Not long ago, I was reading a book review over at my friend Katrina’s site and I realized that I think I need to study literature.  She was describing a recently written novel that pays homage to Victorian Literature and post modernism, which sounded JUST like my cup of tea. She remarked that the ending was not resolved and that a careful reader can posit one.  Careless readers will miss subtle clues throughout.

Well, I think that once upon a time, maybe 20 years ago, I was a careful reader.  Or maybe not.  I did a VERY brief stint in Columbia University once, and they forced me to retake College English II (maybe it’s now called College Comp II, it’s your intro to lit course).  I was fuming because I’d taken as many English courses at my technical college as I could and aced them all, and this one course…  Let’s just say my kept DROPPING every week.  I always have said that it felt like the entire class was taking another class together and knew things I didn’t.  (Perhaps their English I???? Hm, never occured to me.)  Anyhow, it put me off of lit courses for good - this from the girl who had taken Honors English for 4 years of high school and won an award -for studying classics like “Siddhartha”.

OK, so it may be that my ego wanted that memory.  But I have since that time become a careless reader.  The pleasure was SUCKED OUT of my favorite thing to do in life (reading) and  perhaps even a part of me skimmed over the concept that literature could have value.  I’ve even read my share of literature on my own but I sacrifice all deeper meaning to the pleasure of the story.

So now I have it in my head that perhaps I need to learn to study literature.  I also have it in my head that this will buoy up my writing.  I do not have time for careful reading, but returning to school - well, one of these days anyway - that will do the trick.

Maybe.

I’ve started reading How to Become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead: Your Words in Print and Your Name in Lightsby Ariel Gore which I’m absolutely loving, and she exhorts us as writers to embrace our faults and go forth and celebrate them.

So I confess here and now I am officially a non-literary literary writer. I’m intelligent and can read anything, EXCEPT dull stories. This all began in high school. I was, as mentioned before, an avid reader, but something happened when I got into high school in the 9th grade (it was Catholic private school). The books they gave us to read were no longer interesting but important. And one day, I was forced to read “Ethan Frome”.

Don’t ask me why. This is one piece of classical literature I’ve never heard mentioned ever since the 10th grade. So there I was, 15 years old and shopping for cliff notes. I was a straight A, honor role, honor society, advanced class kid and I believed cliff notes to be cheating. (They didn’t even have the yellow Cliff version, only the cheezy red, 2nd class brand.)

The thing was, I read EF - or tried to. After 10 pages, I had no idea what I was reading and started again. And again. And then said, fuck it! and bought the cliffies.

Somehow I got a 90 on the test, because I gotta tell ya, even the damn cliff notes were boring.

Which is not to say that all literature is boring. I liked the Scarlet Letter (story about a hussy in a time when they were taboo), and I love Shakespeare (all that blood, and violence, and madness, and suicide!). Crucible was good too (evil children), and Jane Eyre was ok, but I do have passion for Jane Austen (early feminism). As an adult, I’ve tried to catch up. Les Miserables was miserable. Atlas Shrugged was great except for the 9000 pages of philosophy in the middle. Anna Karenina just made me want to drink, and don’t get me started on the 7?9? times I tried to get past page 100 in the Brothers Karamazov.

BUT I adore GOOD literary fiction. And I’ve found a truth: just because it’s old and studied in school doesn’t necessary make it relevant to my life. That list of books I have on this site? There all fairly lit. And yet, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that you can’t be a good writer without being well-read - meaning those ancient texts that have nothing to say or relate anymore - then I’d be quite wealthy.

So that’s one of my flaws. I’m sure there’s more…

So I’m start reading this piece from a fellow writer, and I’m like DAMN, this is GOOD. It’s a kind of story I would never pick up and read myself, but it was just SO GOOD. And I’m looking through someone else’s crit, because I’ve just gotten on the list and I can predict the editing - I mean, for me, editing is cake.

And then that little demon that sits on the shoulder of every writer says, “That’s because you’re an editor, NOT a writer. You should make a living from editing and give up this writing thing. You SUCK…but you’re a great editor!”

I had to breathe my way through it. What I am is rusty. What I’ve done is sat in 2 chairs, and I still am, still am trying to. But perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps a change is coming. When I took that poetry workshop before Amelia was born, I was GOOD. And it was the first workshop I took. What I am is out of practice. My stories are good ideas, my writing is out of shape. I need a good workshop, I just don’t live in an area where they are.

These are not excuses. These are part of a master plan, a plan I am TOTALLY unsure of.

Off to edit (my OWN work, that is).