Well…I hope this isn’t the case, but I just zero motivation to write today. It’s been like that for the past three days. Just a general mehness and boringness and lack of movement, which really isn’t conducive for creativity. I feel like I need to find inspiration somewhere, but right now, it’s just not happening. I could try to write, but everything would just be horrible because I wouldn’t be having fun with it.
Like millions across the world, I am reading The Great Gatsby. I read the book in high school, and if I remember correctly, I got through half of it before Wikipedia-ing the rest for the answers (Yes, they had Wikipedia in 2006). So, technically, I never finished it.
I think the only book I genuinely enjoyed in high school (that I was assigned) was 1984. As far as The Great Gatsby, A Separate Peace, among others , it was torture. Not because the books were bad, but because high schoolers are generally too young and inexperienced to truly appreciate these books. At least, I was. I guess I shouldn’t speak for others. All I know, this book is definitely not the same, a mere seven years down the road from when I first read it.
Reading Gatsby again, I can actually understand what’s going on . As a writer, I can really appreciate the way Fitzgerald makes his characters so human and real, in a way that has only been equaled by Tolstoy in my reading. Something in me tells me I will never get to that level of expression. I wonder how Fitzgerald lived and what he experienced to be able to write that way. I wonder how writing that book changed him as a person.
It’s a weird balance as a writer, between writing about life and living it at the same time. You need both, or neither will seem real. It’s all very weird, like I said.
I think when I was younger, I believed that I was capable of writing something amazing like The Great Gatsby. Now that I’m older, I’m not so sure. Not that I’m old by any stretch, but my perception on things has definitely changed a lot, especially from age 20 to 25 – some for better, some for worse. I think when you’re young you’re more willing to be bold because you don’t know any better. I think that is amazing, and I think we praise that boldness, even worship it and enshrine it. There’s something charming about it, when we see it in another person. It reminds of us of when we were young, when we thought that way.
I feel like I’m still young enough to feel like that, but I’m becoming more conscious of growing older. I think I would be if the right conditions happened in my life, I might be able to write something like The Great Gatsby. Then again, maybe that’s that youngness in me talking. Or maybe I was meant to write more about slimy monsters and aliens, and I should be content with that.
I think I’m still trying to find my voice and the book that will bring it out. I’m at a complete loss at how to do it. It’s really weird, and really don’t know what I’m talking about. Rambling, once more.
I have nothing more than the urge to watch TV right now. I have a TV, but I have no cable, and my Blu Ray player and antenna I ordered from Amazon never arrived. They sent me a book instead, some war memoir. That’s all been straightened out, and my Blu Ray should be here on Tuesday, meaning I can watch movies and TV shows and such. And sports. I don’t know why, but I’ve had the urge to watch sports. I don’t really like sports that much (probably because I was never good at them growing up), but I think once I get ten minutes of a baseball game, the urge will go away, probably for years.
Anyway. I just bought four books online in one minute. I might have a problem.