Sheesh. After talking about lean writing, verbose writing, soundbite writing, warrant writing, personal writing . . . what to do . . . I wish I was just at the beach where I could think better . . .
Then I saw what I was doing and had a memory. (The class sighs. Dr. PD has a memory. Again.)
I was stuck. Chapter Three of my dissertation had my butt in a sling. Really. Nada. Books piled on the floor, some of which that had become make-shift coffee tables, were crunching in on me. I think they call this writer's block. I tried everything: wine, t.v., calling my bff and running it all down again, re-reading, screaming, pacing, and railing at the sky that I should have gone into another major. My dear friend and mentor, Frank Walters, ran into me in Haley Center and saw that we were quite near a fundamental breakdown and out of mercy sat me down somewhere on a bench. After the wailing and teeth grinding subsided a bit, he offered his well-earned, academic-type advice:
Write crap. (Language cleaned up here for formality purposes.)
Not out of self defense, not as a last ditch effort, but very much ON PURPOSE. Aggressive crap writing. Take that.
Right, I'm with you. An English prof saying write poo? Seriously? What I would have given to have heard that all along.
And so I did. I wrote a load of ka-ka. Laughing all the way. Somewhere along page twelve, I had an idea. My muse grabbed my brain and went: Have you thought of this? Brilliant. Yes. I couldn't stop. And it wasn't ka-ka.
Here's the thing: I had forgotten it was a joy ride, screams and all, and had made it straight up work. Now. That's not what we are in it for, is it? Turns out, I can revise crap and make it gold once the muse starts singing. (P.S. That chapter is still my favorite.)
You ever notice how that paper with all the angst and sweat that you thought was crap got an A? You ever notice how that one that was perfect got a B?
We've talked about risk taking. Yeah, yeah. Gotta stay in the parameters of the assignment, research the field, cite correctly . . . but once you get that, you got it. Sometimes, the risk is worth it. (Says the girl who included The Da Vinci Code in her dissertation.) But wait: isn't this the same as our daily, grinding lives? Lesse--don't speed, don't drink too much, go to class, don't be late for work, brush your hair . . .
Where is the muse here? Does she get to sing off of paper or are we all a bit too pansy to try that out? I'm thinking here that really being awake, really throwing it out there in our lives (even though it may start out as crap) could lead to our favorite chapter, the love of our lives, the job that makes it all worth it, a lesson of unfathomable proportions. Can we revise crap? As long as it's not in print yet, I think so, and that print is pretty much the tombstone, yes?
I wrote this purposefully forgetting rules of grammar and propriety (except for not saying the word shit, which I just gave in on) in order to get something out. I know where the edit button is. Sometimes you just gotta say . . .
Just below my skin, underneath the burn from the toaster over, the elbow scar from the scooter fall*, and the “angel kiss”* on my cheek; below the marks of the outside but above the mush that is The Me resides the author of my action. This muse, a very delicate fellow, rented this spot in hope of self-preservation.
ReplyDeleteThis author is how my feet, despite the warmth and shelter, slide along the sheets, down the side of the bed, and out onto the floor. He is who talks and listens, he is who writes and reads. He does these things on my behalf because he alone is capable of revision. When the skin scars, he adapts, and when the raging broth of The Me is desperate, he remains the same. I made him because of you. I made him because something needed to buffer the skin from The Me and The Me from the skin. Let’s remove The Me and see what shit I write.
* By Scooter I mean Harley Davidson
* My mom calls the red blotch on my face and "angel kiss".
Revision: Normally I make more jokes. I think it’s because I’m not trying to sleep with anyone in class, but for whatever reason my subconscious has made only this serious portion of myself available. Do not be mistaken; I could have been whoever I wanted to be in here. I could have been how you wish you were, or how your boyfriend is, or everything he isn’t. I could have been fresh and hopeful. Or, as I’m sure you’d prefer, I could have been humble
ReplyDeleteRevision: You don’t know me. I’ve revealed some thoughts and feelings through these public posts and papers. I’ve meant what I’ve said--But you don’t know me. I’m both far worse and far greater than you presumed. If you think I’m a pretty good dude: I don’t sleep with the girls I get with. If they come to my apartment I make them leave. I always leave their place. The whole things is so carnally driven that the moment it’s over—well I don’t keep the tissues, cue-tips, or toilet paper that I’ve used. When they were clean they could clean me, but after touching me they can only soil me.
