You start a conversation; you can’t even finish it.
You’re talking a lot, but you’re not saying anything.
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed.
Say something once, why say it again?Talking Heads: “Pscho Killer”
No, I’m not quite sure why I’m leading with that quote. But I felt that I had to. The potentially sad thing is that I love this song and I will reflect upon it again. But there are far worse things than your being overexposed to the frenetic, syncopated wisdom of the Heads.
I live on the Writer’s Block. That could mean something delightful. I mean the less hopeful thing.
I have so much to say–or at least so much that I think I should say (yes, I acknowledge that I might be wrong). That is the irony of this blog where I never write.
It’s just that the things that are important never seem quite ready. So I sit and wait or even strive for something that is ready but still meaningful–meaningful enough. Or I forcefully roll around the important stuff again, hoping to stumble across the turn of phrase or structure that might finally work.
It is sad, and I might shouldn’t (Lord, I don’t know why that construction so amuses me) admit this, but: I probably spend more time thinking about writing, thinking about words to throw out at an unsuspecting world, than I do most anything else. Sometimes I even practice my conversations with God. That’s probably not uncommon, but it is wonderfully ironic. We laugh about it together, God and I; of course, He’s laughing before I’ve settled upon how I want to say it to Him.
What’s sad isn’t so much that I rehearse my words (at least I don’t think it’s sad; I don’t think that any more at least). What’s sad is that I have so little to show for it. My words are not brilliant, honed by practice. I am not stunningly prolific, the fruitful volume a product of my obsession. I’m just another mediocre wannabe (please, let me at least bask in that). Who doesn’t write. Or who writes but hasn’t yet found a way to shake the foundations of the earth.
What’s funny is that the words I rehearse are rarely those that make it to the page. I’m pretty sure that, whatever joy they bring me in the moment of their conception, they are only a warm-up, or maybe the calisthenics whose application isn’t obvious until the time of crisis. “Wax on. Wax off.” Actually, that’s kinda hopeful.
Maybe I’m pushing it too hard. I’m a firm believer in the process of fermentation and in the truth beheld out of the corner of the eye. Maybe I should stop stirring it so much and just let it sit. I do need to find some quiet, empty spaces. Maybe I shouldn’t stare so long at what I hope to see.
At the same time, I know that I do lack discipline, focus and genuine commitment. It doesn’t seem that one would have all of these problems at once–that one could be both undisciplined and obsessive–but I’m pretty sure I am. And it does make sense. It makes too much sense.
But this isn’t meant to be an exploration of my problems writing, or, um, not writing. Ha. That’s too important. That post isn’t ready.
Oddly enough, what I mean to say is this: I’m not quitting. I think my meaningless words do matter. I think there is hope in my hopeless rambling. I will make noise. However inconsistent I am still committed and I am at least hanging on. I am a writer, goddamnit, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. And there are moments when I don’t even care whether I am a good writer; likewise, there are moments when I do care. No, I’m not sure which is more important.
Horton, can you hear me? Can they hear me?
Joel 
19 comments
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Wed - 2009/01/28 at 16:45
Lindsey
Words always have meaning, even if it’s not the meaning you intended. The beauty of writing doesn’t solely come from the author’s intent, it comes from the moment of change wherein the reader reads and interprets meanings. I’ve heard it described as each piece of prose having three personalities- the one that was meant, the one that was written, and the one that was understood. These are three distinctly separate things, all of them based on the same words.
And try as you might, no matter how long you think and edit and perfect, you have absolutely no control over how I, the reader, interpret what you were trying to say. My meaning in your words is not your meaning.
But even so, they are both miracles. (Which I mean sincerely- all language is miraculous and no one had better try to tell me otherwise.)
All of that mostly being my way of saying: embrace mediocrity if that’s what you think it is! Just write the damn thing.
Wed - 2009/01/28 at 17:15
Christa
Yup I agree with Linsey! I look forward to reading you thoughts, hmmm maybe I should start a Joel quotes page… you mange to put words to experiences in very apt and creative ways… gooooooo! GO not goo.. Joel.
