Yesterday, as I was working on my current project, I realized how much this story is chomping at the bit to get onto the page. I felt almost stressed that I don’t know enough at this point, in order to write it. For the first time in my life, I am aware of the impatience of the creative impulse; that being mortal, and in need of dinner breaks and sleep, I am a slow learner!
Why does a writer write? Because a writer has a talent for it. Or, if not a natural talent, a passion to cultivate one. I often think of Van Gogh, whose work I have grown to love as I get older. I was never keen on it when I was young. A few years ago, there was an exhibition of his drawings (and a handful of his final paintings) at the Met. I realized he had given everything of himself to transform what was little more than a mediocre talent into a new narrative of line and colour. He sold only one painting during his life. Today, he is called the father of modern art. That stays with me, when the going gets tough.
I had to listen to this in stages because it’s long, but it is really good. American Icons: Moby Dick.
It made me want to read Moby Dick properly, instead of the shoddy job I did with it as an undergrad. The week Moby Dick shared my dorm room was the same week Anna Karenina took up residence. I experience the sensation of sea sickness merely thinking about the motion of boats….which means (sadly) I could never visit the water rat of Wind in the Willows. Based on this small but uncomfortable fact (and the lure of siren to be swept into the ache of star-crossed love that Anna Karenina captures so sublimely), it is not hard to figure out which guest received my undivided attention that week.
I received a completely unexpected Christmas gift. Steve Jobs’ biography by Walter Isaacson is a great book to receive, because it’s exactly the kind of book I’d love to own but would never buy for myself.
This song always reminds of my first job after graduating. Way up north, in Leeds, at the Playhouse. And a boyfriend who (it turned out the minute I left London) started going out with a girl I had become friends with, a girl who worked in a bookstore, and had given me a copy of Where the Wild Things Are; as a good luck present for my first professional job in theatre. Her name was Laura. But I don’t hold this against the other Lauras I know today.
O, Minerva, where is a great English butler to be found when you need a plate of sandwiches and a pot of piping tea?
There’s a point of no return…when the damage is done and the meme is set. Does it really matter to us, today, that someone called William Shakespeare may not have written the plays and poetry attributed to him? Great art and literature lives beyond its maker’s time.