A nonfiction post
I've been distractedly distracted by some distracting distractions lately. I could start another whole blog. Or, as my pal Dan might chide, a whole 'nother blog.
Sorry to be withholding ("Look at me getting off." --Lucille Bluth). If you were trolling between the hours of 1 and 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, you may have been lucky enough to catch a mildly revealing, since-deleted drunk post. Hmm, drunk posting. Another potentially destructive practice to add to my post-drinking routine of drunk dialing, drunk texting and drunk emailing.
I've been taking the time to transform some of my recent experiences into fiction. Or creative nonfiction. Or whatever. Fiction doesn't really exist. I read a John Updike piece labeled as "Fiction" in this week's New Yorker. The piece was a about writer in his early 70s reflecting on the death of his father, his two marriages, his time as a Harvard student and his childhood in Pennsylvania. The man's name was Jim, and I'd be willing to wager that that is one of very few non-autobiographical details in the "story." The New Yorker must be trying to avoid getting taken down by Oprah (because you know she can take down whomever she damn well pleases). I have no idea what has been motivating the recent crusade to draw a sharp distinction between fiction and memoir. A lot of people are missing the point. Labels and genres are marketing tools. There's only one reason to write, and that reason is therapy. Barnes and Noble should be just one big self help section.
I'm taking my SAT retest tomorrow. I'm worried that my math skills may not pass muster. If I can't score as well or better than the smartest 10 percent of 17-year-olds, I can kiss Kaplan goodbye.
Wednesday is March 1. Another month is coming to an end. And you know what that means...
It's time to pay my credit card bill.
Sorry to be withholding ("Look at me getting off." --Lucille Bluth). If you were trolling between the hours of 1 and 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, you may have been lucky enough to catch a mildly revealing, since-deleted drunk post. Hmm, drunk posting. Another potentially destructive practice to add to my post-drinking routine of drunk dialing, drunk texting and drunk emailing.
I've been taking the time to transform some of my recent experiences into fiction. Or creative nonfiction. Or whatever. Fiction doesn't really exist. I read a John Updike piece labeled as "Fiction" in this week's New Yorker. The piece was a about writer in his early 70s reflecting on the death of his father, his two marriages, his time as a Harvard student and his childhood in Pennsylvania. The man's name was Jim, and I'd be willing to wager that that is one of very few non-autobiographical details in the "story." The New Yorker must be trying to avoid getting taken down by Oprah (because you know she can take down whomever she damn well pleases). I have no idea what has been motivating the recent crusade to draw a sharp distinction between fiction and memoir. A lot of people are missing the point. Labels and genres are marketing tools. There's only one reason to write, and that reason is therapy. Barnes and Noble should be just one big self help section.
I'm taking my SAT retest tomorrow. I'm worried that my math skills may not pass muster. If I can't score as well or better than the smartest 10 percent of 17-year-olds, I can kiss Kaplan goodbye.
Wednesday is March 1. Another month is coming to an end. And you know what that means...
It's time to pay my credit card bill.
posted by temporarily unemployed at 22:44
7 Comments:
We are in total agreement about genres. To quote Bruce Lee:
"When one has reached maturity in the art, one will have a formless form. It is like ice dissolving in water. When one has no form, one can be all forms; when one has no style, he can fit in with any style."
Of course he was talking about kicking the shit out of people, but it's all the same.
That Barnes and Noble should be just one big self help section is quotable. That's quite an achievement!
While I do obviously think (30 some odd journals later) that writing is therapeutic, I think it's a leap to call it the "only" reason that anyone writes. Some work seems more constructed in an intellectual or artistic way around an idea that gets presented. You could probably argue that there is therepeutic value of getting something "out" anyway, or that you can't ever quite pull all these things apart, but I do think that reasons other than a good old literary purge do exist.
~C (obviously)
I think that the real truth is that you really can't pull all of these things apart. Presenting an idea artistically or intellectually is really just a means to an end. Perception is unique and it seems that language is the only thing that can really allow us to connect with other perceptive beings. It's therapy for one's natural perceptive isolation.
I think the reason's people write are probably specific to the invidual doing the writing, and even to each piece. I just think it's presumptuous to assume that for all people, everywhere, the "end" is the same.
~C
"the reason's people write are" = "the reason is people write are" or "that which is possessed by reason people write are"?
Also, aren't all assumptions by definition presumptuous?
I still disagree with you, but decided to use this rare opportunity to attack your grammar instead of writing a rebuttal.
OK kids, time to take this one outside.
oh come on. one extraneous apostrophe and he's up in arms.
~C
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