James Joyce Minus the Talent

Sitting here for the last hour alternating between typing furiously and making friends with the backspace and delete keys. Decided to toss in the towel for the moment and just blather on nonsensically.

Was trying to write a little bit about siblings. I don't actually really know what point I was trying to make, and maybe that was my problem. Although I find that when I sit down without a game plan in mind, I tend to write my best. Perhaps that's just delusional thinking on my part though. In any event, this time, it just seemed to go every which way but onward and upward. Maybe because it taps into unresolved issues in my life? I'm not sure.

I guess, I wonder if I have to have a point to begin with. I don't think I have any wisdom to impart upon the masses. There isn't any kind of intrinsic value attached to my writing. Does this matter? When my father writes, I think he does so purely for his own enjoyment. The mark he wants to leave upon the world has nothing to do with the world itself. The fact of course, that apparently he does have incredibly important things to say, does not fail to escape my attention.

When I was in elementary school, one of my favourite activities was to write creative stories. My father used to say that I should become a trashy novelist. Write for the unwashed masses and sit back and rake in the dough. I was never quite sure if this suggestion was his tactful way of telling me that I lacked any real literary talent, or if he was encouraging me to sell out in order to fulfill some kind of vicarious desire. (As a respectable and revered academic, my father's material was far too elevated to appeal to the general public, therefore, hardly of the best-selling variety. Certainly, it would never put us on easy street).

I have to admit that as a young girl, the idea was somewhat appealing. Imagine writing crap effortlessly and making millions of dollars. Maybe even selling the rights to Hollywood for the made-for-tv movie. I spent several months reading Jackie Collin's, Harold Robbins' and Danielle Steeles' books to discover the magic formula.

The idea of writing a novel like that became much less appealing when I realised that what you are selling isn't a book, but a fantasy or illusion. An escape for people from their humdrum lives. Ultimately, it's dishonest. And although I myself have told a few lies, I nevertheless detest liars and hypocrites and am terribly uncomfortable with telling anything less than the truth. There doesn't seem to be a huge market for truthful, realistic writing. We live in an age where we now find we have to question journalistic integrity and accuracy.

The point is moot anyway, because I don't think I have what it takes to be a writer. Blogging is one thing, professional writing quite another.

My mother called me recently, wanting to translate and publish a poem I'd written when I was fourteen. (I guess since both my parents are currently on a literary roll, she wanted to include me in the experience). I mumbled something about not being able to find my 9th grade yearbook in which it had been printed. She then asked me if I'd written anything since, and if so, would I forward them to her so that they could be published in the monthly Korean newsletter. I hesitated to answer that question because I didn't think she could handle any of my more recent poems, some of which deal with fairly weighty and highly personal issues. Without a doubt, they would never have even made it into the publisher's hands as they would have been deemed too embarassing and revealing to circulate within her social circle. My mother has a penchant for charming rhymes, hence her request for my sophmoric poem. I think she thought that all my writing would be along the same lines.

I sometimes think that maybe my fortune lies in the publishing field. I'm not meant to be a writer, but to work with them. I'm good at criticising, but weak in executing. By the time I had outgrown writing kitschy, childish stories, I discovered that I lacked real creative talent. It's a bit of a problem if one aspires to write the novel of the century.