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A Writer Who Writes
Recently I started writing again. Since then, I've been hoping to express my thoughts on me writing in some form other than rapid-fire, manic utterances to my husband over dinner, and have been somewhat successful. I've been consistent in posting to my (private) livejournal, which is a stellar accomplishment for me, and have been discussing with uber-insightful friends, who I bow to (that means you, JS.) A particular note of interest is that I have kept a livejournal (an lj, for us vets) since 2000.
This is relevant because it testifies, from myself, to myself that I do in fact have a writerly spark that so many (all?) writers speak of. I even feel a pang of guilt when ending sentences in prepositions. I have at times questioned that spark, that "impulse within, like a biological fact" mentioned in my previous post, because I have, in comparison to others, rarely produced pieces of writing. Perhaps this is a good thing, considering my age and overall hour-count of sweat and blood poured out for my craft. I also have taken intermittent writing reposes due to demands of practicality, other creative endeavors or generally being lazy. There's been fear and cowardice in there too. A lot of fear.
Who's the Greatest?
I mention on my profile for the online college I attend (how many hours of sweat and blood did I pour into crafting that baby?) that there are people who make me want to write and people who make me want to never write again. After about 30 minutes of consternation, I arrived at the following list.*
People who make me want to write: Jonathan Goldstein, E.B. White, Flannery O'Connor
People who make me want to never write again: Marilynne Robinson, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Anton Chekhov
These carefully selected gods are stratified in my mind on a purely subjective basis. The former reflects a (wishfully) homologous voice and vision to my own. I feel we see the horrors and humors of life, the glory and foibles of man, in a similar way. When I read their work, I understand it deeply and easily, and it causes me to reach for that same place in myself. I greet them like old, true friends. The latter, however, posses qualities which I know nothing about and will never know about. In fact, I don't want to know about them. No. I want them to lead me, and I will devoutly follow. Though they slay me I will trust in them.
There's really no greater significance in me mentioning (justifying) this; I have no grander thoughts on the subject as of yet and thus, no plan. If I am honest, I will admit that these blog posts are going to be a bit myopic. It's a time thing, and that's the truth. If I had more of it, I'd make each blog sing. As it is, we're settling for scatteredness (no spellcheck, not sacredness, not yet) and incomplete thoughts. But that's what blogs are for, right? This one, anyway. Though I will be posting complete works (assignments) here too which will expand the audience beyond other artists who already know what I am talking about.
Go, Go Intuition
I was recently involved in a discussion about the play My Name is Asher Lev, which implicated me in more ways than I can probably imagine (the discussion, not the play.) For the record, I cried, but only because someone asked me to think of everyone who's ever hurt me - who can deflect that? During the talk, several of the gnawing ought-to questions I'd been wondering about for, well, a long time, were quelled. To be fair, and honest, I did a lot of wondering about these questions without a lot of thinking. They loomed, but never pressed. I wasn't struggling with them, but they were there - merely on the basis that I knew they should be.
Questions about intuition. Feeling. A mode. The mode, like sinking downward in still water, and the overall permissibility of such things (not that I have ever not lived like that, though I have tried, sadly.) The constant perception of being. No critique or analysis, just perception and transmission to words and images. Conduit, not commentator. And come to find out that's what a true artist does. I dare say I was very, very wrong about a lot of things, which is no new occurrence. Though I am elated to discover that my strong and natural inclination was in fact correct. To borrow from Cream, "I-i-i feel free."
Pump Up The Volume
As I return to words, I return to sound. I could have predicted this but was too busy doing the dishes and loving my husband and reading Hume and a bunch of other good stuff to notice. Anyway, music is returning to the position in my life that it formerly held as a consequence of my return to writing. I think this is the case because a return to writing is a return to a state. And states often have soundtracks, or they should anyway. And I'm not talking about Bach, though a small part of me thinks I should be. No, I'm talking about Coldplay.
I've recently been unearthing old songs I loved via YouTube. Here was the crown of them all, my life's favorite song. I providentially just got a new iPod, even. Music is a big part of my writing life. Music that moves me, not really music that is great. *winces and waits for stoning*. There's also poetry, my favorite music, to which my allegiance belongs.
A Return to The Subjective
After studying philosophy --- and being delivered from the hell of nihilism --- I noticed a great pendulum swing in myself from exclusive subjectivity to exclusive objectivity. In an effort to correct the relativistic whirlpool that was my thinking, I created a truncated, abstract version of the world and began acting like a robot in order to maintain integrity within it's system. After a few years of that, and some, eh ehm, confrontations, I find myself slowly reaching equilibrium. Truth and feeling. Law and art. Ahhh.. that's better.
And so it is, a return to the underworld, my underword. They know me well here, and I know them. Since my last stay, I have learned that feeling does not have to be at the expense of thought, nor thought at the expense of feeling. For a time I imagined a re-entry to the world of writing causing a tsunami of contempt and compassion and curiosity and restlessness (and it has) that would drown out my mind and pull me into a mine pit operated by my own demons. However, I think it was cowardice that moved me to that conclusion. It hurts to make art --- did you know that?
At peace with God,
A
*subject to revision.