ReplyDeleteAnd if you think I’m all destruction: The families in the government housing neighborhoods know my name. The juvy kids know my handwriting. The hospital staff knows my tired eyes. The nursing home knows I can’t dance. And my mom knows all of my sins.
I slept over once. I met her in the bar that night. In the morning I stubbed my toe on a scrapbook her mom had made of her life. She had a mullet when she was 9, a cheerleading outfit when she was 12, and an awkward beauty when she was 17. She had a brother and a dad and a mom. She peered from behind her father’s knee, toddler eyes curios and concerned, puffy fists clinching the fabric of his khaki’s.
Revision: My friends have been my friends since elementary school. Most of them have graduated, and those who haven’t have begun to lose hope in me. After Christmas I’m going to Europe for 8 months. The friends who aren’t yet married will have their weddings while I’m gone. They’re all better. I’m separated by distance, failure, and circumstance. No dudes want another dude friend. Homely girls leave non-solicited phone numbers because they want stature and attractive girls drop their eyes from mine. I’m leaving a time and a place that I love but cannot explain why. I’m not scared of the future—I’m sorry for the past. Who will grant me my revision of college? I’m the bug inside the Mason Jar; fluttering and slamming into the glass with my last breaths.
ReplyDeleteRevision: If you’ve read this whole thing—thank you. I mean it. I consider us all to be intimately acquainted with one another and good has come from it. My thrashing about within the confidence of our class has aided my troubles outside of it. Though you may resent the words, or question the motives, searching for myself in front of people, through text, protects others from being drowned as I look for my reflection. I wish that you all would like me. I wish that we could hold hands and tell jokes and get drunk. I’ve bought in. I’m not okay enough to act aloof. The forum is more than a forum and resultantly the class is more than a class
ReplyDeleteRevision: Imsorry
ReplyDeletePleaseforgiveme
Youarebeautiful
Wilson, gosh, you're going places - and you don't even realize it. I know sometimes you pushed us away just to pull us a little closer than before, hoping that we won't be able to tell the difference. I can. Thanks for having the guts to pull us back.
ReplyDeleteLet's see, writing crap and somewhere along the way touching upon a good idea. Story of my life. It's actually one of my favorite parts of writing. I love just letting random words and pour out of me and onto a page. I love thinking "He's going to eat this up" all the while knowing that it's complete shit wrapped in pretty pink paper with a big fat bow. Half the stuff I write is absolute crap until voila... somewhere between points A and L, something comes out that in some bizarre (and I think insightful) way it all comes together.
As for revising the crap? Ehh. I tend to revise as I write. I know, I know. That's not how it's supposed to be done. Oh well, it's the truth. I just type and type and type, take a break, see if it's too crappy to even include (and if that's the case, then I backspace and start over) and it seems all right then I'll keep trudging along.
So what does this all mean? I think it means that by trudging on and going along with the crap - eventually you're going to break through and find something that inspires you or you'll do something that you always wanted to or you'll have a conversation that actually means something. Within the daily monotony of our lives, I think it's only fair that every once in a while we hit jackpot and fall in love/begin to heal/realize where you've been/realize where you're headed/realize if that's where you want to be going/etc.
I hope I actually commented on what I was supposed to.
PS I too would like to hold hands and tell jokes and get drunk. I like this class.
I've heard you have to go through hell to get to heaven. Well, in this case, you sometimes have to write shit to find the true meaning.
ReplyDeleteOur one page assignment, writing a memory but attempting to use the least amount of emotion possible, was by far the biggest test of the semester. Yeah, it was only a page, but not being able to use all of my descriptive/filler words really turned my writing to shit, in my eyes at least. I guess it wasn't though.
Writing something that was absolute fecal matter to me, allowed a reader or a listener to develop their own emotions with my specific situation. Isn't that the point? Do we always have to use big words in order to get our readers to pay attention?
Obviously everything I write can't be this way, but I enjoy writing these zero-emotion essays. I may have had a few brain farts along the way, but sooner or later I got the "doo-doo" on paper and allowed my reader(s) to add their own emotions without having to hear my interpretation of the story.
Peace.Love.Shit
We've been taught to edit our entire lives. Say "please" "thank you" end everything with "sir" or "mam." It's one of the beauties of living in the South...and one of the punishments.
ReplyDeleteBut there are many times where I don't want to follow the "rules," and ironically (sarcasm)that is when I am the happiest. Following the beat of my own drum to be perfectly cliche`.
