Jonas David's Blog, page 22

They are forming a sentence…

Avoid the void

A meaning hidden by other meanings…

Learning not to read?

The most accident prone publishing house in the world

Here’s the next part of my video series about ‘If on a winter’s night a traveler’

VLOG? (If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler)

That’s right, I’m reading (listening to) the strange, fourth wall breaking story by Italo Calvino… also, I’m recording myself talking about it?

Yes, I’m dipping my feet warily into the frozen, shark laden waters of YOUTUBE. Will strangers want to listen to me ramble in an unfocused, unplanned way about this odd novel? Well I’m going to find out.

I’ve already learned just from the first try that I’m much better at writing than speaking… this will be perhaps a good exercise in public communication!

Here are some thoughts on this novel so far. Recorded in my car, in a parking lot after I listened to a section of the audio book. You’ll see a few more of these, and they will likely start to contain spoilers, but this one doesn’t have any except the barest ones about the structure of the book itself. Okay, here you go:

My Name is Red, by Orhan Pamuk

I love reading about artists. I can usually identify with those kinds of characters pretty well. This story was an interesting look at the ‘miniaturists’ of 16th century Istanbul. And what held my attention most, was the way they looked at art.

In that time, ‘style’ was seen as a flaw. If anyone could tell your work from that of any other artist, that meant that you were making mistakes. All this is surrounded by a murder mystery, where trying to find out who drew a certain picture is central to the plot…

I also found the connection between art and religion interesting. The miniaturist (painter/drawer) saw himself as trying to depict the ‘essence’ of whatever he drew. For instance, if he drew a horse, he was not trying to draw any particular horse from reality, but the purest form of ‘horse’ that existed, as if the horse that God saw. After drawing a horse a million times, the artist could draw it from memory, using only his minds eye, even if blind… some of the miniaturists would even blind themselves on purpose, to keep their art from being distracted by the outside world…

An interesting and exciting and educational read.

I am a poor judge of my own work

I’m writing a story finally. Took a while to get the ideas organized in my head for the next planet, Jupiter. I’m writing about an endless storm, but on Earth.

The problem is I don’t really like it. But I can’t stop now so I’ll just have to push it out.

It’s not like I can tell what’s good anyway. The stories I love the most never sell, and those I whip out in a flash do… So what do I even know. It mostly just feels like rolling dice…

What is the point of creating?

I’ve spent a bit of time the past few days wondering if anyone will ever want to read my stories, or enjoy reading them as much as I did writing them. Am I the only one who enjoys the sort of thing I want to write? Surely I can’t be… I’m not that special or unique or smart or dumb. There must be people out there who like similar things to what I write.

But what if there wasn’t? What if, somehow, the exact thing I enjoy reading and writing, was not popular with anyone… would I still write it?

Would I change my ‘style’ to please someone–anyone!–or, would I keep on trying to satisfy my own tastes and preferences.

You might ask: what’s the point of writing something no one wants to read?

But, what is the point of writing something that doesn’t say what you want it to?

 

 

Grab your inspiration by the throat and CHOKE IT

Writing is hard. I keep waiting to feel that thrill of a new idea, but while I’m waiting for that elusive, magical power… I’m not writing.

Not writing is bad. So, I got to stop waiting and start typing, even if it’s uninspired crap. It’s better than laying around waiting to be moved by a universe that doesn’t care!