Thursday, June 18, 2015
I find myself reading a lot of ancient Greek literature, and German-language literature, and English-language essays on art and literature and morality, and simultaneously I find myself not working away at revisions to the novel I thought I'd be revising this summer. I realize that I have no intention of beginning that revision until I've finished reading all of the Greek tragedies, which is a chunk of reading. I may finish Thucydides' history first, as well. What I am doing with all of the Greek drama and Greek history and German fiction and English essay is, frankly, pushing all of that Chekhov and Shakespeare out of the forefront of my imagination. I have a strong desire to approach writing with a new set of conceits, to shake myself into a new shape before picking up the pen again. Certainly Shakespeare and Chekhov have soaked into my writerly DNA, but surely there must be room for other things, fresh assaults against the same old bulwarks, etc etc und so weiter. Well, we'll see. This is clearly a placeholder post, a note to myself.