The old notes I found have gotten my thoughts pointing back in the direction of those kinds of studies again. This is probably obvious to some of you. While it can be difficult to find reliable, scholarly texts on the matter, I find that I learn something new almost every time I read the few texts out there that are supported by scholarship. And there is always those untapped journal articles out there that are less about meeting sales quotas than they are about serious scholarship.
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I am on the drift again. The wending roads beckoning from my within, an untethering from my abouts.
Though the weather is still too warm still for such things, I drew on my fleece jacket, pulled up the hood around my face and over my head as I walked from car to my once-a-week-office-space and felt at home within the folds of fabric. My bare legs incongruent with the jacket over my torso, but I could care less. I used to half-jest that I was made for kilts — my legs have always been too warm and I still wear shorts at home in the winter when everyone else wraps themselves in thick blankets.
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I have problems with the logic behind the pithy advice that in order to be a great writer, you must read. Voraciously. I know Stephen King has been credited with saying something along those lines, and I’m pretty certain he isn’t the first author to give such advice. [Oh no! Nobody Author dares counter the prevailing wisdom of the Almighty Stephen King! Heresy!]
I mean, I think that might be partially true if you are looking to emulate a style, a genre or an author. I will submit that you should be well-read in order to know how others write — as long as when you have done so, you read or have read with a critical eye. Reading only eye-candy and consuming to consume will not make anyone a great writer. But I question the concept that the reading requirement is a persistent prerequisite for writing great things.
It is probably a good thing that I have no ambitions for greatness. I’m quite alright just writing and enjoying the act of writing. Happy about it, even. So there’s little risk of greatness coming from my little corner of the world. I honestly should let those striving towards greatness deal with this question and not worry my pretty little head about the matter.
But I’m not convinced being a constant reader necessarily is a requirement towards being a great writer. Especially if you want to be a writer that wants to be the pathfinder type. To boldly go where no one has gone before, or some such thing. Or the subversive, where you need to have enough freedom apart from classic tropes to break them while still remaining familiar with them. I can see several other types of writers who could benefit from not “reading when they aren’t writing.”
When wisdom seems to not stand up to scrutiny, I get all nervy and bothered and I end up saying something.
Am I off the mark? Probably. But I remain unconvinced that the wisdom that a writer must read as part of their formula for greatness always holds true.
I know… I’m all duck and cover after this post. Especially after invoking and questioning the King of Horror’s holy gospel.
Your thoughts?
Be gentle as you tear me a new hole. I break easy.
I’ll admit it: I’ve been binging The Walking Dead again.
If I want to pretend to be an intellectual, I’d say it was research into human nature in the face of an apocalypse. I have not recently seen evidence in real life that suggests that people will act differently than their fictional counterparts if they were faced with a zombie (or any kind of, really) apocalypse. Zombies in TWD might be the overt threat, but the real monsters are other people. The Witcher games and books, fantasy tales about a “monster hunter” mutant named Geralt of Rivia play the same tune. Horrifying creatures are a real threat, but the true monsters are us.
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My mind keeps going back to when I was driving through Alaska, Yukon and British Columbia. Not to disparage Alberta or Saskatchewan, but those landscapes were too “familiar”. Really, once you’ve seen one endless field of a particular crop, they all take on a similar character and we have a hell of a lot of examples of that landscape when you’re away from the river valleys in the upper midwestern states of North Dakota, Minnesota, South Dakota, Iowa and Wisconsin. My eye craved something different from what I could view a half-hour’s drive from home. And so, the last leg of my trip was not nearly as visually stimulating as the foreleg of the same.
(more…)i swear
i always intend
to get out more
meet new friends
do new things
but—
peopling terrifies me now
when every word or action
is a litmus test to
determine tribal
affiliation
it seems more sensible
to stay at home
and not subject myself
to the world’s
casual judgment
I probably shouldn’t reveal this in public, but I think I found the torture that might push me over the edge and confess to being an accessory to John Wilkes Booth’s assassination of Lincoln, should anyone want to force me to make that claim. I might even believe I was part of it, if someone were to focus on one tiny part of my body.
No — not the lower unmentionables.
Something much less in the manner of “naughty bits”. It would be: My teeth.
Yes. My teeth.
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I seem to have puppets on the brain these past few days. In part, it has something (in part) to do with purchasing and playing a game that I wasn’t sure I would like. But that’s not the only thing prompting the ponders on puppets.
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is it descendance
or ascension
when desire is
in suspension?
when you feel
tension but remain
uncompelled to act
on anything at all?
are you alive
without drive or
are you just living
life small?
Every once in a while I find myself cruising comfortable on the highway of life, so I take off my seatbelt and kick back in the convertible as it hugs the curves of the road and I think to myself, “Wow. It’s been a pretty smooth drive lately and I think—”
Then there is an unexpected road bump that sends me flying out of the convertible, and all my motivation to “git ‘er done” (because, you know, I’m feeling the groove of life’s tunes) evaporates like a fart in a strong breeze. All that’s left is me wondering if I can at least stick the landing and not soil myself in the process.
I tell you, there are days that I miss being an underpaid barista in a no-name espresso bar, cranking out some of the best damned shots that anyone can find in town (even if they can’t find this no-name espresso bar). Ahh, to have that self-esteem back. Wouldn’t that be grand?
Instead, consulting: The job where every task has a potential hidden pitfall…
If you have worked both professional and blue collar jobs, which do you have a better relationship with? If the matter of income were moot (“you won the lottery!”), which would you choose?