"The vicious circle turns and burns."
We didn't get any snow, or if we did it was only a few flurries and we missed it. Today, it's sunny and windy and a chilly 36˚F here in Providence.
This likely won't be the entry I want it to be. Or the entry I need it to be. I need to write about why I find myself suddenly at a loss as to how to move forward as a novelist. I have two books in the works, both hardly begun, The Starkeeper and Interstate Love Song. The former is not a novel I can write now, given the events of November 8th and the subsequent consequences of those events. It is too humane, too entirely introspective, too gentle. The Starkeeper needs me to go places I cannot go with the threat of Trump's America hanging like a guillotine over us all. And Interstate Love Song is such a vicious pageant of murder and mayhem that I don't know that I can allow myself to dwell there at novel length, for the many months required, when the country is in so dark and deadly a place. The world does not need more horror.
I doubt I'm making myself clear. I'm not very awake, though I've been up for two and a half hours. I'm having to use Klonopin to sleep, and it takes forever for it to wear off.
No, I didn't write yesterday. I spent hours trying to talk through this problem. I do not know what to do. I know that as a novelist I have responsibilities, but I do not know how I am meant, during this crises, to address those artistic responsibilities.
And don't tell me about how we need entertainment and distraction now more than ever. I have never written to provide either entertainment or distraction.
I have this from Facebook, posted late last night:
It is absolutely critical that the anger not fade. And first and foremost, in this moment, my anger is directed at the people who could have - by their votes - stopped this unfolding nightmare by peaceful, democratic means, but who chose not to do so. I'm not taking about that percentage of the electorate who could not vote (for whatever reason), but about the percentage who styled themselves progressives, too ideologically pure for a centrist/moderate like Clinton, and voted for a third-party candidate, wrote in the name of someone who was not running, or just sat on their asses and did nothing. They are as surely the authors of the coming fascism and suffering and losses as if they'd voted for Donald Trump, and they will not be allowed to forget this.
"Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing." ~ John Stuart Mill (1867)
And from Twitter:
So, did Wikileaks run out of stolen documents, or did they just back off because their mission to help Trump win the election succeeded?
----
Last night, Spooky made chicken stew and we watched a John Waters double feature, Hairspray (1988) and Cry-Baby (1990). And now I need to try and work.
Is anyone actually going to celebrate Thanksgiving this week?
TTFN,
Aunt Beast
This likely won't be the entry I want it to be. Or the entry I need it to be. I need to write about why I find myself suddenly at a loss as to how to move forward as a novelist. I have two books in the works, both hardly begun, The Starkeeper and Interstate Love Song. The former is not a novel I can write now, given the events of November 8th and the subsequent consequences of those events. It is too humane, too entirely introspective, too gentle. The Starkeeper needs me to go places I cannot go with the threat of Trump's America hanging like a guillotine over us all. And Interstate Love Song is such a vicious pageant of murder and mayhem that I don't know that I can allow myself to dwell there at novel length, for the many months required, when the country is in so dark and deadly a place. The world does not need more horror.
I doubt I'm making myself clear. I'm not very awake, though I've been up for two and a half hours. I'm having to use Klonopin to sleep, and it takes forever for it to wear off.
No, I didn't write yesterday. I spent hours trying to talk through this problem. I do not know what to do. I know that as a novelist I have responsibilities, but I do not know how I am meant, during this crises, to address those artistic responsibilities.
And don't tell me about how we need entertainment and distraction now more than ever. I have never written to provide either entertainment or distraction.
I have this from Facebook, posted late last night:
It is absolutely critical that the anger not fade. And first and foremost, in this moment, my anger is directed at the people who could have - by their votes - stopped this unfolding nightmare by peaceful, democratic means, but who chose not to do so. I'm not taking about that percentage of the electorate who could not vote (for whatever reason), but about the percentage who styled themselves progressives, too ideologically pure for a centrist/moderate like Clinton, and voted for a third-party candidate, wrote in the name of someone who was not running, or just sat on their asses and did nothing. They are as surely the authors of the coming fascism and suffering and losses as if they'd voted for Donald Trump, and they will not be allowed to forget this.
"Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing." ~ John Stuart Mill (1867)
And from Twitter:
So, did Wikileaks run out of stolen documents, or did they just back off because their mission to help Trump win the election succeeded?
----
Last night, Spooky made chicken stew and we watched a John Waters double feature, Hairspray (1988) and Cry-Baby (1990). And now I need to try and work.
Is anyone actually going to celebrate Thanksgiving this week?
TTFN,
Aunt Beast