| I don't know why it took me so long to figure this out, but while I've been rereading the same four books over and over again any time I feel a little fainthearted, there has been this entire time over twenty new-to-me Salinger stories, published only in magazines and yet uncollected in book form.Needless to say, I skipped my one class this morning and have been pouring over the first of these gems since I hopped off the trolley with every intention of actually sitting through another actually quite stimulating lecture on statistical analysis in political science.I really do enjoy that class, and I've been excited to get back to it, since the professor was out sick all last week.But I figured this was a matter worth special celebration, so I bought myself a drink and a salad at the horrible Starbucks at Aztec Center, and I've been at it since then.The first story I'm working on is "Hapworth 16, 1924."The entire thing is a long fictional letter from my favorite fictional person in all literature, Seymour Glass, to his parents and siblings while he and his brother, our usual narrator, are away at summer camp.It's wonderful.At first, while all 34 pages of overly bold text were printing away and wasting up ink, I had a moment of fleeting panic that it wouldn't be good.I don't know about you, but with authors I really love, nothing is mor terrifying than the possibility that at some point they will prove themselves to be mediocre, human and fallable.So far, I'm not at all disappointed.It has been a little nice, from time to time lately, having all the free time that my recent unemployment affords me. I really do intend to get some actual work done at some point, but there doesn't seem to be any rush on a day like today.After this I think I'll feel like hopping on a trolley, settling down to finish the rest of this inspiring story as scenery rolls past the train window, and maybe riding past my stop and ride on to the end of the line.Maybe by that time I'll feel a little more motivated to get back and continue my job search, or catch up on my so far unchallenging and uninspiring classes.It is very nice, at this point in the semester when I am starting to feel completely demoralized, to have some Salinger.My creative writing class has really been getting me down lately.On one hand, I went into it fully aware that I would have to get outside of my comfort zone in writing, and in the beginning I really did welcome the opportunity.But it turns out, apparently, that there is no true form of writing other than poetry, and nothing that isn't poetry can possibly be creative in the least.This is according to my graduate student instructor.I've been trying very hard to give her, and my bleeding heart young poet classmates, the benefit of the doubt, but I'm at my limit with all of them.Our second poem was due yesterday.I'm still catching up from being sick all last week, and I wasn't aware of the due date until just before class, so I'll have to bring in my disappointing latest effort on Wednesday.The next few class sessions are going to be workshops for peer review, so we're required to print up a copy of the poem for everyone in class.When the first batch went around yesterday, on the top of the stack was the epic "Does my vagina define me?" It does, by the way.Sifting through this pile of garbage, all bad haikus and heartrending cries from tortured adolescent twenty somethings, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.The difference is that I know I'm no poet, but the poor morons are suffering under the delusion that they are the next undiscovered literary geniuses of the day.I hate them all and their pretentions, with a few exceptions.There are a few true poets in the class, and they cheer me up immensely.To top all that off, at the very end of class the instructor handed me back my journal entries which I had typed up and turned in the week before.I had been, stupidly, excited to read her comments.She has been so overly positive and praising of my pathetic attempts at poetry so far in class, I was excited to hear what she thought of some of my real writing, and the only thing I write with any kind of enthusiasm or competence is prose.On the last sheet, on a post it, was the note "I would have liked to see some poems.Please use your journal for creative writing."Oh well.I have good old J.D. to cheer me up now.If anyone is interested in some "underpublished" works by JD Salinger, follow this link, and start with "Hapworth" if you're as in love with Seymour as I am.It's very sad when your favorite people are fictional characters,?especially when?the author has the indecency to shut up in the woods for decades, offering no fresh correspondences with your old friends.And, if anyone at all is still reading this, which I doubt, you may as well read my latest attempt at "creative" writing, since apparantly everything I've written prior has been unimaginative garbage.Here it is, but keep in mind that I am as aware as you of it's poor quality, so be kind in your reading.Border AngelsDo the stars shine in my daughter's eyes tonight,Or has the sun drank its fill of those deep, dark pools?I have heard the wind tear through the ocotillo plants at night,The wailing of a thousand lost souls filling the moonlit expanse.Who will give water to this traveler out of the desert?Who will anoint the feet of this sun-scarred pilgrim?Hope stays alive.But in dreams I see mounds lined across the wastelandanother weary wanderer tucked in to sleep in the earth's bosom.Anonymous.But, no olvidada, I will not forget. |
|
Webhosting