objects of my affection

I've been in the midst of a pretty epic Keats obsession lately. Recently, I checked out a book about him that contained loads of correspondence, as well as his poetry. It's not really necessary for me to gush about how talented or genius I think he was. His reputation precedes him. It seems odd that it took so long for me to get turned onto him, though. I've always been a fan of lyrical poetry, in particular the romantics and Victorians, so it's just an accident, I guess, that I never really gave him a chance.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit that my interest in him was sparked when I watched Bright Star. I get snobby sometimes about that kind of thing, and it goes against my admittedly unfortunate nature to have things recommended to me, especially when I've spent so much time reading his peers' work. It just seems so ignorantly gauche. But here I am, admitting it anyway, because I always feel guilty for thinking like a snob. It helps that it was an amazing film I could never be embarrassed to be a fan of, and that I'm a sucker for a good unrequited love story, which Keats happened to be right in the middle of when he died.

Tennyson, Wordsworth, Byron, Whitman. They've been like drugs to me over the years. I get addicted for short periods of time, drowning in their rhythm and alliteration. And then I resurface, digging back into fiction and forgetting about the entire genre until the next time I'm feeling spacey and sad. But there's a particular poem of Keats' that I can't seem to shake, even though I'm several months into my latest fiction binge. I know it by heart now, which is a first, because despite nursing a lifelong, half-assed addiction to it, poetry has never been something I've kept close to my breast. It's always been more of a healing, medicinal thing, rather than something that I chose to make part of myself. But this poem is a part of me now. I know it inside and out, and I've never coveted something written by another quite like this. If I had written this sonnet, I could say that it was steeped in who I am, and who I want to be. But, obviously, I didn't, so I just have to settle for wishing JK and I could get coffee sometime. Funny. I find myself wanting to get coffee with the deceased almost more often than the living.

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

-Keats (1818)

a blank sheet of paper

Today I reached the end of a long battle with writer's block. By long I mean 6 months. And by writer's block, I mean the inability to read or write a single word, new or already written by me. I was allergic to my own work. The funniest part is that I didn't even realize what I was experiencing was actually writer's block until a few weeks ago, and then it was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

I could critique myself again! I could go back to what I had written, and acknowledge it for what it really was, which is halfway to good and partway to shitsville. I can now actually read 20, 000 of my own written words, highlight entire paragraphs, then gleefully and forcefully hit the delete button. I am free.

It still took me awhile after reading to really start visualizing again, and there was a little bit of forcing on my part that probably slowed me down as well. And I beat myself up a lot to account for what wasn't perfect, which is so stupid and typical of me.

I think the breakthrough, though, the actual catalyst for my renewed flow, was something simple and very typical, yet again. I'm eluded by the most obvious things sometimes. I went to the library. I sucked up the quiet, the mustiness, the cold, bright air. And then, to the soundtrack of Tchaikovsky and my tiny chiclet keys, I continued a conversation I began back in February, when I still thought I would be done with the entire manuscript by May. In the words of Danny Zuko, "Oh, come on Sandy, don't make me laugh. Ha... Ha... Ha."