I want to exist outside of who I am.
I dream sometimes of being a writer. Who have I known that writes? Perhaps I should ask who writes well. A five-minute boyfriend of mine had visions of being an author. He spoke of his novel, and would pack around a pen and pad. When we parted ways, I wondered what he filled his notebooks with. He had been incredibly boring, and I began to suspect that he had only been interested in me as fodder for the book.
The books I lose myself in are onse where the words fit together seamlessly. Descriptions that don't try too hard, but just paint a picture with a few brushstrokes. Nothing to hit you over the head. I find myself drawn to nonfiction because I hate the tendency in works of fiction for writers to tie up loose ends. Life is not like that. Stories that are true, or interesting don't fit into boxes.
When I envision writing, my fear is that I will be the author I hate, or the college creative writing student who has no sense of storytelling. I want my words to make pictures, the way an artist can sketch a few lines and you know it to be a man, or a dog, or a skyline. I envision stories of life, and of love, drama and travel, sorrow an rebirth. I dream of falling in love with myself, and developing an easiness of being. When I think about what and how I would like to write, the books I have loved flash through my mind. The ones that have caused me to throw clothing in the car and drive, the ones that make me raid my local farmers' market for the ingredients of domesticity. Books that make me feel, whether it be feeling happy or sad, the ones that have me indignant on the behalf of a person who existed hundreds of years ago. Books that transport me to other cultures and places, that give me a glimpse of what else my life could be, and what I'm lucky it is not.
I have notebooks, too. No coherent idea, no structure, just observations and thoughts, feelings and hopes. None of them are full. I get distracted, or fall out of the habit of writing, then return to it with a new journal full of promise and blank pages. Maybe someday I will fill them. amybe someday, they will fill me.
I dream sometimes of being a writer. Who have I known that writes? Perhaps I should ask who writes well. A five-minute boyfriend of mine had visions of being an author. He spoke of his novel, and would pack around a pen and pad. When we parted ways, I wondered what he filled his notebooks with. He had been incredibly boring, and I began to suspect that he had only been interested in me as fodder for the book.
The books I lose myself in are onse where the words fit together seamlessly. Descriptions that don't try too hard, but just paint a picture with a few brushstrokes. Nothing to hit you over the head. I find myself drawn to nonfiction because I hate the tendency in works of fiction for writers to tie up loose ends. Life is not like that. Stories that are true, or interesting don't fit into boxes.
When I envision writing, my fear is that I will be the author I hate, or the college creative writing student who has no sense of storytelling. I want my words to make pictures, the way an artist can sketch a few lines and you know it to be a man, or a dog, or a skyline. I envision stories of life, and of love, drama and travel, sorrow an rebirth. I dream of falling in love with myself, and developing an easiness of being. When I think about what and how I would like to write, the books I have loved flash through my mind. The ones that have caused me to throw clothing in the car and drive, the ones that make me raid my local farmers' market for the ingredients of domesticity. Books that make me feel, whether it be feeling happy or sad, the ones that have me indignant on the behalf of a person who existed hundreds of years ago. Books that transport me to other cultures and places, that give me a glimpse of what else my life could be, and what I'm lucky it is not.
I have notebooks, too. No coherent idea, no structure, just observations and thoughts, feelings and hopes. None of them are full. I get distracted, or fall out of the habit of writing, then return to it with a new journal full of promise and blank pages. Maybe someday I will fill them. amybe someday, they will fill me.
VIEW 19 of 19 COMMENTS
This is what I'm talking about. I have no reason to believe I couldn't find plenty of people to come and even PAY to come to it here in LA.
-Am I nuts or is this too good an idea?
Dave
it will come.