Strangest Things #5

When I awoke, I experienced at once that calm that comes from knowing that none of it mattered.

Later, I would find myself wishing to be back there, although I could not remember anything about that world.

I have this distinct feeling that I will be waking up from this in exactly the same way.

What a Nightmare!

I dreamed that a number of my friends/roommates were talking about my writing while I was sitting in the room, listening uncomfortable. They were very negatively critical of things, didn’t have anything good to say at all, and didn’t seem to be aware that I was the person responsible for this terrible writing. I thought to myself “I hope they don’t find out I wrote that.” It was a very uncomfortable dream. For a writer, it’s a nightmare. A very dull, subtle nightmare.

 

In other news, I finished reading Life of Pi. I’m not going to write a review, like I planned. There’s a lot that could be said about it, but it didn’t evoke a very strong reaction, aside from the completely adorable swarm of meerkats, and as it would be entirely for fun, I only want to review books that excite me. Logically, it might be a better idea to review something about which i can think detachedly and academically, but that doesn’t sound very interesting. The thing I most want to relate to other readers was that I never felt like I connected to the book. The writing style was not complex or overdone, making it a quick read, and there were a number of lovely passages and interesting anecdotes to be taken from the book, but on the whole I was less impressed than I expected to be. (That is not to say that someone else, who is not me, would not consider this the best book they’ve ever read. It won prizes, after all. It just isn’t for me.)

In the near future I will be reading Pale Fire by Nabokov, and The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Possibly at the same time – it depends if I become very absorbed in the first one I start. Following this I plan to read Paulo Coelho’s The Witch of Portobello, although that depends on how long the other two take me – I might squeeze another book in before the Coelho. I’m not sure what good it’s doing me, really, all this reading, but as they/I say, a good writer (or a dedicated writer) should read a lot throughout his/her life. I feel very literary.

 

I’ve changed the title for an older post, and I like this title much better. Have a look —->

 

(And in other other news, I’m still unemployed. See title of post…)

Someday, I Will

I’ve been considering lately how much I would enjoy creating my own publication. Whether it would be a one-time endeavor or an ongoing pursuit, I haven’t decided – perhaps it would have something to do with how it went the first time. Just the idea of creating something from start to finish completely by myself – not including the writing, as it would be a thing requiring submissions from other writers – appeals to me. With my own writing I’d rather it be published by someone else, but I would really enjoy making a publication using other people’s writing.

I might not be the best person to create a largely successful writing publication. I have good editing skills and a good aesthetic sense, and I could create a website that would appeal to readers and would display the writing well. Getting submissions, and then getting it in view for a wide readership, is another story. I don’t know much about publicity, as you could probably tell from looking at the views on this blog. I know things that one can do in theory to publicize a website (or print publication), but they don’t always work as you might expect. I suppose at that point it’s the writing that does the work, and if that part is well-chosen I would certainly get more views.

Of course, this is very speculative. I don’t have money to pay for a domain name, which means that I would most likely have to create another free blog for it – and I have two, and only maintain this one. I would enjoy the experience but it would not be lucrative, and so I’d still have to manage gainful employment. At the moment, such an endeavor might just be too much for me to manage.

I am keeping this idea on the table. “The” meaning my table – my list of things to do. Who knows, maybe I’ll pick it up again a few months from now – or maybe I’ll wait until I’ve got a reliable fan base from works being published, and then start an anthology project, or a semi-annual online literary magazine. I love the idea of this. I will continue to consider it.

What do you think?

Write About Anything: “Insomnia”

In the night I lie in bed. Stars, invisible through ceilings and city air, burn through me, through the body of the earth and out the other side, until their light and life-force collides with the light from other stars. I am awake, but dreaming. My mind leads me to places fantastic and mundane, images of what will happen tomorrow and things that will never happen, specters I will never meet. Fairies chuckling and monsters shimmering. I suspect that if I saw such things in real life, I would be unable to look directly at them for fear of them disappearing, or of them being too real. And when at last I drift off, the dreams I have in sleep are fuzzy and unformed. I wake feeling unrefreshed, as if my lucid half-nightmares beckon to me, enticing me back into their world.

The Writer (2)

She is sleeping and will not wake.

She feels herself move between thin sheets, nearly waking every so often. She shifts and feels her bed damp with sweat, moves to the other side of the bed. The night’s heat confuses her body; she tosses uncomfortably each minute, but cannot come out of the heat-induced stupor that invades her. She stays trapped in fever dreams.

She can hardly make sense of the things she sees. One moment things are bright and sharp, and someone speaks to her, and she answers – then she turns around and everything is in a blur, and all of the people she knows are people she doesn’t know. In a sleep that is on the edge of consciousness, she is both the character of the dream, who responds as if everything were normal, and herself, who does not understand what the dream-writer is doing or why.

And she thinks, “If I could only write something, it would help.”

But immediately turns over and continues in her perpetual haze, wasting away in discomfort and stillness.