i left my diary in the car and i left the windows down in my car while it rained
i just finished dodie bellamy’s the buddhist. the best part of the book is the back section titled “unposted,” the blog posts that were not posted to her public blog. it just got so wild. it’s the content you’re looking for when you hear about a book full of the interpersonal details of someone’s relationship. what i thought was really interesting—dodie said that she has been turned down from teaching positions—that other artists and writers have advocated for her to get these teaching positions—because of the way she has written about sex. reading that kind of hit a nerve, having always teetered back and forth between being the kind of artist that blazes thru every topic with a rawness that feels new, interesting, unburdening, and also wanting to be respected for this quality. like, i want to get mad in the art and then i’m hurt when i find out the people aren’t hungry for my anger? maybe they’re even offended? probably the same with writing about sex. this liberating idea, (actually a very mundane topic) but then? no one is intrigued? in my case, i have a lot of fan boys. and that’s made it pretty hard to want to write with total freedom, potential threat to all future employment aside. i wrote in my journal not too long ago that my goal was to stop writing like i wanted the reader to fall in love with me. i want to stop offering up all these details in a digestible way. if the details are necessary, they must be impossible to get down.
anyway. my point? all the good juicy bits about life and diaries and writing and art seem to not be all that fun and exciting to institutions and too exciting for people who romanticize you.