Wed - 2009/01/28 at 17:26
Joel
What you said.
I’m a big fan of the multiple, contradictory incarnations of the meaning of a text. Three probably isn’t enough, but, really, it’s just too messy to be numbered. This has some huge implications for how we read the Bible. It’s pretty scary, actually. But life is that way. These topics are covered in several posts that are brewing but not yet ready.
Yet somehow I still insist on over-thinking my own writing. On the other hand, I usually do just poop the words out and go with a sort of flow. It’s really weird. There’s something delightfully spontaneous about the process despite the tortured drama that preceded it.
I think my true fears are unintended consequence and transparency. However anarchic and transparent I might pretend to be, I’m still obsessed with the butterfly effect and paralyzed by the fear that folks might understand what I really mean and see who I really am. Uh, yeah, all the while I long to stir things up and to be truly known.
Wed - 2009/01/28 at 17:26
Joel
I like the idea of gooing. Maybe. 😉
Wed - 2009/01/28 at 18:36
Christine
I’m pretty sure gooing is what you do when you get a cold or cry too much. That whole snot-faced thing. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to goo. (Then again, I certainly do a lot of it. But… I definitely don’t cry for the joy of gooing.)
Wed - 2009/01/28 at 18:49
Christine
Two random comments, only one of which has ANYTHING to do with this post:
1. I liked the title of this post.
2. Matthias corrected my grammar the other night. It was a startling and eerie experience. It reminded me so much of you. It was frightening to experience my friend as my father, for that brief moment. I couldn’t even respond. I just stood there… silent… saying absolutely nothing. (I don’t usually fail to respond to Matthias, by the way.)
It wasn’t until several hours later that I was able to speak about the incident. And Matthias had definitely noticed my silence.
To top it off, I saw Adam that night and he did more of those freakishly-just-like-Robert things that made me feel like my ex-boyfriend was in the room. So there I was… sitting across the table from my dad and my ex-boyfriend. Two people that I THOUGHT were in different states, prior to the start of the evening. After sharing about both things, it became too much and I actually had to leave the room for a bit. (Of course, the real reason I had to leave the room was to empty my bladder… again. But I may have run away without the excuse.)
Wed - 2009/01/28 at 20:11
Kimberly
I like this. Thank you. These words are totally worthwhile to me.
Thu - 2009/01/29 at 00:02
Joel
@Christine: You’re probably right, but, as you say, I goo less than you do; and it could be argued that it works pretty well for you. I could maybe stand to goo more. There’s something pliable and broken about it. We were just discussing pliability (re the Potter) on Sunday (yeah, we did church on Sunday; how creepy is that?).
1. Thanks. I hoped someone would appreciate the allusion. It makes sense and makes me happy that it would be you. 🙂
2. I really like Matthias. So, from my perspective, it could certainly have been worse. That is all the more that I should say. And I don’t mean anything by that, other than that I don’t mean to mean anything so that’s why I’m not saying anything else. It’s not working, is it? I’m stopping.
@Kimberly: Thank you.
Thu - 2009/01/29 at 09:05
Lindsey
One of these days you and I are inevitably going to get caught up in discussions of the many incarnations of Biblical meaning.
But not today, because I have a headache.
Oh, and gooing can be very useful. That word may also apply to the way toddlers play. They goo themselves quite thoroughly. (And by that definition, I think all adults could do with a little gooing from time to time.)
Thu - 2009/01/29 at 10:10
Christine
I wouldn’t mind the crying without the gooing. The gooing usually ends up making me look funny and making my head hurt. Plus, there is all the wasting of tissues to manage the goo. And the goo makes breathing SO difficult. Not to mention, noisy.
Now… toddler gooing. I might think about that. (Sudden fond memories of a friend’s childhood videos and his great terror at the possibility of “touching the slop” [the inside of a pumpkin] are rushing to my mind. I can’t wait until his baby is born. He’ll get to touch all kinds of slop.)
