What I want to say is nothing at all but inevitably there are words. I have been busy writing and reading. I wanted to write more today but its all pieces and no puzzle. What I need is a detective to come here and read things and tell me what should go where and why. What is the point of writing a novel? I can't seem to find one.
The whole thing is too dense and circular, there is no story. I started with one intention and found it too hard to continue with, I lost the purpose in it. Its too thick, too muddy. Peter Bishop said I must allow the reader to breathe, I need more air in my mixture more paragraphs of nothing so that a reader can continue reading while the dense stuff makes sense in their heads. I used to think but what is a novel if it is not the pointed tip of your arrow? That was before I started reading "To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf. The blurb on the back says that "her genius is at once more difficult and more original than that of any other novelist of today" and now I tend to agree. I used to fall into a Virginia Woolf lightly and easily but today I found it too much and I longed for one or two of Peter Bishop's air paragraphs. Of course my work is no way comparable to Virginia Woolf's (der), it is sometimes thick like hers but without the flash of genius.
What I need is a printer. I feel convinced that if I could print things and lay out the pages one after another across the bed and the floor that I could make sense of it all but that won't do. I must press on without making imaginary difficulties.
This afternoon when I tired of writing I read Stefan Laszczuk's "the Goddamn Bus of Happiness". I was able to dispatch it without difficulty, it has pace, plot and air. It seems so simple to do something like that when you are reading it but I do not work like him, not at all, I must be content to be a person without plot, I will type without reason and to hell with the consequences.
The whole thing is too dense and circular, there is no story. I started with one intention and found it too hard to continue with, I lost the purpose in it. Its too thick, too muddy. Peter Bishop said I must allow the reader to breathe, I need more air in my mixture more paragraphs of nothing so that a reader can continue reading while the dense stuff makes sense in their heads. I used to think but what is a novel if it is not the pointed tip of your arrow? That was before I started reading "To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf. The blurb on the back says that "her genius is at once more difficult and more original than that of any other novelist of today" and now I tend to agree. I used to fall into a Virginia Woolf lightly and easily but today I found it too much and I longed for one or two of Peter Bishop's air paragraphs. Of course my work is no way comparable to Virginia Woolf's (der), it is sometimes thick like hers but without the flash of genius.
What I need is a printer. I feel convinced that if I could print things and lay out the pages one after another across the bed and the floor that I could make sense of it all but that won't do. I must press on without making imaginary difficulties.
This afternoon when I tired of writing I read Stefan Laszczuk's "the Goddamn Bus of Happiness". I was able to dispatch it without difficulty, it has pace, plot and air. It seems so simple to do something like that when you are reading it but I do not work like him, not at all, I must be content to be a person without plot, I will type without reason and to hell with the consequences.
Comments
Maybe you do need a printer - Virginia had one: Leonard!
Also, I agree with you: Anonymous should fuck off.
Keep at it, Dale. You're blog ain't boring, but Anonymous is.
I'll keep at it but its getting harder, the deadline is creeping up on me rather quickly.
He left out the breathing thing but I've bought and read worse things.
It needs a rethink and I need a slightly better conviction than 'just throw in any old idea and character that seems interesting'.
I think I need the to add some more crazy ideas into mine.
that's more like it, needing a printer is so much more the essential writer anxiety then air between paragraphs. Funny though with needing work to breathe, I was always told through-out University that my writing was 'breathless', I kind of like that better. xoxox Rups
xox Rups
Ms Slamma, write on. The reason you need to work on your novel, timt on his and me on mine? To teach the world to slow down, think longer, move as if time is here to teach us rather than be commanded by us.
And by the way Gemma you are right, Rups you are right and Mitzi G Burger fucking hell. I'm going to be thinking of that time idea for quite a while.
PS Yay Gemma is online.
For more adequate literature on time read a book by Jay Griffiths (UK) called "Pip Pip: A Sideways Look at Time". It's the kind of book that could fix the innards of a fob watch using ruby enlaid chopsticks and the point of an ice-cream cone: rich and delicious, impossibly clever.