How is writing
characters godlike? Today, in this way: My Sara -- I feel responsible for her; I
love her as I love myself, which is to say, not well enough and a bit too much.
I could make her do what I want, but I refuse. I could force her to make a
decision that is unnatural to her, but she will be spoiled if I do. I will not
love her if I force her to be what she is not. I will love her better in ruins,
broken and torn of her own poor volition, than I will love her in an imaginary
heaven of my creation.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Fact and Fiction
Avi says again that the moon does not shine. She has been quizzing me. Do I know what the moon is made of? Do I know why we say the moon shines when it doesn't? It is simply the easier way of talking about the moon, she responds to herself.
And I think, How static we are, even as we advance. That we know, as fact, that the moon does not shine with its own light. It does not shine. And yet we look up on a clear night and say, How bright the moonlight! We know it does not shine, but we look and we see through the eyes of our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, through the eyes of settlers and tent dwellers and tribespeople. We see the moon as it appears in fairy tale picture books, captioned in rhymes that dance and laugh just beyond the reach of logic.
It does not shine. And yet we look up and there it hangs, shining.
We learn and learn, and our fictions persist. Perhaps it is because science and storytelling share a goal -- to explain, to make sense. We imagine fact and fiction as opposites, but they are sisters, conjoined twins forever inhabiting the same space. For what is fact, when it can be proven and not seen? That is, what is fact, when I have not been to the moon? And what is fiction, when the moon hangs shining impossibly in the air?
And I think, How static we are, even as we advance. That we know, as fact, that the moon does not shine with its own light. It does not shine. And yet we look up on a clear night and say, How bright the moonlight! We know it does not shine, but we look and we see through the eyes of our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, through the eyes of settlers and tent dwellers and tribespeople. We see the moon as it appears in fairy tale picture books, captioned in rhymes that dance and laugh just beyond the reach of logic.
It does not shine. And yet we look up and there it hangs, shining.
We learn and learn, and our fictions persist. Perhaps it is because science and storytelling share a goal -- to explain, to make sense. We imagine fact and fiction as opposites, but they are sisters, conjoined twins forever inhabiting the same space. For what is fact, when it can be proven and not seen? That is, what is fact, when I have not been to the moon? And what is fiction, when the moon hangs shining impossibly in the air?
Monday, February 10, 2014
An update of sorts.
So so so so so ...
It's been about a year and a month since I quit doing paid work and made my writing my job. I suppose that merits a belated annual report.
It's a novel, and I love it and hate it on alternate days. Sometimes in alternate hours. I have never tunneled as deeply into myself or opened my eyes as fully as I have while writing it. I've never worked so hard to make my writing communicate. It's glorious and terrifying. I cry a lot. I mean, a lot for me.
Part of what's terrifying is the feeling that I'm picking myself over like a vulture, and that when this story is finished I'll never be able to pull another new thought out of the husk that's left.
The other part is the knowledge that all this burrowing, all this weeping tearing out of hair, public brooding writerly mess that I do -- if when it's all over I fail, all of that will become ... what? Pretension? Drama? Fraud?
I'm not even sure what failure would look like. I hope it will be hard for me to fail, since I'm not writing to please any given audience, and since I don't even expect to publish it. When it is readable, which is bound to happen eventually, I'm fairly certain it isn't going to gain me a fan club. But if I can look back on it and call it honest, I think I'll be satisfied with that.
It's been about a year and a month since I quit doing paid work and made my writing my job. I suppose that merits a belated annual report.
It's a novel, and I love it and hate it on alternate days. Sometimes in alternate hours. I have never tunneled as deeply into myself or opened my eyes as fully as I have while writing it. I've never worked so hard to make my writing communicate. It's glorious and terrifying. I cry a lot. I mean, a lot for me.
Part of what's terrifying is the feeling that I'm picking myself over like a vulture, and that when this story is finished I'll never be able to pull another new thought out of the husk that's left.
The other part is the knowledge that all this burrowing, all this weeping tearing out of hair, public brooding writerly mess that I do -- if when it's all over I fail, all of that will become ... what? Pretension? Drama? Fraud?
I'm not even sure what failure would look like. I hope it will be hard for me to fail, since I'm not writing to please any given audience, and since I don't even expect to publish it. When it is readable, which is bound to happen eventually, I'm fairly certain it isn't going to gain me a fan club. But if I can look back on it and call it honest, I think I'll be satisfied with that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)