Good morning again.
Well....since my last post, I have been busy doing research on literary agents--reading their profiles, going over interviews, and getting a feel for what they look for in a pitch letter...or in literary speak...query letter. Ah-ha...see ya learn things when you study!! I've also fallen upon a treatise (or in layman's terms) dissertation written by a literary critic who has been proposed to have lived in the first to third century AD entitled "On The Sublime" by a man called Longinus (though his real name was never known). I must say, that I am pretty sure that now is the time to be doing all of this...because as I was reading his critique of Homer, Demetrius, Aristotle <---now those are some literary GIANTS right there....and right up my alley--I saw myself in what he termed "the sublime" as an author. I have mentioned here that I won't post (or work on my book) if I have to get all "heady" about any point I'm attempting to make. Once I start reaching for a concept, words, or explanations, and I begin over-thinking....game over, because I know it's not coming from the right place. I mean sure, I could probably invent most anything in my lofty mind and vivid imagination, and allow those complexities to dictate, but there is something very unnatural feeling about that..it feels forced and full of pretense. <----A fiction writer, I am not.
As I delved further into this concept of literary sublimity (as it relates to the author), I recalled my first year in college composition, whereby I was given a step-by-step reference outline by my professor which was intended to help the students learn how to compose a technically-correct essay. It was to be constructed something like this:
I. Title, which should be the primary idea of the paper.
II. Thesis statement, the purpose of the paper and the point you plan to prove.
III. Concrete detail (facts) and commentary (your opinion) that help to prove the thesis--which usually takes up about 3-4 pointed paragraphs.
IV. Conclusion...a reiteration of the thesis (though stated differently) to wrap it up.
Looks pretty simple, right? I mean there's the formula....now GO!! Ummm....me, not so much. I FROZE. I became completely confused. I could NOT wrap my head around ANY of it. I had been writing for most of my life and now, in a class where I thought I could maybe polish my talent, learn some things of benefit in furthering this passion forward...and at onset, I felt completely lost. I remember thinking to myself "here I thought I was a writer and now I don't think I have the foggiest idea what the hell I have been doing...because it ISN'T this!!" I AGONIZED over this first paper I was to write, trying to use this formula to produce what was assigned. Many private consults with my professor would then ensue relentlessly explaining to her that I just didn't have any idea what she expected of me, or how to even wrap my head around this "USING a formula to write a paper." I clearly remember her getting more than a little irritated with my obvious and redundant ignorance and then... my inability to find the words to give reason to why I had such a problem with it. She ended those visits by stating "all I can say to you...is just do the best you can." So with deadline looming-- the night before with 5 pages of STILL unconceived essay due the next day, I had no choice but to push that "formula" aside and do it the way I had become accustomed. I conjured up an idea, put it to paper...5 pages...DONE, turned in, one stress alleviated.
The day we received our essays back in class, she explained that not all of them had been graded, so if some of us didn't get ours back, this was the reason--no biggie. They were in a pile on her desk and we were to go through them and find ours and take it. I came back empty-handed....though as I gazed around the classroom, it seemed that I was the ONLY one who hadn't gotten mine back...and panic set in, I began to sweat, my heart began racing, and the initial agony that I had experienced trying to understand what she expected of me before I wrote the essay seemed like nothing compared to the sheer terror I was feeling now, as I couldn't help but think..."I bombed it...it's that simple, there could be no other explanation for this."...My heart then began to sink as I suffered with the realization that what I thought I had been doing all these years was not "writing"...it was just nothing. Worse than that...I had attached my entire being and purpose to this pen-to-paper, or fingers-to-keys...and now, I sit in this sinking feeling that I had completely disillusioned myself...and now add embarrassment, humiliation, and just wanting to run out of that classroom and never go back. I sat there the entire class steeping in my failure, red-faced, sweaty-palmed, and mind racing. The seat-time came and went without barely a notice from me. I just wanted out. I believe that I was not only the FIRST person to realize class was dismissed, but I think I actually prophesied the precise moment of its ending. I grabbed my books, and began heading for the door with the rest of my classmates behind me...when she raised her voice and spoke "Ms. (real name inserted here)!" I FROZE...my shoulders sank, any moisture in my mouth completely evaporated, and my knees felt suddenly unable to support the heaviness of my body. "Ms. ________, do you have a minute?" My eyes closed, my face turned upward toward the ceiling....the feeling of deflation surrender I felt was something I'd never felt before, nor since. I spun around slowly as all of my classmates passed around me to leave, and said "yes ma'am, I do." "Please come here and take a seat, I'd like to speak to you about your essay." As I approached the chair, (I can still bring to the surface that palpable feeling of complete defeat). She began to talk...I didn't know if I wanted to listen or if I even could at that point...here it comes...."You are one EXCELLENT writer, little girl--here is your paper. I wanted to give it to you personally because I knew how anxious you were about understanding the technical aspects of writing an essay, and I see that you figured it out." I wanted to just faint!! Wait a minute, did I just hear what I thought I heard....I was ELATED and COMPLETELY DUMBFOUNDED at the same time. I confessed..."I didn't use the outline, I threw it aside and just wrote the paper the way I would write it in order to just get it done." She then retrieved a copy of the technical outline, set it against my essay...and much to my surprise...ALL OF THOSE TECHNICAL ELEMENTS were contained within it. <----THIS is the epitome of "The Sublime" in which Longinus speaks in his "critique dissertation"--it is a KNOWING that cannot be taught...and it is what he deems to be a most prolific substance contained within certain writers which somehow mysteriously propels them to "write for antiquity." Below are some excerpts from "On the Sublime" that took me back to this college comp incident.
