I have an interesting theory on my writing practices. It just came to mind as I sat down to write this entry, so I'm not at liberty to divulge this information yet. It's been an odd evening. I've spent all day embracing my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and the apartment is really shaping up. I think we need another bookshelf, but three five-shelfers and two three-shelfers already seems excessive. Also the idea of symmetry and matching furniture leads me to want to buy another media storage shelf from Wal-Mart. Luckily, my OCD tendencies also extend to financial matters.
I think I've been depressed this last week. Nothing terrible, but noticeable to me. I didn't get either job I applied for, so I'm still looking for work. I don't think that is the cause of my depression, but it certainly didn't help. If I choose to look at the big picture (a cliche I rather despise and a difficult task) this rejection is good for me. I've found acceptance and praise throughout most of my life. Sure, there have been disappointments and rejections, but none that really affected me deeply. However, I'm entering the writing life, a life that is full of rejection slips and very little feedback on those slips. I have to build up confidence that my writing is worthwhile. I have to build up confidence to withstand rejection. It's a warning that I've heard a few times, but it didn't really sink in until I didn't get these jobs. Granted, neither was a reflection of my writing skills, but they were jobs I knew I could do damn well if given the chance. It's all about getting that chance.
My fiction is suffering right now. There's very little of it, and I don't think most of it is ready for the general public. Even "Flight," the piece I read at my senior reading, is still in need of revision, and it's just a short story. Two novels are floating around inside my head right now.
They're constantly morphing and developing, but neither wants to come out on the page. I hate to force them out, but they're doing very little good as they are now. I have also seemed to misplace the typewritten pages of the piece I wrote last summer. I was in the process of transferring those 20-some pages onto the computer during the fall, but they got misplaced in the shuffle of papers. Maybe they're just hiding for awhile. I'm not sure how good it was anyway, but I feel like I need them.
The view at my new desk is interesting. I have my laptop and then peeking out above the screen is my Royal Typewriter, a wonderful gift from my friend Harry Hamblin (shipping and handling was $20, but it was worth it). I can't tell which writing entity wants me more right now. The typewriter seems very romantic, very Hemingway-esque. For some reason I also seem to identify with Hemingway when talking about writing. I get the sense that he and I thought a lot alike on some issues. Of course, I've only read a couple of his books, but I think we shared a philosophy on the writing life (except for the alcoholism. He was an alcoholic, right?).
I wanted to play the piano about an hour ago, but I didn't have access to a piano. I could get to a keyboard and an electric piano, but I wanted the feel the vibration of the strings in the air. I wanted to play the music that came to my fingers and feel the draw of the chords pulling me into something mysterious. I've always thought about composing, but I don't have the technical skills for that. I play and forget what I've just created. A lot of it is messy, but sometimes I find something very striking. Maybe I'm just distracted.
Well, I'm going to try to write something. I'll probably kick myself at church in the morning, but I'm not in any condition to sleep right now. If you made it this far through my rather aimless pondering, thanks for reading. I don't know if there's any real substance to this post, so I apologize for wasting your time if there's not.