I've been mulling over doing what I really want to accomplish with my life and as usual have reached the standard conclusion: dedicating myself to writing. I'm very tired so this will probably be short. One of the concerns I naturally have about writing is that most people don't read and that the novel isn't a modern vehicle.
I don't mean to imply that I think that our other options are superior but that society as a whole spends most of its leisure time doing things other than reading. I'm sure this comes as a revelation. The whole issue of medium is sort of moot for me. I have no interest in writing something that I think is great only to see a lousy director or cast turn it into a radically different story. There are great TV series and great movies but when I think of the stories I want to tell I don't see them in pictures or as seasons, I see it as a book. I'm sure this partially has to do with the obscene amount of reading I did as a child and it being a much much better distraction from my at the time unpleasant reality than a movie or tv show could have ever been.
Much better writers than I have spent a great deal of energy explaining the advantages of the novel, and more talented (but also less hopeful) writers have felt heart-wrenching hopelessness for their literary endeavors(Jonathan Franzen for example)... I apologize I was looking for a nice quote from Franzen and started to get sucked into the abyss of an essay that is "Why Bother." He makes valid points and is very convincing about the death of the novel as our primary means of conversation, but he also easily captures the primary difference between a book and these other forms of media. The plot of a book takes place within the reader's imagination, there is nothing separating him or her from it.
Plus, I'm not entirely sure that there are less people reading today. We certainly spend less time reading but there are many more people today, what was a best seller in the 1940s would not be a best seller today. Regardless, yesterday I woke up in a sort of bleak mood. I had a couple realizations about lies I had been telling myself and wasn't quite sure where to go from there. I did my best to cut those pipe dreams off but I didn't account for them being my supports. The night before I had gone through quite a bit of old e-mails and old bits of writing. I was struck by how angry I was and also by how blind to guidance I could be. I read very direct e-mails with very clear advice to me that I completely ignored. I was younger but I'm still a bit shocked to see a fossil-record of my arrogance. I was completely cut off from my feelings and could easily ignore anyone whose flaws were apparent. I idealized everyone else.
I woke up feeling pretty uncertain about what I should be doing. Beneath my regret I saw some choice phrases and felt proud of myself too. One line I really liked was: "That simple night was worth the money it cost me, and the cold crying nights I spent alone in broken houses." Amongst these old e-mails was a list of residency programs from my friend Rick. Some of the deadlines are in two days, but others aren't until January. I am going to write something and submit it to as many January deadline residencies as I can find. I decided that, then as I looked over each programs' list of immensely talented authors. Well, I considered it, but I was still doubting this whole idea. I don't think that doubt is going anywhere. Deciding that you have something important enough to say is a pretty bold act on its own, but then you've got to dedicate years into refining and polishing whatever that is into some sort of cohesive narrative. It's impossibly daunting. Add to that the possibility or reality that most people just don't care and I think you have a good idea of what I was feeling at that moment.
So I drove to get my oil changed and brought the Brothers Karamazov with me. The man who set my appointment is there and he asks "What are you reading?"
"Oh, The Brothers Karamazov. I'm finishing it this time."
"It can be challenging but it is really worth it. I prefer it to Crime and Punishment."
He continued to tell me how the book was better in Russian but that he thought Pevear and Volokhonsky did the best English translation, and how happy he was to see a young person reading. I sat down in the empty business section, as far from the daytime soap opera playing on the television and happily opened the book while daydreaming about really writing a novel.
I am not a person who believes in fate but that day that man had a huge impact on me and his simple, polite question pushed me towards something that has been a desire I've been reluctant to acknowledge let alone grasp.
Earlier today an old friend linked me to this poem by our mutual friend's father who is a brilliant and successful musician. Dt had a brain tumor in the early nineties but it was removed and his skull was sealed shut with a metal plate. He continues to make amazing music and function at a level far beyond most people. Here's what he has to say:
very brief,
against the impossible
spun & spinning depths
of aeons & aeons & aeons of time.
play hard; play well; play forthrightly;
play as if it's the last chance
to chirrup like the smallest cricket
does for a single moment,
its particle of song
winking in, winking out,
the bulb just pops once
on this less-than-a-summer's-night
in our horizonless valley of cloud.
professional, student, teacher, hobbyist, whatever:
not one of us is guaranteed another tomorrow,
& every yesterday becomes
shadowier, unrealer
as it dissolves with & merges into
the intangibility of no-history,
no-traces.
play forthrightly; play well; play hard.
and,
enjoy the visit as ya can.
Good night.
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