They say there's nothing new under the sun, and perhaps that's true. It would be nice to think that it's possible to be original, to carve out some new ideological or artistic territory, but it's not as easy as it sounds.
I've been working on a novel for over a year, and some days, it seems like all I'm doing is munging together all my favorite novels, and retelling bits of them--poorly. As if I'd kind of jammed the Little House on the Prairie books together with Gone with the Wind, and sort of stirred in some Sylvia Plath. Not so good. So instead of being original, perhaps I'll just have settle for being eccentric.
Perhaps that's how Thoreau felt, on his bad days. I feel quite certain that as he strolled through the streets of Concord, the little kids craned their necks to stare at the old bearded weirdo who was squatting on some guy's patch of woods--you know, that crazy dude in the crapola cabin that cost like thirty bucks. That nutjob. Freak.
Probably Thoreau knew they were saying these things, and probably he enjoyed it, on some level. I mean, you don't write a long plotless book about living in the woods, unless you had a serious bone to pick with society and/or liked crafting a reputation for nonconformity.
And being an eccentric isn't all bad. Sometimes it just feels good to march to the beat of a different drummer. (And, if you're my kids--if it feels good, you do it. Apparently.)
Free Counter
No comments:
Post a Comment