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eredien...yes, it's everyone's favorite band, "the Arrogant Worms!" They're coming to play at a coffeehouse near here on the 8th. Anyone up for a weekend trip for fall foliage in the Adirondacks?
--
In other news: have been reading Stephen King's "The Dark Tower." It's monstrous in size--I've been reading in the evenings almost nonstop for two days and am only halfway through.
It does not at all suprise me that on the day I decided to go and buy the book from the store, I stopped first in the library and found--in the "free books, take me!" rack--a book of thoughts about fate, God, and poetry from a Danish ambassador. Last name? Hammarskjold.
Yes. As in Plaza.
Of course, I took it with me. I have not yet had courage to read more than a few of the haiku. Mostly because they were so very harsh, in the amazing way that only haiku can be harsh by being soft and beautiful.
How did I know the second I heard it that Johnny Cash's rendition of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" would have to be on the Dark Tower Mix CDs even if it wasn't in the book? And, so, when it appeared there on the flyleaf before chapter one, I wasn't suprised. (Though I was displeased that I would have to listen to it again--by the time Cash played that, he knew he was the ka-mai of cancer and you can hear it in the song and its silences).
It is also very beautiful.
I can't decide if I hate sai King for his whole "lazy writer get-your-ass-moving-maggot" shtick, or more for the fact that it's true, or more for the fact that I feel it. I almost threw the book across the room when I got to one part, and that takes a lot of doing for me. Then I realized I was angry, and then I realized why I was angry--it was true. I am wasting myself here doing this--writing stories for the paper is a little nice each time I've finished one, but not the same at all as writing even a single sentence, a single phrase, sometimes a single word, of fiction.
And there are things calling me I don't want to tackle because I am too afraid. And because I will have to tackle them. Tackle, wrestle, and feel my will giving way, and then my soul.
I whimpered last night as I realized some things, and cried myself to sleep with two tears, one from each eye. The immensity of it was too much to not cry at all; and too much to cry any more.
Even those two were self-indulgent, because I know what I am supposed to do and there is no getting around it.
I am not doing the job I am supposed to be doing.
I believe God put me here on this earth to write fiction.
Specifically, fiction that is not Christian fiction (how I hate that term, for I believe that any work of fiction can teach you more about God if you read it correctly, even if it's just, "hey, this is doing nasty things to my thoughts and soul and I should maybe stop reading it"), but fiction that could change the people who read it by drawing people closer to Its love.
(There. I said that. That was the easy part (though it was difficult. I am--absurdly--afraid of ridicule). Please do not misunderstand. I do not want to proselytize, or preach from books the way people preach from streetcorners, or even want be able to be read as Christian allegory in the way people read Lewis' Narnia books, or McDonald, and try to read Tolkien. Nor do I want to manipulate my characters into becoming Christian, or any other religion, or even loving or merciful. Nor do I want to put Christianity outright as an organized religion into my books (though it will be present in two novels in that sense according to my current understandings of their plots). Nor do I want to have a sacrificial Jesus character in all my books. Nor do I want to always have the loving people come out on top. I would simply like God, in whatever way It chooses, to be able to talk uncomplicatedly to listening people through my books. If It chooses to use them at all, because It knows It doesn't need them.)
The second part of that is the fact that there is a book lurking in me which I am afraid, merely because of virtue of what it is, cannot do that. Is incapable of doing that. Or at least may be come so close to being incapable of it that I am not sure it if it could or could not.
That would not be so bad if I were not afraid that that book might actually do the reverse of what I have been put here to do with my books.
It does not lessen the fact that:
I want to write it so badly.
I am the only person who can write it. If I do not write it, it will never be written.
I am meant to write this book.
I am meant to write mostly only this book (and, perhaps, one other).
I am lazy, and I am afraid of the work it will take. That is the simple excuse, which is right and which I simply recognize as true and dislike myself for, in the Stephen-King-maggot-writer sense.
I am afraid of it. That is either a very complex excuse that is wrong, or a very strong hunch that I should not write it, which is true and good and might possibly save my soul and the souls of a few other dozen people.
How does one tell the difference?
--
This is why I sometimes have long spells where I try my best to stop thinking about serious religious matters. It is not a good thing. I am so scared by what I see when I stare head-on that I wind up looking out of the corners of my eyes--thinking about matters, like theology and dogma and methods of translating the Bible, that are not really important--or look away entirely.
--
In other news: have been reading Stephen King's "The Dark Tower." It's monstrous in size--I've been reading in the evenings almost nonstop for two days and am only halfway through.
It does not at all suprise me that on the day I decided to go and buy the book from the store, I stopped first in the library and found--in the "free books, take me!" rack--a book of thoughts about fate, God, and poetry from a Danish ambassador. Last name? Hammarskjold.
Yes. As in Plaza.
Of course, I took it with me. I have not yet had courage to read more than a few of the haiku. Mostly because they were so very harsh, in the amazing way that only haiku can be harsh by being soft and beautiful.
