My junior year of college, my second to last semester, the one I used to finish all my degree requirements, I took a class on the works of Don DeLillo.
I had read and enjoyed him before the class (and seemed much more engaging than a class on Blake or Shakespeare). I loved how each sentence is a mouthful of words being presented perfectly, spitting the ABCs out in perfect order while eating alphabet soup. My own yearning for word perfection laid out in front of me as a guideline. I have a goal in DeLillo.
As I am devouring books at the moment I hit the library with my three-year-old nephew on my day off to save some money. He isn't as I sort through titles so on this particular trip I grab Wuthering Heights, Saturday (which I got home and discovered I owned), and a few books by DeLillo. I picked up Point Omega during the day but never finished the first page. So Thursday at work I started over. And Thursday at work I finished it.
Fin. Done. Cover to cover. In one work day while working. And though I've read the book and enjoyed it more than most of the books I've read lately I don't think I understood it. I mean I did. And the words!
But in spite of my loving the words and kind of understanding the book I wouldn't, couldn't, write a review about it let alone an essay for fear of looking foolish.
This fear stems from the class I think. From only seeing some of what was being discussed, feeling intellectually dwarfed by hippies, thrift store junkies and film club presidents not to mention the Dude.
And other than the Dude, who was our esteemed professor, I'm not sure they were any more able to grasp the "stuff" in DeLillo than I was, am. But my hair was too neat and my eyes too clear to have the confidence to call B.S. on all of them.
So I try DeLillo again. I'll search the text, the words, my hear for orange juice and if nothing else breathe those words. Dwarf or not I allow myself the words. DeLillo's words are the closest thing to Synesthesia I have ever experienced. They taste good.
Showing posts with label Voice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Voice. Show all posts
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
My Voice
In every writing class, lit class or general English class I have taken since eighth grade there has been one message that has sprung up: As a writer you must find your voice.
Having read an infinite number of written works I can tell that it is more of a challenge for some people than it is for others. Those two-best-sellers-a-year novelists have voices so strong that their voice alone can carry an entire 700 page book. Some of the writers for the free, local newspaper struggle weekly, I can tell without having ever encountered these people in a writing capacity.
I have a voice. It's a bit of a unique thing, it can be very strong, boisterous and arrogant at times, and flat and weak at others. The potential problem with my voice is, and this is being written spur of the cuff, that like me my voice is sarcastic to hide any flaws, it is uncomfortable in more serious settings. My voice can fake it but, and from now on my voice has become its own entity, it knows that at any second the jig is up.
Just last night I was helping a friend create her wedding website, she asked me to make it lighter, and seeing as that is where I am most comfortable, I obliged. It is very funny and everything I wrote received her seal of approval but she was already putting down the comments about this type of laughable, lightness being frowned upon. I didn't waiver in my attempts at hilarity (which is by no means to say I am a comedy writer) but I do kind of worry that the things I say will make her look silly. One of our mutual friends read the site after I took hold of it and immediately knew that I had contributed to the site.
I am glad for the recognition of my voice. I am glad for the opportunity to lend my voice to a friend. But I'm afraid that my voice is going to close the lid of the little box I have created with it.
And it is that fear that has kept me from writing poetry for the last year. Tomorrow, because I am very tired tonight, I will sit down and write the way I used to do. I will literally put pen to paper and have at it until I am drained. I will keep this up whenever I have the time so that my voice grows. It has to be less scared among the adults. It has to stand in the sun without fear of being burned, even though some burning is inevitable.
Having read an infinite number of written works I can tell that it is more of a challenge for some people than it is for others. Those two-best-sellers-a-year novelists have voices so strong that their voice alone can carry an entire 700 page book. Some of the writers for the free, local newspaper struggle weekly, I can tell without having ever encountered these people in a writing capacity.
I have a voice. It's a bit of a unique thing, it can be very strong, boisterous and arrogant at times, and flat and weak at others. The potential problem with my voice is, and this is being written spur of the cuff, that like me my voice is sarcastic to hide any flaws, it is uncomfortable in more serious settings. My voice can fake it but, and from now on my voice has become its own entity, it knows that at any second the jig is up.
Just last night I was helping a friend create her wedding website, she asked me to make it lighter, and seeing as that is where I am most comfortable, I obliged. It is very funny and everything I wrote received her seal of approval but she was already putting down the comments about this type of laughable, lightness being frowned upon. I didn't waiver in my attempts at hilarity (which is by no means to say I am a comedy writer) but I do kind of worry that the things I say will make her look silly. One of our mutual friends read the site after I took hold of it and immediately knew that I had contributed to the site.
I am glad for the recognition of my voice. I am glad for the opportunity to lend my voice to a friend. But I'm afraid that my voice is going to close the lid of the little box I have created with it.
And it is that fear that has kept me from writing poetry for the last year. Tomorrow, because I am very tired tonight, I will sit down and write the way I used to do. I will literally put pen to paper and have at it until I am drained. I will keep this up whenever I have the time so that my voice grows. It has to be less scared among the adults. It has to stand in the sun without fear of being burned, even though some burning is inevitable.
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