Quite a while back ago, and the very primordial soup stage of this blog, I wrote on how writing is the ultimate job because it is limitless in topic. Now I'm writing on how writing is limitless because it can travel anywhere.
I don't have to be tied to a physical location to be a writer. I don't have to be at a specific place to fulfill the expectations that come with being a "writer." I am still a writer if I am at home, I am still a writer if I am in a coffee shop, and I am still a writer if I am halfway across the world in a small Romanian town. And I can write at any of those, or more, places. I can still blog, I can still create, I can still edit, and I can still dream up a plot. I am not tied down; I am not limited.
As a writer, I am never limited. As a writer, the only boundaries that I have are the ones that I have created for myself. I am the only person responsible for my writing, and in that way I know that I am unlimited.
I can only be a writer. There is no other career so perfectly created to suit my temperament. As I said in my older post: Writing IS the ultimate job, because it is all others, and none at all.
I've been ruminating on the nature of school, and my purpose in being a student. I'm spending four years of my life (or 8, or 10, or more, depending on if I want to go on to a graduate or doctorate program) in college, not to mention the 13 years of primary education. And when I get out of college, then what?
I suppose I'm hitting that famous point where all English majors realize that life after grad school is full of the same uncertainty - career wise at least- as if I had never gone to school at all. But even more fundamental than that, I realize that my academic career is probably not worth anything to anyone outside academics. But I care, or least I should, if I wasn't certain that I could be spending my time much more wisely by working on a book or other publication. Will some prospective employer interrogate me about that pop quiz I failed? No. Will anyone care about the term paper I got a B on? No. But will they care that I've published two books and been included in multiple anthologies? Infinitely yes. So why am I not spending more time on writing?
I don't know. I really have no answer to that question- I was throwing it out into the far-spread cosmos of cyberspace.
I want to do well in school. I do. But time is a limited commodity, and some things just have to be selectively neglected. I don't like selectively neglecting my homework, but I dislike my "aspiring author" status more.
This week has unfortunately emphasized this concern. Several professors have spoken about authors -famous ones- that never made it past a few years of primary education (think Shakespeare, most famously.) Did it matter that he didn't have a formal education? No. Do you think he was any less intelligent? No. Do you think he had a diminished level of genius? No. Do you think it negatively affected his work in anyway? No. The pretentious snobs that criticized his "ignorance" sat back and analyzed his work, while he was actually out there writing the plays. We remember Shakespeare; we don't have the names of the other men.
Who do YOU want to be?
Yeah, that's what I thought.
I wanna be Shakespeare. I don't wanna be an arm-chair literary critic. I have joked about being a professor, but I don't think in the end that I would honestly want to become one, because I know myself. I would sink into reading and writing about reading... but I would never write. It would be a different sort of creativity, not lessened, just different. Which I love equally ... in a different way.
So why I am learning to write academically?
I think there might have to be a serious change in my class schedule next semester.
Right Now:
What I'm listening to: The recitations of the ESL class I tutor for.
What I want most: Fall break. Ohmygoodness, fall break. I can't wait.
As of my Friday's post, I was rather frustrated with the general trend in my education. I've been musing over the weekend on a particular quote of Mark Twain's that I read many years ago:
I'm still working on that part, but today I got to geek out a little, with a breath of new interests and new quests for information.
I went into my cultural anthropology professor with a one sentence question, and expected a one sentence answer. Instead I came out with four books, one physically clutched in my greedy little paws. I decided that I would take a break, and sat outside for around a hour, reading the introduction and authors' bios, finding five other titles, two professors, and one Institute to research.
If I have time (that's always the kicker) but I'm choosing this time to focus on my academic interests and their correlation to writing (portrayal of the indescribable, the role of memory, trauma and healing in writing, writing as an escape, etc... both the academic and creative aspects of these issues) and the happiest that this sort of exploration brings me.
And the sheer ability to geek out.