[The first question which presents itself for solution is whether there is any art which can teach sublimity or loftiness in writing. For some hold generally that there is mere delusion in attempting to reduce such subjects to technical rules. “The Sublime,” they tell us, “is born in a man, and not to be acquired by instruction; genius is the only master who can teach it. The vigorous products of nature” (such is their view) “are weakened and in every respect debased, when robbed of their flesh and blood by frigid technicalities.” 2But I maintain that the truth can be shown to stand otherwise in this matter. Let us look at the case in this way; Nature in her loftier and more passionate moods, while detesting all appearance of restraint, is not 4wont to show herself utterly wayward and reckless; and though in all cases the vital informing principle is derived from her, yet to determine the right degree and the right moment, and to contribute the precision of practice and experience, is the peculiar province of scientific method.
Then, again (and this is the most important point of all), a writer can only learn from art when he is to abandon himself to the direction of his genius.]
There are many more points made in this dissertation that make me feel supported and understood in what I have always perceived to be "writing." They illuminated some of the mystery for me as well as lit that fire under my butt to stop being my own worst critic, to stop worrying so much about "polish,"and to love and embrace my innate proclivity toward "lofty thought"-- and with reckless abandon, allow it to take me where it will, ignite my intellect which waits to be beckoned and trust that these two elements of my gift will not lead me down an ungrounded path but intrinsically work with one another to rather potentiate the work to it's own perfection...not my image of it. Moreover, it is so fitting and so true to form that I would receive such wisdom from a since extinguished physical presence, but a voice everlasting through literature.
MY REVELATION: What this ancient literary inscription provided to me was the reason why this technical formula so confounded me when it was to "come before." It was asking me to UNLEARN everything I already knew, but had NEVER BEEN TAUGHT and then reteach it to me backwards!! The only time "headiness" comes into the picture for me is during revision. During my intent to write, my first consideration is destination. However, while engaged in the process, it seems effortless as the concept of "destination" becomes a rather loose and non-fixated component, as I (unbeknownst to myself) grant the direction freedom to unfold to eventually find me there. "Thinking" it into existence doesn't work for me. When I'm finished, I then take time to look over my transitions, use of language, and scan for polished streamline final product--and usually with only a few "tweaks" in arrangement and delivery, much to my surprise-- it is already in there. What I find is that it flows, ties together, and that "knot" it creates is the end to the beginning. So Longinus (or whatever your real name is)...From the inside, outside, top and bottom of my heart...I thank you. I would have joyfully chucked any promise made to me by any modern-day educational institution guaranteeing my success in the world of writing literature to have been born in a time where I could be in the same room with you, listening to you speak these words now set to paper while experiencing the presence and exuberant passion behind them. Thank God for books and those treasures buried deep inside of them that stand the test of time!!
So on I trudge into a most epic adventure in the literary world. The only baggage I pack for my journey is a lighter sense of dignity and belief in my voice. I've done away with all of the heavy, hard to carry stuff, such as the mental downplay of my abilities and attitude of self-defeat. As I believe that we, ourselves, bring about the manifestation of our most pure and contributory intentions---my book will be on shelves within the next two years. I hope you will extend the irreplaceable gift of your readership to it, and that you will receive it back ten-thousand times.
As Always...my best to you.
