(no subject)
Somewhere in all this craziness, I lost my voice. Not my actual, physical voice, but the timbre and tone that used to make people enjoy the words I made dance on the page for them. Between trying so hard to teach these kids to read and write, I have forgotten the simple joys of doing so myself. But, and this is something I worry about more, I think some of their hopelessness is rubbing off on me.
If you know that you will never be a Kerouac, a Carver, a Greene, a Wolfe, an Ellison, a Plath, do you stop? Or, do you struggle on in your mediocrity, and hope against hope that you will, at least, be as prolific as Grisham? Or be able to revamp and revamp and revamp the same 3 plots and the same 10 characters well enough so that, like King, you too can build a multimillion dollar empire? Or do you stoop lower, and, so that you may call yourself "writer," do you prostitute yourself, lay down on that cold, hard bed of marble and beg to be ravaged, beg to become Danielle Steele so that you are, at least, someone.
Or, do you write for the trunk (thanks Warren)? And run the risk of John Kennedy Toole, famous and lauded and appreciated only after you are dead?
I tell my students daily that writing is nothing more than a dialogue, but, it seems, a dialogue at which I have grown rusty and hesitant.
A new goal.
500 words of fiction each day. Without fail. Posted here and there and to various friends whom I think might help.
If I want to find my voice, I have got to start talking.
If you know that you will never be a Kerouac, a Carver, a Greene, a Wolfe, an Ellison, a Plath, do you stop? Or, do you struggle on in your mediocrity, and hope against hope that you will, at least, be as prolific as Grisham? Or be able to revamp and revamp and revamp the same 3 plots and the same 10 characters well enough so that, like King, you too can build a multimillion dollar empire? Or do you stoop lower, and, so that you may call yourself "writer," do you prostitute yourself, lay down on that cold, hard bed of marble and beg to be ravaged, beg to become Danielle Steele so that you are, at least, someone.
Or, do you write for the trunk (thanks Warren)? And run the risk of John Kennedy Toole, famous and lauded and appreciated only after you are dead?
I tell my students daily that writing is nothing more than a dialogue, but, it seems, a dialogue at which I have grown rusty and hesitant.
A new goal.
500 words of fiction each day. Without fail. Posted here and there and to various friends whom I think might help.
If I want to find my voice, I have got to start talking.