Reading as Writer
Concepts. Methods. Plots and motivation. Archtypes . . . I need an archangel.
No, wait, that is not right. It would be archtype female messiah because they are inclusive, comforting as well as demanding where as an archtype male messiah is compassionate in the broader sense.
Course, just cause there are male and female archtypes doesn't mean that the character exhibiting those traits are actually male and female.
Confused? Laugh, you should see inside my head.
I couldn't wait for class to start, so I got hold of some books on the resource list and have been lovingly struggling through them. One, "the archtecture of the book," has me reading differently. Reading as a writer. Following behind the lines of structure the author is using, trying to imagine why this instead of that, how well such works and --for me only-- how that just doesn't.
But of course it can't be that simple because I have to figure out why it doesn't work me, yet does for the hundreds of thousands who bought the book.
I am that thirsty woman drownding in the sea. Words surround me, lit by bright lines of understanding and blurry trails ending in a rock face of miscomprehnsion. And in that upside down word of reading as a writer, it is the blurry, the insubstantial, the dead ends and the corner of the eye tricks I must push myself to grasp rather than enjoying the thrill of the well written word or the happiness of pointing to something in an "AHA!" moment, proud of myself for knowing what it is.
All for a dream I am scared to complete.
Ah, dreams.
I don't trust them, you know. It's not the hard work or long hours, the learning and critique (ok, maybe I am afraid of the critique.)
Dreams, when you work at them, have to be polished continually or they tarnish in the process of making them come true. Of course, if you don't work at them, they either slip away to wisps of a self-indulgent wimsey, or stand out like the brass ring you were afraid to reach for, knowing you would fall off the horse way too often with no quarentee you would even get a pinky on it.
I have been published as a poet. I have been paid for my writing as a reporter and in public relations. I have written to offer stregth through carefully choosen words, cobbled together letters to celebrate joy, created written pathways from my heart to another.
I have even written in wimsy and jest.
Is wimsey enough to live through the bruises that take so long to heal? The cuts that might leave another scar or ego-drain away the energy to try again?
No, wimsey is not.
But determination is. Determination, work, lots of blam and band aids.
Did you catch the blurry trick out of the corner of your eye? The missing word among so many? That writer's play that left out part of the secret until the end?
I did not do it on purpose, you know. It is just the manner of the beast. The blueprint that could possibly keep one reading.
It would be "belief." For it is "belief" that is the proper polish to shine up the metal of a dream.
No, wait, that is not right. It would be archtype female messiah because they are inclusive, comforting as well as demanding where as an archtype male messiah is compassionate in the broader sense.
Course, just cause there are male and female archtypes doesn't mean that the character exhibiting those traits are actually male and female.
Confused? Laugh, you should see inside my head.
I couldn't wait for class to start, so I got hold of some books on the resource list and have been lovingly struggling through them. One, "the archtecture of the book," has me reading differently. Reading as a writer. Following behind the lines of structure the author is using, trying to imagine why this instead of that, how well such works and --for me only-- how that just doesn't.
But of course it can't be that simple because I have to figure out why it doesn't work me, yet does for the hundreds of thousands who bought the book.
I am that thirsty woman drownding in the sea. Words surround me, lit by bright lines of understanding and blurry trails ending in a rock face of miscomprehnsion. And in that upside down word of reading as a writer, it is the blurry, the insubstantial, the dead ends and the corner of the eye tricks I must push myself to grasp rather than enjoying the thrill of the well written word or the happiness of pointing to something in an "AHA!" moment, proud of myself for knowing what it is.
All for a dream I am scared to complete.
Ah, dreams.
I don't trust them, you know. It's not the hard work or long hours, the learning and critique (ok, maybe I am afraid of the critique.)
Dreams, when you work at them, have to be polished continually or they tarnish in the process of making them come true. Of course, if you don't work at them, they either slip away to wisps of a self-indulgent wimsey, or stand out like the brass ring you were afraid to reach for, knowing you would fall off the horse way too often with no quarentee you would even get a pinky on it.
I have been published as a poet. I have been paid for my writing as a reporter and in public relations. I have written to offer stregth through carefully choosen words, cobbled together letters to celebrate joy, created written pathways from my heart to another.
I have even written in wimsy and jest.
Is wimsey enough to live through the bruises that take so long to heal? The cuts that might leave another scar or ego-drain away the energy to try again?
No, wimsey is not.
But determination is. Determination, work, lots of blam and band aids.
Did you catch the blurry trick out of the corner of your eye? The missing word among so many? That writer's play that left out part of the secret until the end?
I did not do it on purpose, you know. It is just the manner of the beast. The blueprint that could possibly keep one reading.
It would be "belief." For it is "belief" that is the proper polish to shine up the metal of a dream.