I'm reading David Shields' Reality Hunger (Penguin Books, 2011) at the mo. I'm not saying that it's because of this I feel the way I do, but naturally, reading something that problematizes things you hold dear is going to disconcert you somewhat. Things, in fact, that I just about manage to pin down, to understand, perhaps.
It's this whole writing thing... I don't know what it's about, or even what I'm about. Well, I was pinning down what I'm about and it's just been reinforced (with a capital force) that it's irrelevant. Well, maybe not irrelevant. See what I mean about problematizing? How can I be accurate? On big and small levels of meaning, I just don't know anymore.
"Try" says Shields. "Sure, what's 'real'? Still, try to get to it."
Reality Hunger is poetics. Poetics is often hard for me to get my head around. I'm looking at an atom, most of which is empty space, but the overall effect of the various constituent parts seem to add up to "you're wrong." But then there's no such thing as THE writer, right? There are writers, each one different. We don't all have to agree do we?
Why does that not make me feel any better...
I wish feelings were pieces of toilet paper, because right now I could just wipe my arse with them.