I had my writing group last night and as implausible as it seems, I found myself sitting at the desk in my classroom at 3:30 with no idea of what I wanted to write and bring to share. Sure, the classroom was bare, walls empty and brown paper neatly taped over the bookshelves, but it was also quiet, and I brooded without interruption.
I had come mostly because my printer is acting up and I just haven't taken the time to troubleshoot it, but I also had a hunch that away from the distractions of home, I might be a bit more productive. Writing has been hard for me this summer; I cling to my daily devotions, but it has been a while since I was satisfied with the product. And so here I was, all alone, printer at the ready, and still bereft of inspiration. Sigh. I turned to my writing notebook, though, and it came through for me in a satisfying enough way. I liked what I wrote.
Tonight we are watching the movie Howl with James Franco as Alan Ginsberg, mostly because Josh has been on a Jack Kerouac kick this summer. There are many observations I could make about teenaged boys, sexuality, and the Beats, but let's just say that this movie definitely moves the conversation forward. For me, it is also an excellent opportunity to revisit what I know of those disillusioned, self-destructive, but very creative young people, most of which I learned in grad school.
Ginsberg's words on creativity and life and living a creative life with integrity make my own writing struggles seem a bit petty and amateur. I may be tortured, but I'm certainly no genius. In fact, I'd love to commune more nakedly with my muse right now, but I really need to get dinner on the table.
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