I think the same can be applied to writing. Take Almond, for example, we all KNOW he didn't follow the rules of being polite and telling people "it was fine" whether it was or wasn't. No, he was honest with us whether we liked it or not. And that, my friends, makes for good writing.
But sadly, none of my other classes are quite as enjoyable or open-minded as this one. English Ed will do that to you. I am currently learning about grammar and how to "critique" a paper rather than applaud the student for what they do right.For just speaking their mind. It's all about image in the world of middle and high school education.
That's where my muse hides...behind the curtain of having to act a certain way around hormone driven teenagers. Sadly, there can't be a lot of free flowing bull shit from this teacher.
That's not to say that I don't enjoy playing outside the lines. After all, that's where all the fun is.
I can see ahead of what I'm thinking, but I can't see ahead of what I'm writing. That makes me mad. It annoys me. I have lost my "flow" and my connection to the words I write because I've gotten so wrapped up in my life that I've forgot to be myself or rather, how to be myself. I’m better at knowing myself and talking to myself when I’m in the privacy of my hidden writing.
ReplyDeleteWhen I write public, I write cheap and you better damn well know that I could care less about that. I’m ok with that. Too bad, so sad, sorry for not gutting my belly and plopping it on the page. My best writing, my real writing, the stuff I write in my journal- that’s for me and God. That’s what I have to hold onto in my life, it’s my buoy in the bay, my shelter in a storm. I know that when I’m losing grip of Me, I can retreat to my black leather journal and make sure I am still there. Call me a chump, but life is based on perspective, and that’s what enables us to accomplish certain obstacles (I know I’m a chump, I know I’m insecure, it’s the drawback of being human).
I don’t always write for the world to see, sometimes I write to analyze myself and reflect on my thoughts, and the world doesn’t need to see that, the world doesn’t get to see that. I will say this though, that this class has truly pushed me into the middle of the highway and forced me to crack open my skull, and for that I’m thankful- it’s a start in making myself peel off my skin for a while.
Maybe my ways will change and I’ll want to hand myself over to the world and let it have its way with me. Maybe. It wouldn’t be that far off, not from the verbal yelling matches I have with myself, and the pendulum of personalities that I have within. Honestly, I would have felt much better and relieved of myself if I had just typed out 500 cuss words on this page. Fuck. And most of the time I have to write stuff like this, all that’s in my mind and what actually wants to come out is,
mlaksdgl;ashdlgalsdhflhsdaklghljasdhgljhasljghlkdshglkdhgljhslahflsahglhlghsaldjhfjashdgljhsalgjhjsahdgljshdgljhsdglsdghljhasjglhslfasviunwocwplkasjdlghasodjgopiwdflajsnvuinwdjnsdiuvnipuw iucwiunviundiuvnewiiuw.
Write shi- ….hmmmm. I think I do that a lot, but no one ever sees. I wish I had read this blog a couple of days ago before my writer’s block took over my life for the past 3 days. I had to write a paper about something of my choice but add some research to it. It was easy at first when it was just my thoughts and my views, but when the actual hard research had to be added I went blank. The whole weekend was spent watching shows I did not care about and finding excuses not to write. Some might call me lazy, but I see it as I have been in this little box since about August and in the same routine that I think I am just now beginning to feel trapped. So, this writing shi- sounds amazing to me. I love writing and I forget that a lot of times. I think as I draw closer and closer to graduation I am starting to remember that I do like writing SHIT even if I am the only one that gets what I am saying. I am tired of the boxes and the limitations and I think it is amazing and a great feeling when you can pull something out of what some may see as “nothing”…ART and beauty is everywhere even in the midst of our rants and rambles.
ReplyDeleteWriting shit - it works on the page. I can't tell you how many times I've sat down and had to start out with "I don't know what to write." Continuing on from there, I let it flow until I stumble upon something relevant. But I'm not as comfortable with the idea of writing shit in life. Life doesn't have a revise button. There are no rewinds, do-overs, or try agains. When I was a kid, and had been goofing off and was asked to justify my irresponsibility, my friends and I used to reply with some version of "it's June 5th, 1998. This day will never come again! We decided it should be a holiday." And that's just it, each day, each moment, each event, we only get one shot at. Do you really want to write those fast retreating moments as shit? I don't.