—
Good job on stopping yourself on that Matthias thing. I mean… you kind of gloriously failed and mysteriously succeeded all at once. I’m impressed. In any case, I appreciate the effort. (Though the effort was PROBABLY the problem. Stopping at “worse” might have been a good idea.) For me, it is enough that you could mean something by that, but that you do not mean anything by it. I suppose there isn’t any harm in acknowledging that something could be meant. So long as it is truly not meant. And, I believe you. So all is well.
Oh… and in regards to pliability and brokenness. Well… I can’t say that it is necessarily the result of my higher frequency of gooing… but I certainly do goo a lot, especially in the last two months. And I cannot imagine myself being any more pliable and broken than I have been, of late. Give me another month or so of pain, though, and I’ll let you know what happens. On the bright side… God loves broken and pliable. So we’re getting along REALLY well these days. And it all seems to be working out to my benefit. Funny, that.
I appear to be rambling. And I meant to go to bed 2 hours ago. So… now I am stopping.
Thu - 2009/01/29 at 12:18
Gabriel
@Christine: Every once in a while I look at Wendie and think, “Oh no. She’s married to her dad.” 😛
@Joel: Goo is very important. But, with respect to art and not ENT, I think that if you submit yourself to a regular and disciplined approach to the art then it produces better quality goo when you are inspired and are flowing. (ewwwww) Not only that, but the moments of greatness in the volumes of dull, disciplined writing can be cannibalized into your more inspired works. Let me know if you need someone to crack the whip on you. 🙂
Thu - 2009/01/29 at 13:42
Jennifer
Hm, where to begin.
A.) I rehearse constantly. My favorite place to do so is in the car. I rehearse conversations I may never have, but worry will come up at some point (e.g. telling off an old boyfriend with grace and dignity or interviewing for a job I haven’t even applied for). Sometimes I act like I’m on my phone so people won’t think I’m crazy.
2.) I think 95% of my writing is no good, and there’s never a way to say the serious things I want to say. That’s why I so often rely on humor and sarcasm. I guess I think it’s harder to criticize my feelings if they’re expressed with a certain amount of wit.
III.) Most photographers are asked how they get such beautiful, perfect photos. They respond that if anyone looked at their hard drives (or files), you’d find the 200 not-so-good pictures they took to get that one good photo. Point being, I think you can’t always capture things the way you want to, but you’ve got to try to capture them while you can. Once the moment’s gone, you may not get it back. I think our minds can work that way. I think it’s better to express your idea imperfectly, with language that doesn’t quite fit and a meaning that may be a little to the left or right of what you want it to be. At least once out of a hundred times, you’ll find the words are doing what you want them to do.
Not to belittle the Head’s sentiment (because it’s a good one – I think the world would benefit I f a lot more people kept their mouth shut a lot more of the time), but in writing, it doesn’t quite apply. Sometimes you have to write a novel before you find that one sentence, that one kernel of truth in it. (Maybe this is why my comments are so ridiculously long?)
Sat - 2009/01/31 at 09:07
Christine
I am ignoring the implications of the last statement that was directed toward me. (What? Implications? See… I already don’t even know what I am talking about.) However, I must say… that is pretty funny. I wonder if she ever looks at you and has the same thought.
Tue - 2009/02/03 at 18:53
Ryon
Joel, you know my fondness for words. It is a common bond of ours. And I cherish it. And so, as a fellow in your fraternity of word junkies, I must say that you need to quit your bitching and fucking write something. I’m sick of waiting for your lazy ass to get motivated, get past nurturing your bastard child “resistance” and crank out the next great american novel. Mine clearly is not that. Your’s will be. Now get off you ass, quit your proficient blogging, and get it done. You’re out of excuses. I’m not going to say it again. I’m just going to let the air out of your tires while you’re at work.
