It’s Friday, I’ve eaten spaghetti and now I’m in the mood to get all meaningful on ya. I think it’s the carb rush. Of course it could also be an afternoon off from my day job. Either way, I’m going to address a few matters of importance to a writer’s life and work.
As I mentioned above, I had the afternoon off. I didn’t sit here on this thing all day, but I did have a lovely defined amount of time to be an online waster. I usually check the blogs I love which are located to the right on my blog roll. After this I occasionally peruse the daily offering from a hefty variety of blogs provided by my lovely parent, WordPress. Today I visited a blog by Mary, a writer from Alberta Canada who was on the receiving end of some pretty hot flaming. The essay that inspired the ensuing heat dealt with the publishing industry and while reading it I noticed the writer used ‘A Confederacy Of Dunces’ as an example in her rant about lit agents and publishers. It piqued my interest because I wrote a post a few days before her’s solely about John Kennedy Toole, agents and publishers and the state of literature etc. Very peculiar. I left a comment citing this and was ignored. No biggy. 😉 I then watched as several very witty people tore her a few new orifices for her trouble. We all affect each other I suppose, which from a Zen point of view is what it’s all about. Today, I’m harmonious but I don’t feel the writer of that blog is. I hope she finds her truth and peace.
I hate to do the following because it may ruin my crusty reputation, but Nathan Bransford handled the heat quite well and I was impressed. He didn’t take the high road or the low road, he took his own road and in the end that is the only road to stay on. I always like individuality when it floats to the surface of the dirty water. You might be growing on me Nathan. Nah! That won’t happen. 😛
After leaving the laptop to visit my local library, I walked the familiar book congested aisles but my thoughts kept straying like a mangy dog to a garbage can, back to those writers, agents and ‘A Confederacy Of Dunces Mary’. A few questions kept nagging me: What inspires people to abandon their creative projects only to pursue an endless round of debates about nothing but different and entrenched points of view? I understand why politicians do it, but does it have a contructive and valid place in the arts? Personally, I think it’s redundant because the creative expression as it’s experienced in writing/painting/poetry/sculpture/dance/music Is the debate AND the point of view made real in a sensory way and therefore permanent.
I also wanted to ramble about writing and that fertile ground I mentioned once before on this blog. The garden where the stories are planted, nurtured and blossom into the finished manuscripts we attempt to sell or give away to the world. For me, the seeds for my stories come from my emotional life. For example, tomorrow I’m going to resume working on an adult novel dealing with an area that has all but been ignored in literature. In fact, what I’m writing will be a bit groundbreaking and important for abused women. Not many people who have been to the bottom of a sewer emerge healthy and eloquent enough to write a novel, but I have. It’s a labour of love and in a way an act of allegiance to other women. I’m writing it to express and examine the human condition. I’m writing it to tell a damn good story about life. I’ve lived this shit for a reason and I’ve been writing all my life for a reason and no it’s not for a Pulitzer or a best seller, but rather to tell it like it is for REAL people. I don’t see many stories for real people on the shelves anymore. It makes me sad. Where are the Steinbecks, Dickens’, Catherine Cooksons etc? Did they all become middle class and join twitter? *I slipped that in for fun 😉 * Everyone has become superficial and that is reflected in our lack of depth in the books we choose to read. I love those stories too, but a steady diet is bad for your noggin. If it’s true we read to know we’re not alone, then we must also be reading to understand ourselves through the experience of others. To see ourselves in the reflection of a character’s pain and joy is surely a noble reason to put words on paper. That sort of writing has vacated it’s home in non-elitist popular literature and moved it’s living to a whorehouse called creative non- fiction. A very crudely disguised dishing the dirt without personal respsonsibility. It’s no longer about exploring human truths through character development, it’s now about getting even and making a buck through public humiliation. Jerry Springer should open up his own publishing company if this trend continues. Okay, I’m finished my bender. To all those Jerry Springer fans out there, relax, I’m harmonious and zen today and I do ramble after eating spaghetti. Take care, be as harmonious as possible when shooting the shit with other scribes and above all, be good to yourselves.