ReplyDeleteI'm a fan of the saying "if something's worth doing, it's worth doing right." Now, I know that you expect to hear this phrase - along with such things as "the early bird gets the worm" and "duty before pleasure" - quoted by uptight, Type A Personalities. I assure you, there is NOTHING Type A about me. Yet I embrace this philosophy. It's why if I'm going to make curry I will spend all day hunting down the Garam Masaala that gives it the earthy undertones, why I'd rather not read a good book than skim over it and miss its nuances, why my philosophy ALWAYS involves more cheese and explosives (not necessarily together), why I'll stay up all night talking with friends - even when I know that it means being miserable and exhausted the next day, and why one of my most important rules for life is "always buy the best alcohol and chocolate you can afford." I can write shit and revise it later. I don't want to live shit.
I totally get what TaNesha is saying about forgetting about your love of writing. I think that's why most of us became English majors. And I feel like after the monotomy of this "school-work-sleep-school-work-sleep" treadmill I've been running on for the past three years, I tend to lose that somewhere along the line. But then, there will be that moment when my mind will drift to the places I hardly let it go, and out the words will come, faster than I can type them, and I remember why I wanted to do this in the first place. I believe everything I write starts off as crap. I have files andd files of crap that are just snippets of thoughts that I never finished. I always go back and read them, and wonder why I never elaborated, but they good to have for the days when I need insipration. I sometimes I think I'm tired of being a slave to other people's expectations. But then again, maybe I am a slave to my own expectations. I am expected to make good grades. (That's my own expectation.) I am expected to pay my bills on time. (My landlord's expectation.) I am expected to always show up for work. (My boss's expectation.) But sometimes I just want to throw my hands up in the air, pout like I did when I was six, and scream, I DON'T WANNA.
ReplyDeleteAnd there it is...
where was I going with this?
Confessions of Martha Lee Anne of Monroeville
ReplyDeleteI’ve written two responses already, and I deleted them because they were mostly bull.
Here’s the thing, I talk a lot, sometimes about something, sometimes about nothing, and sometimes- though I mention myself- I’m probably using metaphors, imagery, or being philosophical so I never actually end up on the page. And if I end up on the page, it’s probably well edited, thought of, and generic.
Sometime between the first of this month and this morning, I considered that I’m too much: too naïve, too modest, too gullible, too chatty, to deep, too quixotic, too wordy, too….and it has occurred to me over this amount of time, that I sometimes purposefully keep myself to myself, keep a blazing fire a little flick of a light because I don’t want to burn you, or me, with who I am.
I don’t have writer’s block. I never have nothing to write. I’m always thinking, and I can’t think of a time my mind died and I didn’t have anything to think about. Writer’s block is my excuse to shut my mouth rather than give in to vulnerability. I’d rather keep quiet than let you see me naked.
I want to be naked. I want you to see right through me, no walls, calluses, shadows, and no writer’s block. The problem is I’m not perfect, I’m not always right, I’m not always good, I’m not always laughing, and my heart isn’t always beating…sometimes it dies, it just rolls over in my chests and heaves. The problem is that I’m human. I have this contradictory need to give myself, but at the same time, protect myself. I want to jump, but then I want to be nicely buckled into a seatbelt. This is my dilemma. I have all the “crap” in me to share; it’s just getting over my humanness to do so. The problem is, I don’t want you to see me naked if you can’t love me, or at least pretend to love me.
I’m tired. I’m tired of being nervous about what people will think of me when they read something honest I’ve written. For instance, I wrote a whole blog for my page about saying f*ck one day because I had the itch to but never posted it because I was scared of what my friends would think about me saying the “f” word. I don’t want your expectations, your stereotypes, your ideas, your opinions, and for some reason, I still wait at your feet for them. I expect them. I need them. I make your crap, my crap, and this also causes writer’s block. I can’t write thinking about you all the time, I’m not selfless enough for that.
I’m trying to be selfless here. I’m trying really hard. Because I’ve read your blogs: I’ve seen your scars, your burns, your aches, your falls, your beautiful moments, and your flaws, and I loved them. Not for the pain or for the weakness, but for the honesty, and for the momentary forgetfulness of your nature to push instead of pull. I loved them because I saw your fires, and they were big enough to burn me.
I needed you to burn me. I needed to see you vulnerable, so I could be vulnerable. I needed you to be too much sometimes so I could remember we’re all too much, and without too much, we wouldn’t have any real stories or conversations. I needed to know being honest hurt you as much as it hurts me. I needed to see your flaws to show you mine, and I needed to see you at your ugliest, so you could stand to see me at mine.