As most of you know, I've been rather blase lately about school. I'm busy, to be sure, but I'm probably not particularly challenged this week, and that leads to all sorts of trouble. Thinking trouble. (Yes, take that sentence both ways.) Discontent, restlessness, and general whiny-ness kinds of trouble. Not that I ever want to be staid, placid, settled, or content as a lifelong trend in any case (a number of those sort of adjectives will do), but I do want to be happy. However, happy derives from engaged and engaged derives from interested and interested derives from challenged and challenged derives from learning. Which, to bring it all back to the beginning, I have felt to be somewhat lacking.
Hence, the general discontent with assignments and the wish to have uninterrupted time to explore. Explore everything. Explore life. Explore writing. Explore writing in the form of reading. Explore authors and noted persons, explore events and cultural opportunities, explore outside of my bubble of self-imposed exile that contains myself, my textbooks, and my desk, and rarely extends to other objects,even including my bed.
Sometimes I think I want to quit, and spend my days free of responsibility so that I can learn on my own. Sometimes I want to quit, and go to concerts on the weekends, and art shows in the afternoon, spend mornings at the famer's market and enjoy going to see The Nutcracker Ballet without worrying how close to finals it is, or thinking that I can't go to a performance of Carmen because I have a paper due that Monday. Sometimes I want to quit and run away to France, where surely I'll learn French better, or to Argentina to learn about the country's history from the people who live there, or to Russia where the folktales are still told and not written down and analysised by some arm-chair specialist. But I know I would make a terrible auto-didact, and discard that idea. Then I think that I should marry rich, so I never have to work, but I discard that idea too, because it's more than a little outdated. Then I think I need to find a job which allows me to live and work on my own schedule- a freelance life, if you will... and then I remember that I want to be a writer, and that's ultimately where I'm headed to anyways.
I've mentioned it before many times, but it's hard to keep going when there's not constant feedback. And for school, with it's long-term payoffs... well, it's unfortunately the nature of the beast.
Doesn't mean that I have to enjoy the teeth as they bite down on me.
NOT revealing the answer to your readers might be the best thing you do as an author.
I know, sounds slightly contradictory right? Not giving the reader what they want? It goes against all the basic principles of consumer culture. But, I've realized this week, that secretly, it IS what the reader wants. They just don't know it. But YOU the author should.
I first was exposed to this idea when another writer/blogger (unfortunately I've forgotten who, but credit's all to you!) wrote an article on how writing well should be just like the Sesame Street book The Monster at the End of this Book. The character Grover does and says everything to stop you from turning the page, which of course has the opposite effect. And you can't wait to get to the end and discover who/what is the monster.
Holding back the details teases the reader with a mystery that they're dying to figure out, either by getting into the character's head or reading on. Either way, it's good. My favorite example of this is Ilona Andrew's Kate Daniels. Basically from chapter one, the reader knows that Kate is hiding something about her heritage from the world. But Ms. Andrews also hides it from the readers. Book One gives you tantalizing hints, book two infers, and only in book three does she confirm. Which means, I'm absolutly dying for book four.
The same principle applies to TV shows. My favorite Bones has the murder mysteries in each episode, but it's the suspense of the ultimate hook-up between Booth and Bones that keeps us all going. HOWEVER, that doesn't mean that there should be an ultimate hookup. I heard rumors that about Bones finale that it would happen, and you know what? I was disappointed. I didn't want them to end up together. They gave up something because of popular demand, and didn't stick with plot-line integrity. So, therefore, disappointment.
So holding back the details is more important, in my opinion, because it creates an investment in your book, your characters, your series, and you as an author. And really, having a fan base is what it's all about, right?
Right Now:
What I'm listening to: TV actually- What Not to Wear
What I want most: to go shopping, ehehe
First, I would like to announce the launch of my new blog, Bibliophilia & Me!!! I'm so excited for this. It's just a simple blog about all the books I'm reading, want to read, or am thinking about in any way. And it's definitely in a more casual tone than this blog is, and not set to the same strict schedule. I just wanted to create another forum in which I could discuss my obsession about books. And now I've established the beginnings of a blogging empire!!!!!!!
So it's snowing tonight in Virginia, and because our ancient campus is outraged that snow could actually ever occur on THEIR CAMPUS (college founding fathers speaking) the electricity has revolted and succeeded from the Union. So the power is out, and I need to type fast, 1) to post in time, but more importantly 2) to get my paper done before my battery dies!!!!!!! 0_0
Friday, ladies and gentlemen, it's Friday. Hallelujah.
