Just a quick blog–I’m fighting through a draft & I need to feel like I’m accomplishing something. Typing random strings of swear words at the bottom of the piece isn’t helping.
I write a lot about books & reading. This particular essay I’m working on is just another example of my obsession. I’m using my writing again to form a crossroads between my reading life & my everyday life. At times, this is a comfortable topic; I feel like I’m back in school researching a paper. Other times, I feel self-reflexive, like an amateur painter who does nothing but self-portraits because Frida Kahlo made a career out of them & why can’t she, huh?!
Being captivated by books as I am, it means that I’m never truly alone. I can call up tons of passages I’ve memorized simply because I felt the writer understood something about me without ever meeting me. An entire patchwork of words in my head that I touch, pull closer, kiss, cry over, venerate and refuse to let go. But it also means that I have these words bouncing around inside that replace my own words or reduce them to insignificance. There are many times where some quote springs to mind & I think, Could you have an original thought, please?
In these moments of insecurity, when I’m just trying to shut myself up & work, I think a lot about Claire from Six Feet Under. (Again, with the example told by someone else.) I think especially about all the classes she takes with Olivier, like in this example here:
I wonder to myself if I should scrap what I have & find another way. The thought of ditching 8 pages of work all at once is overwhelming. But Olivier’s advice persists: what do I see with the eye inside?