You are my muse. I can’t write without you because I can’t be inspired without you. Your humanness is my stories, it is my poems, it is my songs. Your flaws, and awakenings, and tendencies are my inspiration not just because you let me witness them, but because you help me to remember them. I can remember that all of my too much or crap, is yours, and yours is mine, and there is nothing I could confess that you don’t already know.
So here it is, Wilson mentioned that he’s a bug in a mason jar, but we’re all bugs in a mason jar. And because we’re all in the same jar, with the same wings, feeling the same ache of being stuck in a stupid jar, we might as well share what little lights we have and make the ugly jar as bright and beautiful as we can.
Writing Crap- To be perfectly honest, this semester I have written nothing but crap, especially for this blog. Maybe it’s the deaths in my family, experiencing my first love or maybe it’s senioritis, or a combination of all of those. Let’s see, what else can I blame this on. . .
ReplyDeletePerhaps it’s just the natural death of my inspiration muse – maybe her/his expiration date has come and gone. But gone is the inspiration that would take the internal struggles that would just kinda spew onto paper, and make sense of nonsense out of them. You would think after all the emotional ups and down of this past five months, I would have something to say, something profound to write. But nothing. So many times I have clicked on the bookmark that links to this page and have sat looking at the blogs for minutes, waiting for the muse to whisper in my ear, or reading through all of them for something to catch my attention. But nothing.
Or maybe I am just a yellow-livered scaredy-cat.
So today, I am taking the advice of that English professor- write crap. I am revising my former ways and have a new mantra -- Write about nothing. Maybe that nothing will lead to a truth/something/anything. Maybe it won’t. I still write fiction, still hide myself behind characters that I can manipulate to emulate real life. Fiction gives me a superhero cape and the ability to rescue me from being vulnerable. But I guess I have learned through this blog that non-fiction is all about being person, raw and real. But it hurts sometimes. My wounds aren’t scars yet. You don’t take the bandage off of a raw cut until it’s healed, else you risk infection or even more prominent scarring. And I don’t have the courage to take off the bandages and risk more pain.
Maybe one day I will put on big girl pants and be able to work through raw pain. Maybe the girl who comes out of that experience will be a better me, a grown-up me. I guess my revision of the past five months would be to love more vocally, to give one more hug before I left my grandparent’s, to send a letter to my uncle just letting him know I am thinking of him, to be there more for a friend. Maybe those relationships would have worked out, maybe that dear uncle wouldn’t have died alone, maybe that friend wouldn’t be suicidal. Or maybe they would.
I guess Revision is all in perspective. I can revise my attitude and actions towards other people I love. I can love my other friends, I can send care packages to my sister. And those past mistakes are crucial in making me who I am today, in coloring/revising my feelings and actions today. I guess maybe ripping off that bandaid is sometimes a good thing.
My friend Matt told me recently that what Americans most lack in the food they eat is texture. The first example that comes to mind is noodles. Americans overcook their noodles. We end up with mushy strings that dissolve in our mouths without a single chew. In fact, you could probably just eat whatever sauce you're putting them in, because they are barely noticeable.
ReplyDeleteI think we write like we cook. We over process, over cook our writing. We're afraid of reading and writing with texture. Or maybe we've forgotten (been taught) not to.
I like the idea of undercooking for once. Underwriting, underediting. Just laying it out there and being willing to let people see my shoddy writing. Like Trillium said, sometimes I have no clue what to write, so I just put things on the page, but most of the time I toss it out. Maybe I need to grow in my respect for the trash I write. After all, it comes from my finger tips, it flows from my mind. Maybe it's not all pretty and orderly. Perhaps the system doesn't make sense.
But sometimes I see things from a trashy perspective. (As much as I'd like to, I'm not tossing that sentence away). Sometimes it's fun to write without the filters on, and maybe I need to take that lesson and build it into other aspects of my life. Take a few more risks, speak with a few less filters, be a little less edited.
Live with a little more texture.
Hmm. Write a bunch of garbage. I'll be honest fellow English majors, that's what I thought almost every English assignment since the second grade was all about. (Untill this class, and a few others like it) Write crap, and teachers love it. They eat it up. A+ for you, your bullshit was well thought out, used excellent grammer and superb sentence structure. Your paraphrased spark notes were by far the best I recieved, and for that I give you a 95% (because no self respecting English teacher can give another persons writing a 100%. Only they possess the perfectly refined technique of bullshit that we will never master- although they assure us, we are close, we are soo close.) So when I read this assignment, someone finally coming out with it and saying, "Yes, your writing is crap. Show it to me." I thought this should be fairly easy, I feel like my entire education has revolved around refining shit writing.
