Since Kim's set this blog up mainly to reconnect with writing, I thought I'd add my own thoughts on how I write. I'm no authority on the subject, but every little helps.
So...
Forget that old notion that you need peace and quiet, I need chaos and noise and distractions. I don't like my environment ro be sterile, I like it to be full of inspiration; in short, everything that is familiar to me. It's always been like that. I've tried creating environments without distraction, where everything is nice and quiet and I can concentrate on my work. Except it doesn't work. I get bored, because until I get into the flow of things (if at all) I need to fidget and be distractable. I've built my room the way I want it, and it has everything in it that I want and need.
I have to decide beforehand that I'm going to write. Usually the day before. If I pick up my laptop and open Word on a whim, I may end up with a few lines, but that will probably be all. I need to have agreed with myself that tomorrow is a writing day. Most of the time it comes about because I actually have ideas that I want to get down. I don't think you can force it otherwise. Personally, I need to be excited about it.
I try to be up early. If I lie in I feel tired and groggy and uninspired. A cup of tea is a must, followed by another. Usually I'll sit around, check my e-mails or what-have-you, make some more tea, look around my room. Finally, I'll open my laptop, open Word and load whatever it is I'm writing.
When I'm writing, I have to use Word, and I have to have the document arranged to A5. When I was younger I used to do this to make my work look like the size of a normal paperback book, and the habit has stuck. I can't write anything otherwise.
Once I've opened the document, I'll usually go make some more tea, maybe have some breakfast. I might take a shower, I might not (sometimes I wait until I've finished writing). After that I'll probably sit down, type a few lines, browse the internet for a bit more. Maybe I'll put some music on.
When I start writing proper, I like to have some appropriate music. Sometimes this is the catalyst for my writing, a signal to my brain that tells it that it's time for work. Sometimes, if I have a particular feeling in mind, I'll put one song on repeat, turn it up loud, and block out everything else. Other times I let i-Tunes make its own mind up. Once I'm absorbed in writing, it tends to drift away anyway. If i run out of tea I'll go and make some more. No exception.
That's how I do it. It's a seemingly random and chaotic method of working that nevertheless is rigidly structured and usually has me strung out on tea by midday. I tend not to proof read any of my work, or read over it as I'm typing. I just let whatever's in my head come out, and once it's down I shut the laptop and forget about it. I'm usually thinking about what I'm going to write next.
Another thing: I try not to look at anything I write for a while after it's written. A month or two is probably preferable, just to get some distance, so that when you come back to it it's fresh and new. It makes it easier to be objective.
Thursday, 28 August 2008
Goodbye
It doesn't matter whether you're leaving for four days, four weeks or four months. Maybe it'll be four years, and the Olympics visit more frequently than you. Saying goodbye is never easy. I know I've had it easy, I've never had to say that many goodbyes, and the ones I have had to say have only been for a small amount of time. Sometimes I've wanted to say goodbye and not been able to, which only had a detrimental imapct on things in the long run. Sometimes I've missed my chance to say goodbye to someone, and still regret it to this day. It's a horrible word, a lonely word. It breeds segregation, and a lot of the time signals a chapter of your life coming to an end.
Tonight I said goodbye for a little while as I'm going to France. I know it's not long, and I am looking forward to going, but I think sometimes you don't realise how integral a person can be to your entire existence until you're faced with the prospect of spending some time without them. I'm not saying I'll spend the entire time I'm away sobbing in le corner, but I think it will be strange only having minimal contact with someone so important to me. I guess the finality of saying goodbye threw up all sorts of questions, memories - not all of them ones that I'm entirely comfortable with - and even though it's for merely nanoseconds in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't mean that I won't miss the things here very, very much.
But, as much as I'm looking forward to going away and all the fun I'll have, I guess I can count myself doubley lucky that I have a reason to look forward to coming home again; a hotdog and a game of bowling with my name on it :D
Incidentally, for the next few days, as I am in France, I won't be able to contribute to this. Sigh. Failure at the tenth hurdle. I know the idea was to post once every day, but I promise I'll make up for it when I get home. Once I've readjusted after a spell on Planet Travel, and spent some quality time with the boy I'm (reluctantly) leaving behind.
