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| "Fiction writers as a species tend to be oglers." A true lurker, I snapped this photo of two strangers posing for another photographer's lens |
My brother loaned me his
copy of David Foster Wallace’s A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, and this is what I’ve been reading for the past
month. This is the first work from DFW that I’ve read. The combination of being
an extremely slow reader, and doing the majority of my recreational reading
right before bedtime, has made this a drawn out process.
I just started the third essay/argument, and I’m still on the fence about his writing. I
think he was obviously wildly smart – probably one of those people too smart
for their own good – and his brain may sometimes have got in the way of his
ability to solidify his ideas for the reader.
But there have been
glimmers throughout the pages. Like this quote from his “E Unibus Pluram:
Television and U.S. Fiction” essay:
Fiction
writers as a species tend to be oglers. They tend to lurk and to stare.
They
are born watchers. They are viewers. They are the ones on the subway
about
whose nonchalant stares there is something creepy, somehow.
Almost predatory. This is because human situations are writers’ food.
Fiction writers watch other
humans sort of the way gapers slow down for car wrecks:
they covet a vision of
themselves as witnesses.
This is a nice reminder of
a trait most of us would likely associate with creative types. I do enjoy
observing people, but it seems to stem from an interest in human nature, rather
than a concrete “I’m going to watch a bunch of strangers until I get an idea
for my next story” goal (And of course we have to subtly spy, as our social
grooming taught us that outright staring is rude/weird/creepy). But maybe the
urge to observe stems from the same place that generates the urge to write?
In my experience, very
rarely does observing lead directly to an immediate
this-could-be-worth-writing-someday moment. More often the
attention wanders to the next person, out the window, back to my own hands, and
the observed detail wafts gently downstream. Falls soundlessly in line
with the endless marching of thoughts, memories, hopes and anxieties parading
around. And then much further down the road (perhaps while staring at the
ceiling, thinking what to write next; maybe while folding laundry) something
observed comes back to life – seemingly without any effort on my part, almost
without recollection of having observed it in the first place. And it seems to
fit perfectly with my character or the scene unfolding on my half-written page.
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| We notice the things meant for us... |
I’m of the belief that we
only notice the things meant for us. Not to imply that we should maintain a
passive float through life (we could all stand to be more present, more
observant), but if we imparted every detail around us with the utmost
importance, it would be too overwhelming. However, what I love about
photography – about bringing a camera with me on outings and trips – is that it
forces me to open my eyes a little wider. I’m more on the lookout for moments,
so I can capture them on film. Of course, you can’t force these things, and
sometimes there are no pictures snapped.
Or I don’t have a camera
on me, or it’s not practical to take a picture as the moment unfolds. On a bus
in England, whizzing past a field where two people kiss on top of a large roll
of hay. Walking behind an impeccably dressed old man, hunched with age, as he
ducks below the trailing branches of a weeping willow. A yellow convertible
pulls up in the next lane on a late summer afternoon, a wrinkled white bulldog
leaning out the passenger side. Moments observed, saved to mind film, waiting
to come back to life someday.
