Dream #9
Last dream of the week. This is the big one. Forget about that baby nonsense earlier, you didn't actually think that mattered to me so much, did you? This is the big one. I dream of being a published writer.
I dreamed this dream while at Berkelouwe Books in Paddington this evening. I was headed to the movies but there wasn't anything on I wanted to see, so I just got some food and some mineral water and sat in their cafe reading one of my new books from yesterday's binge.
I thought about having a book published, started to think the usual "I don't have any discipline and can't stick to anything" negative thought, and then caught myself. Today, and until midnight tonight, I can bask in the possibility that being a published writer is within my grasp.
And, because we're on the cusp of the week where I actually start doing things toward realising my dreams, I took some steps toward making it happen. What I did was buy a medium-sized ruled Moleskine notebook. The plan for it is to use it for development of ideas of philosophy, poetry and fiction. And belles lettres like this old blog here, if those come up. I ran across something recently about some author's diary, and have noticed in lots of biographies through the years where they quote from the artist's diary, and so it's something I should probably commit to. The finished works are all that are visible to the audience, but there are vast amounts of notes back behind them, as drafts and working out and developing of one's craft. And I'm on a writing jag at the moment, so I might as well spill out some raw material that I could later work into a grand theory of everything, or a good poem, or something else.
I'm not sure what my writing will be yet. Whenever I embark on writing something in predetermined structures or genres I can never stick to it. And here on the brink of the Web 3.0, I think I'm more destined to invent some revolutionary new medium anyway. I will just spill things out, and get raw material, and develop my "voice", and see what happens.
That's the big dream, the old dream, the first dream I remember dreaming. I want for someone someday to want to collect my Moleskine notebooks. I want some scholar to care that the first twinkling of my theory of the philosophy of narrative appeared right in the middle of a "to do" list and write before the grocery list, and to write a bit of a paper about the influence on my thought of being part of the Sydney Philorum School. Tonight I will dream about these things, and tomorrow I will try to actually do some philosophy and get closer to bringing the dream about.
I dreamed this dream while at Berkelouwe Books in Paddington this evening. I was headed to the movies but there wasn't anything on I wanted to see, so I just got some food and some mineral water and sat in their cafe reading one of my new books from yesterday's binge.
I thought about having a book published, started to think the usual "I don't have any discipline and can't stick to anything" negative thought, and then caught myself. Today, and until midnight tonight, I can bask in the possibility that being a published writer is within my grasp.
And, because we're on the cusp of the week where I actually start doing things toward realising my dreams, I took some steps toward making it happen. What I did was buy a medium-sized ruled Moleskine notebook. The plan for it is to use it for development of ideas of philosophy, poetry and fiction. And belles lettres like this old blog here, if those come up. I ran across something recently about some author's diary, and have noticed in lots of biographies through the years where they quote from the artist's diary, and so it's something I should probably commit to. The finished works are all that are visible to the audience, but there are vast amounts of notes back behind them, as drafts and working out and developing of one's craft. And I'm on a writing jag at the moment, so I might as well spill out some raw material that I could later work into a grand theory of everything, or a good poem, or something else.
I'm not sure what my writing will be yet. Whenever I embark on writing something in predetermined structures or genres I can never stick to it. And here on the brink of the Web 3.0, I think I'm more destined to invent some revolutionary new medium anyway. I will just spill things out, and get raw material, and develop my "voice", and see what happens.
That's the big dream, the old dream, the first dream I remember dreaming. I want for someone someday to want to collect my Moleskine notebooks. I want some scholar to care that the first twinkling of my theory of the philosophy of narrative appeared right in the middle of a "to do" list and write before the grocery list, and to write a bit of a paper about the influence on my thought of being part of the Sydney Philorum School. Tonight I will dream about these things, and tomorrow I will try to actually do some philosophy and get closer to bringing the dream about.
posted by Ellen at 9:38 pm
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