I just watched Howl with James Franco as Allen Ginsberg. It made me think about myself as a writer, of course. It particularly made me think about this blog. I don't imagine I would ever have started a blog if it were not on that list of "supposed-tos" for the self published writer. I do admit, though, that the blog has taken on its own energy. I like writing down my thoughts, feelings, ideas, and experiences. And I like pressing the orange "publish" button in spite of the fact that it makes me feel small and insignificant. Who the hell needs to hear my contradictory ramblings? Yet sometimes I like to imagine that there is someone out there who might benefit the way I have so often benefited from the works of others.
I love to live vicariously through other people's art -- film, books, television, and even (rarely) paintings or sculpture. Certain worlds created by other people are so real to me that I think they must actually exist in an astral plane created by the consciousness of all those others who put mental energy into them.
Allen Ginsberg just cracked himself right open and wrote his own truth. He was afraid of what his dad would think, but he still wrote. I have written about this before when discussing Pat Conroy. It also reminds me of actors I have seen whose performances move beyond direction, training, and skill to a place where they are uniquely charismatic and profoundly loved by the audience because they have no walls. I trained as an actor full time for four and a half years. I had some skills, but my walls are firmly up.
I envy writers who are brave enough to write their truth. The fact that I have family and friends who would be affected by all of my truth gets in the way. And I do fight a desire to write my truth. Share my truth. Something in my mind is often pushing at me. Some little monster in there just doesn't care about the consequences to the lives of others. Would it be as shocking as Allen Ginsberg in his time? Quite unlikely! My hidden thoughts are perhaps less stylish and certainly less sexually charged.
There is another way to write my truth, and I know many writers do it. I could write it through the guise of a fictional character. My impulse, though, is to write the straight truth straight from me with my name firmly attached. Could I be so inspired and write it through poetry? Not exactly poetry, but I imagine a certain lyrical quality would come naturally. Maybe I'll write it all and put in in a drafts folder. Then someday when I know I'm ready to crack myself open for all to see, it's all there and ready to release.
Why was I saddled with this constant urge to analyze, consider, go within, and move energy out in the form of words? In the scope of everything going on in this world, what is the point? Why aren't I putting my energy to better use? I could be focusing on serious issues outside of myself like poverty, human rights, or animal cruelty? Maybe in my next life I'll be a powerful force for good in this world -- Mother Theresa or Rupert Prince Hentley -- I'll save the world.
On the other hand, why couldn't I be some shallow girl with a great tan and a white bikini? Maybe in the next life I won't be such a nerd.
I love to live vicariously through other people's art -- film, books, television, and even (rarely) paintings or sculpture. Certain worlds created by other people are so real to me that I think they must actually exist in an astral plane created by the consciousness of all those others who put mental energy into them.
Allen Ginsberg just cracked himself right open and wrote his own truth. He was afraid of what his dad would think, but he still wrote. I have written about this before when discussing Pat Conroy. It also reminds me of actors I have seen whose performances move beyond direction, training, and skill to a place where they are uniquely charismatic and profoundly loved by the audience because they have no walls. I trained as an actor full time for four and a half years. I had some skills, but my walls are firmly up.
I envy writers who are brave enough to write their truth. The fact that I have family and friends who would be affected by all of my truth gets in the way. And I do fight a desire to write my truth. Share my truth. Something in my mind is often pushing at me. Some little monster in there just doesn't care about the consequences to the lives of others. Would it be as shocking as Allen Ginsberg in his time? Quite unlikely! My hidden thoughts are perhaps less stylish and certainly less sexually charged.
There is another way to write my truth, and I know many writers do it. I could write it through the guise of a fictional character. My impulse, though, is to write the straight truth straight from me with my name firmly attached. Could I be so inspired and write it through poetry? Not exactly poetry, but I imagine a certain lyrical quality would come naturally. Maybe I'll write it all and put in in a drafts folder. Then someday when I know I'm ready to crack myself open for all to see, it's all there and ready to release.
Why was I saddled with this constant urge to analyze, consider, go within, and move energy out in the form of words? In the scope of everything going on in this world, what is the point? Why aren't I putting my energy to better use? I could be focusing on serious issues outside of myself like poverty, human rights, or animal cruelty? Maybe in my next life I'll be a powerful force for good in this world -- Mother Theresa or Rupert Prince Hentley -- I'll save the world.
On the other hand, why couldn't I be some shallow girl with a great tan and a white bikini? Maybe in the next life I won't be such a nerd.
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