The match in the dark
19 August 2011 06:12 AM Categories: Writing prompts
I can coax the words out of parched fingertips, start with just one sentence and then let things take me where they will, with my attempts to let go of control, to flow along and let my subconscious or my barely conscious mind do its thing, its amazing thing. But my mind frustrates me, what with all this talk of me and my inner life and the pain and I worry sometimes about how it all comes across: who is this chick?
Data in means words out and my data in has been parenting, getting my fingers dirty in the garden, suppressing bad thoughts and feelings and attempting to fit them into a nice neat framework. I’d like to tidy it all up in my head and say that it’s under control, that I’ve weeded and pruned my thoughts and the paths of my mind are gravel lined, but would that be me?
I can’t always separate out who I am from who I think others want me to be. I want to appear to be in control on one level (while always being tautly in control in a different sense internally). But this idea of my mind, my psyche, my inner being as some sort of tamed garden leaves me cold. It’s the imposition of thought control, and though the idea of my thoughts, of my self, being nice and neat and tidy and always kind is soothing, it is also dead.
These are my fears at the moment, at least the ones bobbing to the surface: I will never be able to write fiction that sticks, it will all be this talk talk about me or various vague inspirational chitchats. One of my August tasks was to file up my old writing, the stuff I’ve kept in piles in my desk and in our back room, which was a humbling experience. The drafts of my never-ending story (Has it ended? Maybe it has.) from its painful and self-conscious beginnings, my attempts to write memoir, good but still tinged with pain. The fiction isn’t bad, at least it has its moments, and maybe I should pick it up again, but I don’t have any ideas.
There seems to be this dichotomy of literature, fiction is the primary branch, thriving in the sunlight, while personal essay and nonfiction are shadows on the sidewalk. Do I want to write fiction because that’s what I think I should write? Am I any good at it? How do I embrace my style and continue when I feel like an asshole, like a writer of tripe, the always autobiographically based chest-beater?
I am just beginning to figure out who I am, setting out a foundation. The process involves exploration and pressing forward against self-doubt. Let’s toss aside extreme self-consciousness, not let my questions, the bottomless pit of analysis, get in the way. This is what I can write now and later I will be able to write something else and the wit is there no matter what, my substrate of dark humor and dark life, the match in the dark against the dripping brick wall.
From the prompt "I can do it."
I'm posting every messy Round Robin prompt, a prompt a day until the RR ends. Unless I tell you otherwise, this is the original 12-minute prompt edited only for clarity and typos.
Data in means words out and my data in has been parenting, getting my fingers dirty in the garden, suppressing bad thoughts and feelings and attempting to fit them into a nice neat framework. I’d like to tidy it all up in my head and say that it’s under control, that I’ve weeded and pruned my thoughts and the paths of my mind are gravel lined, but would that be me?
I can’t always separate out who I am from who I think others want me to be. I want to appear to be in control on one level (while always being tautly in control in a different sense internally). But this idea of my mind, my psyche, my inner being as some sort of tamed garden leaves me cold. It’s the imposition of thought control, and though the idea of my thoughts, of my self, being nice and neat and tidy and always kind is soothing, it is also dead.
These are my fears at the moment, at least the ones bobbing to the surface: I will never be able to write fiction that sticks, it will all be this talk talk about me or various vague inspirational chitchats. One of my August tasks was to file up my old writing, the stuff I’ve kept in piles in my desk and in our back room, which was a humbling experience. The drafts of my never-ending story (Has it ended? Maybe it has.) from its painful and self-conscious beginnings, my attempts to write memoir, good but still tinged with pain. The fiction isn’t bad, at least it has its moments, and maybe I should pick it up again, but I don’t have any ideas.
There seems to be this dichotomy of literature, fiction is the primary branch, thriving in the sunlight, while personal essay and nonfiction are shadows on the sidewalk. Do I want to write fiction because that’s what I think I should write? Am I any good at it? How do I embrace my style and continue when I feel like an asshole, like a writer of tripe, the always autobiographically based chest-beater?
I am just beginning to figure out who I am, setting out a foundation. The process involves exploration and pressing forward against self-doubt. Let’s toss aside extreme self-consciousness, not let my questions, the bottomless pit of analysis, get in the way. This is what I can write now and later I will be able to write something else and the wit is there no matter what, my substrate of dark humor and dark life, the match in the dark against the dripping brick wall.
From the prompt "I can do it."
I'm posting every messy Round Robin prompt, a prompt a day until the RR ends. Unless I tell you otherwise, this is the original 12-minute prompt edited only for clarity and typos.
blog comments powered by Disqus