ReplyDeleteAnd then I read the blogs. And no one is writing shit. Wilson, off course, blows us away with his five posts in a row, all perfectly written thoughts about life and love and happiness (how does he have it all figured out?). And Martha extends the beatiful metaphors he introduces while adding a few more fantastic ones of her own (...keep a blazing fire a little flick of a light because I don’t want to burn you, or me, with who I am.) And paulschissler, well he's a chump, and he admits it. And I'm sure Josie will add something ridiculously profound and meaningfull hidden within all her well placed humility that everyone will love. Come one people, none of you are writing shit. And its making me look bad.
But I get it. I think I get it. You think you're writing shit. It feels and sounds and smells like shit. But when other people read it, it makes sense. Maybe we don't need to to be so insecure and scared about sharing our thoughts and words on paper, because thats the stuff that means something to someone else, that becomes the A+, the 95%, the crucial part of your dissertation that now you can't imagine taking out. Wow, I guess all these years of spewing bullshit actually had a purpose. I just wish my bullshit could be as good as all yours.
Consider my perspective changed. I would like my diploma to read: Ali Loprete. Bachelor of Arts: Bullshit and Other Refined Skills.
Oh my God, I'm in love with a whole class full of people (and a football team as well, war damn). I am never going to get over any of you.
ReplyDeleteI honestly have nothing to say right now. I've been pushing off doing this blog for days. And I guess that's the whole idea: I've got nothing, so for now it's best to write some shit down and see what happens. If I were a kind reader with other things to do with their life (such as yourself), I'd skip the next few paragraphs.
I write a lot about writing. It's like asking to be boring as hell-- I'm tucking myself into a neat little rhetorical circle. I spend my writing life in roundabouts.
(Aside: sometimes, when my dad is driving and we come to a roundabout, he'll just stay in it. We drive circles and circles around other bewildered drivers, our silver Trailblazer listing perpetually to the side. This is one of the things I love best about my father-- he very rarely makes me feel old, and most of the time he encourages me to be young.)
Anyway. Writing life and roundabouts. I said before in this class that my greatest writing weakness is not being able to follow a narrative, and I wasn't lying. Most of the time I follow a train of thought (aka bullshit) for miles and miles. I write about "life" and "love" and "truth", but I can't sit down and be honest and give it to you straight. I can't be real in a way that matters, and that's a real bitch. But sometimes, I'm a real bitch.
This is the one honest thing I can give you- the reason I write about time so often is because I feel like mine is running out. I don't mean in the sense that you need to put me on suicide watch, but... this selective, specific moment of time is running out on me. I am a woman who looks back and sees regrets. I have Catholic guilt: Catholicism as I failed to understand it for so long, the kind where it's all about the ways in which I have failed as a human being. It's just...I don't want to do to you all what I did to Gab, that boy from my timeline. I want to tell you that I love you now, because one day you'll up and move to California like he did and all I'll have is shitty love letters as relics.
I admire you. I like the shit you write. I went from thinking that half of you were assholes to thinking that all of you are brilliant and some more besides, and maybe being an asshole isn't such a bad thing sometimes. I got to read about your trials and your fuckings-up and your girls like summer, and it made me love you. I think it matters. I hope it does. It may not. Love doesn't always matter, not for all parties involved-- I have felt lately that loving is more important than being loved.
(To those of you who skipped those paragraphs, as per suggestion: welcome back!)
I write shit primarily because it's the only thing I know how to write. And here's the funny thing about it: the things I write that I think are best are usually the things that end up meaning the least to me or anyone else. They're epic! and lovely! and meaningful! and TOTAL SHIT. The only non-shit I write usually happens as a happy accident, realized only after I've put down the pen or put away the laptop.
But...you let me write shit anyway, and sometimes you read it, and some other times you took something out of it that was meaningful and gave it back to me in a way that I could understand, a gift made of my imagination and of your own design. You sifted through the pretense I have of being a well-adjusted young woman and allowed me to be a shitty writer. You saw my failing and loathing and lust and let it be your own for a moment. Thank you. Amen.
