You can't create in a vacume.

[sweetnpetite]

Imagine you had all the time in the world to sit and write, no distractions, no obligations, nothing to keep you from your great artistic persuits. No one and nothing to think about but your creation.

What the heck would you write about?

 

[Liar]

Lint.



But seriously, only if I had never had anything or anyone to think about, I would be able to write. If I was born in a bubble and never saw the world outsirde, no references to human nature, no references to the world in general...welll...who knows?

If someone bought ve a vacuum right now I'd have enough to write aboutto last me a lifetime.

 

[CharleyH]

Lint.



But seriously, only if I had never had anything or anyone to think about, I would be able to write. If I was born in a bubble and never saw the world outsirde, no references to human nature, no references to the world in general...welll...who knows?

If someone bought ve a vacuum right now I'd have enough to write aboutto last me a lifetime.

Lint could be a very interesting Bergman-like topic . On the other hand, I ordered a hoover for you and she's on her way!

If I had the time to write what I want, SnP, then I would be able to finish everything I started ... when the time was right, which probably means there would be even more distractions than right now with work. I aspire to be a modern libertine, or at least a Dandy, afterall.

 

[Guest]

What the heck would you write about?

That is not the matter for me. If I were placed in a vacuum right now (and supplied life support), and lived a century longer, I'd have no scarcity of plots, ideas, stories. The rub is having the time to press them into language to my satisfaction. That's the main focus for me, the work of it, not the end result.

Perdita

 

[Liar]

That is not the matter for me. If I were placed in a vacuum right now (and supplied life support), and lived a century longer, I'd have no scarcity of plots, ideas, stories. The rub is having the time to press them into language to my satisfaction. That's the main focus for me, the work of it, not the end result.

Perdita

Yeah...what she sad. Exactly what she said.

Except "Perdita". Cuz thats her, not me.

 

[Guest]

Yeah...what she sad. Exactly what she said.

Except "Perdita". Cuz thats her, not me.

You're funny.

P.

 

[BlackShanglan]

I often think this - certainly now, with work raining down on me. That said, I think that my mere presence on Lit argues the opposing viewpoint. I don't know that artists need a full-time other job; many of the best eschewed it, and Yeats' father positively demanded that he not hold job. He knew his son was cut out for higher things. But artists need to live life in order to write about it; that much I will agree. I would add, too, that one of the strongest connecting threads I have seen in the artists whose work I admire and examine is this: they talk with other artists. They talk about art, and they talk about friends; the spread gossip and discuss their cats eating melon. But they do talk with those who share an interest in the art. I have come to think that vital.

Oh yes - and the work itself being the main thing. Yes, and heavens yes. The apprenticeship is so very long. I wonder if I will be through it 'ere I die. But I am eager to start on it, and try, and try again.

Shanglan

 

[Guest]

... I don't know that artists need a full-time other job; many of the best eschewed it, and Yeats' father positively demanded that he not hold job. He knew his son was cut out for higher things. But artists need to live life in order to write about it; that much I will agree. I would add, too, that one of the strongest connecting threads I have seen in the artists whose work I admire and examine is this: they talk with other artists. They talk about art, and they talk about friends; the spread gossip and discuss their cats eating melon. But they do talk with those who share an interest in the art. I have come to think that vital. ...

Good points, caballo dulce. However, I think Yeats (and his times) don't translate to our environs. Whether from among the U.K. upperclass, or other wealthy places today, we're not as likely to glean great artists under such conditions as the Yeats (or Wilde) families did. "Jobs" today aren't the same as then (obviously, eh?)

Talking with other artists is vital, yes. But I'd say the process begins earlier. My only example is the writer's. We begin with reading and falling in love with words on the page. Before I began actually communicating with other writers I counted a certain body of authors as my personal commune. (You've been part of such a one at times.)

