Please indulge me while I indulge myself.
This Alt lit thing I keep thinking/writing about is one of those things where I just let my brain chew on it.
I have done this with various things since I was a little kid. Something I kind of like makes me uncomfortable and I want to examine it and poke it and yammer about it (pre-Internets I did it in my diaries or yes out loud to myself) until I figure it out.
So again with the Alt Lit. This post at AltLitGossip a few days ago totally sums it up.
I think the bottom of my discomfort with a lot of the Alt Lit I see is the same discomfort I had with Riot Grrl culture as I wrote about it in my essay from The Battered Suitcase.
It’s the mix of not understanding the in references and not having access so I can understand.
It’s like eating one of those stupid “dessert” yogurts. It’s unsatisfying and a good idea in theory but not what you really wanted.
It’s getting the girl naked but only in the dark where you can’t really see all the things you want to touch.
It’s the promise of getting great head and they lick around the edges.
It’s being more interested in the discourse around it than the actual thing itself.
So there you have it. The conclusion of all my fussing and thinky thinkness.
I mentioned yesterday that I hadn’t been writing a lot of new material. I was looking at some (beloved) booty shake/pop instructional videos on youtube (because I lack the innate ability and I WILL get my ass to do things I want it to do..whole other story) and it happened.
So I wrote a little story about hood dykes and various shades of brown yesterday.
I think I was stuck on trying too hard for a while. I had another of those visions I wanted to achieve some nameless thing, tried too hard and killed it. I can’t write like that. I know that and I did it anyway.
Apparently looking at everything I”ve written in the last say six months I”m very cunt centric. I also still can’t shake my little obsession with nerdy references to vagina dentata that only I get. Unless it offends the ever loving fuck out an editor which just happened.
Funny enough even when I’m not writing about pussy specifically I can point and tell you when I was thinking about it. I’m writing sex but not writing sex. I feel like this is a facebooks relationship status that should say it’s complicated.
Should I call myself the matriarch of a new literary movement and call it Cunt Lit? Pussy Prose? Cervix Fueled Power fuck Lit?
I kind of want to write a lofty lengthy essay about how all of my creative power resides in my cunt and is expressed via clitoral erections.
Now I’m just amusing myself.
Actually, now I have an idea.
Oh me. You see what happens in my head? This sort of thing is what actually spurs me to writing. I unintentionally have let out my Super Sekrit about my writing process.
Also just so we all know (since maybe one of you actually knows me) the above is in fact how my brain operates. Now my coffee is done, I believe I have exorcised my need to figure out my issue with Alt Lit. I’m thinking about pussy. All is as it should be.