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Literature Please come visit. People get upset, write poetry about it, and post it here. Sometimes we also talk about books.

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Old 01-21-2009, 04:10 AM   #1
Aaroneet
 
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Romantic Crisis

Romantic Crisis



Bleary-eyed and weary, I turned on the computer, hoping to

rediscover the beauty of the word. It seemed to elude me as I tried to

create a timeless character, the likes of which had never been seen before.

The process was simple enough; put fingers to keyboard and begin to type.

My fingers had a soul of their own; their

life was long depleted. I once dreamed of emulating my cousin, a former

Boston University who wrote critically-acclaimed tales of injustice. It was

called revisionism. For all of the times I was able to imbue passion into a

piece about the plight of the Cherokee Nation, or the protests that took

place in Vietnam-era America, I thought I would be well on my way. But I am

not my cousin, and I found a new style accordingly.

I would employ yet again the elusive Tom, a Massachusetts politician

who had struggled to find his own identity. Or perhaps he would have a

female equivalent. Everybody loves a series full of political satire. Then

again, if Tom is the prototypical politician, why further exhaust the idea? I

looked for a new source of inspiration, and Tom was out with the rain.

Perhaps I would write an epic sports piece. It would be about the

pressures faced by a young player in Major League Baseball confronted with

steroids. I could describe his transformation throughout the process; how a

needle could change a boy into a man.The piece would be another

commentary on society and on the natural will to compete. It would show

the quiet desperation of someone trying to find moral peace in a world where

the end justifies the means. But I could never write about a character for

which I would never empathize.

My mother recommended with a leading female character. I would

portray myself symbolically, the sports reporter, covering the scandal behind

a young athlete who had been tainted by the steroids scandal. I would tell

my thoughts and fears as I entered a place dominated by seeming super

humans, and by a male-dominant office. It would be a call for women

everywhere, and by all means journalistic fiction. Feminism, however,

was not my territory; I decided to save that for someone more ambitious.

It was time to dig into the recesses of my subconscious. I began to

think about how a character could be slighted, or perhaps if they could have

happier moments. One character came to mind: Tammy, a sixteen year old

girl who had lived a life driven by the hollow voice of repetition. Tammy was

the face of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, untreated and unacknowledged

by her parents, who were too engrossed in their own work lives.

Her family had one day a week together, which they normally spend

watching old movies in their living room. But Tammy had locked herself in the

bathroom, washing her hands continuously until she could position her fingers

perfectly under the sink. It was necessary for Tammy, who demanded

nothing less than order. She smiled painstakingly until she could hear her

family calling, at which point she decided that life would be best lived with

the faucet turned off. The tale fell short of my desired three pages, and was

quickly set aside.

The next possibility would be two female life partners fighting. One

would be servant-like, acting more as a mother who babied her children than

a significant other. She normally drove the life partner to college, which

was a few miles away, but had overslept because she had spent the night

cleaning. The other was more assertive, the way a spoiled child sometimes is

with his or her mother. The assertive one was furious with her life partner

because she had been late for school. It was the couple’s six month

anniversary. The servant-like life partner apologized profoundly. She

affectionately handed the other her gift, a ring. The other muttered slowly

under her breath, “Maybe someday...” as the assertive one walked away to

study. She gave no gift. This would be a tale of dysfunction on its many

levels. Again, there was not enough upon which to expand, and I was left

without a topic.

My fingers began to anxiously tap away at the keyboard, but all the

words had been taken by better writers. Writing seemed pointless. The word

mocked me with its clichés. The thought of writing was in itself clichéd. My

words were unable to capture the tumult that others such as Sherman Alexie

had managed to turn into a ballad. Nor were they able to take a series of

imperfections, and make them into a perfect art,as Raymond Carver had

done. They did not speak of dead joy. The words didn’t live to

begin with. Humans are fueled by feelings, impulses, and untamable wills

beyond explanation-all of which supersede the word. I wrote that it is not

the word, but the action behind it, that should concern us.
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Old 01-21-2009, 06:51 AM   #2
HumanePain
 
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I found the last few lines inspiring, and relate to the feelings behind actions: heroism, love, fear, greed.

And the overall context seemed a third person's third person. I tend to not like stories written about writing or writers (unless they are biographies) but I liked this one.
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Old 01-21-2009, 08:31 AM   #3
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Sounds better than what I'm writing, however my main character is stricken with Writer's Block.
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