Tonight I said goodbye for a little while as I'm going to France. I know it's not long, and I am looking forward to going, but I think sometimes you don't realise how integral a person can be to your entire existence until you're faced with the prospect of spending some time without them. I'm not saying I'll spend the entire time I'm away sobbing in le corner, but I think it will be strange only having minimal contact with someone so important to me. I guess the finality of saying goodbye threw up all sorts of questions, memories - not all of them ones that I'm entirely comfortable with - and even though it's for merely nanoseconds in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't mean that I won't miss the things here very, very much.
But, as much as I'm looking forward to going away and all the fun I'll have, I guess I can count myself doubley lucky that I have a reason to look forward to coming home again; a hotdog and a game of bowling with my name on it :D
Incidentally, for the next few days, as I am in France, I won't be able to contribute to this. Sigh. Failure at the tenth hurdle. I know the idea was to post once every day, but I promise I'll make up for it when I get home. Once I've readjusted after a spell on Planet Travel, and spent some quality time with the boy I'm (reluctantly) leaving behind.
Sting Ray
I drove past a sign today on the way into Alnwick which read Children's Play Area. Thing is, the l was kinda small, stuntend and slanty, leaning against the P like a sleepy back slash, in need of a rest. Any way, this made the P and l look a little like an R, which obviously at first glance looked as if the sign was advertising a - rather ominous sounding - Children's Ray Area.
Which gave me a wonderful image of all these obnoxious children that one comes across these days being dumped into a huge tank of Manta Rays and Sting Rays (maybe a few Electric Eels for good measure.) That's one way to sort out these 'youths' I keep hearing so much about. Acquatic discipline. That's what we need!
Made me giggle.
Which gave me a wonderful image of all these obnoxious children that one comes across these days being dumped into a huge tank of Manta Rays and Sting Rays (maybe a few Electric Eels for good measure.) That's one way to sort out these 'youths' I keep hearing so much about. Acquatic discipline. That's what we need!
Made me giggle.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Football: Some musings.
I really, really don't understand our national fascination with football. Sure, people need to have hobbies, things that interest and them, and I'd never proclaim something to be unworthy or devoid of any entertainment based purely on the fact that I don't like it, but football... I just don't get it. And that's not just because it's something that I, personally, don't enjoy.
Grown men who don't shed tears at funerals are transformed into a sobbing mass of mucus and pain when their team get knocked out of some competition and therefore remove themselves from the possibility of winning some wholly unimportant shiny silver trophy. Like druids involved in some sort of collective hypnotism, a shared religious experience, crowds recount chants - word perfect - and take part in very precise rituals. They dress in appropriate robes (£44.99 from JJB Sports for the basic replica shirt) and chips and beer are their bread and wine as they seek absolution from their everyday lives. Genuine anger and hatred can be conjured for rivals and referees who give decisions the 'wrong' way, and players can be vilified, held up for their heroics or even both in the course of a ninety minute ceremony, all to the backdrop of subconscious cliche conditioning by 'pundits' and 'commentators'; those we look to, those who's expertise we can buy into, reshape and pass off as our own:
It's a game of two halves
There's no love lost between those two
He's in acres of space
That's a beautiful pass
They desperately need those points
People - many of whom are totally blue-collar - are prepared to fork out extortionate amounts of money every year, to trundle down to a glorified school field once a week in order to get depressed. I think of the season ticket fee as a optional misery tax that some people choose to pay. It's like £500, £600 pr year, quite often paid by those who can't afford it. And that's not all. Being a football fan is an expensive occupation... price hikes on replica shirts, £4.00 for a pint of watered down lager in the stadium and the cost of travelling around Europe cheering on your team in international competitions (until they're inevitable knocked out by some Spanish team who are just, well, better.)
It's no wonder people are in such debt.
I think it's wholly irresponsible of football clubs to exploit their fans, the majority of whom are made up from the working classes and therefore from lower-income backgrounds (sorry about that hideously stereotyped generalisation, there... feel free to correct me if you know otherwise.) I don't know what causes this national obsession, this indoctrination into the way of the soccerball, and neither do the fat men in suits fill the boardrooms of these stadiums who are all buying a new Mercedes a week from money that would be better spend in trust funds for the average fan's kids. All they do know is, it's there. This need to follow a team, the comradery, the spirit, whatever. And like all opportunists they feed on it and they exploit it, squeezing every last penny out of those who cannot really afford it. It's like Robin Hood in reverse.
