A few nights ago, I watched the film
“Midnight in Paris” for my first time. While this is not a comparative movie
review, I will compare this particular movie to a delicious coffee
frappe—completely unnecessary for a daily meal, yet completely sweet and
perfect nonetheless. But, what particularly stood out in this movie was one
certain character and scene involving the infamous Ernest Hemingway. In this
certain scene, Hemingway talked about not reading his fellow writers’ written
works because writing is a competitive business.
This made me realize something—I’ve been reading like a writer. Silly, huh?
Hear me out first and then tell me that I’m not making any sense. Now, reading
like a writer is like when you eat medicine—it’s good for you, only when you
eat the required amount. But, what does that mean? …Reading like a writer?
Well, maybe giving my own personal story will help relate this concept.
Skimming through an ocean of novels, I usually choose one of my favorites.
Maybe, in this case, I would choose Fitzgerald (staying right in line with the
“Midnight in Paris” theme). Usually, I would slobber and sit in awe over his
brilliant and majestic sense of language (an understatement entirely!), but
there will always be a voice in the back of my mind—my writer’s voice. On
constant repeat, my writer’s voice will slip in comments like “Look at this
incredible author, could you really achieve something like that?”, “Does your
syntax compare…never!”, “Read his imagery.”, “He certainly thought of that
story idea before you.”
Now, fellow writers, you all must admit that sometime in your life you have
heard this ominous writer’s voice…you could even call it the Jiminy Cricket of
all the writing Pinocchios. Constantly, as I would read, this voice would be
replaying over and over again. My reading even came to the point of making me a
nervous wreck. I lost joy in the story and saw literature only as a means to
perfection. But, watching “Midnight in Paris” made me aware of my problem—I was
reading like a writer. I tried to remember a time when my writer’s voice was
silent and mute. When was the last time I had read a book with wide eyes ready
to guzzle in all the splendor and imagination contained within literature?
Salman Rushdale once said, “literature is where I go to explore the highest and
lowest places in human society and in the human spirit, where I hope to find
not absolute truth, but truth of the tale, of the imagination, and of the
heart.” I saw myself journeying on the road to successful writing, while
neglecting to bring that love of writing that got me there from the start.
Sure, Fitzgerald, Dickinson, Frost, and even Hemingway were all top-notch
writers, even masters of literature. And, yes, of course I aspire to write like
them. However, I can’t let that aspiration reach a level of bitter
competition—the kind that Hemingway (in the movie) mentioned.
An even greater
question is discovered—Where would I even be without these writers? These
writers are some of the reasons that I have such a love for literature. If
it weren't
for great authors, then
I would have never seen “real toads in imaginary gardens” (Marianne Moore’s
reference) or seen a lion teach majestic truths through Narnia. These writers
introduced me to Rip Van Winkle, Mr. Darcy, Katniss Everdeen and Schindler.
Those pens allowed me to understand the oppression of the Uglies, but also
allowed me to rejoice with Frodo when he finally destroyed the ring. These
authors are the ones who inspire me daily to find a pen, paper, and in this
case, a laptop. And, then all these realizations concluded themselves into one
powerful statement—I needed to approach reading like a reader, someone who has
had a feast of words, concepts, stories, and thoughts laid before her… all
previously prepared by the great storytellers themselves.
I stinking love this. So true. Please keep being insightful!
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