I am only elaborating on this because it is something that I otherwise never discuss, and I’d like to give it some air, although I doubt it will help much. Here is what I don’t like about concerts: It is not me making the music. I might love the music, absolutely, but it is intensely unsatisfactory that I am not a part of it. Being a passive observer is horribly inadequate.
Take that and multiply 20 or 30x, and that’s how I feel every time I read fiction I love. I might love the story, but I hate that I didn’t create it. And I’m intensely jealous of the person who did. The pseudo-historic, but mostly fictitious, character whom I relate to the most on this subject is Salieri. Enraged that a little sh*t like Mozart was gifted with the talent that he himself craved, he pretty much went kookoo. Well, I don’t think I’m in danger of either going nuts or poisoning Amadeus, but I hope I’ve conveyed the point. I am angry to feel a calling to a task (creating enjoyable things for people to read,) while being denied the requisite talent or inspiration. I am beyond angry. I am, like Salieri, enraged.
Notice I’m using words like “calling” and “denied” which suggest that something in the cosmos is in the business of orchestrating, or speaking to us in some way. However, to suggest that the whatever-it-is would both call and deny is to either conjure a ridiculously puckish force, or else to tie a silly knot of primitive thinking, and not simply accept that we are what we are, the universe is what it is, and it’s not anyone or anything’s fault. Because if something were in any way responsible, I would also ask it why it would present me with such a conundrum (urge to build/no toolbox,) while simultaneously depriving me of the one human who used to be capable of breathing sense into me when I went wacko.
I have mentioned Edison, and his 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration. Exactly why, you see, I have gone to the trouble of writing 3.5 books. Because what do you do with a situation? Well, you do what you can with it. So, if you can bring the 99% to the table, you bring it, trusting and/or hoping that the 1% will show up too. J.K.Rowling has said that Harry Potter, the concept and character, sprang fully formed into her brain as she was riding a train. I don’t know where Suzanne Collins, author of The Hunger Games, which I’m currently reading, fishes for ideas. I’ve never found a fishing hole, and nothing useful has ever sprung fully, or even partially, formed into my brain, so this is how I’ve concocted fiction: It is absolute barrel scraping. I begin to scratch random thoughts--names, notions, places, quirks--into a working notebook. I continue to do so, until I can begin to link them together by means of more scrapings, or a bit of ribbon, or a wad of chewing gum. Slowly, and with the desperation you feel when pinching the last blip of toothpaste out of the tube, (you know--the point where you actually jam the toothbrush bristles into the tube opening,) I patch something together. And sometimes, I actually sort of end up liking the result. But frankly, I’m pretty sure that 1% has never shown up, and I believe I have presented my work to the world sufficiently that--if it were there, that 1%--someone would have noticed it by now. But it’s not there. Because the 1% is one of those things that you may not be able to describe, but you know it when you see it.
So who gets it, inspiration? Where does it come from, why does it land where it does? I don’t have an answer, so I’m calling it stardust. And there’s really, really no point in being angry at stardust.
with a p.s to Zoto, who is one of the few people reading this! At your M.A.T. graduation, the speaker concluded by saying, "now go out, and be useful!" And that was both wrenching, but so right--because you guys have a chance to do that, and will. Once I said to your dad that I supposed I brought little to the world but a decent and interesting set of genes to pass along so that I could have useful children. He told me that thinking of myself as just a gene pool was a cop out. Maybe I was right. Maybe he was right. I still don't know. But maybe you can harbor and pass along stardust--like one of those skip-a-generation phenotypes. Not entirely bad.
8 comments:
I have read almost everything you have written for awhile. I would like to encourage you.
My education is in American history, philosophy, psychology, with a touch of theology so that I could better understand American history. I am absolutely fascinated with the creative process, especially related to classical music, literature, and art. Whenever I attend a performance, I also constantly think that this work has been created by a person, and is being executed by people. It is very personal and very special.
I tend to think of life as having purpose, thus the idea of calling is not strange to me. However, I don't agree with your idea of a "denyer." (or is it "denier"; English is not my best language). The concept of having been denied seems so final to me, and you are not finished yet. I think that you are still in the process of discovery.
I have told you before that I thought that you are a talented writer with a gift of expression. You have been a great blessing to those of us who have experienced what you go through with Jeff. You have put our feelings/frustrations into words, and I believe that you have very useful insights. You ministered to me, someone you are never likely to meet, someone who lives 7 or 8 time zones from you. Perhaps it is not Mozartic in impact, but it has made the difference in at least one.