And where does the money go? Football clubs are multi-billion pound businesses now. Many could argue (probably correctly) that if we didn't feed all of this money into them, the economy would suffer. Gone are the days of friends kicking a ball around in the park, falling over in muddy puddles, scraping knees and getting home in time for tea. Grass roots morph into designer suits as fans' money is used to pay greedy, spoilt brats ridiculous amounts of money (I think some 'top players' - awful phrase - in the UK are on £200 000 per week) just because they can push a ball into a net with their foot. Wow. Big skill. Silly, little boys as young as sixteen suddenly have more money than you or I could ever even comprehend having access to, and whilst fans struggle to feed their families and make sacrifices on luxury items during this period of economic recession, they crash a Ferrari a week and fall our of VIP nightclubs, wasted off their face. You hear about Joey Barton beating the crap out of some guy in Liverpool who was just minding his own business, but no real action is taken because he's got money. Lee Bowyer and Jonathon Woodgate were 'allegedly' involved in a racially motivated attack, but nothing happened because they've got money. You hear about 'roasting' scandals and gang rape, but it's all brushed under the carpet with a boys will be boys mentality.
Because they've got money.
Too much money.
Personally, I'd cap the wage of everyone involved in football in any capacity to £30 000 per annum and give all of the other revenue that this obsession generates to public services, especially the NHS. How can we, as a society, justify having nurses on, like £15 000 per year, when almost every professional footballer in this country earns more in one week than the majority of us could dream about earning in our entire lives. People who are integral to society, rather than little boys who are, really, just entertainers. They should be the ones who feel disposable, not the people who are saving our lives every day.
Just thinking about the inequality makes me so angry. Professional sports stars (and other vacuous 'celebrities') earn FAR TOO MUCH MONEY. I know we're all capitalists here in the Western world n'all, but what kind of message is this sending out to kids? Nah, little Billy, don't bother training to be a paramedic. You'll make much more money kicking a ball around for ten years, or - if you're not bright enough - wait 'til you're sixteen and shag that girl who got her boobs out on Big Brother. The fee the Daily Star'll pay you will set you up for life. (And you can afford to go private for your Chlamydia treatment... provided, of course, any one bothers to study medicine any more.............)
That's why they get themselves in so much trouble; they can't handle the responsibility; splash out, engage in complete financial excess... and this quite often has detrimental consequences. This never used to happen fifty years ago, when football was played by normal men on normal wages, who just wanted to enjoy themselves. People don't become footballers now because they genuinely care about the sport, or because they genuinely care about the fans. Sure, they sign for a new team and get pushed in front of a dozen flashbulbs and utter a few words about a 'great club' with 'an amazing atmosphere', but all they care about is buying into the cult of celebrity. And really, who's fault is that? It's a sad fact about the society we live in that anyone can make enough money if they're desperate enough. So who am I to judge a teenager who is offered a multi-million pound contract purely because he can kick a ball in a straight line? Why shouldn't he make money from calendar sales and shirts with his name on and magazine shoots where he models clothes for some ridiculously overpriced label that he'd probably never wear himself in real life, but all his impressionable young fans will go out and buy in a bid to emulate their heroes 'look'? What does it matter?
Because, like parasites, they're leeching off their fans - the people who really pay their wages - without giving a crap about giving anything back. It's a complete lack of gratitude.
And that's the definition of disrespect.
You could argue that if there people are stupid enough to feed all of their disposable income and then some into following football, then they can't complain. No one's forcing them to, so what does it matter? Thing is, the majority aren't bright enough to make the distinction between enjoyment and exploitation. It's irresponsible to encourage those who don't realise that they can't afford it, and that's precisely what the clubs are doing.