Well....since my last post, I have been busy doing research on literary agents--reading their profiles, going over interviews, and getting a feel for what they look for in a pitch letter...or in literary speak...query letter. Ah-ha...see ya learn things when you study!! I've also fallen upon a treatise (or in layman's terms) dissertation written by a literary critic who has been proposed to have lived in the first to third century AD entitled "On The Sublime" by a man called Longinus (though his real name was never known). I must say, that I am pretty sure that now is the time to be doing all of this...because as I was reading his critique of Homer, Demetrius, Aristotle <---now those are some literary GIANTS right there....and right up my alley--I saw myself in what he termed "the sublime" as an author. I have mentioned here that I won't post (or work on my book) if I have to get all "heady" about any point I'm attempting to make. Once I start reaching for a concept, words, or explanations, and I begin over-thinking....game over, because I know it's not coming from the right place. I mean sure, I could probably invent most anything in my lofty mind and vivid imagination, and allow those complexities to dictate, but there is something very unnatural feeling about that..it feels forced and full of pretense. <----A fiction writer, I am not.
As I delved further into this concept of literary sublimity (as it relates to the author), I recalled my first year in college composition, whereby I was given a step-by-step reference outline by my professor which was intended to help the students learn how to compose a technically-correct essay. It was to be constructed something like this:
I. Title, which should be the primary idea of the paper.
II. Thesis statement, the purpose of the paper and the point you plan to prove.
III. Concrete detail (facts) and commentary (your opinion) that help to prove the thesis--which usually takes up about 3-4 pointed paragraphs.
IV. Conclusion...a reiteration of the thesis (though stated differently) to wrap it up.
Looks pretty simple, right? I mean there's the formula....now GO!! Ummm....me, not so much. I FROZE. I became completely confused. I could NOT wrap my head around ANY of it. I had been writing for most of my life and now, in a class where I thought I could maybe polish my talent, learn some things of benefit in furthering this passion forward...and at onset, I felt completely lost. I remember thinking to myself "here I thought I was a writer and now I don't think I have the foggiest idea what the hell I have been doing...because it ISN'T this!!" I AGONIZED over this first paper I was to write, trying to use this formula to produce what was assigned. Many private consults with my professor would then ensue relentlessly explaining to her that I just didn't have any idea what she expected of me, or how to even wrap my head around this "USING a formula to write a paper." I clearly remember her getting more than a little irritated with my obvious and redundant ignorance and then... my inability to find the words to give reason to why I had such a problem with it. She ended those visits by stating "all I can say to you...is just do the best you can." So with deadline looming-- the night before with 5 pages of STILL unconceived essay due the next day, I had no choice but to push that "formula" aside and do it the way I had become accustomed. I conjured up an idea, put it to paper...5 pages...DONE, turned in, one stress alleviated.
The day we received our essays back in class, she explained that not all of them had been graded, so if some of us didn't get ours back, this was the reason--no biggie. They were in a pile on her desk and we were to go through them and find ours and take it. I came back empty-handed....though as I gazed around the classroom, it seemed that I was the ONLY one who hadn't gotten mine back...and panic set in, I began to sweat, my heart began racing, and the initial agony that I had experienced trying to understand what she expected of me before I wrote the essay seemed like nothing compared to the sheer terror I was feeling now, as I couldn't help but think..."I bombed it...it's that simple, there could be no other explanation for this."...My heart then began to sink as I suffered with the realization that what I thought I had been doing all these years was not "writing"...it was just nothing. Worse than that...I had attached my entire being and purpose to this pen-to-paper, or fingers-to-keys...and now, I sit in this sinking feeling that I had completely disillusioned myself...and now add embarrassment, humiliation, and just wanting to run out of that classroom and never go back. I sat there the entire class steeping in my failure, red-faced, sweaty-palmed, and mind racing. The seat-time came and went without barely a notice from me. I just wanted out. I believe that I was not only the FIRST person to realize class was dismissed, but I think I actually prophesied the precise moment of its ending. I grabbed my books, and began heading for the door with the rest of my classmates behind me...when she raised her voice and spoke "Ms. (real name inserted here)!" I FROZE...my shoulders sank, any moisture in my mouth completely evaporated, and my knees felt suddenly unable to support the heaviness of my body. "Ms. ________, do you have a minute?" My eyes closed, my face turned upward toward the ceiling....the feeling of deflation surrender I felt was something I'd never felt before, nor since. I spun around slowly as all of my classmates passed around me to leave, and said "yes ma'am, I do." "Please come here and take a seat, I'd like to speak to you about your essay." As I approached the chair, (I can still bring to the surface that palpable feeling of complete defeat). She began to talk...I didn't know if I wanted to listen or if I even could at that point...here it comes...."You are one EXCELLENT writer, little girl--here is your paper. I wanted to give it to you personally because I knew how anxious you were about understanding the technical aspects of writing an essay, and I see that you figured it out." I wanted to just faint!! Wait a minute, did I just hear what I thought I heard....I was ELATED and COMPLETELY DUMBFOUNDED at the same time. I confessed..."I didn't use the outline, I threw it aside and just wrote the paper the way I would write it in order to just get it done." She then retrieved a copy of the technical outline, set it against my essay...and much to my surprise...ALL OF THOSE TECHNICAL ELEMENTS were contained within it. <----THIS is the epitome of "The Sublime" in which Longinus speaks in his "critique dissertation"--it is a KNOWING that cannot be taught...and it is what he deems to be a most prolific substance contained within certain writers which somehow mysteriously propels them to "write for antiquity." Below are some excerpts from "On the Sublime" that took me back to this college comp incident.
