Jesmyn Ward's Blog, page 2
June 28, 2011
i'm in marvin's room
I love this song. I've been listening to it on repeat for weeks. I even like the chopped--not slopped--version, but maybe that's because I like chopped and screwed music in general. I should probably be ashamed to admit that I'm such a stan for Drake, but there's something so dark about his music, so moody and elemental. I feel the same nebulous wonder and longing when I listen to Sade. "I'm lucky that you stayed on. I need someone to put this weight on." I feel you, Drake. Damn, I feel you.
What else? Well, I've been writing, of course. I'm approaching the end of my third book. The memoir. I spoke at the Movers & Shakers luncheon at the ALA convention in New Orleans this past weekend. I spoke about my second novel, Salvage the Bones, and the memoir, about survival and savagery and love. I said, "You are a savage. You salvage the bones of what you have: canned goods, the husk of a house, the memory of your brother's life, of your friends' deaths, and you create meaning. You make a future from it. You tell your story. You survive."
And then as people stood and clapped, I almost began crying. They heard.
What else? Well, I've been writing, of course. I'm approaching the end of my third book. The memoir. I spoke at the Movers & Shakers luncheon at the ALA convention in New Orleans this past weekend. I spoke about my second novel, Salvage the Bones, and the memoir, about survival and savagery and love. I said, "You are a savage. You salvage the bones of what you have: canned goods, the husk of a house, the memory of your brother's life, of your friends' deaths, and you create meaning. You make a future from it. You tell your story. You survive."
And then as people stood and clapped, I almost began crying. They heard.
Drake ~ Marvins Room (Official Video) from OctobersVeryOwn on Vimeo
June 25, 2011
i hope
I hope she makes it through her addiction. Those videos of her doing the junky-shimmy at her European concert currently circulating are so depressing. It's hard to realize she's the same person because she was such an artist in this video, so alive and fierce.
April 19, 2011
P.S.-Sucker Punch
I saw Sucker Punch.
I was bored; I didn't care about the characters. I wasn't even impressed by the action. I love girls kicking ass, but I never found myself rooting for them through any of the fight scenes. The problem is that the story is never rooted in real life. In order for those warrior/stripper fantasies to be compelling, they must have a counterpoint in reality. (I can't believe I just typed that sentence.) Because I don't know what's happening to these tough young women in the real world, well, I have no idea who these characters are and I can't understand what's at stake. And not being able to understand what's at stake is the kiss of death for any story.
But I hear Hanna gets it right.
I was bored; I didn't care about the characters. I wasn't even impressed by the action. I love girls kicking ass, but I never found myself rooting for them through any of the fight scenes. The problem is that the story is never rooted in real life. In order for those warrior/stripper fantasies to be compelling, they must have a counterpoint in reality. (I can't believe I just typed that sentence.) Because I don't know what's happening to these tough young women in the real world, well, I have no idea who these characters are and I can't understand what's at stake. And not being able to understand what's at stake is the kiss of death for any story.
But I hear Hanna gets it right.
hello? are you there?
My friend Elizabeth has inspired me to come back here, to say something again, after months and months of not doing so. She has an amazing blog, which you should definitely read. Like now, at http://www.nosygirl.net/ .
I've been living in Oxford, Mississippi for the past eight months or so, moving from lonely place to lonely place, writing in frustrating spurts, teaching, sleeping with samurai swords, and running. I've been working on my second and third books, and also looking for a job for next fall.
I spend too much time alone, even when I am busy. Especially when I am busy. I like Oxford. It's taught me important things. My students are lovely and the literary community in Oxford is lovely, but the life of the nomad is not for me. Neither is the life of the hermit, which I currently am. I am ready to go home.
That said: an excerpt from Death in Spring by Merce Rodoreda, which I am currently attempting to work my way through for the second time.
"Another summer ended. It was as though all the dead autumns were the same, with their relentless insistence on returning. Autumn was here again. Nailed to the rock wall, from the ground to the top of the cliff, autumn was a surge of fiery leaves that would be snatched away when the sulphur-bearing wind returned, grown old and icy. Leaves fell on the village streets and on the river that carried them away. Swirling in whirlpools, they drifted to the clock tower, as far as Pedres Altes. They tumbled down, still bearing the scent of their former, tender-green selves. The sickly stems that had held the leaves all summer were now devoid of water, and they thudded to the ground as well. The leaves were blown down and swept away. We waited for the last to drop so we could rake them into piles and set fire to them. The fire made them scream. They screamed in a low voice, whistled even lower, and rose in columns of blue smoke. The smell of burn leaves pervaded houses and air. The air was filled with the cessation of being."
Beautiful.
I've been living in Oxford, Mississippi for the past eight months or so, moving from lonely place to lonely place, writing in frustrating spurts, teaching, sleeping with samurai swords, and running. I've been working on my second and third books, and also looking for a job for next fall.
I spend too much time alone, even when I am busy. Especially when I am busy. I like Oxford. It's taught me important things. My students are lovely and the literary community in Oxford is lovely, but the life of the nomad is not for me. Neither is the life of the hermit, which I currently am. I am ready to go home.
That said: an excerpt from Death in Spring by Merce Rodoreda, which I am currently attempting to work my way through for the second time.
"Another summer ended. It was as though all the dead autumns were the same, with their relentless insistence on returning. Autumn was here again. Nailed to the rock wall, from the ground to the top of the cliff, autumn was a surge of fiery leaves that would be snatched away when the sulphur-bearing wind returned, grown old and icy. Leaves fell on the village streets and on the river that carried them away. Swirling in whirlpools, they drifted to the clock tower, as far as Pedres Altes. They tumbled down, still bearing the scent of their former, tender-green selves. The sickly stems that had held the leaves all summer were now devoid of water, and they thudded to the ground as well. The leaves were blown down and swept away. We waited for the last to drop so we could rake them into piles and set fire to them. The fire made them scream. They screamed in a low voice, whistled even lower, and rose in columns of blue smoke. The smell of burn leaves pervaded houses and air. The air was filled with the cessation of being."
Beautiful.
