On Being Out of Ideas
I am out of ideas. Is that post-modern, or surrealistic, or what? I've covered both, poorly. Essentially once you've talked about the point of life, or purpose, or love, or whatever, and all the fundamentally abstract and in comprehensive thoughts have been comprehended and written about, what is there to talk about? What is the point?
I play an idle game called Tap Tap Fish. You tap and earn money and buy fish, which doubles your income so you can buy more fish. It has no purpose but to waste time. They say that we "crave distractions to stop thinking about death". That's what the book White Noise by Don DeLillo was about. I've thought about sound and color and materialism and consumerism and optimism and cynicism and logic or whatever and literature. I can't really think of something else. I'm out of ideas.
Aforementioned in a previous article (as most of my articles spawn from previous ones) is the notion of my one-sentence-a-day-in-math-class-book-but-I-also-write-two-or-more-sentences-occasionally-and-also-not-in-math-class-sometimes-book. It's a compilation of my ideas, in consecutive order, in the form of a post-modern or metamodern non-fiction but with magic realism and stuff book. It's also a waste of time, but I give it meaning. It differs from Tap Tap Fish because I think it's the greatest thing in the world.
The thing about writing a one-sentence-a-day-. . . . . -book is that you only write one sentence a day because it's a rule that you made up. You feel creative because nothing like it has ever been written before. It can never run out of ideas because every day you write one more sentence and every sentence is different unless you write the same sentence but then it's still different because it's the 2nd version of that sentence, thus taking on a new meaning. The meaning has changed due to positioning and time of writing.
It's not finished, and the beginning sucks. It starts out bland and unoriginal, but quickly gains momentum and complexity until complexity itself is called into question and the piece collapses and breaks into pieces of glass—glass is a theme throughout the book—there are so many themes. I make allusions to various authors and quotes and texts, but they play into the story, and sometimes I question if it's about myself and I remember that someone said that all writing is autobiographical in nature.
i'm not sure whether the book is a stepping stone to me writing larger books. In the books that I'd be writing after the one-sentence-a-day-. . . . .-book, I'd write—most likely—more than one sentence a day. That'd be harder to find meaningless themes and connections with.
In an article that I was reading (http://www.english.ufl.edu/imagetext/archives/v4_1/cetiner-oktem/) they mention that "the deficiency of imagination may only lead to a sense of meaningless". They quote a guy named Jaffe who observes that "people are beginning to bump up against the limits of materialism and rationalism, realizing that these fail to offer something essential, a purpose in life …" I understand my hypocrisy in me pasting in the ideas of another due to my being-out-of-ideas-ness. They say that's why we—as a culture—keep on returning to medievalism (in the form of neo-medivalism); we want that sense of imagination again.
I think it must have been really, really hard to write The Series of Unfortunate Events because understanding the mentality of a child, and making something pleasurable for both the parent to read aloud and the child to listen to must've been a challenge. While Lemony Snicket cannot boast that he's written a masterpiece that redefines humanity or something, he can boast that he helped create the next generation that would. And maybe that's one of the most admirable features a writer can ever be able to boast.
So I'm out of ideas. I really am. I also finished my One-Sentence-A-Day-Short-Story, which is now in the process of being edited, so that I can comfortably post it here for nobody to see. I really don't have any more ideas. And the dumbest, most stupid, dumb, idiotic thing about it all is the fact that I seem to be capable of really doing something profound.
I was going to post the ending to the movie Frank here to demonstrate my feeling of lost-ness but I think I may be past that. It's now 8 days since my last article. How time moves fast.
So. . . "How do you get past being out of ideas?!?"
I'm taking my own route on this one. My route involves 70's pop, Footloose, and getting my shit together. Currently, my subject is the expressionist poetry of Georg Trakl, and I'm listening to "Jessie's Girl" by Rick Springfield. Soon my subject will switch back to Byronic heroes and I will try to understand something like angst and modernist expressionism or something so that I can move on. So I'm out of ideas right now, and that kind of really sucks, but I'll get through it.
Until next time,