May 16
Posted by Madeline on May 16 2010
An etude I wrote about a week ago:
May I speak to you?
May I attempt a thought, but no more than two? Or perhaps not, not when there’s all the shit, shit, shit that’s hiding any tangible, concrete, solid and no not liquid evidence that there is something of meaning or maybe just fictitious worth in here? Knock, knock, but there’s just a phantom of a thought, lost once, twice, thrice into a stream that is crystal clear only because it is empty, and I mean empty like the sound of branches in a winter wind, full of a memory of what sound- what crackling, rustling, whispering words- once filled the vacuum. And with a knock, knock, we find that this mind is full of only exhaled air, already breathed and spent and dirty, so that the words that are the children of useless, mindless chemical processes are just as dull and dry as chemical processes sound, like a textbook of borrowed phrases and limp allusions. Is the vacuum so consuming, so engulfing, that a mind may find itself stripped of all its dressings, so that even the naked thoughts are unaware of their indecency?
I say, may I speak to you? But your ears are just as cluttered as my mind is empty, so that each glassy gaze melts into the gauzy haze of faint smiles and broken mutterings. Are you listening? Am I speaking? I fumble with faltering, tripping, limping trails of sluggish words that drag along in their own filth, chased by bees and disease and the fiery flames of uselessness in a wild merry-go-round of crackly-creaky carnival tunes. But I have no ghostly guide and I have no rhyme, so the rivers I must cross and the sirens I must fight and the madness I must combat all melt seamlessly in the day to day, fumble to fumble, falter to falter, of weariness.
I say…
But I say, there’s nothing left to say is not an allusion, for look above. I say, look above at the syllables clumped together like a childhood set of Legos and tell me what I have said. And I mumbled, and I falter, but I do not say.
Knock, knock. But what’s in there?
—-
That explains my thoughts on writing better than I could in normal sentences. Probably taking a break from book writing for a while. There’s nothing that makes me excited for it anymore. We’ll see what happens.
May 16th, 2010 at 7:33 pm
WELL I commented on this on facebook-it’s still amazing, the second, third, and fourth time around! They are slightly different though-”But what’s in there?” on here and “Knock, knock. But who’s in there?” on facebook. It’s interesting, beacuse they both fit, but mean such completely different things. Anyways, I feel like this helped me a lot to understand your thoughts on writing right now.
I’m sorry to hear you’re not excited anymore, but if it’s any help at all-I will ALWAYS be excited for your book writing. You could tell me that you plan on starting a book in 10 years from now, give me a basic idea…and then wait 10 years to start it. I would think about that book SO many times in the 10 years, and I would be SO excited, even though I know I’d have to wait. BUT I’d know that it’d be worth it. Because you’re amazing, your books are amazing, AND I will forever be excited for everything that you write. ALWAYS.
Never forget that. PLEASE don’t. AND I’m willing to help in anyway that you need me to (because I love you to death). You’re amazing. Thank you for sharing your amazing-ness with me :]
June 9th, 2010 at 4:37 pm
This is the first thing of yours I’ve read. An acquaintance sent me the link. My eyes have glanced none of your novels. Yet, the timbre of this piece reminds me of the fellowship of outcasts. Not that I’m attempting some type of sociological analysis to suggest that all dejected writers find resonance or a reflection of writerself in another’s work, though that’s probably true; I did at first start to criticize, to attempt to say something about you saying nothing, if only to myself, and if only out of envy. For I am also a writer, though of a different strain: short story writing. I liked the current and emotion that your words strived like a starving artist to let flow. I recognized the theme of frustration with the craft. You are talented. However, etude deceives. This is not an etude. Musicians get together and jam, each playing their own, in their own way, for the sake of jubilant playing. Writers don’t always have the benefit of feeling good, especially in a jam. You wrote in the elude about feeling like you’re saying nothing with your novels and of a stream that is crystal clear only because it is empty. Out in the cold, huddled around that stream, in mostly torn windbreakers and a few wool coats, are the other writers who feel the same way, all journaling, writing, obsessing, wretching, and vomiting their hearts out onto paper or screen because they feel like nothing is being said, not realizing that the music created from this pain composes itself into an opus and a concert that may not change the world, but will provide the soundtrack for revolution. Your writing makes people want to read. Pay attention in a digital age. Find awe in your words, awe that blue-ray and terrorism stri ve and fail to reach; the awful destruction and cinamatic Gollum are not human. Your writing, at least in this elude jam, screams and dances and flails about like a punk-rock angel swinging through the sky. Your writing makes people want to read again and again and again. That is an accomplishment far more advanced than getting published, or even Oprah’s stamp of book approval. You’re an inspiration. Get used to fan mail.