Lately it has occurred to me that I've lost some of my observational skills, a skill which is essential for good writing - especially good creative writing. I used to wake up in the middle of the night with something to write down, I would walk down the street and lines to a poem would pop into my head, I would see a woman in the supermarket and I would say "Wouldn't she make a great character in my next novel?" You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. That's how I was. I know it sounds dramatic, it sounds like I think I'm the next Dave Eggers or J.K. Rowling or Walt Whitman. Be assured, I am painfully aware that I am not. Lately, I've been really unhappy with my lack of poignant feelings, the ability to throw out strange alliterations and vocabulary and have them make sense. I was pouring over some books in a bookstore - adjacent to Starbucks (such a good idea) and I was just brought back to how much I loved creative writing, how much it was a part of me. Seriously, as a little kid, I would type up stories about rabbits and bears that were best friends on my grandmother's typewriter, and then I would illustrate them. I would write chapter books like Nancy Drew - mysteries that involved stolen goods, secret staircases, horses, and cooking... not necessarily all in that order. It makes me really upset that I feel like that creative function in my life is gone, or, if not gone, just repressed and I actually have to work hard to find the creative juices - search for elegant words and struggle to spin a phrase the way I want to.
After being at this local independent book store, I went back to my computer and looked up some of the poetry that I wrote senior year. It wasn't bad. It's not fabulous. But it's certainly not bad. Then I looked up the Lutheran Writers Conference that's held at Luther every three years. It's fall of 2010. I think I'm going. I just want to be inspired again. I just want to feel alive and that what I'm saying matters to the human heart and soul. I love learning about art history, I love art, but I also love creating - art, music, poetry, short stories. Being able to spout dates and trivia about a certain decade of history is not really my thing. I find it incredibly interesting - but it doesn't make me feel anything super special. I feel like if I took a picture of Charles Demuth's out into the street and told people what it was about - they wouldn't care. But if I said, "How do the colors make you feel? Write a poem about this. What does this make you think of? Paint a picture in response to this painting." That's a lot more interesting to me. Music: you could tell someone everything you know about Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, or frickin' Lorie Line - and they might not care. In fact, they'll probably just glaze over. Have them listen to it, take them to a concert, a jazz club, listen to it with them, give them some scotch, point out what you think is amazing about it - that's how it should be done. By personal contact. Reaching people, not through facts, but through emotion. That's a lot more real.
Whew. That went in a different direction than I was planning. Here's what I was planning to rant about: Publishing. In the last week I have read some really terrible material. And this upsets me. Let's start with non-fiction scholarly articles. First of all, if you have a PhD from Princeton, I'm going to expect you to do your homework. Even if your article does cover inter-disciplinary subjects, if you have a degree from Princeton - I'm going to expect that you have fully researched it. This article was unclear, short, confused which painter friend really influenced poet William Carlos Williams, and overall just made me angry.
Another article containing the historiography of Jerusalem and the Dome of the Rock and the Holy Sepulchre was like wading through mud. It was not reader-friendly. Multiple names were used for the same building - the map was poorly drawn and incorrect, and poor logic was used in which sources to trust.
Lastly, my favorite and most enjoyable example, I have started reading Twilight. Judge me all you want, I'm judging myself even just a bit now. But in my defense, I find it amusing solely for the terrible writing it contains. I read it as I'm going to bed and I find myself laughing at the absurdity. This book is a whopping 498 pages. It is replete with this kind of language - excerpt from the book - beware it is ridiculous.
Of course he wasn't interested in me, I thought angrily, my eyes stinging - a delayed reaction to the onions. [She's cooking for her father at this point...] I wasn't interesting. And he was. Interesting ... and brilliant ... and mysterious ... and perfect ... and beautiful ... and possibly able to lift full-sized vans with one hand.
I am dead serious. That's what the book says. At this point I, Emily, burst into laughter. It kills me. You're kidding me, right? Interesting.. and brilliant... and mysterious... and WHO ARE THESE EDITORS (for journal articles AND for fiction) that are letting this crap slide by?! WHO ARE THEY?! I WANT NAMES! What do they do all day? EDIT, people. EDIT, CUT, SLICE! This whole book could be cut into 250 - 300 pages easily. It's the kind of book where I threaten to re-write it for them, in concise and elegant English. Stephanie Meyer (the author) wrote this book in 6 months, had it published, became a best seller, and now has movies coming out. This really doesn't say much for the intellect of our world, much less what we're teaching to young girls. Okay, your boyfriend leaves you and you literally fall apart, cannot function, and put yourself into risky situations just so he can come rescue you again - so you can see his face. Give me a break. Puh-lease. If my daughters ever read this book, we will sit down at the dinner table and pick it apart, maybe even go through re-writing sessions. I'm serious.
In short, if Stephanie Meyer can write a novel this shaky and get it published, I'm sure I can. It's always been a life goal of mine to write a novel, but now, now I want to just to prove it to myself that I can - I want to kick Stephanie Meyer's ass in book sales. (I also thought today that maybe I would like to be a children's book writer and illustrator - sort of like Eric Carle. I've also been thinking about being an art teacher. But probably not...) Anyway, yes, I'll continue reading the series, because before I get really angry about the state our publication businesses are in, I really enjoy mocking them. Plus they're so easy to whip through - and after learning about Chinese Bronze Age Art - I really need something that makes me laugh.
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