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| Hearsay: |
Does being a writer numb you to literature? Citing a chance encounter with three otherwise serviceable stories from respected writers in a respected litmag, the editor of Slushpile ponders why the work left him cold. Was it mediocre work, or was he merely not in the mood, numbed from overindulgence?
As writers, we read a great deal (or, at least we should) and most of the time, we’re not just reading for pleasure. We’re examining, deconstructing, and analyzing. We’re trying to figure out what works and what editors want. It’s not unusual for me to read three books and several magazines in one week. There are times when I become so numb to literature that I worry even Cormac McCarthy or William Faulkner would be incapable of penetrating my shell. Usually when this happens, I slow down my reading, try to change up my sources, and hope that I encounter a new, exciting work to cure the malaise.
This happened to me years ago with theatre. After spending several years involved in acting and stagecraft, I found myself unable to watch any production with a suspension of disbelief. I could see the blocking choices, the lighting design, the proscenium. I could practically hear the stage manager working the cue mic. I’ve never really enjoyed a production since. Maybe the oddly fantastic work.
This now also happens from time to time with poetry. I find myself hard-pressed when coming to a book as a reviewer to view it from the perspective of someone who doesn’t read a dozen books a week. Slushpile asks how we, as craftspeople, remain fresh and open to the work around us.
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March 29th, 2006 at 2:31 pm
Bah.
March 29th, 2006 at 2:41 pm
Of course by bah I mean numb schmumb. Take a nap. Eat a few prunes. Then read.
March 29th, 2006 at 3:40 pm
Yeah, the issues mentioned here are very real. May I suggest an alternative remedy though, than hair of the dog? I have a math degree, and it’s a delightful escape for me (currently primarily devoted to writing and music-making), when the doldrums crowd in—i pick up a math book and let my art-muscle go dark while I brush off the cobwebs of one of my preferred areas of mathematics.
It doesn’t have to be math though. If you’re getting lost in the simulacrum, go back and remind yourself what’s Real–read history, science, philosophy, law, or mathematics, and remind yourself why you’re in the art trenches.
March 29th, 2006 at 6:33 pm
I think that’s excellent advice. I find more and more of my voluntary leisure reading is scientific or historical non-fiction, philosophy or literary criticism (tho maybe this only exacerbates the “problem” of hyper-criticality).
But I put problem in quotes above because I don’t think the problem is with the reader here. What’s wrong with only being impressed with truly exceptional work? Too many readers/reviewers seem to me too easily impressed–or they seem to forget, from book to book, what real excellence is. I’m so damn jaded, it’s nothing short of miraculous when a book, or even a poem or two in a book, makes me forget that I’m reading a poem, and I sit there with jaw agape afterwards wondering how the hell s/he did that. I live my reading life for such moments, and they’re all the more valuable when they’re rare.
March 30th, 2006 at 9:29 am
I was going to make a similar observation, ZW. Reading critically as writers do breaks the spell much of the time, but when a truly wondrous book comes along the experience is orgasmic. (What you’re hinting at there, isn’t it?) I don’t think non-writers get access to that level of euphoria.
Few and far between, maybe, but sweeter as a consequence.
March 30th, 2006 at 5:20 pm
Pretty much, yep.
I have such a hard time understanding how people who have read, say, Yeats, just to pick a topnotch poet at random, can read a journal and find all or most of the work wonderful. Or even worth reading. Yet such people exist. I may be disillusioned, but I’d rather be that than deluded.