About the noise…
~ Jan ’13
“Author”. Beautiful ring to it. Strong, yet subtle. Humble, yet intense and pretentiously demanding. It’s a word with which I would love to be able to refer to myself, but there goes another flippant, romanticised ideal.
I keep piles of books near me as often as possible, even if it’s only three books stuffed into the laptop compartment of an ominous black back-pack. There is a travel-sized padlock attached to one of the zips which is simply a deterrent. But nobody wants to steal books. Usually one book will be cultural/critical theory, another fiction, another a literature ‘classic’. At the moment these are: From Agamben to Zizek: Contemporary Critical Theorists, The Illustrated Tao Te Ching, and King Lear.
Often I have to force myself to the final pages. Pretentious prick.
This is just one of the few ways in which I consciously condition myself to believe that literature and writing a large part of my life (this blog belongs to the same school of effort). Sometimes I have to force myself. On a good day I go willingly.
I read that at some point during Imperial China it was illegal to dispose indiscriminately of paper which had any form of words inscribed onto it, typed, written or otherwise. Words were considered sacred, to be disposed of only in dedicated bins which were to be burnt in a ritualistic fashion. I have trouble imagining my tax money being spent in this way, but it is equally inconceivable that words could achieve anything less than predetermined action.
I have an insatiable urge to create through words which is both bane and beauty. ‘Author’, they would call me if it were ever to result in commercial viability. Pay for my words, burn my words, I couldn’t really care at this point as I often have trouble reading them myself. And anyway, I tend to find myself writing in a convoluted and contrived manner which makes sense at the time, then reads as incoherent pretentious tripe.
If I were ever called an author, my greatest achievement would be having dispelled the pretentiousness of my efforts. I still cannot discern whether these efforts are genuine or not. I have therefore decided that the more I continue to write, the more success I will have in convincing myself so.
Last, but ne’er least, as we say amongst the warring tribes;