Brutal. Spent some time writing and doing edits on some of my chapters today and it's been tough going trying to find my voice. I see glimmers and sparkles of brilliance littered among boring old generic prose and I can't help but feel like my stories are a bit like a panhandler working a stream, sifting out the sand from the gold. I don't want my reader to have to do that. I want the reader to get caught up in a story that is consistent in tone and keeps them engaged, not having to work through the trash in order to get at something worthwhile, it should all be worth their while.
All of it.
But I'm stuck, going from second-person, to third to first and wondering which approach favors me (and my audience) most, and now I'm realizing that I have to take the first-person. My strengths are so obviously in first-person that I don't know why I am banging my head trying to write any different. And I realize that it's because of the audience that is making me so unsure of myself. It's not really personal when I'm writing to solicit attention. It's personal when I am writing to myself.
Then again.. it's the audience that matters more. Isn't it? I guess if art is subjective, it has to come from a place of meaning but at the same time, prepared for public consumption. I think of men like Henry Darger who achieved fame as the face of the Outsider art movement. He wrote a 15 thousand plus epic, along with dozens of paintings and have not shown or even attempted to sell any of what he's produced. It wasn't until he died when his small apartment was cleaned out, that anybody laid eyes on his work. Darger didn't write or paint for money, he did it for himself. He lived a humble existence, rooted in a fantasy of his own and he knew better than to capitalize on it.
Maybe he was embarrassed about it, I don't know, but I do know that people found it fascinating. Would they have been equally as interested had he formally presented his book and artwork? I don't know, and it's possible that Darger himself felt unsure of what he was doing. But he did it anyways, because he had to.
He wanted to. Other people be damned.
This dilemma has been a pervasive one for most of my life, where I have to choose between my own voice and the voice I use when I speak to an audience. Should I die tomorrow, maybe someone will come across this blog, my stories and will see a new me to appreciate more than the me I already am. I don't know. All I know is that I want to do good by what I do. Yet I still have trouble coming to terms with the idea of having a marketable product, because while I do have to eat, I don't want to see my work as being anything less than heartfelt. It's so hard to strike the right balance.
Anyways, I wish I could write a book that would be well-received in THIS voice. The one I am using right now. I like how I write these blog posts, where I am honest and forthcoming and not too worried about any adverbs, descriptive paragraphs, subjects, nouns, verbs, grammar mistakes.. It's so easy and effortless and it brings me a welcome relief from the rigors of having to write well enough to impress. I don't want to impress, and I know I don't have the technical ability enough to do it either, but I do want to share my thoughts and get paid for them... It's such a mess going through what my head and heart has left for me to clean up. I guess I do want to impress people after all, but how? And how do I do it honestly without resorting to dance around for their amusement?
I don't know. I am such a contradiction. I love myself and hate myself equally at all times. I can't seem to draw forth the man I want to be and present to the world without some ugliness cropping up from inside. Maybe the ugliness is endearing in it's own way, but I am ashamed of it. I don't like feeling vulnerable whenever I pour my emotions out and yet, I need to take responsibility for them, which is not something I'm comfortable doing given how I seem to be in an endless tug of war with myself.
Well. Suck it up I guess. There is no other alternative but to keep hope alive.
Otherwise there's nothing left.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
fly me to the moon
One thing I realized a few days ago that has persistently stuck inside of my noggin, is the knowing expectation of society for individual's to contribute. For some reason, I had come about to the knowledge that each of us absolutely has to produce something of value by our efforts in exchange for the right to survive. Whether it's working a hot dog stand, or writing a book, we are rewarded for our efforts and it is not an option to refuse this obligation of us. We are born into these expectations, of adding continual value to our environment and this realization really struck a chord with me.
Sure it seems obvious, common sense even, but I have never looked at a job in quite this way before. I have always thought that I was showing up at a certain time to perform certain tasks and off I went, without a look back. But now I realize that it doesn't have to be this way. I can offer the world value in terms of my thoughts. My ideas and writings each has potential in adding value to the world. I need to believe this more fully, knowing how much I loathe my job. I need to know that there are alternatives out there to how I make money, and writing is but one way of many.
But I have to write. I need to get better at it. Type, type type until these words coalesce into something I can market and sell. At the same time I think about the potential of earning a living from writing, I can't also but help think about how disingenuous it somewhat is. I don't like the idea of churning out a "product" where I share my innermost thoughts and feelings. I don't like the idea of charging people admission to my heart when I have it wide open, ready to receive whoever is interested in looking inside. I like sharing myself freely, I don't feel comfortable charging for it, but at the same time, this is really how the world works. You create something, you sell it. You hustle and connive and market and convince and conform, and cater to the demographic that you aim for and hope you get a reward.
Such monkey talk. I'd feel little satisfaction in having to press a lever to get a banana tumbling down the chute into my hands. I would rather... I don't know. I'd rather write for approval and appreciation. To know that my words were enjoyed, useful and contributed value to the reader rather than take advantage of them, leaving them to feel manipulated.
