Sorry about the delay, everyone. It’s been a weird and rough (…mostly rough) few months. But as I got finished with the last of my nightly rituals (such that they can be called ‘rituals’), while I was talking to a couple of different friends about a couple of different things each – and then upon reviewing my previous entry – I got to thinking…..
….not only is Magical Realism my preferred genre….
…..I think it’s the genre I’m supposed to write.
The only genre.
MR has its history in political and social tension, but it can also be a highly personal experience. Something like Beloved, a novel that was written in as singular a voice as can be in the inimitable Toni Morrison, is rooted in an experience that only a select number of people still alive even then, in 1987, could understand. And, of course, by extension, the readers of her transformative novel which is, on the surface, about a young woman who appears sopping wet on the doorstep of one Sethe. The woman, called Beloved, is believed to be the child that Sethe murdered sometime before.
But of course, as all great novels, this one is about a great many things. And while I believe that is a key element of what does a great novel make, and I always have, I was not always positive that this would be the way for me to launch a career in writing that would be something I could call fruitful, even profitable. Of course, I never wanted that to be the focus of my endeavor, any endeavor that was rooted in art or passion (and certainly I would not be at fault to say that one of my major passions–at least for awhile–garnered an intense yet divergent force in opposition to the fate of great prosperity). But I did try desperately to see myself in a position where I would be able to keep the light on and my belly reasonably full, and figured that to do so in writing, I would have to make a few sacrifices. It took me ages to realize, the sacrifice I was willing to make, well…
But I eventually came to realize that I need to course correct. (This actually has happened a number of times, but sometimes you have to wait for the moment in which this truth finally sinks in, so that you can actually make an actionable plan to put forth some meaningful amount of effort, especially one as large as the one I’ve been tending to. Double-especially when you’ve been contending with your own mind. Triply-especially when you come to a snag so great that it rocks the entire foundation of your creative-headed psychology, snapping you out of what you came to realize in that moment was actually me just screwing around, getting nowhere, not being serious.)
I’m still working on that course-correcting. In that aforementioned pseudo-ritual, I brainstormed a couple of possible scenes, and resolved to enact a style of writing I’ve been resisting–saying I’m okay with exploring it, and yet never truly going for it fully–for years, in fear of not achieving my aforementioned goal of fortune and/or fame, since that’s hardly the most popular or lucrative genre today, as I understand. They’re violent scenes. Not necessarily bloody, or gruesome, but they are heavy thoughts, informed by the news, life experiences, and those of friends of mine. Some truly dark shit has come to the forefront of my mind by way of said friends sharing their troubles with me.
I’ve always been that kind of person, and it’s gotten me in trouble, and indeed that is partly what I want to write about. But along with other topics and themes, I want to write about this sort of thing behind that veil of Magical Realism, because that can make for some truly extraordinary stuff. It can be as colorful and vibrant, or as dingy and dark, as my imagination can (and should) muster.
But first I have to write it.
Well, alright. Let’s get to it, then.
‘Til next time (in hopefully less than half a year).
Thus Spake The Vagabond 