Faulkner's Best Friend
About a week ago I celebrated my 26th birthday. Not a gigantic milestone, to be sure, but a milestone nonetheless. On occasion I am moved to bind myself to an inner promise when such a moment passes- a goal or mark that I hope to reach. I suppose it is a natural inclination.
This year I had the goal to begin writing fiction everyday. I was going to force myself to sit for a few moments in a relatively quiet location and simply get thoughts down on paper. Whether it be a few sentences or ten pages was immaterial- what was important, so I thought, was the capture of ideas for future use and personal expression.
My birthday came and went. To this day, I still haven't written a word in pursuit of a literary creation. Even now, after I write this, I'll sit on the couch and meander between studying and watching TV.
Once upon a time the usually reticent Faulkner was walking down the street with his quasi-love interest and his best friend. (Note this was before Faulkner became famous.) Usually the man who would one day be an acclaimed author was content to wander down the street and let the other two do the talking. However, on this night the woman remarked how she felt sure that Faulkner's best friend would one day be a great writer, since he loved the craft so much. At this Faulkner piped up and said, "No, he won't. He's too busy living to write."
Whether you think Faulkner meant that his best friend was too busy living life to write or that he was spending too much time preparing to write (getting finances in order, working, etc.) history hasn't allowed us to know.
Whichever analysis you choose, it's clear that I'm that man. Like most (if not all) humans, I set lofty goals for myself and then sit idly by, doing nothing.
Even now I have a completed novel gaining dust somewhere because I lack the self-confidence to send it off to publishers. The first chapter is located at www.whoneedsanagent.blogspot.com, for anyone who's interested. (Curiously enough, if you read the entry, you'll see that I had the intention to post a chapter every few days. Much like my goal of writing, that too failed.)
It seems contradictory, but in this world of fast-food, convenience, and marketable happiness, it appears to me that the great majority of people spend their life running away from the things they love the most. As humans, we are instinctively afraid of things bigger than ourself- even if those things come from within us.
So it is with me.
This year I had the goal to begin writing fiction everyday. I was going to force myself to sit for a few moments in a relatively quiet location and simply get thoughts down on paper. Whether it be a few sentences or ten pages was immaterial- what was important, so I thought, was the capture of ideas for future use and personal expression.
My birthday came and went. To this day, I still haven't written a word in pursuit of a literary creation. Even now, after I write this, I'll sit on the couch and meander between studying and watching TV.
Once upon a time the usually reticent Faulkner was walking down the street with his quasi-love interest and his best friend. (Note this was before Faulkner became famous.) Usually the man who would one day be an acclaimed author was content to wander down the street and let the other two do the talking. However, on this night the woman remarked how she felt sure that Faulkner's best friend would one day be a great writer, since he loved the craft so much. At this Faulkner piped up and said, "No, he won't. He's too busy living to write."
Whether you think Faulkner meant that his best friend was too busy living life to write or that he was spending too much time preparing to write (getting finances in order, working, etc.) history hasn't allowed us to know.
Whichever analysis you choose, it's clear that I'm that man. Like most (if not all) humans, I set lofty goals for myself and then sit idly by, doing nothing.
Even now I have a completed novel gaining dust somewhere because I lack the self-confidence to send it off to publishers. The first chapter is located at www.whoneedsanagent.blogspot.com, for anyone who's interested. (Curiously enough, if you read the entry, you'll see that I had the intention to post a chapter every few days. Much like my goal of writing, that too failed.)
It seems contradictory, but in this world of fast-food, convenience, and marketable happiness, it appears to me that the great majority of people spend their life running away from the things they love the most. As humans, we are instinctively afraid of things bigger than ourself- even if those things come from within us.
So it is with me.
posted by Yorick at 5:34 PM
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