Grown men who don't shed tears at funerals are transformed into a sobbing mass of mucus and pain when their team get knocked out of some competition and therefore remove themselves from the possibility of winning some wholly unimportant shiny silver trophy. Like druids involved in some sort of collective hypnotism, a shared religious experience, crowds recount chants - word perfect - and take part in very precise rituals. They dress in appropriate robes (£44.99 from JJB Sports for the basic replica shirt) and chips and beer are their bread and wine as they seek absolution from their everyday lives. Genuine anger and hatred can be conjured for rivals and referees who give decisions the 'wrong' way, and players can be vilified, held up for their heroics or even both in the course of a ninety minute ceremony, all to the backdrop of subconscious cliche conditioning by 'pundits' and 'commentators'; those we look to, those who's expertise we can buy into, reshape and pass off as our own:
It's a game of two halves
There's no love lost between those two
He's in acres of space
That's a beautiful pass
They desperately need those points
People - many of whom are totally blue-collar - are prepared to fork out extortionate amounts of money every year, to trundle down to a glorified school field once a week in order to get depressed. I think of the season ticket fee as a optional misery tax that some people choose to pay. It's like £500, £600 pr year, quite often paid by those who can't afford it. And that's not all. Being a football fan is an expensive occupation... price hikes on replica shirts, £4.00 for a pint of watered down lager in the stadium and the cost of travelling around Europe cheering on your team in international competitions (until they're inevitable knocked out by some Spanish team who are just, well, better.)
It's no wonder people are in such debt.
I think it's wholly irresponsible of football clubs to exploit their fans, the majority of whom are made up from the working classes and therefore from lower-income backgrounds (sorry about that hideously stereotyped generalisation, there... feel free to correct me if you know otherwise.) I don't know what causes this national obsession, this indoctrination into the way of the soccerball, and neither do the fat men in suits fill the boardrooms of these stadiums who are all buying a new Mercedes a week from money that would be better spend in trust funds for the average fan's kids. All they do know is, it's there. This need to follow a team, the comradery, the spirit, whatever. And like all opportunists they feed on it and they exploit it, squeezing every last penny out of those who cannot really afford it. It's like Robin Hood in reverse.
And where does the money go? Football clubs are multi-billion pound businesses now. Many could argue (probably correctly) that if we didn't feed all of this money into them, the economy would suffer. Gone are the days of friends kicking a ball around in the park, falling over in muddy puddles, scraping knees and getting home in time for tea. Grass roots morph into designer suits as fans' money is used to pay greedy, spoilt brats ridiculous amounts of money (I think some 'top players' - awful phrase - in the UK are on £200 000 per week) just because they can push a ball into a net with their foot. Wow. Big skill. Silly, little boys as young as sixteen suddenly have more money than you or I could ever even comprehend having access to, and whilst fans struggle to feed their families and make sacrifices on luxury items during this period of economic recession, they crash a Ferrari a week and fall our of VIP nightclubs, wasted off their face. You hear about Joey Barton beating the crap out of some guy in Liverpool who was just minding his own business, but no real action is taken because he's got money. Lee Bowyer and Jonathon Woodgate were 'allegedly' involved in a racially motivated attack, but nothing happened because they've got money. You hear about 'roasting' scandals and gang rape, but it's all brushed under the carpet with a boys will be boys mentality.
Because they've got money.
Too much money.
Personally, I'd cap the wage of everyone involved in football in any capacity to £30 000 per annum and give all of the other revenue that this obsession generates to public services, especially the NHS. How can we, as a society, justify having nurses on, like £15 000 per year, when almost every professional footballer in this country earns more in one week than the majority of us could dream about earning in our entire lives. People who are integral to society, rather than little boys who are, really, just entertainers. They should be the ones who feel disposable, not the people who are saving our lives every day.
Just thinking about the inequality makes me so angry. Professional sports stars (and other vacuous 'celebrities') earn FAR TOO MUCH MONEY. I know we're all capitalists here in the Western world n'all, but what kind of message is this sending out to kids? Nah, little Billy, don't bother training to be a paramedic. You'll make much more money kicking a ball around for ten years, or - if you're not bright enough - wait 'til you're sixteen and shag that girl who got her boobs out on Big Brother. The fee the Daily Star'll pay you will set you up for life. (And you can afford to go private for your Chlamydia treatment... provided, of course, any one bothers to study medicine any more.............)
That's why they get themselves in so much trouble; they can't handle the responsibility; splash out, engage in complete financial excess... and this quite often has detrimental consequences. This never used to happen fifty years ago, when football was played by normal men on normal wages, who just wanted to enjoy themselves. People don't become footballers now because they genuinely care about the sport, or because they genuinely care about the fans. Sure, they sign for a new team and get pushed in front of a dozen flashbulbs and utter a few words about a 'great club' with 'an amazing atmosphere', but all they care about is buying into the cult of celebrity. And really, who's fault is that? It's a sad fact about the society we live in that anyone can make enough money if they're desperate enough. So who am I to judge a teenager who is offered a multi-million pound contract purely because he can kick a ball in a straight line? Why shouldn't he make money from calendar sales and shirts with his name on and magazine shoots where he models clothes for some ridiculously overpriced label that he'd probably never wear himself in real life, but all his impressionable young fans will go out and buy in a bid to emulate their heroes 'look'? What does it matter?
