This is a blog of necessity rather than pleasure; I have been falling out of the writing habit recently, and that is dangerous ground for me. Struggling to write a blog, which by its very nature is self-indulgent, is a bad sign for someone trying to branch out into wider writing. If I can't selfishly write about my own thoughts and opinions, how will I possibly be able to create something new in my imagination?
I hope that one of the problems that all young writers (and I am a young writer, despite my recent unfortunate birthday) experience is the fear of being boring. I know I have a writing style, and I know it needs a great deal of further development. I have recently grudgingly accepted that this requires writing. Sounds so obvious, doesn't it? But it is very easy to indulge the notion that critical reading can be as beneficial to a writer as pounding the keyboard. I am reading two frustrating books at the moment- enjoyable, well written, flawed books. For example, one is by Erik Larson, who wrote the must-read, absolutely amazing The Devil in the White City. That book (it's nonfiction, but the most exciting nonfiction I have ever read) juxtaposes the story of Daniel H. Burnham's architectural achievements with the story of the gruesome murderer Dr. Holmes as their lives strangely intersect in late 19th century America. His newer book that I am currently reading? It juxtaposes the scientific achievements of Guglielmo Marconi with the story of an unlikely murderer around the turn of the 20th century. Wonderfully gripping stuff, but perhaps you can see my frustration. I enjoy this book without being in awe of it. Yet I am awed by the prospect of writing myself. Larson certainly has his niche, but I don't. I don't even really want to be the sort of writer who falls into an easy niche, and yet I strongly feel the need to find a fixed voice. Sometimes I wonder with each new place, each new adventure, if I don't set myself farther from an axis that would help define a voice.
I seek a voice, yet I suppose almost all of you who actually read these things know that perhaps my favorite word is "polymath". I admire writers who succeed in multiple formats, such as Tim Parks and Orhan Pamuk. I believe I could develop along these lines, and yet the authors who absolutely floor me do not follow this style. They write works with an authoritative voice that could only be theirs. Anyone who has struggled through one of my favorites, Blood Meridian, should understand exactly what I mean. And it should probably be noted that for all his considerable talents Pamuk could not be anything other than a Turkish intellectual. Saramago would not be Saramago were he not a self exiled Portuguese communist. The authors who really floor me, Saramago for one, Roberto Calasso for another, have an absolute command of their unique and authoritative voice. I have tried to write in London and New York; I am unable to do so. I know the neighborhoods, I can create the people and visualize actions, but the crucial element of authenticity is missing. I have lost touch with the midwest; where does that leave me? Struggling to write!
Back to boring again. You'll have to trust me, but here is a little exercise I just did. I took the book next to me on my desk and opened it to a random page and read the first sentences that I saw. Here they are: "She looked at me, and I raised my hands in a gesture that said, You're on your own, kid. I got off the bike and joined her on the road." (author's italics). It's a pretty ordinary, boring sentence. There's a story there, sure, but the two sentences are almost bland. They come from a 900 page book, which is no doubt filled with thousands of such sentences. Yet somehow this collection becomes an idiosyncratic voice, one that can sustain a LONG story. It's tough as a writer to look over a few paragraphs, or a few thousand words, and not feel that no one would ever want to read what you have written. A few sentences perhaps, maybe a punchline of sorts. But the whole thing? Inconceivable!
I should come out of this reflecting on what it is that I do know. I suppose you could say, rather optimistically, that my voice is currently "happy uncertainty." That sounds better than "frustrated and empty." Perhaps one day a critic will note that the lack of place in my writing gives it an everyman quality. Maybe that's my problem- my literary mind seeks to completely reject my most available strength- diversity of experience. Perhaps, for an uncertain optimist, that rejection can be the impetus to real growth...
Monday, September 21, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
on identity
Turning 30 has certainly brought out my reflective side, but I have been unable thus far to channel my myriad thoughts into a single cohesive direction. This is actually attempt number 4...
Tim Parks, in one of his many wonderful essays, wrote that if he had to choose a phrase whose meaning has eroded in Western society, he would opt for "figure of authority". As a teacher I can easily agree with this notion, but recent events have prompted me to reflect "public discourse" might be the best example of a lost phrase. Watching footage of a Congressman being lionized (by, it must be said, a small but vocal frightened minority) for denouncing the president during a speech fills me with great sadness. It's amazing how many people agree that health care needs to be reformed and yet a shockingly ill informed minority might be able to scupper the whole thing, and affect Obama's entire presidency in the process. How can one logically hold discourse with those comparing the president to Hitler, and ignorantly lumping facism, socialism, and communism into one -ism group? I recently read Obama has been criticised by the right for appointing czars. We don't have czars in America! Or perhaps more colloquially, "We ain't got no t-sars in 'Merica. Bless." The first president to appoint a czar was none other than that liberal icon, Ronald Reagan. Facts have no place in an irrational rant.