Once more I would like to remind the audience that I am NOT an English major. Being in this class has made me feel like one. I have slacked off, chosen to not do homework on time precisely because that is my romantic picture of what English majors do. They sit around drinking red, red wine, breathing carcinogens, and dining on words, mostly those of dead people who knew how to live and remembered to write it down so the rest of us would have some clues about what life if supposed to look like.
ReplyDeleteObviously I have spent little time doing these things previous to my pretend semester as one of you. My bank account is full of cash I should have [at times] spent on mind-altering substances, and my life is pretty reflective of how much advice I have gleaned from furled, decaying wisdom.
This may be the only assignment I haven’t put off out of fear and nauseating insecurity. I remember having to leave the shop where I was trying to write a response to “Portrait of My Body” I felt so naked. Writing the second essay was hell [with zero self-esteem reserves left after ending a four-year relationship] I wrote whatever the rigor mortis in my heart would consent to. Talk about shit.
But I think this class has made me human again. I don’t even care if you think that I’m overstating what it has meant to me. Most days I felt I wasn’t learning anything – my writing was the same pile of puss as it begun as, and – damn it – bad things were STILL happening. My dual nature only worsened, until finally I realized. I’m not a fake, and no one really cares what I write anyway. Yes, I’m much stranger than I ever conceived of, but I love being alive and every day of this stupid 9am, and every last-minute blog/essay/reading has been a coal-walk towards reality. Life is so beautiful. Writing it down matters. Stop being lazy and do it, and – dear competitive soul of mine – it’s worth doing even if you aren’t the best. Because you never will be. Isn’t that beautiful?
Each of you have taught me so much about writing, I cannot even express. I am amazed by the vulnerability and truth I have seen. I wish everyone was brave enough to say the things you all have. I regret not saying more aloud, in this, the one space it seems appropriate to be careless and altogether human. Thanks for visiting the dark side of the soul, the Ugliness that lives in everyone. We’ve won over it really, by acknowledging it’s presence. Can’t stand the light, you know.
I would like to end with something that reminds me to keep living, and to do it better. I have always loved this line, and feel that by just being around you in these pseudo-intimate ways, I have learned to follow and understand more clearly.
“Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?"
My mind and heart have been so far away from school this semester (I can’t believe that I am writing this for one of my English professors to see. I promise it has nothing to do with slacking) I feel that everything that I have sat down to write has been a load of bull. I have always enjoyed writing but this semester it seems that the love is gone. The once ambition of achieving and “A” has resulted this semester in many “Bs”. Even right now my mind is at a blank what to write. I use to be the one that wanted to impress my fellow students with my wit and knack for words yet sitting here now I feel that I have nothing to say. I have to apologize to all of my classmates for giving you yet another one of my bull writings. In my four years at Auburn you would have thought that I would have at least been able to pull of one “bull crap” paper that resulted in an “A”. I have yet to have mastered this skill and believe me if they offered the course tomorrow I would be the first one signed up for the class.
ReplyDeleteWhat disturbs me the most about my crap writing is that, after four years at Auburn, I have been able to mold some spectaculary steaming piles and pass them off as legitimate scholarly works. Every good grade frustrates me, because I see how flawed it is. Broad assumptions and shoddy research taped togethered, polished, and sold with keen bullshit. I know how it works, and I know how to get it done. But I hate writing like that. And here I am, so close to graduating, and it looks like I will be trying to grow the garden of our future generations with the same old shitty compost that made me who I am, knowing only the same scraggly weed will grow only to in the end produce more damn weeds.
ReplyDeleteBut that doesn't tell you why I write crap. Yea it can get a good grade, and I think every English major has to be able to bullshit to some degree. But its too cheap to blame it on my major, or my future profession. It's not fair to the university, because I have been able to soak up enough that I'll be useful when sufficiently wrung out.
No I write crap because it's cathartic. I guess in a sense it does help clear the head, because I know easily more than half of what goes on in my head is crap. And eventually it goes onto my paper, and I do get to delight in its awfulness, its awkwardness, its overall ughness. I savor every laugh and cringe that escapes me as i see my misplaced modifiers and inconsistent verb tense and every other pariah of the English language. Being bad just feels so good sometimes.
What's best about accepting crap writing is that it frees you of the burden of thinking that everything has to be written well. It doesn't have to be, nor will it be. You will express yourself one day, and it will be ugly and bland and stilted. But it will also be beautiful and honest. When you can accept that, writing will be respiration, and not the choking it can seem to be.
That being said...I still have the occasional problem with my crap writing. But I tell myself it exists, it exists, it exists, and no amount of bitching will change it. Let it keep coming, something good will eventually pop out.