Because, like parasites, they're leeching off their fans - the people who really pay their wages - without giving a crap about giving anything back. It's a complete lack of gratitude.
And that's the definition of disrespect.
You could argue that if there people are stupid enough to feed all of their disposable income and then some into following football, then they can't complain. No one's forcing them to, so what does it matter? Thing is, the majority aren't bright enough to make the distinction between enjoyment and exploitation. It's irresponsible to encourage those who don't realise that they can't afford it, and that's precisely what the clubs are doing.
Monday, 25 August 2008
Life, death and prizes!
There is a magazine on sale in the shop where I work - possibly called Chat! or Now! or something similar, that has the tag line Life, death and prizes!!!!!! (All of which appear to be nestled in between stories of the girl who's tortoise sat on her head and nearly killed her, a child who dialled 999 when its mother was attacked by a wayward albatross and a man who left his wife to sleep with his sister's pet Border Collie.)
Life, death and prizes!
I'm not even kidding.
People will buy anything. It genuinely bemuses me. They'll spend 68p (or whatever) on that, but won't fork out a few more pounds for something like Oscar Wilde, William Shakespeare, Douglas Coupland. Why? How come we stigmatise books, all of which are bursting with entertainment, imagination and wonderment, and yet hold up there glorified leaflets, monosyllabic transcripts of Jeremy Kyle episodes as genuine, worthwhile reads.
There is literally nothing else I can say about that right now.
Life, death and prizes!
I'm not even kidding.
People will buy anything. It genuinely bemuses me. They'll spend 68p (or whatever) on that, but won't fork out a few more pounds for something like Oscar Wilde, William Shakespeare, Douglas Coupland. Why? How come we stigmatise books, all of which are bursting with entertainment, imagination and wonderment, and yet hold up there glorified leaflets, monosyllabic transcripts of Jeremy Kyle episodes as genuine, worthwhile reads.
There is literally nothing else I can say about that right now.
Thought for the day
Families are weird.
You love them, you like them, but if you weren't related to them, chances are you wouldn't want to have anything to do with them. This doesn't apply to everyone, but after an awkward encounter of non-conversation with my cousin today, I found myself thinking, how many of these people would I actually want to be spending my time with if my blood ties didn't require me to?
Admittedly, quite a lot. I'm quite lucky in that a lot of my extended family are very nice and genuinely entertaining... but a few of them? I am honestly not entirely sure we've come from the same gene pool.
You love them, you like them, but if you weren't related to them, chances are you wouldn't want to have anything to do with them. This doesn't apply to everyone, but after an awkward encounter of non-conversation with my cousin today, I found myself thinking, how many of these people would I actually want to be spending my time with if my blood ties didn't require me to?
Admittedly, quite a lot. I'm quite lucky in that a lot of my extended family are very nice and genuinely entertaining... but a few of them? I am honestly not entirely sure we've come from the same gene pool.
Saturday, 23 August 2008
Writer's Block
Okay, so I'm failing at this already. Like, four days in and I can't think of anything to write. But I guess that was the challenge, right? I mean I want to push myself, to improve, to be able to have a period of three hundred and sixty five days over which retrospectively show me how I have grown and - hopefully - improved as a writer. That's hardly going to happen if on my sixth post I just blather on about how uninspired I'm feeling, is it?
And so we push on.
Writer's block affects us all from time to time. I always struggle with the term writer's block. Being, as I am, a huge grammar geek, I wonder about the apostrophe. It bothers me a lot; haunts me in my dreams (no, really....) Surely writer's block afflicts all writers technically rendering it writers' block. Although, however, when one is using the phrase, one is generally referring solely to oneself, which would again shift that little trickster of the punctuation world one space back to the left: writer's block. Hmm. Maybe it doesn't really matter, but these are the kind of things that bother me. I blame text messaging and the Internet - but that's a whole new blog for a whole new day! (Yes! I think I just inspired myself!)