I don't know.. I guess I'm over thinking this sort of thing. On one hand, I know I have to write FOR an audience and not for myself as I do with these blog posts. But I would rather write for myself and let the audience determine itself. I don't like the idea of targeting a specific group of people, but rather ALL people who are interested are welcome to receive my words.
Ironic of me to write all this, being that this blog is completely private and unavailable for the public to look at. But I do have secrets that only I should keep within myself, and it is somewhat cathartic to let fly a burst of emotional energy through my writing.
That realization also, makes writing a novel tough. It's too structured. Too contingent on delivering a product of mass-appeal. It's too constrictive, too niche, too mainstream... I don't feel comfortable dealing with the dilemma of writing for fun, or for profit and I am trying to do my best to marry the two concepts together. To write for FUN and MONEY is what I am presently trying to aspire towards. I need to feel spurred on as I work on something structured, rather than feeling like a slave to it. I don't know if it's my lack of discipline in what I do, but I can't figure out my voice. My natural voice is in these blog posts, where I write without self-editting myself, where I freely let loose what needs release. I can't seem to find it in writing a novel.. I sort of have, but I don't know if that is the approach best suited to my needs.
It's a silly puzzle. Hopefully one day, I'll solve it.
Sure it seems obvious, common sense even, but I have never looked at a job in quite this way before. I have always thought that I was showing up at a certain time to perform certain tasks and off I went, without a look back. But now I realize that it doesn't have to be this way. I can offer the world value in terms of my thoughts. My ideas and writings each has potential in adding value to the world. I need to believe this more fully, knowing how much I loathe my job. I need to know that there are alternatives out there to how I make money, and writing is but one way of many.
But I have to write. I need to get better at it. Type, type type until these words coalesce into something I can market and sell. At the same time I think about the potential of earning a living from writing, I can't also but help think about how disingenuous it somewhat is. I don't like the idea of churning out a "product" where I share my innermost thoughts and feelings. I don't like the idea of charging people admission to my heart when I have it wide open, ready to receive whoever is interested in looking inside. I like sharing myself freely, I don't feel comfortable charging for it, but at the same time, this is really how the world works. You create something, you sell it. You hustle and connive and market and convince and conform, and cater to the demographic that you aim for and hope you get a reward.
Such monkey talk. I'd feel little satisfaction in having to press a lever to get a banana tumbling down the chute into my hands. I would rather... I don't know. I'd rather write for approval and appreciation. To know that my words were enjoyed, useful and contributed value to the reader rather than take advantage of them, leaving them to feel manipulated.
I don't know.. I guess I'm over thinking this sort of thing. On one hand, I know I have to write FOR an audience and not for myself as I do with these blog posts. But I would rather write for myself and let the audience determine itself. I don't like the idea of targeting a specific group of people, but rather ALL people who are interested are welcome to receive my words.
Ironic of me to write all this, being that this blog is completely private and unavailable for the public to look at. But I do have secrets that only I should keep within myself, and it is somewhat cathartic to let fly a burst of emotional energy through my writing.
That realization also, makes writing a novel tough. It's too structured. Too contingent on delivering a product of mass-appeal. It's too constrictive, too niche, too mainstream... I don't feel comfortable dealing with the dilemma of writing for fun, or for profit and I am trying to do my best to marry the two concepts together. To write for FUN and MONEY is what I am presently trying to aspire towards. I need to feel spurred on as I work on something structured, rather than feeling like a slave to it. I don't know if it's my lack of discipline in what I do, but I can't figure out my voice. My natural voice is in these blog posts, where I write without self-editting myself, where I freely let loose what needs release. I can't seem to find it in writing a novel.. I sort of have, but I don't know if that is the approach best suited to my needs.
It's a silly puzzle. Hopefully one day, I'll solve it.
Sunday, June 01, 2014
regrets, I've had a few
Today I took it upon myself to write. I mean really, write. I had a copy of Stephen King's "On writing", Brenda Ueland's "So you want to write", my laptop, my tablet, my phone.
And I wrote a chapter. It was alright. Nothing amazing. But I was guilted into it by King's book who made me feel like if I wanted to write, I absolutely had to. Talking and thinking about writing only serves to prolong the frustration of not actually doing the deed, and I'm okay with that I guess.
But damn, after Jennifer blew off the pages I submitted to her over email a few days ago, I felt I really had to prove to myself that I could write something worthy of praise. Anything, and this sensation of wanting to prove her wrong carried over in my prose, which became a little more descriptive and flowery than usual.
Well, I think I made a dent but I don't think I've yet demolished the wall.
Looking over my blog last night after I posted, I couldn't help but see the same old me whining about the same old things for years on end. "I want to write. I want to love." and all the spiritual/religious talk of which I am still in fascination with to this day.
When will it ever end? When will my breakthrough happen?
