So I guess I've reached the "apologizing for having a life" stage of blogging I've heard tell about. Classes take up more time than I remember and there are holidays to prepare for and actual writing to work on and . . . insert a million more half hearted excuses here. I am not planning on abandoning blogging entirely but if I make it on here once a week to read blogs I will be lucky. As far as posting goes . . .
Lately I have been having a really hard time getting words out of my fingers that aren't essays. And its not just time and mental energy. I think it has to do with Notes From the Underground and the terifying (but wonderful and absolutely fabulous) idea that people are actually going to read my writing. I'm used to workshops where the understanding is that the piece in question is a work in progress and I can always go back and change anything that doesn't work. The idea of permanence is scary. The idea that there isn't going to be an editor to accept or regect the piece and thus save me from the embarassment of publishing something that isn't ready even though I feel it is a masterpiece is downright terifying. I think it will be good for my writing and figuring out exactly what I am trying to acomplish with it but its still very scary. I set aside the entire afternoon today to get some writing done and yet find myself avoiding my own words drifting around on the web. I may have to vow not to post anything else until I have a working draft.
So all that is to say I shan't be here very often. Alas that days held time for everything one would wish to acomplish. I hope I shall be back full force soon.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Eyes Bigger Than . . . Well My Eyes
I hate skimming books for research instead of emerceing myself in every detail and digesting them slowly.
I hate passing books that look interesting in the bookstore without even reading the back.
I hate returning books to the library unopened to avoid late fees.
I hate turning in work I know could be better if I'd had another day to edit.
I hate only reading two or three blogs before I realize I have to be somewhere.
I hate sitting down in front of the computer and, instead of getting lost in the words wiggling out of my fingers, keeping my eyes on the clock and panicing when I see how low my word count is.
I hate only giving a sentence or two of commentary instead of anylizing line by line.
It may be time for me to do less in order for me to do more.
I hate passing books that look interesting in the bookstore without even reading the back.
I hate returning books to the library unopened to avoid late fees.
I hate turning in work I know could be better if I'd had another day to edit.
I hate only reading two or three blogs before I realize I have to be somewhere.
I hate sitting down in front of the computer and, instead of getting lost in the words wiggling out of my fingers, keeping my eyes on the clock and panicing when I see how low my word count is.
I hate only giving a sentence or two of commentary instead of anylizing line by line.
It may be time for me to do less in order for me to do more.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Scop of Gleeman?
Scop --Anglo Saxon poet who wrote and recited heroic epics about battles and morality and glory
Gleeman --minstral or bard, more interested in entertainment than heroic themes
Scop of Gleeman? Poet or entertainer? Teacher or creater of divertions? Sophisticated literature or genre fiction?
I sometimes feel like there is a line drawn for writers. On one side deep thinking social comentary chocked full of elaborate allusions to our predisesors and on the other J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown and Stephanie Myers. We must choose if we want to write 'real' inovative literature or best sellers.
My question is why not both? Or niether. Does every story worth telling have to be a great masterpiece? Is it only worth anything if it makes a lot of money?
The clasifications aren't really so different. I'm not afraid to strive for perfection but I don't think I'm the only who has read some of the great classics and felt like there were places they could be tweaked. I still enjoyed them, recognized genius in them but the perfectionist is never satisfied.
Not all the great classics were written with 'greatness' in mind. Kidknapped is a classic 'blood and thunder'. Shakespeare wrote histories that were more or less court propoganda but they managed to stick around. They were entertainments with enough thought provoking matter (or simply emotions that we can connect with) that we still find them worth reading hundreds of years later. We are still diverted and entertained by them. Profound doesn't usually happen on purpose.
Granted Twilight probably won't be taught in schools a hundred years from now and a lot of the books that are didn't make any amount of money worth mentioning when the author was alive. Still, a story is a story and the question shouldn't be "How much money will it make?" or "What is the great meaning behind it?" but "does it want to be told?"
Scop or Gleeman? Poet or player? Literary or Genre? What's the difference?
Gleeman --minstral or bard, more interested in entertainment than heroic themes
Scop of Gleeman? Poet or entertainer? Teacher or creater of divertions? Sophisticated literature or genre fiction?
I sometimes feel like there is a line drawn for writers. On one side deep thinking social comentary chocked full of elaborate allusions to our predisesors and on the other J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown and Stephanie Myers. We must choose if we want to write 'real' inovative literature or best sellers.
My question is why not both? Or niether. Does every story worth telling have to be a great masterpiece? Is it only worth anything if it makes a lot of money?
The clasifications aren't really so different. I'm not afraid to strive for perfection but I don't think I'm the only who has read some of the great classics and felt like there were places they could be tweaked. I still enjoyed them, recognized genius in them but the perfectionist is never satisfied.
Not all the great classics were written with 'greatness' in mind. Kidknapped is a classic 'blood and thunder'. Shakespeare wrote histories that were more or less court propoganda but they managed to stick around. They were entertainments with enough thought provoking matter (or simply emotions that we can connect with) that we still find them worth reading hundreds of years later. We are still diverted and entertained by them. Profound doesn't usually happen on purpose.
Granted Twilight probably won't be taught in schools a hundred years from now and a lot of the books that are didn't make any amount of money worth mentioning when the author was alive. Still, a story is a story and the question shouldn't be "How much money will it make?" or "What is the great meaning behind it?" but "does it want to be told?"
Scop or Gleeman? Poet or player? Literary or Genre? What's the difference?
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