I’ve got an idea coming together at warp speed and I’m electrified by it.
Though I’m not sure I can fully explain. I’ve been reading (sneaking, much like candy) Twyla Tharp’s treatise on creativity and suddenly I’m exploding with new thought patterns, processes and more. In the book, Tharp speaks passionately on the need for scratching together a whole and the need for spine in an idea. I’ve got the itch and the spine and the boxes of notes and information and reminders and lightening impulses – now I just need time.
Ignore the man behind the curtain for a moment – the story I’m writing is a cross between the myth of Narcissus, the Wizard of Oz, and the death of David Foster Wallace. Throw in a little bit of ‘you only see what you want to see – and little more’ and a dash of exploding obsession and a hint of revolution along with a few spoonfuls of generational angst dedicated to Carl Solomon – and we have a book. A book built on the construction, destruction, and renovation of a dream in the present grasp of the fetishized generation. Falling in love with a vision of yourself can only lead to an obsessively brilliant death. Simply, from Dostoevsky:
“She looks at herself instead of looking at you, and so doesn’t know you. During the two or three little outbursts of passion she has allowed herself in your favor, she has, by a great effort of imagination, seen in you the hero of her dreams, and not yourself as you really are.”
It’s time to write.