As I'm referring to myself, I guess I'll punctuate it as in one singular writer suffering from the affliction. If you'd care to correct me on this one, or have any idea as to clearing up this confusion, please do not hesitate to contact me. I lose sleep over contexts where I'm not one hundred percent clear on the apostrophe. True story.
And so to writer's block. What I always wonder is, what precisely is this 'block' that I keep hearing so much about. What sort of substance can wedge itself so deeply into the cognitive recesses of the world's most imaginative and creative individuals and stop them in dead their tracks. It's like the worst game of musical statues ever, stuck in a limbo between your imagination and reality and not quite able to access either... due to this ridiculous 'block'.
I guess I kind of imagine it like a breeze-block; reinforced concrete, seemingly impenetrable... although one day you will inevitably manage to chip pieces and pieces of it away with some sort of pneumatic drill powered by fantasy, uncovering bit after bit of an idea, like a jigsaw puzzle in reverse until you have a tangible piece of language with which you can work. That's my writer's block... but what's yours? And how do you beat it?
Maybe it's a block of cheese and you're a mouse that munches and chomps your way through; maybe you greedily feast on too much and regurgitate letters that subsequently form words, sentences and paragraphs. Ideas. Maybe you face a block of wood, and you're a karate master - a sensei - cracking the balsa with your bare hands, sending uninspired feeling splintering off in all directions, evil spelks and shards scattered everywhere, lying dormant, defeated. You may feel as though you're atop a high rise tower block, standing precariously close to the edge, daring yourself to jump but unable to find the courage. Take the leap, branch out and send yourself in a new direction. Feel the air whipping up against your face as you free fall though a never-ending vortex of language. It's one of the most liberating experiences ever, and it's available to you every time you open a book. Literary sky-diving. Extreme writing. Whatever you want to call it! Maybe you're trapped in a really awful Hollywood blockbuster, with no real plot, poor dialogue and Will Ferrell cast as the lead. *Shudder*. You know that the quality of what you're producing is abysmal, but you feel uninspired by your contemporaries. Every generation, literary or otherwise, needs its saviours. If you can't find one, be one. It really is as simple as that.
Have you ever gotten to the point where you repeat a word so much, or consider a word over and over in your head so many times that it begins to lose all meaning? Block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block.
Block.
Once I forgot how to pronounce London, as I was shelving book after book about the capital city in the Travel section where I work. I sat and pronounced it over and over, shifting the stress back and forth from syllable to syllable, my own phonetic game of pong. The word lost all meaning, despite being one of the most recognisable words in the English language. Repetition breeds redundancy (and I'm not just talking about semantics here!) I've been talking about writer's block for so long that the phrase itself has begun to lose all meaning. Like Vienna to Ultravox, it means nothing to me... and therefore I feel blindly optimistic that I shall beat it tomorrow, the next day and every single time.
I just really wish I was clearer on that apostrophe.
And so we push on.
Writer's block affects us all from time to time. I always struggle with the term writer's block. Being, as I am, a huge grammar geek, I wonder about the apostrophe. It bothers me a lot; haunts me in my dreams (no, really....) Surely writer's block afflicts all writers technically rendering it writers' block. Although, however, when one is using the phrase, one is generally referring solely to oneself, which would again shift that little trickster of the punctuation world one space back to the left: writer's block. Hmm. Maybe it doesn't really matter, but these are the kind of things that bother me. I blame text messaging and the Internet - but that's a whole new blog for a whole new day! (Yes! I think I just inspired myself!)
As I'm referring to myself, I guess I'll punctuate it as in one singular writer suffering from the affliction. If you'd care to correct me on this one, or have any idea as to clearing up this confusion, please do not hesitate to contact me. I lose sleep over contexts where I'm not one hundred percent clear on the apostrophe. True story.
And so to writer's block. What I always wonder is, what precisely is this 'block' that I keep hearing so much about. What sort of substance can wedge itself so deeply into the cognitive recesses of the world's most imaginative and creative individuals and stop them in dead their tracks. It's like the worst game of musical statues ever, stuck in a limbo between your imagination and reality and not quite able to access either... due to this ridiculous 'block'.
I guess I kind of imagine it like a breeze-block; reinforced concrete, seemingly impenetrable... although one day you will inevitably manage to chip pieces and pieces of it away with some sort of pneumatic drill powered by fantasy, uncovering bit after bit of an idea, like a jigsaw puzzle in reverse until you have a tangible piece of language with which you can work. That's my writer's block... but what's yours? And how do you beat it?
