Sunday, March 6, 2016

I am not one for literary pretension.   That holds me back, in some ways, but that's how it goes.  I'd still rather write the way I write.   The way I conceive the process, the following of what I think is worth writing about.

I go for a walk in the woods, on the dirt trail by the stream.  Attempting to absorb a few things, the events of a Literary Fest, viewed on line, from Amherst College.  I'd like to belong, but...

Longer days, more light.  Warmer.  I stop in a park, pull out a notepad, but there is not much to write, merely the self-belief, which happens in cold parks with dogs playing, a picnic table up on a hill, a sunset over Georgetown's ridges.  And then back to avenue, crossing crosswalks, for wine, for groceries.

The book I wrote, to anyone who's been through the current MFA style of writing, I know it has a few spots...  And to my ear many of the MFA writers sound the same, the same bemusement...

But to me, the diagnosis the book offers, I see a lot of it, the modern disease.  The studied professional coldness, the competitive nature...  Does it come from keeping up with technology...  A smug exclusive belonging, one that leaves old literary types behind.  Adepts of Tindr and other apps.

What?  Questioning is heresy.

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