Isn't it amazing that sometimes when your mind has 15 billion things going on, it actually can be more focused and more alert than if you have an entire day set aside for one project? Say you're a college student, with a test tomorrow, 2 midterms and 3 papers next week. You should be completely overwhelmed, stressed and frazzled beyond belief. But you're not because your mind somehow figured out a way to either compartmentalized the extraneous stuff or simply works just that much faster. Today I really have been on a roll about a few writing things- ideas, this blog, mood music, snippets, whatever. It's just been working and working away,and without me feeling guilty that I'm not focusing on my studying. It's like two parallel trains of thought, simultaneously running, and only every once in a while will the Muse knock on the door into Reason's study, politely mention a thought, then close the door again.
When I was young- namely a bare two years ago- I was obsessed with the idea that I needed to be a child prodigy, and publish in my teens. Each birthday, I would set a personal goal. "I will be published by 17... by 18... before 19..." I was determined to follow in the footsteps of Christopher Paolini and Amelia Atwater-Rhodes. At the very least, I figured I should be like Jane Austen (my authorial superhero) and be able to write my personal Pride and Prejudice at the age of 21. And I DID become published (before 19, I think, but I can't even remember- see how meaningless it turned out to be?) but I compromised a part of myself to do so.* Now I'm wiser. I realize that figures like these are very very very rare. There's a reason I could only name two teenage authors like this, and I had to go back 200 years to pull out the Jane Austen reference. Even she had room to grow. She wrote only the first version of P&P at 21, then stuck it in a drawer for almost 20 years.
Tonight is the Valentine's Day Eve. When everyone is excited, breathless with anticipation for tomorrow's surprises, full of the dread of the anxieties of romance- will he bring me roses? will she say yes? and other romantic ideals. My romantic ideal includes the idea that I can keep on schedule, writing consistantly in a blur of responsibility. But since Michael Wartan is not showing up at my door tomorrow night at 7 sharp, I suppose there is no reason to bereate myself for breaking my New Year's resolutions on the first day either. I can wallow in sadness guiltlessly, crying over sad movies alone and unpublished.....
Or not. I can get off my butt, get on the computor and return to the basics. The LBD (little black dress for the non-Vogue redears), the ruby red Chanel lipstick, and the blog.
Even though I have not been writing the blog, that doesn't mean that I haven't been pursuing the writing life. I've been thinking - a lot- about the way in which I've been approaching writing. I've tried for so long to be very responsible, very mature in my approach, the definition of a professional. I've realized that I'm overcompensating. I've been too conscious of my age and my empty portfolio, and thus have imbued my writing time with a SERIOUS GOAL, and a CLEAR PURPOSE and a DRIVEN MANNER. But I forgot something crucial to the whole business, and it affects the rest of my writing in the most significant way.
I forgot FUN.
The reason that I started writing was that I enjoyed writing. I loved it. I had FUN writing, in coming up with extravegent plots, with wild twists and turns, in memorable characters. Then I got SERIOUS, and thought more about REALISM and MARKETABILITY and DURABILITY. And I lost the part about having FUN. I didn't have fun anymore. I dind't like to write anymore, because I was too hung up on myself. Picking up the pen was more of a hassle that surpressing the creative desire in me, and too too easily, the Muse was locked away. Then she came less and less, until the time when I open up the closet door, and find that she escaped out the window when I wasn't paying attention. Then I have to put up flyers, and call around the neighborhood, and go to a lot trouble to find what was mine in the first place, and that I didn't appreciate enough to take care of. So now I've learned my lesson. I'm done with locking the Muse in the closet when she's inconvient. I'm done with leaving her alone when the neighbors SELF-DOUBT and PRETENTION show up. I'm taking my Muse out for a little girlfriend time, me and her, on a roadtrip to POSSIBLE. We're starting with coffee tomorrow.
Perhaps some long-ago author decided to pull the big one over the rest of society and evented the myth that writers just sit down and splurt out words on the page. No pause, no hestiation, just a mystical sort of connection with some sort of Divine Muse that drives and burns and wastes the body while the soul rejoices in the utter trancendence of the entire creative process.