I've written plenty of crap in my lifetime. I have this habit where sometimes if I'm bored or I have an idea in my head, I'll type it up on my computer but I'll never finish it. So, for example, one time I thought I had this great picture in my head for the ending of a romantic-comedy-teen angst-John Hughes story. I typed up about 2 pages of dialogue and felt really happy with it. But the next day when I looked at it, I threw up in my mouth a little bit. Did I delete it? No. I have, literally, dozens of these little 1-2 page pieces of work on my hard drive. They're actually kind of interesting to look at. First of all, they're good for inspiration. Some of the works are actually good enough to not be a complete abortion, so I look to past works to come up with new ideas. However (and second of all), most of them are just, completely awful, so I avoid making those same mistakes the next time. Of course, if I really want to read complete crap to avoid writing similar crap, I just browse Facebook notes that my friends have poorly written (then again, what Facebook note isn't poorly written...is there such thing as a good Facebook note? People still use those, right?) or look at their blogs (or my own blogs). It's the same process as the "micro-writing" I find myself doing all the time. Sometimes, there's actually some good stuff on the internet that my friends come up with, but most of it (mine included) SUCKS. Which, like I said, is really better for learning what not to do than finding something wonderful, being fucking awe-struck from that semi-Dawson's Creek-like excuse for a piece of prose, and not seeing it from a different viewpoint.
ReplyDeleteI have read this post and have kept up with all of the responses, but now I'm finally writing something. I don't know why this one was so hard to grasp. Writing crap. I think that's why I chose English as a major, really. I can barely put two and two together so math (or anything requiring math) was out. Learning about sickness depresses me so there went nursing. I don't have the attention span to learn another language so that's that. Oh and education? Well that's what everyone expected me to do so of course that wasn't an option. In fact, I had ran out of options. Writing crap? Ok. Well I could do that. I knew how to look at my audience and decipher what they wanted to hear. That actually became the fun part. Me vs. the teacher. If they see through me, they win. If they put a comment on my paper like "disorganized, not thought out" then they were exactly right. But then you get a class like Dr. Troy's Fiction Writing or this class. And suddenly it's not crap anymore. It's honest. It's the kind of thing where when you are finished you can breathe a sigh of relief. And no, I don't spend hours upon hours stressing and editing and revising. But why should I? Life is too short and I rarely do anything that requires me to freak out. Instead, I write crap to get me through the mush of learning about things that are boring and cause me to jot down grocery lists during lectures. And I feel eternal gratefulness when a class turns out to be like this one...one where I can feel changed when I leave and one where my time was truly not wasted.
ReplyDeleteWell, I'm definitely very late to the party on this one, since I didn't even know that it was up until about...right now. And sadly, I won't be able to make it to the OTHER party, since I've had exactly one day to do non-AU Football-related things today (War Damn Eagle, btw).
ReplyDeleteWriting crap, though, is something that is very near and dear to my heart. I've been doing it for years, and sometimes take a lot of pride in it. Right now I'm drinking Dr. Pepper (left my beer at a friend's house), listening to some jazz, sitting in my pig-sty of a room and writing basically whatever comes to mind, since that's more or less what I do whenever I write a paper. I pick a topic and rant. I'm glad I'm not the only one.
What makes me sad, though, is that when I get an assignment, I have all these lofty ideas for how I want the paper to go, and what I want the overall message to be. Those things never come to fruition. I fall victim to the English major's natural predator: procrastination, and the knowledge that, if I'm good enough, I can bullshit enough pages artfully enough that it sounds like I actually put effort into the paper, and if I have the right professor, that they'll maybe see more in the paper than I've actually put into it. I'm not into English Ed because I like writing, or because I want to one day write something truly beautiful. I'm in it because my life is a mirror of my writing; I start with lofty goals of what I want it to be and how I want it to end and what I want my overall message to be, but either from circumstances beyond my control, fear of failure, or general laziness, that's not what happens, and I take a different route. I once thought I wanted to be a doctor, but that was just what I wanted to do to make lots of money and make my parents proud. It turned out that I'm not so good at math, and science bores me, and the road was much more difficult than I wanted to deal with, so I decided to go with what I was good at, which was English. So I guess it's true that art imitates life (or vice-versa, really). Both are so full of shit that I can barely believe it.
Christ, I can taste whiskey in this Dr. Pepper, and there's not any in it.