When I created this blog I actually intended to write every day about my writing, or what I’m being forced to read. I really did.We’re reading Nabokov’s Speak, Memory right now for American Literary Autobiography (Brady’s class), and I had forgotten how wonderful Nabokov is. It’s been years and years since I finished Lolita at my dad’s softball game, and now I’m ready to read it all over again.You would think–or at least I would–that reading Nabokov would be extremely depressing for someone like me who is (painfully) slowly but surely developing her writing, but it’s not. It’s actually rather inspiring, because I am continuing to live with the delusion that it’s only a matter of time and practice before I can write even better than Nabokov. I suppose it’s a good thing, in the sense that the only people who ever get anywhwere with their writing are the ones that are delusional enough to think that they ever will get anywhere.There is a cute quiz in Fondling Your Muse that claims to determine whether or not you have what it takes to be a writer. Thank God but heaven help me, I am among the delusional. One question asks whether the extremely slim chances of ever having any sort of success deters you at all, and I did indeed supply this with the answer I am not deterred at all and I am deeply offended that you would suggest such a thing and fail to see my genius. I suppose I’ll die happy even if I’m not successful, because I will die convinced that my works will be published and celebrated posthumously.
I’ll write out a little sketch of my next novel later, maybe tomorrow.
