Saturday, November 10, 2012

Turgid


The expression on my mug, above, reveals my inner feelings of ye moment -- lost and weary, with an intense feeling of isolation.  I've come to the conclusion that the story I have been trying to write is the "wrong" story, or that it is something I really don't care to write.  I should have realised this when, week after week, it would not spill from my cracked skull, however much I thought about it and try'd to write it.  This isn't an aspect of writer's block, as I have mistaken it to be, but rather a wrong direction.  I suspect that writing will continue to be difficult, because of my household situation and inability to concentrate; but I worked within that household chaos this summer, in which I wrote a new collection and a long novelette.  So I know I can do it again, if I can get lost in some new work, something that captivates my imagination. 

I am more and more convinced that the writing of novels is the path I want to pursue in the future.  I'm still not quite certain that I have what it takes to write novels, the mind-set required to plot something of 80,000 words, to fill it with interesting characters and incidents, to understand the structure of novel writing, the build-up to narrative arc and all of that.  Guess I won't know until I fully try.  The desire to write novels has been triggered by a number of things, mostly from returning to my favorite novels by Henry James.  I've started re-reading THE TRAGIC MUSE and that very strange work, THE SACRED FOUNT. 
I've also been re-reading Leon Edel's five volume biography of James, which never fails to captivate me although I've read it numerous times.  James's life enchants me because he was so devoted to his art, his work as a writer.  I have now reached that point in life where I, too, live for my art, where little else has any meaning for me.  More and more, it feels that my writing is all I have to hold on to, to keep me sane.  I suppose to think like that is a sign that not all is well, mentally or emotionally; but if inner chaos results in the creation of new books, cool.

So now I get to re-think where I am, what I want to do next.  The way to find my path comes, mostly, from reading.  The books that inspire me most are biographies of other writers--I devour them, and as I read I sigh that I am a part of this rich Literary sphere.  Hmm, have I ever done a Henry James video?  I cannot recall.  Oh, yes!

2 comments:

  1. You say 80.000 words like it's a destination my friend, when in fact it's a journey. Perhaps there are too many whispering voices in the words that you've been reading distracting you from that journey. What do you fear? The Silence perhaps!
    Cheers!

    ReplyDelete
  2. My great fear is wretched ennui--hate it! I should be writing so many decadent Lovecraftian things, yet all I can do is piss and moan. Boring, for me and for y'all.

    ReplyDelete