Only a week left in New Orleans and I haven’t written anything.
Okay, that’s not exactly true—I’ve finished two five-page essays now, and this is my fourth blog post on our site. I’ve journaled nearly every day since getting here, jotting down all my observations of people and places and moments I find interesting. During this trip I’ve put a respectable amount of words on paper, maybe somewhere in the twenty-thousands if I had to estimate. But I haven’t written anything.
Inspiration was never a struggle for me in high school. I saw stories everywhere: in old couples on the street, in peculiar perfume shops, in ads I saw at Costco. Words used to leap out at me. Now I chase them, and when I manage to catch them I have to wrangle them, wrestling them into the right shapes as they bite and kick. It feels like a fight every time, and I’m getting tired.
Logically, I know that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for my writer’s fatigue. My screenwriting major requires me to write constantly for classes—fifteen pages of a feature due one week, a full act of a television drama due the next, more outlines and ideas than I can count. Logically I know it’s enough consistent output to wring any artist dry of creativity; logically I know that I’ve not completely lost my ability to write books. The problem is that I am not a logical person, and all of my instincts are screaming in terror and clanging alarm bells: I have no inspiration, I’m never going to write again, and the world is ending.
““Not to be onto something is to be in despair.””
Coming to New Orleans, an entirely new environment, I hoped that I’d finally be able to reset my brain, rewire myself and get back to my roots, churning out ideas by the dozens. In The Moviegoer, Binx Bollings is on a relentless pursuit of self-discovery and personal fulfillment, which he calls “the search”. “The search,” Binx declares grandly, “is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life.” He describes exactly what I was looking to find in New Orleans—a big Eureka moment, a realization that this is what has been missing from my writing the last few years.
““Everydayness is the enemy. No search is possible.””
I wanted to escape the everydayness of L.A. and Orange County, the two places that have cradled all twenty years of my life, and to venture deep into swampy, glitzy New Orleans, which has seen the birth of countless literary greats. We stand in Jackson Square and rattle off the names of enormously influential writers who spent years drawing inspiration from this city. Tennessee Williams, Mark Twain, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Charles Bukowski—it’s the wet dream of any pretentious, grammar-correcting, scarf-wearing English major.
Faulkner House Books (thank you again to Alice for taking pictures while I’m zoning out)
It makes sense why New Orleans would speak to a writer; this city touches all of the senses. Streetcars rattle past windows. Jazz saunters down streets. Galleries and antique shops and colorful bars pack every corner. And if you’ve had a beignet here, I don’t need to explain that it’s something of a religious experience.
As I walk through Faulkner House Books—William Faulkner’s old home, transformed into a tiny but enchanting little bookshop—I feel overwhelmed by both awe and jealousy, surrounded by pages upon pages of boundless human creativity. These are all real writers, people who were able to channel their surroundings into tangible things, things with spines. When I get back to the hotel I spend an hour staring at an empty Google Doc. Go, brain, go, I chant at myself. Do the thing you’re supposed to do. You’re a writer, for the love of god, write.
I don’t write anything. There are no big flashes of inspiration, no Eureka moments, no brilliant, mind-blowing concept that will become my next book. But in all the time I spend not-writing, I am living, soaking up as much of New Orleans as I can. I try jambalaya, beignets, gumbo, andouille, beignets, shrimp and grits, beignets (have I mentioned how many beignets I’ve eaten?). I stroll down Frenchman Street listening to live jazz bands playing through the twinkling night. I go to the Vampire Apothecary and drink a fluorescent violet elderflower martini, served to me by a fanged waiter, which will later give me a headache that is totally, completely worth it. Really, I think as I sip at yet another iced latte from PJ's, which has quickly become my Business District sanctuary. What's so wrong with everydayness?
Vampire-approved drinks
Nobody judge me for what I’m about to do…
Late night streetcar rides!
““I had discovered that a person does not have to be this or be that or be anything, not even oneself. One is free.””
New Orleans is too vibrant and magnificent to waste time in torturing myself over the search—sorry, Binx. I want to explore, not with the intention to find anything, but instead to just experience. Only a week left and I want to use every moment appreciating this city and enjoying myself—who knows when I’ll be back, or when, if ever, I’ll get the chance to do something like this again?
I could spend tonight agonizing over blank pages, wracking my weary brain for an idea that’s worthwhile. I could spend tonight searching, trying to write something; but when I think about it, writing is really all that I’ve done since coming to college. Words and books and inspiration still live in me. Tonight I’m going to a movie with my friends, and I’m going to have a good time.