And here's my response to that: BUUULLLLLLLSHEET!
No joke, writing is an effort, an endeavor, an epic journey that does include a whirlpool, sirens, and an angry witch. Maybe even a couple of Cyclops. It took me a full 4 hours of cleaning just to work up to tackling this blog, and I was totally gonna skip it until I saw the computor was on and the internet connected, sitting, waiting, for me on my bed in the ultimate guilt trip. Unlucky coincidence- I certainly didn't plan it that way.
Of course, my reluctance certainly has something to do with the fact that I left my writing- again- to the last thing I do in a day, also namely being the easiest to ignore and the one most needing a fully-functioning brain. This only highlights the growing relevation I've had over the past few days that planning part of writing can be just as important as writing itself, and constitutes about 60% of the "job" part of writing. It's great to write when you're inspired, or to hole up in the house for a day of isolated literary splendor. But this doesn't get anything finished, and it doesn't get anything written fast.
I wrote a few days ago about wanting a calender to use strictly for writing issues. I've been slowly discovering all the uses of this calender, and believe that it really was one of the smartest ideas I've had about organizing and planning my writing career. There was the story idea form I created, a basic fill-in-the-blank kind that was easy to print, easy to grab, easy to write on, and easy to file away for future reference. There was my purchase of StoryView, an computer software program that centered around outlines, which kinda made the story idea form obsolete. Then came the 8 1/2 x 11 notebooks for character development, the organized notebooks of writer's magazines, and the Moleskine pocket notebooks for stream of consciousness background development. But the calender I think might prove to be the worthiest of them all. First it holds a type of accountability over me, to be able to check off at the end of the day "daily blog"; and encouragement, to see all the previous days that are also checked off. It also instills a sense of professionalism- "I am serious and responsible and doing my best to become a published, well-established writer." But most of all, it proves that the day to day, tedious, laborious, WORK of dragging myself to write a blog, or to write for 15 minutes a day, or to research publications, or to discover new writing contests, is the real backbone - taking a mere writer, who scribbles for the pleasure of himself, to an author, who enriches the world with his mystic connection to some sort of divine Muse.
Hmmmmmm. In my pursuit of daily routine I didn't consider two very important things. 1) If I write a post around 2 am in the morning, which day does it count for? and 2) What happens on holidays?
Well yesterday I decided that a holiday for the banks and school and postman meant a holiday for me, and I cheerfully ignored my computer the whole of yesterday. Besides, I had a very trite topic idea that mentioned my laughable attempt at Veteran's Day poetry that somehow involved seagulls, and felt the world was, for once, better off if I didn't open my big mouth. Hopefully today's topic is slightly better. (No guarantees)
Well, in my enthusiasm about a new hair style and an extravagant hand with the eye makeup, set to the background of Katy Perry's song "Hot N Cold", I took it all too seriously and fell into my fantasy world of actually being a musician, with a trendy punkish style, a rocker attitude, and a gift for music. Then I actually sat down at the piano, and my dreams fell into shattered bits at my feet. I think my problem was that in imagining myself a musician for those few minutes, my overzealous creative side actually took the rest of me for a ride. I've always like the idea of being a songwriter, but never really managed the music half of it. The elaborate outfit allowed me to look past that little fact, much to my later embarrassment.
Well am I going with this anecdote? Well, although sometimes writing doesn't have the same visceral thrill as other jobs, being many times passive and isolating in nature without the immediate feedback or stimulation from co-workers, it does have the benefit of being utterly limitless. With reading, I can pretend to be a musician, for a poem's ten minutes or a novel's ten days. With writing, I can pretend to be a musician for the ten months of research, the second ten months of writing, and the third of revision and (hopefully) publication. But I'm not tied to music, or to medicine, or law, or politics or whatever else I choose to include in my works. I control the research- how much, how in-depth, for how long. With an official career in any of those other fields, I would have to obtain schooling, basic experience..... The investments would not equal the (ultimately) limited interest I have in that area. With writing, I can change jobs at a whim, maintain three at a time, or just coast with whatever inspires me. Writing is limitless. Writing IS the ultimate job, because it is all others, and none at all.
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