There is a wall. Not a literal one, but an intellectual one that every writer must face. Oftentimes called writer's block, when there is nothing left inside the writer's head that either hasn't been addressed before, or is still in its offensive and badly written phase. I am ambiguous about this wall, whereas most writers dread hitting this wall every time they pick up a pen, or sit down to fill a blank computer screen. The reason that I am ambiguous stems from the fact that I hate hitting that intellectual barrier, and I love the work that seems to come pouring out of me when I've finally moved past it. At the moment, I've set up camp just shy of offensive opinionated drivel.
Here's what I mean. If I were to say, "I believe that The Enchanted Island written in 1670, a musical and comic adaptation of William Shakespeare's The Tempest written by Sir William D'avenant and John Dryden, is a better piece of entertainment than the original." I'd get crucified. Or at least, I think I'd get crucified, which is where the wall begins to take shape. The statement, taken as a whole, is a matter of opinion and as it happens, isn't even true. Or it might not be true. I don't know. I've never seen a production of The Enchanted Island and it has been years since I've seen The Tempest, so I can't say for sure. In any event, my lack of experience with both of these plays in production, and only having read both in the last twenty four hours, makes my statement a knee-jerk and rather uninformed method of polarizing myself with those that don't believe that statement.
Here is where the wall starts to grow out of my fear that I don't know enough, and that my peers, or at least the people who read this blog (all three of you) are much more informed and can emphatically contradict this opinion with graphs, charts, and an actual quote from Shakespeare himself saying, "Thou art a dumbass, Mr. Graybill." Thus ending my short-lived tenure as a Shakespearean scholar, and being resigned to being homeless and performing the Sonnets in Washington Square Park for a quarter (or tuppence, depending on the Washington Square you are thinking of.) The wall is made out of fear that I don't know enough.
"But, you're in Stratford-upon-Avon," you say. "You're in the one place in the world where knowing too little about Shakespeare is a short-lived experience. You'll get there. Just go to the library, pick up a book on Shakespearean Adaptations, and read up."
Tis' true. Tis' true. I am in Stratford-upon-Avon. There is more information about Shakespeare contained in this one little town than in the rest of the world combined. I got this. Wait. What's this? The book I've checked out was written by my professor/ my colleague/ my peer/ that homeless guy over there? You mean to say that he actually wrote the book entitled, Definitive Critical Edition of Everything You Need to Know About Shakespeare Adaptations, Productions, and Literary Criticism, and he's living on the street, begging for pence? I'm screwed.
See what I mean? Fear. Fear is the wall that I hit upon this steep learning curve that is my first month at the Shakespeare Institute, in Stratford-upon-Avon... where Shakespeare actually once lived and worked. It is just fear. What was the Bene-Gesserit Litany Against Fear?
I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain. -- Frank Herbert, "Dune", 1965.
Thank god this ain't Frank Herbert's hometown too, otherwise I'd be in real trouble.
I've hit this wall before. I usually shy away from it until I've ignored it for so long that it disappears completely. However, if I'm going to get through four years and 80,000 words, I don't have that kind of time. This blog certainly helps. It helps me type and write whatever is on my mind, so that I can actually put down in words whatever it is I'm afraid of and put it out there. I don't think it necessarily gets rid of the fear, it just makes it smaller somehow. The wall becomes scale-able and a little more transparent.
Now all I have to do is keep watching as my two feet lead my over, past or even through the imaginary wall, and keep watching them as they take one precarious step after another. That is until I run headfirst into the next wall of whatever-else-makes-you-hate-your-own-handwriting.
Oh, and read The Enchanted Island, whatever else it may be, it's funny as hell.
Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed. -- Henry IV - Part 1, Act V, Sc. II
Year 1, Day 14 -- Words Written: 0
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