Perdita

 

[CharleyH]

But artists need to live life in order to write about it; that much I will agree. I would add, too, that one of the strongest connecting threads I have seen in the artists whose work I admire and examine is this: they talk with other artists. They talk about art, and they talk about friends; the spread gossip and discuss their cats eating melon. But they do talk with those who share an interest in the art. I have come to think that vital.

Oh yes - and the work itself being the main thing. Yes, and heavens yes. The apprenticeship is so very long. I wonder if I will be through it 'ere I die. But I am eager to start on it, and try, and try again.

Shanglan

You have a great point.

 

[BlackShanglan]

Good points, caballo dulce. However, I think Yeats (and his times) don't translate to our environs. Whether from among the U.K. upperclass, or other wealthy places today, we're not as likely to glean great artists under such conditions as the Yeats (or Wilde) families did. "Jobs" today aren't the same as then (obviously, eh?)

Agreed, jobs are not wholly what they were. That said, Yeats was living very hand-to-mouth in his youth; he ruined his eyesight copying out longhand work in dim lighting for low pay, and some of the effects on his health were permanent. His family were often near destitute; his younger brother, Jack, spent most of his childhood with his grandparents because his family couldn't afford to keep him, and Yeats only managed his trips back and forth between London and Sligo because his grandfather owned the boats. I recall Yeats' father, Jack, saying that even in his 50's he would still have nightmares in which his wife's father harangued him to repay the money he was constantly borrowing.

That's not to say entirely refute your point, but only to say that in Yeats' case, at least, refusing a full-time job was a very serious thing. He wasn't living on an allowance; at times he was hardly living at all. I admire that intensely in him: that he was living his sacrifice to his art even at a time when it would be hard to be sure that he had real power or ever would have. He was a man who did whatever needed to be done; he sacrificed himself to his talent.

Before I began actually communicating with other writers I counted a certain body of authors as my personal commune. (You've been part of such a one at times.)

Thoroughly charmed, oh dulcet one.

Shanglan

 

[Guest]

Shang, I had such a passion for Yeats in my youth too, but given my own background and what I've read on him, his place and times, I can't help witholding your particular admiration (though I get it). I do not think Yeats and his sort ever had near the troubles of the general Irish tenant populace, and whether they chose to reject, for whatever reason, the opportunities not afforded to the common masses, I can't reach your level of esteem.

respectfully, Perdita

 

[LadyJeanne]

If I was born in a bubble and never saw the world outsirde, no references to human nature, no references to the world in general...welll...who knows?

You could write about what you know: sex. Even in that bubble, you'd know something about sex, or at least the interesting things that your body could do and feel. Surely there's a Lit story in this somewhere...

 

[BlackShanglan]

Shang, I had such a passion for Yeats in my youth too, but given my own background and what I've read on him, his place and times, I can't help witholding your particular admiration (though I get it). I do not think Yeats and his sort ever had near the troubles of the general Irish tenant populace, and whether they chose to reject, for whatever reason, the opportunities not afforded to the common masses, I can't reach your level of esteem.

respectfully, Perdita

Fair enough, Perdita, and I appreciate your respectful and well-argued position. There's plenty to object to in Willy as well; whenever I wish to illustrate Williams' point about ideas of "taste" or "culture" being rooted in economics and the interests of the monied classes, I use "Upon a House Shaken by the Land Agitation" for my text. He is, at heart, an admirer of the aristocracy - which I find fairly amusing in someone whose second family name was "Butler." Interesting that he could spend so much time with Morris and not pick up Morris' recognition that there never was such a thing as a picturesque, happy, and Romantically idealized poor.

Shanglan

 

[sweetnpetite]

I often think this - certainly now, with work raining down on me. That said, I think that my mere presence on Lit argues the opposing viewpoint. I don't know that artists need a full-time other job; many of the best eschewed it, and Yeats' father positively demanded that he not hold job. He knew his son was cut out for higher things. But artists need to live life in order to write about it; that much I will agree. I would add, too, that one of the strongest connecting threads I have seen in the artists whose work I admire and examine is this: they talk with other artists. They talk about art, and they talk about friends; the spread gossip and discuss their cats eating melon. But they do talk with those who share an interest in the art. I have come to think that vital.

