Monday, June 02, 2008

Stephen King's "On Writing":

Turns out the parts that are actually about writing are a lot more boring than the parts that are about his coke addition or alcoholism or in-general-crazy early life.

Does that sound bad? That sounds bad. Let me start again:

It's summer. I'm house-sitting for a very pampered cat and very pampered gardens in a large and beautiful house. I'm trying to plan a wedding, which is turning out to be both less and more complicated than you'd think. I have a wedding dress (sort of, in the way that you "have" anything you've ordered that will not arrive until September) which is not very bride-like but which suits me perfectly. I have not updated in a long time. I have been tackling that gigantic, 73-page (12 pt font Times New Roman) reading list I received from Writing Seminar.

Stephen King's "On Writing" is the first from that list to make it into my hands. And. . . I'm not impressed.

Possibly because I've realized that at heart, I will only ever be a dilettante (dabbler, trifler, amateur) writer. (A trifler makes me think of someone who eats lots of flan. Because a flan is the closest I could ever come to envisioning a trifle.) Sure, plenty of people have said I'm good at it, and I've learned to work hard at it, but. . . I'm always thinking of ideas for artwork. All the passion and enjoyment seems to be on the side of art.

Do you think that's OK? If I'm never any more than "good at writing in college," will I regret it? But I suppose I can always write my first novel at fifty if I decide I want to do that instead of teaching art (which is hopefully what I'll be doing). I still intend to write, on occasion, but I think it's time I 'fessed up and went whole hog for art -- and quit beating around the bush and trying to be perfect at everything.

Sometimes, you've just got to say no to something really beautiful and important, to get to the thing that really suits you. Maybe?

Pontificating, even though I am merely 21, makes me chuckle a little. But I'm also serious.

The rest of summer seems. . . nice. Nice in the way that it's too quiet and I sort of expect it to leap out and strangle me right around the next weekend (I mean bend). I guess I'm still used to the semester. =) So far, though, summer has kept its hands in the air and refrained from making any aggressive moves.

Which I'm OK with.

1 comment:

Mrs. Micah said...

I've never been that drawn to it. I've read a few of the passages...but as you say whenever I found something specifically about writing it wasn't nearly as good as the crazy life stuff.

Anne Lammott's (sp?) Bird By Bird is excellent, I think. It's been a while, but I liked that a lot more.