Lighter's Brock
That's Engrish for Writer's Block, btw. Yes, between lack of time and a strange paralysis whenever my fingers touch the keys, I haven't gotten much done in a while. On the other hand, my time has been spent getting me into a much healthier place, and I seem to be going interesting directions...And I've finally found the solution to the block: I need a fresh infusion of the lexical morphine that keeps me going, and this time it seems to take the form of Jane Austen. I've finally finished Montaigne, which was quite enlightening, but now I need something more literary. Persuasion is supposed to be Austen's greatest work, and it is the favorite book of my child, Morella the Younger, so I knew I would have to read it before I got too far...I just didn't realize I'd come to a grinding halt without it. Austen is far more interesting than I realized: it seems her early (unpublished) works tended to be lurid parodies of the gothic and sentimentalist novels of the time...her wit was devestating and even offensive...ah, the things she could have done in a less constraining society.
Strangely, I've been far more obsessed by something from my past lately: the very first novel I ever made a sustained effort at. Ash dug it up snooping through my fragments, all the bits of writing I've never let anyone read that have somehow made it from computer to computer for years. I had no idea I'd written so much...forty pages, and surprisingly not all crap. In fact, quite a bit of it is downright good...go figure. Ash is upset; it ends in a particularly suspenseful cliffhanger; I'm thinking of picking it up again at some point. Here is where my mind has been most active: I've had so many ideas for where this thing could go, bolstering the story now that I'm more skilled and my plot's more imaginative. What's really fantastic about it, though, is how clean it is. It's one of my few works from a time when all I ever wanted to be was a novelist, an entertainer without academic pretensions, unfettered by theory and necessity. I'd almost forgotten that entity, and his skill surprised me: without these other considerations, the entirety of his talent was focused on the single objective of telling an engaging story. He can draw innocently from all experiences without care for right or wrong, truth or falsity. Thus, despite his still clumsy grasp of writing mechanics, despite being as bad with dialogue as I remember him being, there are moments and turns of phrase which show such imagination I'm really quite impressed...with myself. Anyway, all I'm trying to say is my younger self has reminded me of the kind of sparkle, the kind of absolute engagement, that my second novel requires. My abilities so far outpace those of that younger me that I should be able to match his pure love of story while still retaining my more focused intellectual endeavors. It has long been my contention that no matter how erudite "literature" may be, unless it engages the mind fully, its message will not be imparted, and it misses the point: it fails to be literature at all. My younger self has merely reminded me that I could be -- must be -- more: good isn't good enough: my best should be better. Has anyone ever died from striving too hard for genius? Keats, perhaps. My occupations are eroding my back and my time -- I could get hit by a bus at any moment -- at least death by written word will be worth something. These things happen. Though the bus thing is kind of unlikely on the third floor of the UCI library. But you never know.
I think my vocabulary is resisting atrophy from underuse. I find myself slipping "higher quality" words into my speech and writing just for the sheer pleasure of using them, like stretching muscles you've ignored too long. I spent an entire half hour driving home from work sequentially stringing together sentences scintillating with consonance and assonance, toying with the various poetic devices I've nurtured.
On to more mundane considerations: I received my passport today. I need to send that out to GEOS asap, and I need to work on the packet they sent me due next week. Things have been hectic. I've had a poltergeist hanging about this last week: ever since I returned from Joshua Tree she's been haunting my place. I must say, it's been rather pleasant...though I say poltergeist: I should really say succubus. Intense. The things you can do with a couple yams and a bottle of transmission fluid. No, just kidding. Maybe. Anyway, it will be sad to have to let her go, but this is a catch and release area only. Things are going fairly well, despite all my conflicts -- and her conflicts. I wish I could help more. I always feel like I should be able to save people when their lives fall apart. I can't even save myself for chrissakes.
But I'm learning Tarot, and I even cast some runes...I want to get back into that stuff, go all in and do the work. According to Ash's cast of my runes, she's there to stoke that fire back to life. But hell, she can stoke anything she wants. My more occult interests have stagnated too long: I need to add balance to my academic achievements. And maybe I'll even patch things up between me and the universe and she'll stop being so FUCKING VINDICTIVE. Or something. Yeah. I'm gonna go now, 'cause Ash is jonesing and I wouldn't want her to die of nicotine withdrawals. Regards.
Strangely, I've been far more obsessed by something from my past lately: the very first novel I ever made a sustained effort at. Ash dug it up snooping through my fragments, all the bits of writing I've never let anyone read that have somehow made it from computer to computer for years. I had no idea I'd written so much...forty pages, and surprisingly not all crap. In fact, quite a bit of it is downright good...go figure. Ash is upset; it ends in a particularly suspenseful cliffhanger; I'm thinking of picking it up again at some point. Here is where my mind has been most active: I've had so many ideas for where this thing could go, bolstering the story now that I'm more skilled and my plot's more imaginative. What's really fantastic about it, though, is how clean it is. It's one of my few works from a time when all I ever wanted to be was a novelist, an entertainer without academic pretensions, unfettered by theory and necessity. I'd almost forgotten that entity, and his skill surprised me: without these other considerations, the entirety of his talent was focused on the single objective of telling an engaging story. He can draw innocently from all experiences without care for right or wrong, truth or falsity. Thus, despite his still clumsy grasp of writing mechanics, despite being as bad with dialogue as I remember him being, there are moments and turns of phrase which show such imagination I'm really quite impressed...with myself. Anyway, all I'm trying to say is my younger self has reminded me of the kind of sparkle, the kind of absolute engagement, that my second novel requires. My abilities so far outpace those of that younger me that I should be able to match his pure love of story while still retaining my more focused intellectual endeavors. It has long been my contention that no matter how erudite "literature" may be, unless it engages the mind fully, its message will not be imparted, and it misses the point: it fails to be literature at all. My younger self has merely reminded me that I could be -- must be -- more: good isn't good enough: my best should be better. Has anyone ever died from striving too hard for genius? Keats, perhaps. My occupations are eroding my back and my time -- I could get hit by a bus at any moment -- at least death by written word will be worth something. These things happen. Though the bus thing is kind of unlikely on the third floor of the UCI library. But you never know.
I think my vocabulary is resisting atrophy from underuse. I find myself slipping "higher quality" words into my speech and writing just for the sheer pleasure of using them, like stretching muscles you've ignored too long. I spent an entire half hour driving home from work sequentially stringing together sentences scintillating with consonance and assonance, toying with the various poetic devices I've nurtured.
On to more mundane considerations: I received my passport today. I need to send that out to GEOS asap, and I need to work on the packet they sent me due next week. Things have been hectic. I've had a poltergeist hanging about this last week: ever since I returned from Joshua Tree she's been haunting my place. I must say, it's been rather pleasant...though I say poltergeist: I should really say succubus. Intense. The things you can do with a couple yams and a bottle of transmission fluid. No, just kidding. Maybe. Anyway, it will be sad to have to let her go, but this is a catch and release area only. Things are going fairly well, despite all my conflicts -- and her conflicts. I wish I could help more. I always feel like I should be able to save people when their lives fall apart. I can't even save myself for chrissakes.
But I'm learning Tarot, and I even cast some runes...I want to get back into that stuff, go all in and do the work. According to Ash's cast of my runes, she's there to stoke that fire back to life. But hell, she can stoke anything she wants. My more occult interests have stagnated too long: I need to add balance to my academic achievements. And maybe I'll even patch things up between me and the universe and she'll stop being so FUCKING VINDICTIVE. Or something. Yeah. I'm gonna go now, 'cause Ash is jonesing and I wouldn't want her to die of nicotine withdrawals. Regards.