Sometimes dreams are just dreams. I get it — if all of our dreams were always meaningful, insightful and future-seeing, we’d put all of the oneiromancers out there out of business. Or give them panic attacks when we call them in to join us in the dreaming to help interpret and…
Whatever.
But there are dreams and the are Dreams. The proper noun versions demand you pay attention to their contents, which the other ones might linger on the fringes of memory until the morning fog burns off (if your lucky). And that’s only if they are particularly good or bad.
I sometimes wish I could be the knight bewitched by La Belle Dame sans Merci. I might be doomed to an imminent grave, but at least I will enjoy heading to my doom.
Or, perhaps, I feel more like hopping in my skiff and riding the stream after failing to keep my focus on the mirror, and looking at beauty riding on by as did The Lady of Shallot.
Or give myself to the waters in a fit of madness, as poor Ophelia did.
Who suffered more? Tristan or Isolde? Let me taste that joy in the time before they fell.
This is all absurdity, and yet… and yet… At moments there was joy.
Happy Thanksgiving, if you’re the kind of folks who celebrate such things. My mother didn’t give an option to decline the festivities and, having grown up in an environment where Catholic Guilt Syndrome was (and is still) employed as the weapon of choice, I’ll be heading out in a bit to do family things.
But, as Arlo Guthrie sang, “Alice — remember Alice?”… [listening to Alice’s Restaurant Massacree on Thanksgiving is about the only personal tradition worth keeping in my mind, but—]… let’s get on with my weird, cheap thoughts for the day. But first:
In my shower moments, maybe in those moments leading up to the shower as well, I was thinking (once again) about the nature of crushes.
…[R]eviving culture requires a new generation of outsiders willing to create their own movements from scratch.
Unfortunately, the current media ecosystem discourages this. The major internet platforms encourage creators to chase virality rather than cultivate smaller, self-sustaining communities. Global brands tease lucrative deals to emerging artists and micro-influencers, reinforcing the idea that “getting the bag” is the ultimate goal. […] In an era when we live as personal brands, every decision is made to increase our own shareholder value.
Making art with lasting meaning requires resisting the pull of instant exposure and early buyouts. We must think through ways to encourage artists to disappear into their own worlds for a while, developing ideas away from corporate influence and assimilation. Not everyone will have the discipline or capacity for this, but those who do or can will shape the future. And the least that critics and fans can do is give them esteem—when justified—for attempting to move culture forward, instead of ignoring them as marginal, castigating them as pretentious, or belittling their view counts. The past 25 years have taught us that the contemporary economy and media will not prioritize creative invention. The question is: Will you?
That’s where I am at the moment with writing: fiction or poetry or what have you. It’s been at a bit of a drip feed for a couple of months now, so I am going to do what I always do when this occurs: continue to write with less poetry and fiction in the mix, let my creative energies either rest or try new things to “break it up”, and let that well recharge.
It’s not that I don’t have ideas. Rather, it is that they translate in a garbled manner or refuse to come out of hiding. I’ve learned that the best thing to do when that happens is to not force it. When I have forced creative writing, then comes the blocking and I don’t want to do that. It’s kind of like an insomniac trying to force themselves to sleep; the more one thinks about the lack of sleep, the less likely they are going to sleep.
So, I don’t sweat it, keep in the habit of writing (just not poetry or fiction), and consider other outlets for that kind of energy while the creative writing well fills back up.
How about you? Does your “well run dry”? If/when it does happen, how do you approach the matter? Do you power through? Or do you give yourself a break? Or does the dry spot break you?
Sound off below. Please focus your comments on your own experiences rather than commenting on my current state — I’m good, and I’m more interested in how you handle yourself than getting advice on how I should handle me.
…something had happened to him in his late twenties that seemed to manoeuvre him away from other people, not just his friends, but from the normal course of human affairs. He’d begin to catch people exchanging glances whenever he spoke up in group situations; or they would be half smiling when he entered the offices and warehouses he worked in, but he never stayed for very long before he moved on to something else equally unsatisfactory. Invitations to join others lessened, then ceased before he was thirty-two. Only damaged and insecure women seemed to find comfort in his company, though they had little interest in him besides his being a confirming presence. By thirty-four he was lonely. Lonely. Genuinely.
…[U]nless he was talking to Hutch alone, his every attempt to start a conversation in the group had been treated like an ill-thought-out statement, or just ignored. No one even tried to pick up the threads he started. Most often there would be a silence and then the other three would fall back into whatever natural camaraderie they had rediscovered.
Why is it that some of us are not allowed to be “not okay” in some manner or another? Why is it that we always seem to be the ones who have to be available?
And when we happen to be less than rosey, why do so many people act like it is less important than their own trials and tribulations?
Yeah. I know. There is no real answer to that question. Therefore, comments are closed. Food for thought is all, as meager a fare as that might be…
Except for romance novels (where it is, after all, the focus and intent), I feel sex scenes in fiction almost never add to the story and almost always pulls you out of the story as a reader.
