Turns out it's another thing about illness.
Part of what bugs the shit out of me is that my filter seems forever altered; I apparently am unable to see anything through a lens other than the contorting lens of cancer. I want to rip these spectacles off my head and smash them for good, but I can't.
Like my mother said, everyone has something. (My mother died from breast cancer in 1983.)
The poets in my workshop are going to grow weary of this beaten subject, but fast. As long as it stays out of my fiction...
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3 comments:
Death, dying, mortality, our fragile lives: those are HUGE subjects seen through the lens of cancer or not -- you, like the writers on your list, will probably write a LOT about those subjects. I hope you do. If I had you in a workshop -- someone who reads such good people, and who's so passionate about words -- I'd be thrilled and I'd gobble up every word you write.
I am also gobbling up every word you write and sending you strength.
R. (in Australia)
Lily, you are such a lovely presence. Thank you for checking in and cheering me on. You're right: literature that shrinks from the tough stuff of life is not literature at all. I've been struggling with how revelatory poetry is compared with fiction; will make a post about that soon. I hope all is well with you. I've received nothing but rejection slips one after another all summer, and I know it's easy to get into a funk about it. It helps me to keep in mind Jacob Appel! Gentle thoughts to you.
R. in Australia, welcome, and thank you for the good vibes. Gah! On behalf of all remotely sane Americans, allow me to express mortification at the lunacy that is our presidential race. What a bunch of rubes we must seem. Warmest wishes,
E.
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