The new book of short stories lies fallow while I wait for jane to finish up her first course in librarianship. All the stories are spanking new, therefore, I am suspect of their quality but once again Jane will read the manuscript, make comments and suggestions and I will acquiesce or not. The other day, influenced by reading Kakfa, I wrote a story called “Homage to K” which reflects the insane density of his writings which are often like repetition compulsions to me written in swirls of deep, rich chocolate. Sometimes I think he is putting on the reader, spinning out cosmic jokes. I remember how many years ago I was mightily impressed by “The Burrow” and “In the Penal Colony.” Reading them made me feel trapped, especially “The Burrow” as if I were a neurotic creature burrowing beneath, perhaps a metaphor for each of us as we move toward our insignificant ends. “In the Penal Colony,” which is exquisitely harrowing, made me think of what Kafka would make of the Holocaust and how he might write about it. (I have learned that two sisters died in the camps.) With that for inspiration I wrote “Homage to K.” I refer to the Great Wall of China in the story, referencing his strange story “The Great Wall of China,” just recently read by me, a perplexing, riddling whirl of prose.
I will go back to “Homage” for I am working on making it more dense, a la Kafka. I want to write about snow falling in the camp, the old symbol for dying and death in literature. I will try to make the reader feel the volume and depth of the snow which is a significant feature in the story. I can only try. I really don’t read other writers, lesser or greater lights, although the conventional wisdom has always been that this is the way to learn. I agree, I suppose, but I go my own way. All my writing is self-taught and given my being an autodidact in the field, I go my merry — and miserable — way. In an introduction to a collection of Kafka’s stories, John Updike writes that he only produced six slim volumes. But what stories! What intrigues me, in fantasy, is what a book by Kafka might say about the Holocaust. I cannot imagine the crazed intensity and riveting sentences he might have written. So like a puny putz, I wrote my homage to the master. By the way here is a piece of amazing trivia. Kafka invented, yes, invented, the safety helmet and had it patented and when he came to be buried people from another world came to pay their respects and they had no idea about what he was doing in literature.
I have about 20-25 stories in the manuscript and not a few, I imagine, will be deleted. Hoping to put it out in the spring, I am suffering from a lull, a post-natal depression after having given birth to this child. I am in a lull, the time between then and now and what will be. I fish around in mind about what is next, combing through old stories and old files, seeking out fragments of aborted stories. I enjoy this browsing because it is meditative. I know full well this cannot be expedited. I will know when the next book is upon me. I do know I am “done” with the Holocaust. My unconscious knows full well what will be while my conscious mind is a tabula rasa. What surprises most of us, if we are open to it, is that the real engine that drives us, no pun intended, we are unaware of; it hurts our vanity to not feel in control or sensible to our intentions. It reminds me of the push of genes, how we are controlled profoundly by them, how our breathing and cardiovascular systems are purely autonomic. We are unknown to ourselves which makes me trust in the unconscious as a writer, for I do believe what is written has already been written in large degree by our inner self. Wouldn’t it be fascinating if we could learn how to nurture our unconscious in order to make better literature, and other things as well.
Perhaps Kafka’s unconscious took over completely when he wrote and what an unconscious that was. Perhaps that occurs to other writers who can write for six to eight hours in one flow, channeling the voice within. I wrote The i Tetralogy largely by tapping into what I felt, mostly, without censoring what I wrote, by just putting down the words as if I was being moved by a Ouija Board. I do most of my writing in this manner, trusting myself, knowing I can always throw it out. I don’t secrete language but allow it to be a cataract. The lull at this time, I believe, is the unconscious replenishing itself, for it is never, never empty.
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