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Nothing to say that hasn't been said
Sep. 11th, 2003 10:20 amAnd I'll just leave it at that in regards to the day. There are people more impassioned and more eloquent or more thoughtful out there to listen to, and I am angry about too many of the results to be resepectful.
Meltdown in the car last night when I couldn't get to Krav Maga because of the traffic. It happens every once in a while. Things get to be too much and I crash and burn. Snot, tears, yelling, the whole shebang. The car is a good place to do it, the road, not so much so. I've got a good life - a job, family, friends, a place to live. I know that my problems are small, but sometimes they are still too much.
And writing, I keep writing to feel like I can, to write myself out of hating what I write, thinking somewhere in there, it'll spark again, I'll be happy with the words. Instead, I've just produced more writing that I don't like. Until I dig my way out, I'm gonna keep looking for words:
Wonder Boys, Michael Chabon
The problem, if anything, was precisely the opposite. I had too much to write: too many fine and miserable buildings to construct and streets to name and clock towers to set chiming, too many characters to raise up from the dirt like flowers whose petals I peeled down to the intricate frail organs within, toom many terrible genetic and fiduciary secrets to dig up and bury and dig up again, too many divorces to grant, heirs to disinherit, trysts to arrange, letters to misdirect into evil hands, innocent children to slay with rheumatic fever, women to leave unfullfilled and hopeless, men to drive to adultery and theft, fires to ignite at the hearts of ancient houses. It was about a single family and it stood, as of that morning, at two thousand six hundred and eleven pages, each of them revised and rewritten a half dozen times. And yet for all of those years, and all of those words expended in charting the eccentric paths of my characters through the violent blue heavens I had set them to cross, they had not even reached their zeniths. I was nowhere near the end.
And this is my ultimate fear as a writer. Not even with fic, but in general. What if you start, and can't bring it in, can't find the ending, lose sight of where you're going. Pretty words won't do squat for that problem. And for the record, this book is a joy. And I'm surprisingly fond of the movie even if they do leave out Mr. Grossman.
And while everyone else has been rolling around in the MI-5 love, and yes I do enjoy it, I've been gobbling up Season 1 West Wing. I'm assuming the reruns are still S1, but not having been an avid enough viewer before, I do not know for certain. I do know that I love Toby, joyfully and abundantly and would like to take him home and keep him in the living room. I lied to M. and said I was taking a bath so I wouldn't sound antisocial by sneaking into my room and watching two hours on Bravo. Yes, I could have taped it. But after the meltdown, I wanted to sit in the dark on my floor and watch what I wanted to watch, which I did, and then I watched the ending of IP, again, and went to sleep.
Meltdown in the car last night when I couldn't get to Krav Maga because of the traffic. It happens every once in a while. Things get to be too much and I crash and burn. Snot, tears, yelling, the whole shebang. The car is a good place to do it, the road, not so much so. I've got a good life - a job, family, friends, a place to live. I know that my problems are small, but sometimes they are still too much.
And writing, I keep writing to feel like I can, to write myself out of hating what I write, thinking somewhere in there, it'll spark again, I'll be happy with the words. Instead, I've just produced more writing that I don't like. Until I dig my way out, I'm gonna keep looking for words:
Wonder Boys, Michael Chabon
The problem, if anything, was precisely the opposite. I had too much to write: too many fine and miserable buildings to construct and streets to name and clock towers to set chiming, too many characters to raise up from the dirt like flowers whose petals I peeled down to the intricate frail organs within, toom many terrible genetic and fiduciary secrets to dig up and bury and dig up again, too many divorces to grant, heirs to disinherit, trysts to arrange, letters to misdirect into evil hands, innocent children to slay with rheumatic fever, women to leave unfullfilled and hopeless, men to drive to adultery and theft, fires to ignite at the hearts of ancient houses. It was about a single family and it stood, as of that morning, at two thousand six hundred and eleven pages, each of them revised and rewritten a half dozen times. And yet for all of those years, and all of those words expended in charting the eccentric paths of my characters through the violent blue heavens I had set them to cross, they had not even reached their zeniths. I was nowhere near the end.
And this is my ultimate fear as a writer. Not even with fic, but in general. What if you start, and can't bring it in, can't find the ending, lose sight of where you're going. Pretty words won't do squat for that problem. And for the record, this book is a joy. And I'm surprisingly fond of the movie even if they do leave out Mr. Grossman.
And while everyone else has been rolling around in the MI-5 love, and yes I do enjoy it, I've been gobbling up Season 1 West Wing. I'm assuming the reruns are still S1, but not having been an avid enough viewer before, I do not know for certain. I do know that I love Toby, joyfully and abundantly and would like to take him home and keep him in the living room. I lied to M. and said I was taking a bath so I wouldn't sound antisocial by sneaking into my room and watching two hours on Bravo. Yes, I could have taped it. But after the meltdown, I wanted to sit in the dark on my floor and watch what I wanted to watch, which I did, and then I watched the ending of IP, again, and went to sleep.