It fills me with a sense of dread to think that I may, in 18 months time, be returning to an America where a fading majority (old and white) cling to power through deceit and fear mongering. I first went abroad, to Europe, in the spring following 9/11. The outpouring of support and goodwill was palpable toward America at that time. I was proud to be an American. I can no longer say that. I am American, and remain hopeful that my country can once again lead, but my feelings toward my home for the first 22 years of my life have become shockingly ambivalent.
Perhaps another eroding phrase is "national character". As society fragments and more and more niche interests erode the cultural mainstream, perhaps it is inevitable that a word like "American" or "British" loses its past connotations. I would have lamented this 10 years ago, but now I feel that if that is what it takes to be progressive and dynamic, 2 words that certainly applied to the America of 100 years ago, so be it. America has become nothing more than the easiest country for me to call my home, not the country that I dream of returning to.
I have always seen some value in reflecting on the names we give ourselves. I mean names that define us, like "teacher" or "son" or "reader". For me, I think "American" might have been supplanted by "Anglophile" and then "Europhile". This was justifiable when I lived in Europe, and even to a certain extent I could cling to this as nostalgia during my time in New York. But it has been more than a year since I could identify myself at least as living on the European continent. So where does that leave me now, a Europhile socialist American living in Asia for the next 18 months or so? No doubt that sentence would leave me condemned and discarded by certain segments of America, although it must be said welcomed by others who share similar views to my own.
America has been a stepping stone for me and given me access to places and wonderful memories I would not have dreamed of ten years ago. It is a place I have fond memories of and can see myself living in the future. Why does this leave me, an American, with a feelings of moroseness, frustration, and antipathy?...
Tim Parks, in one of his many wonderful essays, wrote that if he had to choose a phrase whose meaning has eroded in Western society, he would opt for "figure of authority". As a teacher I can easily agree with this notion, but recent events have prompted me to reflect "public discourse" might be the best example of a lost phrase. Watching footage of a Congressman being lionized (by, it must be said, a small but vocal frightened minority) for denouncing the president during a speech fills me with great sadness. It's amazing how many people agree that health care needs to be reformed and yet a shockingly ill informed minority might be able to scupper the whole thing, and affect Obama's entire presidency in the process. How can one logically hold discourse with those comparing the president to Hitler, and ignorantly lumping facism, socialism, and communism into one -ism group? I recently read Obama has been criticised by the right for appointing czars. We don't have czars in America! Or perhaps more colloquially, "We ain't got no t-sars in 'Merica. Bless." The first president to appoint a czar was none other than that liberal icon, Ronald Reagan. Facts have no place in an irrational rant.
It fills me with a sense of dread to think that I may, in 18 months time, be returning to an America where a fading majority (old and white) cling to power through deceit and fear mongering. I first went abroad, to Europe, in the spring following 9/11. The outpouring of support and goodwill was palpable toward America at that time. I was proud to be an American. I can no longer say that. I am American, and remain hopeful that my country can once again lead, but my feelings toward my home for the first 22 years of my life have become shockingly ambivalent.
Perhaps another eroding phrase is "national character". As society fragments and more and more niche interests erode the cultural mainstream, perhaps it is inevitable that a word like "American" or "British" loses its past connotations. I would have lamented this 10 years ago, but now I feel that if that is what it takes to be progressive and dynamic, 2 words that certainly applied to the America of 100 years ago, so be it. America has become nothing more than the easiest country for me to call my home, not the country that I dream of returning to.
I have always seen some value in reflecting on the names we give ourselves. I mean names that define us, like "teacher" or "son" or "reader". For me, I think "American" might have been supplanted by "Anglophile" and then "Europhile". This was justifiable when I lived in Europe, and even to a certain extent I could cling to this as nostalgia during my time in New York. But it has been more than a year since I could identify myself at least as living on the European continent. So where does that leave me now, a Europhile socialist American living in Asia for the next 18 months or so? No doubt that sentence would leave me condemned and discarded by certain segments of America, although it must be said welcomed by others who share similar views to my own.
America has been a stepping stone for me and given me access to places and wonderful memories I would not have dreamed of ten years ago. It is a place I have fond memories of and can see myself living in the future. Why does this leave me, an American, with a feelings of moroseness, frustration, and antipathy?...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
