Well, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, Siobhan has joined the blog-o-sphere. This is due, in part, to a sort of promise I made to three of my oldest friends. Amanda, Jaki, Saleema, this is for you. Well, let's be perfectly honest here. It is also for me. But, I'm sure you three knew that already. So, with just 6 days left until I venture back to campus in pursuit of higher learning, I begin this adventure. The goal here, in truth, is really to keep those of you who I do not see or speak to on a daily basis updated on my life. So, it is sort of a time saver all around. I hope. Or a time waster depending on how I use it.
I give you a quote as something to ponder, as my friend Sean gave it to me the other day, as it (apparently) made him think of me and my writing:
"Thus, though we do not know what Shakespeare went through when he wrote LEAR, we do know what Carlyle went through when he wrote the FRENCH REVOLUTION; what Flaubert went through when he wrote MADAME BOVARY; what KEATS was going through when he tried to write poetry against the coming of death and the indifference of the world.
. . .
And one gathers from this enormous modern literature of confession and self-analysis that to write a work of genius is almost always a feat of prodigious difficulty. Everything is against the likelihood that it will come from the writer's mind whole and entire. Generally material circumstances are against it. Dogs will bark; people will interrupt; money must be made; health will break down. Further, accentuating all these difficulties and making them harder to bear is the world's notorious indifference. It does not ask people to write poems and novels and histories; it does not need them.
I give you a quote as something to ponder, as my friend Sean gave it to me the other day, as it (apparently) made him think of me and my writing:
"Thus, though we do not know what Shakespeare went through when he wrote LEAR, we do know what Carlyle went through when he wrote the FRENCH REVOLUTION; what Flaubert went through when he wrote MADAME BOVARY; what KEATS was going through when he tried to write poetry against the coming of death and the indifference of the world.
. . .
And one gathers from this enormous modern literature of confession and self-analysis that to write a work of genius is almost always a feat of prodigious difficulty. Everything is against the likelihood that it will come from the writer's mind whole and entire. Generally material circumstances are against it. Dogs will bark; people will interrupt; money must be made; health will break down. Further, accentuating all these difficulties and making them harder to bear is the world's notorious indifference. It does not ask people to write poems and novels and histories; it does not need them.
. . .
The world did not say to her as it said to them, 'Write if you choose; it makes no difference to me.' The world said with a guffaw, 'Write? What's the good of your writing?'
The world did not say to her as it said to them, 'Write if you choose; it makes no difference to me.' The world said with a guffaw, 'Write? What's the good of your writing?'
What struck me most perhaps about this passage, especially in relation to me and my writing, is the sheer indifference of it. It speaks so painfully about what a writer must go through in order to create something of this nature, and then tells them that it will merely be dismissed. Writers, unlike many other professions in this world, do not give the world or people something that they need. Sometimes it does not even give them something that they will want. But writers GIVE. And many writers give without much expectation of return. The process of writing, especially about something real and consuming, is a path I am just setting down myself, and finding to be dark and full of twists and turns.
Because what I am writing now is, at its base, about and obsession with the inevitability of death and they ways the world relates to that, we can see parallels with Keats' work and what he went through. Obviously, I am not comparing myself to Keats in the sense that I am at his level, but rather to say, I think I now understand how writers and painters and actors can get so lost in their work that they lose themselves. I feel compelled, at this juncture, to bring up Heath Ledger, who was told by an old actor of the Joker, that it was not a role to be taken lightly. It gets to people, is what he was told. And whether it got to him or not we may never really know, but there are connections to be drawn. Losing oneself in something so completely is dangerous. VERY dangerous.
Now, whether my darker introspection of myself and this world is actually related to the experience of writing what I am is somewhat irrelevant at this point. The fact is, I'm writing this work, and I have found myself becoming more introspective, intuitive, and a little morbid if truth be told.
But ultimately, as all things eventually are, it is in my hands and in my control. I've got the reins to stop or start or turn this horse where it will. Truth be told, I kind of like this adventure. It's not that I like being lost in the woods, it's just that the woods are the only place I can see a clear path.
Because what I am writing now is, at its base, about and obsession with the inevitability of death and they ways the world relates to that, we can see parallels with Keats' work and what he went through. Obviously, I am not comparing myself to Keats in the sense that I am at his level, but rather to say, I think I now understand how writers and painters and actors can get so lost in their work that they lose themselves. I feel compelled, at this juncture, to bring up Heath Ledger, who was told by an old actor of the Joker, that it was not a role to be taken lightly. It gets to people, is what he was told. And whether it got to him or not we may never really know, but there are connections to be drawn. Losing oneself in something so completely is dangerous. VERY dangerous.
Now, whether my darker introspection of myself and this world is actually related to the experience of writing what I am is somewhat irrelevant at this point. The fact is, I'm writing this work, and I have found myself becoming more introspective, intuitive, and a little morbid if truth be told.
But ultimately, as all things eventually are, it is in my hands and in my control. I've got the reins to stop or start or turn this horse where it will. Truth be told, I kind of like this adventure. It's not that I like being lost in the woods, it's just that the woods are the only place I can see a clear path.
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