[The first question which presents itself for solution is whether there is any art which can teach sublimity or loftiness in writing. For some hold generally that there is mere delusion in attempting to reduce such subjects to technical rules. “The Sublime,” they tell us, “is born in a man, and not to be acquired by instruction; genius is the only master who can teach it. The vigorous products of nature” (such is their view) “are weakened and in every respect debased, when robbed of their flesh and blood by frigid technicalities.” 2But I maintain that the truth can be shown to stand otherwise in this matter. Let us look at the case in this way; Nature in her loftier and more passionate moods, while detesting all appearance of restraint, is not 4wont to show herself utterly wayward and reckless; and though in all cases the vital informing principle is derived from her, yet to determine the right degree and the right moment, and to contribute the precision of practice and experience, is the peculiar province of scientific method.
Then, again (and this is the most important point of all), a writer can only learn from art when he is to abandon himself to the direction of his genius.]
There are many more points made in this dissertation that make me feel supported and understood in what I have always perceived to be "writing." They illuminated some of the mystery for me as well as lit that fire under my butt to stop being my own worst critic, to stop worrying so much about "polish,"and to love and embrace my innate proclivity toward "lofty thought"-- and with reckless abandon, allow it to take me where it will, ignite my intellect which waits to be beckoned and trust that these two elements of my gift will not lead me down an ungrounded path but intrinsically work with one another to rather potentiate the work to it's own perfection...not my image of it. Moreover, it is so fitting and so true to form that I would receive such wisdom from a since extinguished physical presence, but a voice everlasting through literature.
MY REVELATION: What this ancient literary inscription provided to me was the reason why this technical formula so confounded me when it was to "come before." It was asking me to UNLEARN everything I already knew, but had NEVER BEEN TAUGHT and then reteach it to me backwards!! The only time "headiness" comes into the picture for me is during revision. During my intent to write, my first consideration is destination. However, while engaged in the process, it seems effortless as the concept of "destination" becomes a rather loose and non-fixated component, as I (unbeknownst to myself) grant the direction freedom to unfold to eventually find me there. "Thinking" it into existence doesn't work for me. When I'm finished, I then take time to look over my transitions, use of language, and scan for polished streamline final product--and usually with only a few "tweaks" in arrangement and delivery, much to my surprise-- it is already in there. What I find is that it flows, ties together, and that "knot" it creates is the end to the beginning. So Longinus (or whatever your real name is)...From the inside, outside, top and bottom of my heart...I thank you. I would have joyfully chucked any promise made to me by any modern-day educational institution guaranteeing my success in the world of writing literature to have been born in a time where I could be in the same room with you, listening to you speak these words now set to paper while experiencing the presence and exuberant passion behind them. Thank God for books and those treasures buried deep inside of them that stand the test of time!!
So on I trudge into a most epic adventure in the literary world. The only baggage I pack for my journey is a lighter sense of dignity and belief in my voice. I've done away with all of the heavy, hard to carry stuff, such as the mental downplay of my abilities and attitude of self-defeat. As I believe that we, ourselves, bring about the manifestation of our most pure and contributory intentions---my book will be on shelves within the next two years. I hope you will extend the irreplaceable gift of your readership to it, and that you will receive it back ten-thousand times.
As Always...my best to you.
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