Nov 4, 2012

In Which We Meet Dorian Gray

Originally Posted in October:

      . . .And I take photos of a random someone's Pepsi can.

      I'm not kidding. It was just sitting there. No owner. But it was positioned awesomely. All I had to do was snap some shots and look weird to everyone around me--which, if you think about it, isn't that different than the norm.

      But I'm ashamed to say that I'm here with no plan. At all. I tried to figure out what I was going to do in bed and ran into a big, blank, black wall. And that's fine. We all get Writer's Block (which, coincidentally, I decided not to write about after I had that thought. I'm in no shape to be a-chattin' about that). As I keep writting, however, thoughts are coming to mind. Thank you for starting to move, my dear mind molecules.

      We just have to get out and live a little. Hardest. Thing. To. Say. To. Me.

      I'll have the desire to just hide like a hermit in my room all my days, writing whatever words come to mind, seeing what my friends are doing on Facebook, reading good and not-so-good books. The thought of moving to standing in the middle of the living room sounds boring. I need to be doing something and I won't want to do it unless I find that something interesting.

      But we need to get out and take some breaths of fresh air, feel the dew on our arms, and smile at those shiny stars. How are we to write it if we don't live it? One of the scariest things I ever read came from a passage I saw fromThe Picture of Dorian Gray:

"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense."

      Honestly, it became even scarier after that since he went on to say that the bad artists were the ones who were amazing people to be around and in life, so I don't fully know how to take that, but I found the passage scary. In more than one way.

      I sit here. I write. I don't live. Does that make me a terrible person elsewhere? And if I'm good elsewhere, does that make my work bad? We need to live. We need to smell the coffee beans. We need to stop and smell the flowers that happen to not have scents.

      I'm also a worry-wort who shouldn't take a passage from a book she hasn't read seriously. It's a book. But it made me think. What if there's a grain of truth in it?

      I don't like to think of myself as an irritable person. I most likely am, though. Especially if you interrupt my writing time. I love my writing time. It's my passion, and I'd rather you not disturb it. I'd rather write and not live.

     But at the same time, how can we write without living? How can I describe the feel of the linoleum floor so-and-so walks on in such-and-such kitchen without walking on linoleum floors of similar feel? How can I talk about dancing with bunnies realistically if I've never done such?

      And I havent. I don't have a bunny to do it with. Shame really. I love how soft they are. Even if they might begovernment spies. . . *grins at Alley*

      So, who's up for the challenge of living?


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