The Rise and Fall of Literature and Hope for the Future

Sometimes, I do my best of thinking while driving; that's to say, I'm not thinking about the act of driving, but everything else... which does explain why a few people prefer to not drive with me (among other reasons, including the lack of breaking ability in the passenger seating areas). That aside, I was on my way to someplace this week when I found my mind and car weilding around a large series of objects. Of far more interest, obviously were the non-steel and brick objects. Over the Memorial Day holiday, my Hemingway weekend produced a great deal of writing of which I was and remain very happy with--but since then, I've not done a whole lot. It isn't writers block so much as it is mental blockage and the two are distinctly different.

Writers block is the difficulty and/or absence of the ability to create an idea and put it to paper. I've heard others liken it to the "well being dry" or as I have always been found of "dead air." Mental block is more that the ideas are there, they are working in the head, but the mind is refusing to allow the body to sit down and allow them to leave... it is the writers Guantanemo (albeit temporary, unlike the real situation).

It was in this train of thought that it came to me: Anybody can come up with a plot idea, and anybody can put words down on a piece of paper, but not anybody can do them simultaneously and with alert interest or intrigue to others aside from the scriber. And perhaps, that fact alone is precisely why the mind works in the way that it does... the ideas are ready yet, they are still being flushed and the language tested?

And then I got to thinking about Virginia Woolf, and the idea of a room of one's own... and while I took some liberty with her intent, part of my mental backlog is that I don't want to sit at my drafting table and write these days... but I also don't want to bother with a change in scenery. I know I must... as a writer you have to find a place in which you can write and a space comfortable enough for the duration. To some extent, it is why my Hemingway weekend works; there is a defined sense of space and expectation and reckless abandon. Of course, that would lead one to think that it should then be done more often than yearly... and perhaps there is some logic in that, but the Hemingway weekend is one which is draining and then there is the sangria.

Writing is an interesting space; many writers need "things" when they write... and at one time I thought I was particularly weird (eh, no comments) when I would get up in mid sentence and grab a lei, a tiara, decide a different glass was necessary... they are distractions, but unique to the creative process for me... and I've learned since, to many others as well. Does it seem off that one might suddenly need to wear strappy stilletto shoes while writing? Perhaps, but I find that it makes just as much sense as a runner who needs to wear a certain token going into a race or hunters that need to have certain good luck charms on them.

It is the space of the writer... and our space is slowly being crowded out. Crowded out by noise, a lot of noise. When novelists write their books with the thoughts of who will do the screenplay later, we have failed. But I had some hope yesterday. I haven't picked up a new fiction release in some time and thought--I want to or NEED to read this... I've been going back to books published 10+ years ago, or reading non-fiction... but on the shelf at Borders between something stupid and something released with the movie cover sat what inspired me as hope toward the future... "Michael Tolliver Lives." Armistead Maupin spun off his Tales of the City character for a new novel, independent from Tales, but gives us a truly rich jewel. It has been the first time since perhaps the release of Thompson's The Rum Diary that I've been truly excited to read something new in the world of fiction.

Inspired

Just when I thought, "heh, I have nothing to write about here these days," does the universe slap me in the head with such utter stupidity that I am once again inspired. It seems that a big headline for about 15 minutes today is that a judge who played a minor role in the Anna Nicole drama was cited for smoking pot in a park. The only reason this made AP news, of course, was so Anna Nicole's name could appear in another headline, and as the media likes to do, put her name in a headline referencing illegal drug use. But, my favorite part of the story was the following line:

"...Korda was smoking marijuana while sitting under a tree..."

Clearly, not trying to hide as he was in a public park. And in Florida, as nice as it has been there (so many are telling me from the sunny warmth of their Miami-area homes), why not sit under a tree on a Monday and spark a bud?

That's right, folks, I am advocating a pot-fueled lunchtime extravaganza... especially on a Monday. Imagine, we pick a Monday about noon, and everyone heads out of the office, finds a nice sunny park with lots of trees and tokes a few to get them through the rest of the afternoon... and if you are like me, and don't like the Mary Jane so much, there is always the contact buzz in the air. Of course, being from the Ann Arbor area, we just call that Hash Bash - only difference is it doesn't happen on Monday... but visit us Easter Weekend this year and colored eggs are not the only thing you will be looking for!