i can't see the trees for the forest. the details of real life often get lost in my imagination. i've been at it big time for the past few months. whoops. yeah, a big whoops. big whoop. life's a bitch, as they say. the fluctuations in awesomeness give me things to write about.
i bet virginia woolf was a real buzzkill. "a room of one's own"...i roll my eyes. a room of one's own is one only money can provide. all writers don't have money. what, then? do we waste time talking about how they should have money? i don't get it. i mean i do, in terms of verbose academic rambling, but not in real life. woolf was a feminist, but i think she was doing women a disservice, victimizing us, as if we can't make our own way in the big, mean patriarchal world. women have had a tough road. we still aren't treated as equals in the workplace, etc. i'm not caught up in it. i'd rather make some magic happen and then say i told you so. success is the best revenge, virginia.
i value education. i loved being in college. i love reading and researching and learning all sorts of things i don't need to know. however, academia as an entity bothers me. it's like wal-mart. eventually, by virtue of its fundamental purpose, what it offers, it creates a monster. learning becomes the snooty learned. discount becomes the sorrowful discounted. life's a bitch, as they say.
i'm an alice walker kind of girl. she was PO'd at virginia woolf for effectively dismissing black women writers — because what black woman in the late 1920s, when woolf was writing, could be privileged enough to have "a room of her own"? none. in woolf's time, black women were still far behind white women in terms of progress. they had the right to vote, though poll taxes kept them disenfranchised. so alice basically gave the finger to virginia woolf. me too.
if a writer has never struggled, financially or emotionally or both, what will she have to say? nothing too interesting, i bet. i'm not justifying my own chaotic existence, either. look up any famous writer. they're all a mess. although i'd like to have more stability, i fear it at the same time. being broke and unsettled and heartbroken and confused are all i know of the past 10 yrs or so of my life. if that ends, what will come of my writing? will i get too comfortable and stop?
my dad talks a lot. he'll tell just about anyone anything about himself, just to make conversation. i can hear my mom right now...guy, do you really have to tell every stranger your business? then she huffs and puffs. then dad laughs and says i don't know, minnie, i was just talking. it's funny to watch. not nearly as funny as when dad tells the waitress he's gonna beat my mom when they get home, but still funny. i'm my father's daughter. i talk a lot. i've a few things to hide, but not much. some people mistake talking for complaining. i'm not a complainer. i'm a describer. it's different. one day all my describing might just pay off. and hopefully, i'll still find a way to create just enough chaos to keep on writing about it.
virginia woolf offed herself by walking into a river. just sayin.