31. Our job, then, is two-fold: to focus on our own failings as writers. But also to speak more forcefully as advocates for literature. Books are a powerful antidote for loneliness, for the moral purposelessness of the leisure class. It’s our job to convince the 95 percent of people who don’t read books, who instead medicate themselves in front of screens, that literary art isn’t some esoteric tradition, but a direct path to meaning, to an understanding of the terror that lives beneath our consumptive ennui. It’s hard to make this case, though, if all we do is squabble with each other and lament our obscurity.
Like Shawn, my muse is on vacation. Like Shawn, I will be in the Vice-Kartz wedding this weekend. Like Shawn, all I have for you is a video that previews things to expect at said wedding.
Perhaps my previous post was not clear enough in its intentions. Instead of portraying myself as a writer full of self loathing, I was hoping to spark a conversation about which writers invited us (you, me, them) to start writing.
For me, it was Vonnegut. But his work was just that–an invitation to pick up a pencil. Now, I return to his work to remind myself of why I started. But rarely do I find myself inspired keep writing. When I’m “blocked” or lacking proper motivation to create, I turn to two books: Denis Johnson’s Jesus’ Son and Richard Russo’s The Whore’s Child (I obviously like possessive nouns and references to Catholicism). There’s something about these two books–the messiness of Johnson and the tightness of Russo–that grease my gears.
So, in an attempt to beef up my bookshelf and possibly add to my well (is that what they call it, the well?), my question to you all is this: who (or what) invited you to write and who (or what) inspires you to keep writing?
I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but writing feels like a miserable chore lately. Even these blog posts take way too long to write, and I never like the finished product. I say this not to solicit pity, but simply to state a fact: I am not having fun anymore.
All this self doubt has me thinking about why I started writing in the first place–and why (or how) I should continue.
Unlike some writers I know, who, at the age of nine, knew they would be a writer, I didn’t decide to write; I was given permission.
I read a lot as a child–mostly comics, Choose Your Own Adventure, and Alfred Hitchcock’s Three Investigators (which is really just the Hardy Boys + 1)–before graduating on to more, ahem, adult stuff: Critchon, King, etc. And eventually the Pennsylvania public school system did its part by introducing me to Shakespeare (the Mel Gibson version), William Golding (the 1963 version), and F. Scott Fitzgerald (the Redford version). But never, in all those years of reading, did I think to myself, “Hey, I can (or should) do this.” I drew penises in the margins of my notebook and called it a day. Read more »
Maud Newton–one of the “40 Bloggers Who Really Count” according to the UK Times–recently celebrated her eighth year as a book blogger. In the process of looking back, Maud posted an incredibly comprehensive guide to literary sites and peoples (Bark has not made this list yet). A lot of these sites and peoples you may already know and love, some you may know and hate, and others you may not know enough to care. I like Maud and I like linking to links. Enjoy.
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