Honeybee*Hill

This blog is on vacation while I write a damn novel. If I’m not back in 16 weeks, send help.

I learned something valuable in my fiction writing class today so I am compelled to blag it (ah ha!). I think I had a stunning realization about myself as an artist after reading some comments from my prof (Jean Harper, she’s great!) and listening to the comments (or rather, lack of comments) I got in workshop today; that is — I realized that up to now I’ve had this relationship with art and writing that is kind of like an inside joke with myself. It’s very true that I like to write strange, vulgar and clever fiction just for sport (my art and photography are the same, I fear) and in a way it is a defense mechanism. If I were to take my writing seriously, I’d probably have to start taking my writing seriously… and what would that mean?

I do notice that I have a particular aesthetic and style that I wouldn’t want to try and avoid, but I’m afraid that I’ve been getting by on gimmicks and I’m not exactly sure how I can dig deeper than my little jokes without inflicting a terrific amount of trauma. I mean, life is not a joke. It’s not a tragedy either. More like a flesh wound that you can laugh about later — that’s maybe how I want to write. I don’t know, I can’t decide.

Some of my jokes I find very, very amusing.

ps - Happy NaNoWriMo to your masochists out there. I wouldn’t touch that with a ten foot pole this year.