every now and then one comes across a writer who leaves a burning coal behind when the web link flashes out of sight. i came across one such writer yesterday.
she shifts, holds me for a moment, like she used to, as if she welcomes the comfort, the closeness and kisses me. “hi!” she says, as if she’s been caught off guard, emotionally. our bodies connect, so briefly i’m unable to grieve properly, as she pushes me away, and gets out of bed. “i can’t. i’m sorry.”
“where are you going?”
“my piano.” she says with vodka on her breath. “i need her.”
if you get it, you do, if you do not, then i cannot explain it to you.
i don’t know about you, my readers, but i have invisible individuals in my home. you know the saying “water boils at 100°c, but milk when you turn your back”? well here it goes “turn your back and you cup is empty”. someone insists on drinking my coffee almost the moment i make myself a new cup. it is a mystery. i never see who or what it is, there are never any physical evidence, nor any traces or track of the entity that sneaks up and greedily slurps up my delicious coffee as soon as i turn my back on the cup. whatever it is or whoever it might be, is virtually invisible, because not even my dog reacts, and he is usually rather alert when it comes to movements and sounds. it has gotten so far that i have seriously thought of making some sort of ‘portable coffee cup’ that i can just hang around my neck in a string, so it will be i who drinks that coffee, and not some invisible goblins.
today i have nothing – i am simply too tired after a full day of socializing, fixing with meetings and doing stuff on the phone. so today will be a blank bullet in my blog.
who decides what is literature? the writers sure don’t. the critics think they do, but they only decide what is literature in their corner of the Library. that leaves one category: the reader.
“writings in which expression and form, in connection with ideas of permanent and universal interest, are characteristic or essential features, as poetry, novels, history, biography, and essays.” (Dictionary.com)
much of what is still considered ‘literature’ by the ‘establishment’ (critics, publishers, professors and copyright holders) has ceased to be of ‘universal interest’. meaning that the readers (i.e those who pick up a book to be abducted into an imaginary world) are no longer reading it. at the same time the reader is picking up books that the ‘establishment’ (critics, publishers, professors and copyright holders) look down their noses at – despite the fact that in 100 years such books will be ‘literature’ in the eyes of the future establishment.
funny, don’t you think?
yeah, we all have them, don’t we – late at night, lights out, almost asleep, and an idea pops up. we are flying out of bed, scrambling for pen and paper to jot it down – and it’s gone. that brilliant, shiny literary little sheep has run off and hid somewhere… all it leaves behind is the annoying baaaahhhing echo reverberating in surround sound.
i hate them. i always feel cheated, fooled, bamboozled when i am standing there in my briefs, pen drawn for battle and no foes in sight to slay. it happens to me more often than i like – i wonder how many books, stories, novellas etc. i COULD have written if i had caught those little fluff balls…