I am re-reading Tender Is The Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald. On the one hand it is an excellent thing to do because gaaahhhd dayum that man could write. It makes me want to write, create, pour myself into the world to read his writing. I've been trying to read more modern fiction, more new writers, because that's what we have to do- support each other. Clearly the public at large is not going to support new fiction authors if we do not support each other. However, it's hard for me to read modern fiction. I just don't like it a whole lot. It's often cold, overly ironic, relying on pointless twists instead of actual truth. The classics are classic for a reason- you can read them at any period and they are still brilliant. Newer fiction is hard, because you have to sift through a ton of crap for a few moments of beauty. And, to me, it's never quite as beautiful as the beauty in Fitzgerald or Hemingway or Dostoevsky or Milton or Homer.
On the other hand, it's painful. I can never, ever be that good. No matter what. No matter how hard I try or how much time i devote I will always be a middling, boring, trite, solipsistic writer interested in petty things. There will be no college students discovering me in 90 years and reveling in the sheer beauty of my words.
On the other hand, it's painful. I can never, ever be that good. No matter what. No matter how hard I try or how much time i devote I will always be a middling, boring, trite, solipsistic writer interested in petty things. There will be no college students discovering me in 90 years and reveling in the sheer beauty of my words.
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"A mile from the sea, where pines give way to dusty poplars, is an isolated railroad stop, whence one June morning in 1925 a victoria brought a woman and her daughter down to Gausse's Hotel. The mother's face was of a fading prettiness that would soon be patted with broken veins; her expression was both tranquil and aware in a pleasant way. However, one's eye moved on quickly to her daughter, who had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks lit to a lovely flame, like the thrilling flush of children after their cold baths in the evening. Her fine forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet, and shining, the color of her cheeks was real, breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered delicately on the last edge of childhood-she was almost eighteen, nearly complete, but the dew was still on her.
As sea and sky appeared below them in a thin, hot line the mother said:
"Something tells me we're not going to like this place."
"I want to go home anyhow," the girl answered."
It also doesn't mean you won't be (aren't) an inspiration in your own way. I happen to think you're pretty awesome!