I want pages to appear in my inbox within a month.
fuq
Wed - 2009/02/04 at 13:29
joelmw
I’m trying to discipline myself to not reply to all of the comments, maybe especially the brilliant ones. Part of me thinks it’s rude to not reply. But part of me thinks that it’s boorish that I always do. It’s like, “oh yeah, I’m going to have the last word.” That’s not what I mean. Just as I don’t mean to be rude or imply that someone’s comments aren’t appreciated or brilliant if I don’t directly respond to them . . . or if I do. Crap. Either way, I think we can see that it’s a great way to not write: on the one hand, I can not write because my always having the last word is rude or I can not do any more substantive writing because I’m obsessively responding to everyone else.
@Fuq-way, I accept what you have written but for two things:
1) The only sense in which yours is not the great American novel is that American novelness is not great enough for it. Don’t give me your self-deprecating doo-doo (hey, my kid is listening), you over-talented punk. Own your genius.
2) I don’t know that a novel is what’s inside me. I hope that it is novel, but I doubt that it is a novel. This blog may be as good as it gets, may be who I am. Even if not, I’m not at all sure what it is that I should be writing. Which is why I need to write. I should stop bitching, but trying to write a novel could get very bad. I did two days of nanowrimo and realized that not only do I have no real sense for plot or for anything resembling reality as we know it, but I’m not sure that I really care to. Sure, as with everything else, I wouldn’t mind being–yes, nice word–proficient at it just so that I’m not a perpetual loser, but deep down I’m not sure that plot moves me.
And I appreciate what you’re saying and know that you’re mostly serious, but it makes me smile when you get all tough. I’m sorry, man. I only say that because you’re not here and can’t literally (yes, literally literally) kick my ass. Well, that and that it’s true.
Thu - 2009/02/26 at 21:53
S. Hamley Bildebrandt
I only corrected Christine’s grammar because I knew she’s a person who likes good grammar. I thought she’d appreciate it. But, I like you too Joel, and I know Christine does as well. So I’ll have to assume she meant it as a compliment anyway. It must have been unsettling that two people could rock so amazingly hard in so similar a fashion.
I liked this post too. Your noise does matter and it is being heard. You captured my own frustrations over blogging. I’m still allowing those frustrations to ferment. They haven’t made it to my blog yet.
Thu - 2009/04/09 at 17:38
zacgarver
Joel, I read this post and some of the comments on it and I felt compelled to say a few words of encouragement.
Often in the struggle to say something universal we strive to use universal language, broad strokes that can cover a lot of ground quickly. I can speak specifically about poetry because I’ve spent a lot of time learning to critique poetry in the last three years, but the moments when poems are the most effective are when the author is specific. Today a teacher of mine said that “the specific immediately becomes universal,” which is not a logical or common idea, but it’s true.
So the crux of my encouragement is this: fermentation is a wonderful, necessary process, but one of the most important aspects of writing well is to take the grand ideas and compress them into small, specific metaphors or stories. The trick is learning to accept that you can’t express the whole idea in its entirety, but usually you’ll be surprised with how much you have expressed.
I enjoy reading the things you write. Well done.
Fri - 2009/04/10 at 07:35
Christine
I love encouragement and seeing people do it. Way to be, Zac. You just went up 20 (imaginary) notches in my (nonexistent) people evaluation system. Which is just a sad way of saying… what you did made my heart really happy. 🙂
Fri - 2009/04/10 at 09:31
Joel
There are awesome people in my life who love and/or like me. That may be a tautology or redundancy. Oh well. But I just want to say that they (heh, I hope you know who you are; if you suspect it might be you, it probably is) make me very happy and grateful and convince me–especially on this, a most difficult and overwhelmingly-significant day–that maybe it does all make sense.
[Happy Joel wanders off (metaphorically) to ponder the death of the perfect Man, the death of God, the madness of religion, the grace of suffering and loss. Joel thinks it’s a good idea to dive deep into these disturbing mysteries, at least one day a year, but he’s glad to have a bubble of joy to sustain him in their midst.]