As an aspiring writer, (aspiring being the key word there) I think about what I choose to write and read a lot, almost as much as I think about writing and reading. And I recently realized that I don’t read anything with heroes, and I never allow myself to write my simple fantasies. And I want to, I guess, and I’m a little wierded out about what that says about me.
Now, I read a bunch of stuff that most people would call art. Classic stuff, experimental stuff, and a lot of the time I spend reading I spend obsessing over the craft of the writing, about the abstract qualities of the prose. This is as opposed to reading books for the stories they have to tell.
I was thinking about this while gardening today; a lot of thoughts come through gardening, I highly recommend it. I think I miss the stories, and I especially miss the stories with someone that does the right thing, or triumphs, even in a small way, or helps someone. I love the books I’m reading, and they’re masterpieces. They have triumphs in their own right. So I’m puzzled as to why I crave a simpler satisfaction.
I’ve always been called an “old soul.” ”You’re five going on forty-five,” my mother used to say. And it was true. I wrote a play inspired by the Coen brothers in 5th grade. I read the New Yorker in 6th. Bradbury and Orwell kept me company in junior high. Now, through some soul-searching I’ve come to question the origins of this overly adult behavior, and I’ve come to realize I didn’t really have a true childhood. I’ve only continued to cut out of my life anything that allows me to act my age.
Maybe my quest for questing and my search for heroes is my childhood seeping through the cracks, at long last.
I’m going to go watch some Adventure Time.