How did I know the second I heard it that Johnny Cash's rendition of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" would have to be on the Dark Tower Mix CDs even if it wasn't in the book? And, so, when it appeared there on the flyleaf before chapter one, I wasn't suprised. (Though I was displeased that I would have to listen to it again--by the time Cash played that, he knew he was the ka-mai of cancer and you can hear it in the song and its silences).
It is also very beautiful.
I can't decide if I hate sai King for his whole "lazy writer get-your-ass-moving-maggot" shtick, or more for the fact that it's true, or more for the fact that I feel it. I almost threw the book across the room when I got to one part, and that takes a lot of doing for me. Then I realized I was angry, and then I realized why I was angry--it was true. I am wasting myself here doing this--writing stories for the paper is a little nice each time I've finished one, but not the same at all as writing even a single sentence, a single phrase, sometimes a single word, of fiction.
And there are things calling me I don't want to tackle because I am too afraid. And because I will have to tackle them. Tackle, wrestle, and feel my will giving way, and then my soul.
I whimpered last night as I realized some things, and cried myself to sleep with two tears, one from each eye. The immensity of it was too much to not cry at all; and too much to cry any more.
Even those two were self-indulgent, because I know what I am supposed to do and there is no getting around it.
I am not doing the job I am supposed to be doing.
I believe God put me here on this earth to write fiction.
Specifically, fiction that is not Christian fiction (how I hate that term, for I believe that any work of fiction can teach you more about God if you read it correctly, even if it's just, "hey, this is doing nasty things to my thoughts and soul and I should maybe stop reading it"), but fiction that could change the people who read it by drawing people closer to Its love.
(There. I said that. That was the easy part (though it was difficult. I am--absurdly--afraid of ridicule). Please do not misunderstand. I do not want to proselytize, or preach from books the way people preach from streetcorners, or even want be able to be read as Christian allegory in the way people read Lewis' Narnia books, or McDonald, and try to read Tolkien. Nor do I want to manipulate my characters into becoming Christian, or any other religion, or even loving or merciful. Nor do I want to put Christianity outright as an organized religion into my books (though it will be present in two novels in that sense according to my current understandings of their plots). Nor do I want to have a sacrificial Jesus character in all my books. Nor do I want to always have the loving people come out on top. I would simply like God, in whatever way It chooses, to be able to talk uncomplicatedly to listening people through my books. If It chooses to use them at all, because It knows It doesn't need them.)
The second part of that is the fact that there is a book lurking in me which I am afraid, merely because of virtue of what it is, cannot do that. Is incapable of doing that. Or at least may be come so close to being incapable of it that I am not sure it if it could or could not.
That would not be so bad if I were not afraid that that book might actually do the reverse of what I have been put here to do with my books.
It does not lessen the fact that:
I want to write it so badly.
I am the only person who can write it. If I do not write it, it will never be written.
I am meant to write this book.
I am meant to write mostly only this book (and, perhaps, one other).
I am lazy, and I am afraid of the work it will take. That is the simple excuse, which is right and which I simply recognize as true and dislike myself for, in the Stephen-King-maggot-writer sense.
I am afraid of it. That is either a very complex excuse that is wrong, or a very strong hunch that I should not write it, which is true and good and might possibly save my soul and the souls of a few other dozen people.
How does one tell the difference?
--
This is why I sometimes have long spells where I try my best to stop thinking about serious religious matters. It is not a good thing. I am so scared by what I see when I stare head-on that I wind up looking out of the corners of my eyes--thinking about matters, like theology and dogma and methods of translating the Bible, that are not really important--or look away entirely.
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(no subject)
1/10/04 16:49 (UTC)The works of Socrates, Shakespear, Twain or King... it doesn't matter if you're as famour or can turn a phrase as well as they can, the important thing is that your writing remain a thing of wonder and joy for you, and insight for others. When it becomes the same re-hashed plotline for covering a quota with the publishers to fulfill your contract, then fulfill the contract and retire, instead of signing on for a new contract like writers such as Donaldson, King and Lackey have done.
But yes, if you feel deep within your soul that there is a novel you ~need~ to get out, then take the course and DO it, don't leave your life feeling unfulfilled or angsty because you're not willing to conquor your fears. Just remember that it takes strength to face your fears and work through them to achieve what you want; and there are those in your life who are more than willing to help and support you as you wrestle with those demons, whether they be envy of others talents, slothfulness at getting your goal accomplished, or even Hemmingway. };=*)
(no subject)
9/10/04 15:26 (UTC)I agree with you about Lackey, though, which is a crying shame.
Fears are useful at times when they have a basis. Unreasoning fear of spiders is bad. Fear of a black widow spider crawling up your arm is good.
I am not sure if the fear with this is of the first variety, in which case you are absolutely right and I should stop whining and work though it, or if it is of the second kind and I should pay attention to it as it might be telling me something important.
That's all.