new york public library, september 24 2005

it is time to write.
but the words are not here
they have once again disappeared
listening to that author today
I felt uninspired
everything is buried far too deep
kate it cannot be that hard
either you have it or you don’t
I know what you are thinking
there is nothing, there are simple words
and simple sentences
and nothing filled with inspiration
only empty thoughts
god this is all an empty thought
only pictures of places on your wall
where you once were, but are not now
only intimations of understanding, never a full grasp
never the ability
god dammit here she goes again
john updike
it was as though words could not help but flow from his fingers
what was it he said
Remnick’s interview was probing, excessively praising and somewhat poor. But it did not matter – Updike took each question to its utmost level of depth. With grace and agility he fell into poetic reveries about his experiences as a writer with an overwelming track record. He was the embodiment of the unsuppressable need to write, to mold these words together on a page so that it could bring some momentary glory, some joy. But no, it was not worded so poorly when he said it, and he would most certainly correct this young writer’s precocious and secretly ambitious words. Updike was clear in communicating that rash ambition involved in his passion to make his living through writing, but what came out more ostensibly in this interview was his inherent love for his art. It was the purity, that sincerity that drives so many in literary society up the wall – because it cannot be explained in long extravagent words. Yet Updike did it so very well.

What was most striking for me at this stage in my very fragile life, was when he spoke about the power the byline can have on a young and elderly soul alike. I may have written earlier that he did not care too much for ambition. This would not be true—it is clear that young and old Updike has a rabid thirst for fame through his words, of validation through the power of his sentences. How could one not? I again fear that this is simply the ferocious reading that Kate, age 20, is taking away from his inspiring little talk, given my slightly frantic state of mind visas-vis my paralyzing inability to string words together. But what did he say? Ah, something that reminded me of Andrew Delbanco, the professor (who actually deserves the far more distiguished name of ‘teacher’). He talked about the miracle, the “magic” of Melville’s scribbled words (unlike like these) being transformed from etchings into neat and tidy print, ready to be bestowed upon millions of readers. God, I wish I could express that better. But that’s just it, he just loves it so much because he can communicate it all perfectly, because he can take what is stirring in his head and put it out in that scrawl and then bam, give it up to the public forever. God. Stop it Kate. Get your grip.





got drunk on september 24 2005 and wrote this down. time to stop this nonesense and snap out of it, i say. hello again streethaunter.