I have been too busy at CalArts for such bloggery but here goes:
Sometimes I think blogging is a waste of time, especially when your main focus is of a more literary nature. I often wonder would Hemingway blog? Or would he merely tweet about deep sea fishing?
Where are we in this world? In some sort of failing literary Heterotopia? I think about the popularity of Twitter coming to a fruition, and I wonder if it isn’t where we are heading? Maybe in 50 years we will all just express ourselves with one letter of the alphabet or better yet tiny emoticons.
Then I stop over-reacting and I go back to school and read what’s being workshopped in my MFA program and I relax.
Regardless, I do think there is a future in writing and the inherent desire to tell stories. And as long as there are stories to be told, someone will tell them.
Lately, I’ve been far too enmeshed in my memoir manuscript, and having real face to face discussions to think of much else. I’ve also been using the power my own psychotherapy sessions to push myself to the best of my own ability. I feel a great improvement in my life, mind and heart. And as far the rest? Unless it’s related to creative non-fiction, poetry and or the cinema I can’t really invest in it.
I am also working on my very first chap book of poetry. A not so secret past time of mine. I’m actually working on a series of poems devoted to and or involving my oh so very complicated feelings surrounding Sylvia Plath. I’ve been reading many texts related to her from: The Savage Gods, to more recent biographies like: Mad Girl’s Love Song (Life before Ted Hughes) and her complete, unfiltered diaries. It’s funny what we infer about someone from their writing and they way they live. What you see about me, I might not see about me and so on.
I am also considering destroying this blog and switching to WordPress as it’s much snappier and snazzier looking, but I have no time for that right now.
To be continued…