
Originally Posted by
burntpunk
The truth is that I no longer read. I was once a voracious reader and writer with mountains of ambition and imagination in order to progress. It appeared, when I was 14 years old, I was on the path to become a capable student of literature, and perhaps one day an author. Three years on, and I've reached a certain plateau in my writing. I used to write and read daily, sifting through books effortlessly. But now, I’ve lost my intellectual curiosity, my attention-span for reading and writing is rotting away, with my interests deviating towards sex, drugs & alcohol. I still plough the same time and effort into literature, but it appears that things no longer click for me.
With the opportunity to attend Oxford University a possibility, it’s terrible that I’m pissing around in my A Levels. True, I’m still on course to nail A*s, but I’m no longer the free-thinking mind that I used to be. The truth is that I can get away with slacking, I have both natural and attained ability in this subject, but I don’t just want to attend a top university, I want to attend a top university and be in the right frame of mind in order to appreciate the experience. Three years ago, haven already written two novels, I would have embraced the experience of having a published poet at my English Literature Teacher. Back then, I needed to voice my literary opinions, and my teachers couldn’t cope, now that I have one who can, I slump in my chair with apathy.
I talk and act like pseudo-intellectual; I’m still streets ahead of my peers, but every day, the streets become closer and closer. I have this terrible arrogance, which I don’t live up to. Back in my writing peak, I was embarrassed of the hobby, I penned two novels, and embraced the craft with my full-commitment, and not a soul knew. Nowadays, it is everybody’s business, in this time frame; I’ve become a social-being. And being a writer is now a tag applied to me, a tag which is secretly unfulfilled. The only fiction happening for me is that tag itself.
I don’t feel like I’ve learnt anything in a long time. The last novel I read was A Clockwork Orange in January. Although in the last 18 months, I've settled upon blogging, the making of me. Every day I write 5-6 pages of expression, whether it’s my thoughts, emotions, opinions, hopes, dreams ... there is a feeling that my entire life in that time period has been captured. And it’s wonderful, although it wasn’t the narrative ball rolling, it was a ball. This blogging led to some intellectual clarity. Selfish vain intellectual clarity. But intellectual clarity nevertheless. The long-term goal was to extract the core themes from my bloggings and rework it into a roman au clef novel. However, the expression continued with no end product. And recently, a terrible thing happened. My hardrive was wiped, no back-ups, all of my works gone. Hundreds of pages. Personally, I think it’s a blessing in disguise. A fresh start.
And it is at this point that I ask for your advice, boys and girls, if you have any advice on how I can reignite my passion for literature, I would be most grateful.
Starting at ground zero; what kind of books do you believe I should begin reading? Contemporary yet relevant literature? Or back to the stone cold classics?