Talia Lavin ironically captures why I have been unable to read fiction for perhaps a decade now, by coming at it from the other side, from the addict's side, in the throes of the high, riding, well, the dragon.
I know that imagination is anathema in both fascism and its preludes. Stifling, dismissing imagination is how we get fascism. It's accepting the world as given and inevitable.
I haven't stopped imagining. Or appreciating imaginers. It's just that the creativity I'm drawn to now lies in those tiny niches where I still have agency.
Juking this way, trying that thing, seeing what's possible with the scraps and leftovers we can assemble here and now--craft work, found objects, folk art as it were--for survival and breathing room.
Immersing myself in fiction reading feels to me like an indulgent temptation I can't risk and technically don't need, self-care be damned. I have my memories of fiction to carry me, and word from trusted folks that good, even great stuff continues to be made. If I myself imbibe, I might never come back, or I might miss some opportunity or idea from non-fiction that I can use now.
It's a thing I mourn, and a kind of dream I hold--to be old and at least semi-"retired" and able to read fiction again because urgent needs aren't so omnipresent.
My preface to sharing this piece:
Talia Lavin ironically captures why I have been unable to read fiction for perhaps a decade now, by coming at it from the other side, from the addict's side, in the throes of the high, riding, well, the dragon.
I know that imagination is anathema in both fascism and its preludes. Stifling, dismissing imagination is how we get fascism. It's accepting the world as given and inevitable.
I haven't stopped imagining. Or appreciating imaginers. It's just that the creativity I'm drawn to now lies in those tiny niches where I still have agency.
Juking this way, trying that thing, seeing what's possible with the scraps and leftovers we can assemble here and now--craft work, found objects, folk art as it were--for survival and breathing room.
Immersing myself in fiction reading feels to me like an indulgent temptation I can't risk and technically don't need, self-care be damned. I have my memories of fiction to carry me, and word from trusted folks that good, even great stuff continues to be made. If I myself imbibe, I might never come back, or I might miss some opportunity or idea from non-fiction that I can use now.
It's a thing I mourn, and a kind of dream I hold--to be old and at least semi-"retired" and able to read fiction again because urgent needs aren't so omnipresent.