Can't conquer my nature
So you didn't think that I would really be able to stay away away, did you?
I feel this impulsive need to narrate my life, and no matter how much I process elsewhere, I still love the comfort of an old diary. Yes diaries are useless wastes of paper, I know, I no longer have a "real" notebook that I carry around with me, because this virtual one serves its purpose sufficiently, and there is always a computer around... although the back pages of my "academic" note books are always filled with random scraps of poems and beginnings of stories or letters to characters... but they dissipate into the entropic universe that is my desk. I don't like working at my desk because it is filled with books, books and more books. I feel guilty because there are still a good fifty to sixty that I am supposed to be diligently reading and I have robbed them of an entire month. Oh well, you only live once and a month isn't very long after all. But quite a bit can transpire in a month, no doubt about that in my mind or body.
So, as for writing... things are going well, I have about 80 pages (double spaced) which is roughly the size of my undergraduate thesis, although this is English, so it is much easier, but also this is "creative", so it is much harder. I am more or less a third of the way finished. In reality I haven't come up against the unnarratable, that is, I function in a highly specific way, and this always holds true with regard to Writing with a capital W (God, self-analysis seems to be the only thing I am consistently good at...or rambling on here). When I write it is a three-step process. First the idea stage is when I mentally prepare myself, talk to myself and others about an idea, coax it out and begin research (in this case, because it is "loosely autobiographical" the research was already done), the talking it out stage is the most important for me, I need to fully develop the argument mentally, verbally and then outline it. That is the second step, outlining. I make several outlines, but my outlines only make sense to me, that is, I am not a bullet style outline maker. I believe in scraps of thoughts, partial quotes and sometimes, lead-in sentences that I will later patch into the paper or feel guilty about leaving out. This is the longest and most arduous part of my task, and the mental preparedness requires a good deal of my psychic attention. The third and final, and in my case most fluid stage is the actual writing and I can never start until I am actually ready. That is why, as I am asked how I can consistently sit down and write thousands of words, complete chapters (or 30 page papers in an afternoon). The writing is the "easy" part. This of course is not to say that there is any inherent or intrinsic value in what I am writing, or even that I can vouch for its aesthetic quality, just that it comes and comes and comes. Once I have gotten to this stage it is like a volcanic eruption whose heat feeds itself.
Meanwhile little I. has been telling stories again, this time to her Bobie as she acts as virtual babysitter via video-chat and I run around washing the morning dishes, she sits and reads my child books from 3,500 miles away.
What a laugh I had, she's got a far more vivid imagination than I, but I am trying to recuperate my lost fantasy world, little baby steps at a time:
Once upon a time there were two butlers. They went to town and they
went in a church. And the church had a talking cow. And the cow
didn't talk like people; this is how the cow talked: "moo, moo, moo,
moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo." And the
cow jumped up and down after [sic]he said these words. (cow gender discussion ensued)
THE END
I feel this impulsive need to narrate my life, and no matter how much I process elsewhere, I still love the comfort of an old diary. Yes diaries are useless wastes of paper, I know, I no longer have a "real" notebook that I carry around with me, because this virtual one serves its purpose sufficiently, and there is always a computer around... although the back pages of my "academic" note books are always filled with random scraps of poems and beginnings of stories or letters to characters... but they dissipate into the entropic universe that is my desk. I don't like working at my desk because it is filled with books, books and more books. I feel guilty because there are still a good fifty to sixty that I am supposed to be diligently reading and I have robbed them of an entire month. Oh well, you only live once and a month isn't very long after all. But quite a bit can transpire in a month, no doubt about that in my mind or body.
So, as for writing... things are going well, I have about 80 pages (double spaced) which is roughly the size of my undergraduate thesis, although this is English, so it is much easier, but also this is "creative", so it is much harder. I am more or less a third of the way finished. In reality I haven't come up against the unnarratable, that is, I function in a highly specific way, and this always holds true with regard to Writing with a capital W (God, self-analysis seems to be the only thing I am consistently good at...or rambling on here). When I write it is a three-step process. First the idea stage is when I mentally prepare myself, talk to myself and others about an idea, coax it out and begin research (in this case, because it is "loosely autobiographical" the research was already done), the talking it out stage is the most important for me, I need to fully develop the argument mentally, verbally and then outline it. That is the second step, outlining. I make several outlines, but my outlines only make sense to me, that is, I am not a bullet style outline maker. I believe in scraps of thoughts, partial quotes and sometimes, lead-in sentences that I will later patch into the paper or feel guilty about leaving out. This is the longest and most arduous part of my task, and the mental preparedness requires a good deal of my psychic attention. The third and final, and in my case most fluid stage is the actual writing and I can never start until I am actually ready. That is why, as I am asked how I can consistently sit down and write thousands of words, complete chapters (or 30 page papers in an afternoon). The writing is the "easy" part. This of course is not to say that there is any inherent or intrinsic value in what I am writing, or even that I can vouch for its aesthetic quality, just that it comes and comes and comes. Once I have gotten to this stage it is like a volcanic eruption whose heat feeds itself.
Meanwhile little I. has been telling stories again, this time to her Bobie as she acts as virtual babysitter via video-chat and I run around washing the morning dishes, she sits and reads my child books from 3,500 miles away.
What a laugh I had, she's got a far more vivid imagination than I, but I am trying to recuperate my lost fantasy world, little baby steps at a time:
Once upon a time there were two butlers. They went to town and they
went in a church. And the church had a talking cow. And the cow
didn't talk like people; this is how the cow talked: "moo, moo, moo,
moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo." And the
cow jumped up and down after [sic]he said these words. (cow gender discussion ensued)
THE END
posted by ilana at 6:08 a.m.
5 Comments:
Es bueno por lo menos saber que todo va bien y avanzando. Esperamos leer el resultado final!
Yeah! Can' wait to have you back!
¿Una autobiografía? Lo bueno de escribirla a tu edad es que hay tomos futuros para rato. // ¿Realmente discutes el texto con otros? Este hábito es mi única alergia conocida.
Hey, I was just dropping by to say how much I miss you and lo and behold, you are back! Hope your novel is coming along, and I, too, can't wait to read it. Good luck.
I was triying to think of an english-equivalent saying, but I was unable to, so in order to classify your comeback, I'm forced to use the spanish one (please don't be offended, it's a metaphor:) "Perro que come huevos ni quemándole el hocico." Id est, I knew that sooner or later you'd show up here again.
Well, I confess that I do have a little notebook, that I bought for a quarter, in wich I write ideas and texts; as a matter of fact, I have several, and almost every notebook I have suffers from the same last-pages-disease.
Let me tell you that in this writing thing I have a budism zen-like approach. Perharps I should say that overall I'm a zen busdist: When I'm hungry, I eat; when I'm tired, I rest; when I want (or need) to write, I do so, until I discharge, until I feel empty of the emotion or tought that took me to the notebook or keyboard. I'm intuitive, I generally don't think a lot about what I'm goin' to write (I sometimes do it for my longer writings.) I realized that, if I am something, I'm an intensive writer, rather that an extensive one. "La diosa y el guerrero" was a long and difficult delivery (that is not finished yet, auch) and it is only 27 pages. Now, a 100 pages novel, wow, I see it so hard. Congratulations, dear fellow.
The little princess' story is hilarious, send her my regards. It's something like taken out of a deep cannabis dreams.
Big hug to you, Ilana Sue.
PD: Forgive my ortography: I'm not that sharp in english.
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