Oh yes - and the work itself being the main thing. Yes, and heavens yes. The apprenticeship is so very long. I wonder if I will be through it 'ere I die. But I am eager to start on it, and try, and try again.

Shanglan

Your reply makes me think of a couple things. (Well, the first a previous post made me think of) One is that, although we think we could write given the solitude, many writer's once they have the solitude they craved for so long find themselves drawing a blank. Even though, surely they have life experiences enough and ideas enough by that time in there life, they just find that the absence of life flying by them a mile a minute leaves them less than inspired. Plus, anytime you have all the time in the world you much more apt to put off things expecting that you have all the time in the world so therefore there's no rush, no hurry.

The second is that even if we could get that solitude, would be able to write something that others could identify with? I mean, I have a hard time remembering how I used to think/feel about things at different stages in my life that are now past. So if I was this special person without interuption, how would I connect with an audience that most likely has to contend with the caos of everyday life?

I'm sure it's possible. Anything is possible. But I'm sure it's a lot harder and a lot less likely. So, anyway, maybe we should thank our interuptions After all, they are our inspiration, our motivation and our very lives.

Just a thought.

 

[sweetnpetite]

Perdita!

Wonderful to see you. Both you posting and you in your av. ARe you here to stay? Or is this a temporary visitation?

Sweet.

 

[Rikou]

I think it's quite possible I would lose my mind.

If I can't procrastinate for 30 minutes for every 5 I spend writing, my brain fizzles out.

 

[Guest]

Perdita!
Wonderful to see you. Both you posting and you in your av. ARe you here to stay? Or is this a temporary visitation?

Sweets, a certain forum member (no connotation, please) made me feel welcome recently, enough to try hanging out again. This time though I am totally avoiding pol. threads and aside from a silly expression here and there hope not to waste as much time as I used to (opposed to writing and real life I mean). Thanks for your welcome, P.

 

[elsol]

Three comments

Imagine you had all the time in the world to sit and write, no distractions, no obligations, nothing to keep you from your great artistic persuits. No one and nothing to think about but your creation.

What the heck would you write about?

Not sex.

----

As to the great artist's 'sacrifice'... i believe their sacrifice is our 'perservence'.

Through job, family, television, lit forums... we perserve and stay up that extra hour to write a couple more pages.

Someday it will produce a great one who speaks to us.

---

As to talking to other writers, it helps but tends to 'contaminate' the pureness of your voice. It also works to skew your writing... there's maybe 50 writers here but 10000 readers out there.

Those 50 writers have significantly different take than the reader. The artists should be balanced by members of the audience lest you begin to write TO an audience of writers. (Don't know about anyone here but I don't like those 'writerly' books, they're no entertaining in a zoom-zoom-zoom way most of the time.)

It's a question of how much active influence (contamination) can you live with.

If Heinlein, Milton, Hemingway, Card influence my work... I can live with it.

Horsey, Zoot, Gauche, random readers X, Y and Z?

Those influences I'm much more leary of.

Sincerely,
ElSol

 

[Penelope Street]

Imagine you had all the time in the world to sit and write, no distractions, no obligations, nothing to keep you from your great artistic persuits. No one and nothing to think about but your creation.

What the heck would you write about?

The same things I write about now, I'd just be able to write them faster.

 

[BlackShanglan]

The second is that even if we could get that solitude, would be able to write something that others could identify with? I mean, I have a hard time remembering how I used to think/feel about things at different stages in my life that are now past. So if I was this special person without interuption, how would I connect with an audience that most likely has to contend with the caos of everyday life?

What an excellent thought. Good point, Sweet.