I wish more novels still began that way.
I’ve several drafts in my little draft folder but I fear none of them will see daylight. My thoughts are too inconstant to share, one day cheery, the next day maudlin. The ruin of many a good writer has been the faithful replication of their true emotions (and I don’t mean their writing, I mean themselves).
I just finished watching Kill Your Darlings. It was a decent flick, but it did not move me in the way I suspect its creators intended.
I have a great respect for Allen Ginsberg and his generation of writers/poets. The existential angst they must’ve been feeling was no doubt great. And the fact that they paved the way for others is not lost on me either. But I did not regard that angst in the romantic light I once would have. No longer do I see creativity as the exclusive bailiwick of the emotionally chaotic. I do not regard painful creation as more worthy than cheerful or enjoyable creation. I just do not.
It is the next morning. I have completed the last assignments due this week in my last two classes. Six more weeks and if all goes well I will finally be finished with my Bachelor of Science degree. I have no idea what I will do with it when I’m done but at least it will be one thing that I have actually completed.
In a couple of hours we go to view a possible property.
So much to think about in this life.