Today is a day of doubts.
I wonder, "What am I doing with my life?" Then I scoff, "That's so general." But I'm not released from the overriding question of meaning - just thrown into temporal specialization. Meaning: "What am I doing with my month; my week; my day; my hour?"
Read Ann Beattie and tell me you can write. Read Amy Hempel and pretend to now be novel. It's impossible. Genius can eclipse potential when that genius is not mine.
Being impressed is not being inspired. And this is painful. If I read one more piece by Flannery O'Connor, I may never write again. Fear of Flying is the single most inspiring work I've ever read, mainy because, from a purely stylistic atandpoint, it was not impressive. I read Erica Jong and thought, "Great story. I could tell it better." And so I found a pen and tried.
Have I ever read Toni Morrison and felt that? Philip Roth? Charles Bukowski? Donna Tartt? No.
Why can't there be more low-hanging fruit?
Why must I feel so incredibly beneath?
What can I possibly bring to a banquet so full?
Why do I feel so empty?
2 comments:
Often times, I read Joan Didion and think to myself it seems so simple to just write those short, crisp sentences. I could do that I think. And then I try. And I don't succeed.
but don't you wonder what her unpublished first tries were like? it's intimidating as crap, yes, but there must be some sentences even the great minds fed to the fire...
god, i hope so.
Post a Comment