Lynda Barry’s What It Is is what I needed, as a writer and as a maturing adult. I’m a believer that as we grow older, we leave behind the playful antics of our childhood, and we become caught in-between the harsh responsibilities and realities of life. And in doing so, we sometimes look at existence as more of a burden than anything.But when you’re an artist, I think there’s a struggle.
There’s a tug-of-war between our imagination and what’s truly happening in this world, and though we are all pulling on the side of the imagination, sometimes reality wins, and we forget about the things that made us writers, like our dreams, our childhood fears, and what we cooked up in our minds. When I read through What It Is, it reminded me of my own childhood, one page after another, and what led me to becoming a writer. I, for one, never want to truly grow up, and I cling harder to my childhood probably more than anyone I know. If I could, I’d wear onesies all day.
But I can’t.
I have responsibilities, like a job, and sometimes, they keep me from releasing some amazing ideas—like wearing onesies all day. In a more serious tone though, Barry’s book brought me back to my childhood, and posed questions that I haven’t thought about since I was a child—such as. “What is fog?” on page 139 or “What would you like to be good at?” on page 74.
I suppose that in a weird way, Barry’s words and illustrations help me access an area of thought I haven’t been to in quite some time; and unfortunately, these questions are harder to answer now than if I were 7 or 8 years old. From a writer’s perspective, answering “What is fog?” now wouldn’t capture everything my imagination was once capable of.
5 comments:
Onesies, huh? I've always been more of a fan of the pajamas with feet myself.
I completely agree with you, and it's definitely something I've struggled with my adult life. How do I have time to contemplate what fog is when I have to remember to get an oil change on my car, to balance my checkbook, to grade paper after paper, to go to the gym... and when I try to schedule in "writing time," it becomes just as formulated as my "to do" list.
I think it's interesting that Lynda Barry is so much older than we are, but she's managed to hang onto that child-like voice. I like to think it's still in there for all of us; we just need to look.
I am with you all the way about wanting to cling to childhood! I fight adulthood every day even though it's creeping up on me. I definitely do think as writers we have a little bit more room to tap into our more playful sides without being too weird. We are all so caught up and stressed out over our own agendas. Perhaps we should all strive to be a little bit more like Barry...
I really like how you said that she reminds you of your perspective as a child in terms of an approach to writing - like how to describe fog. Even now, I'm having trouble thinking about how to describe it accurately - and yet, I think if I let my mind go free and started describing how fog feels or a memory of fog, I could really get it down - if I let myself imagine. Do you ever catch yourself doing this in your writing? Will you now?
You and Lynda Barry have both made me question why we have to leave behind childhood at all. Surely we need to be contributing members of society, but why can't we pair that with a healthy dose of childlike carelessness every now and then. Do you think we can recapture some of that with the help of Lynda Barry?
I love the foggy image that accompanies this entry. I know what you mean about not wanting to grow up. I think it's always a balancing act. I've found that working really far from where you live can give you that chance at having the time to let your mind wander. .... Of course that works if your on a train, not behind the wheel.
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