Abiding dilemma: writing is a lonely vocation, the writer often craves community, and the writers on my contact list are some of the most fascinating and charming people I know. And YET...I find that my best (or most pleasurable) writing comes from an adolescent place of absolute solitude, from when it felt like I was the only person who did this. Talking about a work in progress tends to dissipate its desperate energy. My desire to make my strangeness familiar, invoke empathy and communicate my essence is always equalled and often exceeded by a desire to derange, distort, and demonize everything I do and see and feel. With a few exceptions, cavorting with the literati blocks me and knowing the world wont listen sets me free. Am I programmed for obscurity? Discuss. Or dont discuss. Is writing a two-way rhapsody or a schizoid conversation? Does it matter? Who cares? Are all such imponderables mere academic evasions of the only pertinent issue: todays word count? Pulp is a razor. Back to the lab.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Apr 2014 16:01:40 +0000
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