Typewritten Teacup

Bohemian Like You

I've been working on a heartbreaking post of staggering genius for about a week now, and while I hope to finish it soon, I hate neglecting this thing with some of the shorter ideas I've been having. I've abandoned a couple of topics (why all networks should explore the shows-on-demand option, and how disappointed I was that I didn't like Brokeback Mountain, even though I was so excited about the idea of it) because I felt like I didn't have enough of quality to say, or that after the moment was gone I wasn't fired up enough to pour the requisite amount of passion into the essay to make it interesting. Throw that mix into the general busy-ness of life, and you wind up neglecting things.

I'm also worried I'm in slightly blocked due to the nervousness tied to my upcoming reading, March 5 at Barbes. Whenever I'm about to put my work on display like that, I'm always filled with the looming dread that THIS will truly be the moment I discover that I'm really not all that good. Paranoia strikes deep, I suppose.

And the only way to combat it is by writing, even about things of minor importance. I pass by a branch of the upscale stationary store Papyrus whenever I exit the subway, and I noticed this morning that they had a display for their new "Bohemian Collection." By this, they were not referring to the region of what is now the Czech Republic, but the hazy idea of, as dictionary.com defined it, "A person with artistic or literary interests who disregards conventional standards of behavior." Now, what a person who disregards conventional standards of behavior would be doing in a stationary store is beyond me, but perhaps their rejection of what makes a bohemian a bohemian to others is what truly makes them a bohemian (if one wanted to be rather Gertrude Stein about it, anyway). The woman in their advert was dressed in a peasant top,paisley head scarf and a lot of jewelry, representing their idea of what sort of Bohemian would want to buy their wrapping paper (attention: Urban Outfitters shoppers!). Even though I liked the patterns and bright colors they used, I couldn't help but roll my eyes at this.

When I was in Albany, I was lucky enough to take a great class (Eng 350 if you're playing the home game) with Steve North (one of my 4 favorite professors at U of A, a lauded group that includes William Rainbolt, Judy Barlow and of course, the incomprable Jill Hanifan) in which we studied the nature of the writer in the world. I know it sounds rather navel-gazing, but it was actually interesting to pay attention to how various types of media come together to create this representation of what most people consider to be an 'average' writer, however truthful it may or may not be. I found it utterly fascinating, but since then I've gotten rather itchy about certain generalizations having to do with us creative types. We're not all bouncing about in billowing shirts with pan flutes and drums, some of us have normal jobs, eat meat and like watching tv.

Somewhere along the way it became an accepted belief to view a writer as hermit with a cat who wears baggy sweaters and does nothing but write (or complain about how they can't write) all day. I wish I could spend my days writing, but as I have no trust fund or other source of independent wealth, and need to work. I love cats (but am allergic), and I have a rather active social life. And what kills me, is that ouside of Emily Dickenson, most writers throughout history have as well. In the 1920s, writers (especially poets) were like rock stars - partying, drinking, smoking, sleeping around (ah, those were the days!) I'm not sure how it went from Jazz Age glamour to the modern frump, but I'd prefer the former if I can get it.

What I object to the most is the idea of being a creative, free spirit is being packaged and marketed, particularly to those fascinated by the idea of being an artistic person but have no real ability to do so. Sure, there's nothing wrong with being creative, but at some point you have to have a converstaion with yourself about how far you think this is going to go - and how much of what you produce should be shared with (or inflicted upon) others. If you have a story to tell, or a painting to paint, or picture to take, go for it, I'm not telling people that they shouldn't express themselves. What bothers me is when the bored take up my passion as a hobby or a means to get-rich-quick (because clearly every big publisher in the world is standing on 5th avenue handing out 6-figure book deals.) It cheapens what I and others do because we're passionate about it, and have that fire inside of us that really is only tamed by writing something, even if it is just a blog entry.

My friend Tracey (an unpublished novelist in her own right, and a good one) helped me put my finger on this recently. The rather unique personal style that she took such care and pride in crafting had become trendy, and while she was partially excited to see her look in fashion, she was annoyed at how all these Janey-come-latelys could walk into a Forever 21 and put together an outfit in ten minutes similar to ones that it had taken her years to build. I know some of you don't give a rat's ass about clothing, but I got how she felt. She'd busted her ass to create something out of the air, something that represented who she was, only to be copied by a brain dead mallrat following whatever Seventeen told her to do that week. All of her creative efforts were lost to the trend, albeit temporarily. Still, she found a silver lining - it was easy for Tracey to find all of her favorite things once the trendies had moved on, and her look went on sale, and happily back to obscurity.

I know marketing is seldom about truth, but it feels like they're not even trying anymore. Everything is so referential it's as though we as a creative society are not trying to come up with new ideas and words to describe things. And as someone who values words above everything, that's bothersome.

The thing that amuses me the most about both this stationary collection and my little tirade is that I may actually be a Bohemian. My paternal grandmother's family is from the Czech Republic. We're not exactly sure where the village was, but it could have very well been in the Bohemia range. I wonder if that means I get a discount?

posted by Sharon @ 9:32 AM