nonsense, maybe I'd find a perfectly-composed paragraph in the middle, subconsciously tucked away, sandwiched between mountains of useless babble. 10 pages to get one paragraph... wow... That's a horrible ratio and I don't think I'm that mindless a writer.
I know my friend Matt's probably shaking his head and saying, "Just write, you damn fool. You aren't a writer unless you write." I can say with true humility that he's surpassed me in talent and vision when it comes to observing and commenting upon this vast seething pool of bumbling mongoloids we call humanity. And I only wish I had a microbe's worth of his determination.
I could hide behind the excuse of having two jobs, but that's lame. Any true writer is going to apply himself and dedicate himself to honing his craft every chance he can get. And ever since I started working at The Winds, in Yellow Springs, I have more than enough inspiration and material. The people there are rich mines of oddity. I can only really fess up to laziness, that's true. I'm a lazy, lazy person.
I've always said there are two stories inside me, waiting to get out: the first is a galaxy-shattering space opera of apocalyptic proportions, in the grand epic style of E. E. "Doc" Smith; with a dashing hero, a damsel in distress, and gargantuan spaceships duking it out with nukes and big-ass f***in' laser beams. The second story is a fictionalized autobiography, about a nerdly little dude (me) coming of age and whatnot. A rite du passage? Did I spell that right?
I'm hesitant to start the first story because a) it's been done before, and to perfection, in Doc Smith's original stories; and b) topping his stuff is pretty much impossible. And I have trouble starting the latter because I'm riddled with self-doubts... I'm only 26, I'm mainly self-educated, I lack common sense (among other things). I'm astoundingly ignorant of trivial and confusing matters like finance, politics, cars, sports, fashion, etc. I tune that shit out. I've been tuning it out for 26 years and now that I need them, I don't have those topics to draw upon. I kinda havta "fake" it.
I guess this all comes in the wake of the news of my friend's first published book of poetry. Kathryn Stridsberg has written an excellent volume of introspective and emotional verse entitled "Detachment" (which you can order here, btw) and got it published. I'm more than proud for her, I'm ecstatic. She is the first friend I've ever had who actually got a book published. This, then, is what I've been craving for, I guess: elbow-rubbing with published poets here in Ohio. I took it for granted when I was in Dayton and Chattanooga. It seems like all my friends in Tennessee were artists of some kind, or possessed of some weird and entertaining talent. I miss that up here; but I guess kids like that aren't so far away after all. (And although you could say there's the smallest microscopic twinge of jealousy, it's only because I know I can do it, I'm just too damn lazy.)
I suppose I do have plenty of material. And I've heard enough tall tales and witnessed enough sordid affairs to fuel a trilogy. It all comes down to the battle between me, and my mind (and my body, too). I can either re-double my efforts, stick to my guns, and just write, or I can babble away in long-winded fashion on a weblog.
Ideas churn.
posted by Billy at 11:14 PM
2 Comments:
biiiiiiilly
i love your blog bro.
thanks for linking to my site
i read through a lot of it
and i love your writing
anyhow have a good weekend and
i'll see you at the ole
outback
little joe c
Sweet mama mia, Bill!! Who doesnt have these fears of utter and complete failure? Who doesnt weap as they drive home from a day littered with disaster? The fact that we as creaters know, or think, we're terrible should push us to a better something...what is that something? Well, at least it will be something different. True, different is not automatically good but it can be seen, in certain instances, as growth...or at least a swelling. Have faith and by this I dont mean spiritual, but in yourself.
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