I wrestled with the possibility earlier today thinking that I'm just not fit to be a writer. Even if I wrote a book, and I have, there is no guarantee of it being any good. And as I looked over what I had written in the past, I couldn't help but feel embarrassed about how inadequate it all seemed to me. Where was my centerpiece? My one chapter to show off to people? And I realized I didn't have this chapter, and that I've only myself to blame.
That is true. Only myself. If I want something badly enough, I need to push at it. I need to grit my teeth and buckle down and settle into the habit of pursuing a goal as doggedly as I can, no matter what is thrown at me. But I still get these doubts in my head. That I'm not any good. That it's a waste of time trying to pursue a career in this field and that my well of ideas is drying up.
I don't know what to think anymore. For so long I have held onto this dream of mine and I can't let it go, but it feels like I need to. I need to either surrender myself completely to what it is I want to do, or to give up on it altogether.
Writing this blog post, a small inner-voice squeaks out at me to keep going. To keep pushing on, but I can't help but feel like I'm an idiot for having once believed what I did. That I could make something out of myself, on my own steam and I find as the years pass, that the possibility of that happening is growing slimmer with each day.
A writer has to write. A football player has to play football. A musician needs to be playing his instrument, so why aren't I? Why is the goal more appealing to me to think about than the effort to get there? I mean I have to work at it. There is no other option, and a part of me feels like I've already gone over this before many times in my head and I realize that I am numbed to these self-criticisms. I am not spurred to write nearly as much as I would like and...
God damn it. Why bother? Why keep trying?
Those who keep trying, never fail. That's why.
I really want to believe that. I really need to believe that. If I can't write, if I have no talent to offer the world whatsoever, no meaningful commentary to share, then I am worthless. I have nothing. I may as well accept my place in line along with the mediocrity of the rest of us who work jobs that we dislike and indulge in trivialities, like getting drunk, so that we can forget about the dreams we have given up on.
I can't be that guy. But the temptation is still there. To surrender myself to fate and do only what comes effortlessly for me.
Thinking and dreaming.
Not writing.
Not anything else worth being practiced upon.
I am a dreamer caught in a nightmare of my own making.
And I hate it.
And I wrote a chapter. It was alright. Nothing amazing. But I was guilted into it by King's book who made me feel like if I wanted to write, I absolutely had to. Talking and thinking about writing only serves to prolong the frustration of not actually doing the deed, and I'm okay with that I guess.
But damn, after Jennifer blew off the pages I submitted to her over email a few days ago, I felt I really had to prove to myself that I could write something worthy of praise. Anything, and this sensation of wanting to prove her wrong carried over in my prose, which became a little more descriptive and flowery than usual.
Well, I think I made a dent but I don't think I've yet demolished the wall.
Looking over my blog last night after I posted, I couldn't help but see the same old me whining about the same old things for years on end. "I want to write. I want to love." and all the spiritual/religious talk of which I am still in fascination with to this day.
When will it ever end? When will my breakthrough happen?
I wrestled with the possibility earlier today thinking that I'm just not fit to be a writer. Even if I wrote a book, and I have, there is no guarantee of it being any good. And as I looked over what I had written in the past, I couldn't help but feel embarrassed about how inadequate it all seemed to me. Where was my centerpiece? My one chapter to show off to people? And I realized I didn't have this chapter, and that I've only myself to blame.
That is true. Only myself. If I want something badly enough, I need to push at it. I need to grit my teeth and buckle down and settle into the habit of pursuing a goal as doggedly as I can, no matter what is thrown at me. But I still get these doubts in my head. That I'm not any good. That it's a waste of time trying to pursue a career in this field and that my well of ideas is drying up.
I don't know what to think anymore. For so long I have held onto this dream of mine and I can't let it go, but it feels like I need to. I need to either surrender myself completely to what it is I want to do, or to give up on it altogether.
Writing this blog post, a small inner-voice squeaks out at me to keep going. To keep pushing on, but I can't help but feel like I'm an idiot for having once believed what I did. That I could make something out of myself, on my own steam and I find as the years pass, that the possibility of that happening is growing slimmer with each day.
A writer has to write. A football player has to play football. A musician needs to be playing his instrument, so why aren't I? Why is the goal more appealing to me to think about than the effort to get there? I mean I have to work at it. There is no other option, and a part of me feels like I've already gone over this before many times in my head and I realize that I am numbed to these self-criticisms. I am not spurred to write nearly as much as I would like and...
God damn it. Why bother? Why keep trying?
Those who keep trying, never fail. That's why.
I really want to believe that. I really need to believe that. If I can't write, if I have no talent to offer the world whatsoever, no meaningful commentary to share, then I am worthless. I have nothing. I may as well accept my place in line along with the mediocrity of the rest of us who work jobs that we dislike and indulge in trivialities, like getting drunk, so that we can forget about the dreams we have given up on.
I can't be that guy. But the temptation is still there. To surrender myself to fate and do only what comes effortlessly for me.
Thinking and dreaming.
Not writing.
Not anything else worth being practiced upon.
I am a dreamer caught in a nightmare of my own making.
And I hate it.
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