And by ‘you’, I mean literature, obviously.
I really do think about literature almost every minute of the day. No matter what I do, I usually manage to relate it to reading or writing in some way or the other. (Of course, it does help that 90% of what I do is related to reading and writing anyway.)
Even heading out to Den Haag with a friend tonight is done with literature in mind. You may think that going out and having an excellent time is really just an end in itself, but you’d be mistaken. You see, this isn’t just blowing off steam after the most stressful semseter ever–this is research.
Pah, you may say. This is just trying to justify going out and acting like a twenty-one-year-old for once. Well, firstly, seeing as I am a twenty-one-year-old, I need no justification. And secondly, this really is reasearch–think of all the true literary greats. Did they spend their evenings sitting indoors, reading books on Charlotte Brontë and sexuality, or Dickens biographies? They may have done that every so often, but they got out and lived.
Oscar Wilde, well, that needs no explanation. Hemingway got out there and got pissed every night. He was also in the wars, like Dahl.
I’ll admit, Jane Austen was pretty boring, but she was much too genteel to party, anyway.
I’m not comparing myself to these writers, as I know that they’re up there, never to be touched, but they do demonstrate that you need to live in order to write.
What if I wanted to write of adolescent abandon? What if I needed to capture the awkwardness of men who can’t dance in a sentence and a half? What if I needed to distill the desperation felt when you need to resort to sign language to let a guy know that no, you’re really, most definitely not interested? What if I needed to convey the bittersweet satisfaction of a night well-spent but unconsummated to my readers?
I can. Because I’ve lived it. With every cocktail I knock back, I’m getting that little bit closer to writerly success.
Damn, I love research.