Not Getting it...

One of the perils of upheavals & periods of self-reflection is things that don't really warrant the level of scrutiny being caught up anyway.

Recently, I've been playing Braid and reading The God of Small Things.

And I don't particularly like either of them.

Which means, that with the critical acclaim for both of them, I'm wondering just how out of step I am with general consensus and am I missing out on some essential experiences.

I've spoken to a number of people specifically about Braid and what bothers me about it. I feel like, with specific puzzles, it breaks the contract it's established with the player. I find the writing overwrought. When I'm playing it, I feel as though I'm trying to work out the precise steps the designer wants me to go through, and not in a supportive way, but in a confrontational, take it or leave it way. I appreciate what it's doing on an intellectual level, and at the core, I agree with that, but it leaves me cold. You only have to look at the critical response to it though to see that I'm clearly the minority.

With The God of Small Things, I found myself scrabbling for something to anchor me to the story. I'm not sure if it was the unfamiliarity of the names, or the flowery style, but I couldn't engage with it really until near the end, and even then, the stylistic flourishes were almost overwhelming. There's an overabundance of simile and imagery, which on a number of occasions stuck out like a sore thumb for me. At best, the author's voice stretched just a little too far, added too much to the description, and reminded me that I was reading a story, something constructed, and that there was an authorial voice behind everything. At worst, I found myself questioning the choice of image & simile rather than letting it enhance the effect of the writing, kicking me out even further. If I hadn't had to read it for class, I doubt I would have made it further than a quarter of the way in.

This isn't the first time I've wondered if I knew what the hell I was talking about. I've attended short film screenings and disliked every film shown while the audience has laughed and applauded around me. I've gone through short story collections and found nothing engaging in any of them while reviews praise the economy & diversity of the content. I've strolled through art galleries with friends and argued about why I didn't like the work at dinner afterwards.

It's a strange feeling trying to present constructive arguments why you didn't connect with something because it forces you to confront your own tastes and preferences (something that's happening with some regularity at the moment anyway) and still feel that there's probably nothing anyone can say to sway your opinion, nothing you can say to sway theres, and that somehow, in some small or large way, you simply don't get it.

The dangers of bookshops...

This morning, I had only intended on buying a few books. Definitely 101 things I learned in Architecture School and The writer's block; possibly The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot and A Doll's House by Henrik Ibsen for my Myths and Symbols class.

Due to a total lack of self control, I find myself with the first two books and also the following:

A second hand copy of The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron
The complete dictionary of symbols in myth, art, and literature
The Plague by Albert Camus (yet another therapist recommendation. Hopefully I'll get through the simile-riddled prose of God of Small things this weekend and have time for this too)
Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie, which has been on my to read list for some time.
Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.

Only some of these were second hand. I may need to curb the retail section of my therapy until I've done my tax.

Unblocking

I've had writer's block for probably the past 6 months, strangely coinciding with my personal life taking a lengthy turn for the worst. There've been flashes of work - I've read my novel and have a wall covered in index cards; I've done some research for possible freelance work, and I did about a week of morning pages from The Artist's Way. Recently I've taken steps to try to solve the problem, including buying, slightly unecessary, expensive gadgets, setting up the start of a fiction blog, and wondering about buying a whiteboard.

None of that's really worked.

But, last week and tonight in my Myths and Symbols class, we did some writing exercises where we made notes on an image, then wrote for 10 minutes on our notes & the image. What I've produced isn't great, but it is both unexpected and of a reasonable quality.

I just need to work out how I can transfer that freewriting to a different environment.

Or just try to sneak in rewriting the middle of my novel during the next few months of class.

Recovery

Week before last, my therapist had me read Man's Search For Meaning by Victor E. Frankl. It's an account of a psychotherapist's time in concentration camps during WW2 and his theory of therapy that grew out of that. I'm also re-reading Bloodletting by Victoria Leatham, an account of her self-injury and eventual recovery.

I find myself at a strange point. And part of that strangeness is these 2 books.

Coming at a time where I'd bottomed out, I read Man's Search For Meaning in one sitting and found part of myself responding to the existential ideas inside: why should we do things that make us miserable, that's just masochistic; and even when we are assaulted by things we have no control over, we can still choose our attitude to those things. It was the first time, and I realise I may have been slow, that I really understood what was meant by dignity in suffering.

I don't want to bandy around the words life-changing, mostly because I'm too cautious of change right now, especially knowing that it's likely that it won't hold and that I'll find myself spending my days in bed again, but today, and for the past few days, I have been feeling like there might be slow progress, and part of that is because of a subtle shift from reading the book. I still find it difficult to get up and do things, but I'm slowly trying to push through that. I still don't have any real sort of reason to get better, but I can feel the search scratching around at the back of my head, trying to find something, anything, that's going to give me a longer term anchor.

Bloodletting on the other hand gives me a more contemporary handle on what's going on. I can see bits of myself reflected back from the pages, and it's sobering and frightening and consoling all at the same time. I think what I'm taking from it this time, is the different, frequently unknowable, paths everyone takes, the extremes that sometimes we go to just to cope, and then that it's possible to get through it all and be ok.

I told a friend late last week that I felt as though I was in recovery, and I'm quietly hopeful. I wrote a big blog post a while back that I never posted about my frustrations about being able to remember being a better person and not really knowing how to, or really wanting to either, get back to that. Part of me still isn't sure that I do. But I guess we'll see.

Also, I'm being interviewed for the telly tomorrow. Past performances can be seen here. I suspect the need to be at least partially functional and presentable may have something to do with me making an effort :)

Synchronicity...

I've been listening to the new album by Amanda Palmer from the Dresden Dolls. It's less...harsh, I think, than the Dresden Dolls, and it feels more personal. There's a playfulness to the Dolls that's missing here, but I really like it. Especially Have To Drive, The Point of It All, and Another Year. They feel like they sum up better than I can at the moment, just how I'm feeling about things.

Anyway, this is really just a long-winded way of posting this.

Things that it might not be cool to do...

Item 1
Watch Dexter on your laptop on a crowded morning tram heading into the city.

Still to come, some stuff on the short story collections...and some thoughts on this book, as recommended by my therapist.

The blog isn't dead...

I wrote quite a lengthy post about what's been going on with me for the past few months in an attempt to articulate some of the things I've found unable to express in other forms...

But I deleted it.

I think there are things perhaps better left unexposed in such a public space.

Shame.

Or not.

Coming up next, a comparison of the 2 most recent short story collections I read.