I have not read your books. But rule number 1 for writers is to write what you know. I once watched some Walton episodes to get a feeling for how Americans lived during the depression. I remember that John-Boy used to write about his daily life; he would take the ordinary and make it extraordinary, and he would get into trouble whenever he drifted too far away from his experiences.
Perhaps you have not found the right genre or subjects to match your abilities or experience. I applaud you for the courage to putting down several books on paper and offering them to the world.
I have a book within me, I believe, but have not yet put it down on paper. I have rough plot outlines, and I think about plot developments everytime I read a paper. I create in other ways (lectures, seminars) but have not written the fiction that is within me. But I am not finished yet, either.
Thanks Prof, I appreciate your words. I also have trouble truly believing there's no purpose, but I suspect it's a more nebulous purpose than my present desire to define things, um, desires.
I often listen to the intertwinings of a complexly and beautifully composed piece of music and marvel that a human mind thought on so many harmonious levels..."there--we need a minor chord riff on bells, right there!"
How can a species be both so brilliant and so idiotic?
As for "denier"...we who have English as a first language don't even know how to spell it, most of the time. Nothing you do with it looks right.
I think all that most thoughtful people really want is to have impacted the world in a positive way, even a bit. I imagine if I get a retrospective instant replay at the end, I will not be too dissatisfied.
I had to laugh that you mentioned The Waltons. Growing up, my brother and sister and I had a lot of fun inventing our own spoof Waltons episodes which we'd record on a cassette player in radio show format.
As for writing, I'm just in the aspect of the cycle where I've slipped off the horse and am sitting in the mud whining. The horse hates me. The mud hates me. This worm in the mud? It hates me too. I can't whine for long. Very unpleasant practice. I'm about to hoist myself back on, and I will feel much better. A little mud on the britches will not hurt the process either.
I notice you've posted more Blog updates in six months of 2010 than in the whole of any previous year, so there must be some stardust. A Diary of Living with an Alzheimer's Sufferer could be compiled from you blogs, and might interest many people, and give insight into the condition.
It's an idea that's been proffered before--compile thoughts about Alzheimer's.
For the moment, where I am--immersed in daily life--Alzheimer's doesn't feel like where I want to put the energy required for a long-term project. I can let off the steam a bit, in puffs and wheezes, in the form of a blog, and it can be therapeutic and--I hope at least to some--useful.
But book projects seem to be an opportunity to explore elsewhere--to have something going on that functions more as a creative escape from at least my particular reality. This is why fiction seems, for now, to hold more appeal. I may need to crack down on the guts and bones of storytelling technique.
Maybe I'm just willing to leave a legacy of nice tries!
That makes a lot of sense, there's no relaxation in doing in your spare time what you have to do all day.
That's one reason I don't think being a professional musician would suit me (not that I have the riffs anyway).
I made the Walton's reference because you referred to them in a previous blog where you were playing with embedded video.
Interesting aside: after my formal education in the late 90's, I started studying more seriously American culture, relying heavily on video tapes/dvds of TV shows. I don't know how much it really enhanced my understanding of Americans and their culture, but I do understand a plethora of cultural references, and it makes lectures in America more interesting for my audiences.
As I thought about this topic yesterday, I think that this blog is your equivalent of John-Boy's notebook. That said, I envision that in the future you will use the content of this blog to write an Alzheimer themed novel.
When the time is right for you, I think that you will find it very healthy for your soul. Probably one of your greatest current frustrations now is your lack of control of your own story. Writing the novel will put you back in control. And that sense of control will be healing for you.
Ah yes...so I did. (Refer to the Waltons.)
As for Alzheimer-themed novels, well, at the moment I feel that reading such a thing would be the equivalent of narrating what happens as you are digested over the course of a thousand years in the belly of the beast in the Great Pit of Carkoon.
(Star Wars, episode VI)
But, it could be done. Breaking up brief passages which touch on the present reality with flashes to a livelier time. Nicholas Sparks with less sugar. Or something. I won't argue. I could be so moved at a future time.
Maybe you could be a blend of Sparks and Faulkner. I saw (and read) "The Notebook". If you liked that book, try reading "The Wedding", which carries the story further with the children.
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