Maybe it's a block of cheese and you're a mouse that munches and chomps your way through; maybe you greedily feast on too much and regurgitate letters that subsequently form words, sentences and paragraphs. Ideas. Maybe you face a block of wood, and you're a karate master - a sensei - cracking the balsa with your bare hands, sending uninspired feeling splintering off in all directions, evil spelks and shards scattered everywhere, lying dormant, defeated. You may feel as though you're atop a high rise tower block, standing precariously close to the edge, daring yourself to jump but unable to find the courage. Take the leap, branch out and send yourself in a new direction. Feel the air whipping up against your face as you free fall though a never-ending vortex of language. It's one of the most liberating experiences ever, and it's available to you every time you open a book. Literary sky-diving. Extreme writing. Whatever you want to call it! Maybe you're trapped in a really awful Hollywood blockbuster, with no real plot, poor dialogue and Will Ferrell cast as the lead. *Shudder*. You know that the quality of what you're producing is abysmal, but you feel uninspired by your contemporaries. Every generation, literary or otherwise, needs its saviours. If you can't find one, be one. It really is as simple as that.
Have you ever gotten to the point where you repeat a word so much, or consider a word over and over in your head so many times that it begins to lose all meaning? Block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block, block.
Block.
Once I forgot how to pronounce London, as I was shelving book after book about the capital city in the Travel section where I work. I sat and pronounced it over and over, shifting the stress back and forth from syllable to syllable, my own phonetic game of pong. The word lost all meaning, despite being one of the most recognisable words in the English language. Repetition breeds redundancy (and I'm not just talking about semantics here!) I've been talking about writer's block for so long that the phrase itself has begun to lose all meaning. Like Vienna to Ultravox, it means nothing to me... and therefore I feel blindly optimistic that I shall beat it tomorrow, the next day and every single time.
I just really wish I was clearer on that apostrophe.
Friday, 22 August 2008
Hypnopedia
It is amazing just how much time one can waste on Wikipedia. It truly is the procrastinator's best friend. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE Wikipedia (hell, my degree came from Wikipedia...), but how - after logging on to check the nationality of footballer Nemanja Vidić to settle a dispute between my soccer-ball obsessed family members (he's Serbian, in case you were wondering...) - how then, an hour and a half later did I find myself fully informed about the BALTIC Centre for contemporary art, the civil rights movement in the USA in the 50s and 60s, plot developments from Neighbours (full o' spoilers from Australian users!), the discographies of Reel Big Fish, MGMT and The Dandy Warhols and now the cast list for Six Feet Under? I don't even watch Six Feet Under.
I never have.
What manner of sorcery is this!? I can only assume that the website has somehow wiki-hypnotised me.
Argh!
I never have.
What manner of sorcery is this!? I can only assume that the website has somehow wiki-hypnotised me.
Argh!
Application of redundancy
Today, being the third Thursday in August, was GCSE results day. This year, being 2008, is therefore five whole years since it was all about me and my friends, ripping open our brown rectangular deal-breakers and facing the music regarding what lay within. I can still remember that day as clearly as ever, various friends littering the school hall, wanting to be together, but separate; revelling in each other's joy or providing support though each other's pain. We'd all be there for each other, regardless. I stood in the back right-hand corner of the room, in a little triangle formation with my two best friends tied to me by invisible diagonal strings, completing a perfect isosceles.
"I've passed Maths!"
"I've got AN A in Maths!!"
"Me too!"
"Haha, I think I've failed R.E.!"
There were hugs and tears, jumping up and down, smiling and celebrations. Almost everyone got what they wanted, and we talked our less fortunate friends through their options, too (it all worked out okay in the end.) It didn't matter. We were all off to Sixth Form, full of hopes and dreams and expectations. Vague imaginations of the similar ordeal on A-Level results day were put to one side, as we advanced one step closer to University and all that entailed. Halls of residence, three hour lectures and nine-pence Asda own brand noodles (just add water.) There'd be new friends and old friends, boyfriends and "special" friends, or as was my understanding of it, and it all seemed terrifying, but in the best possible way. All we wanted to do was enjoy ourselves; we had all the time in the world, right?
"So, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
I'd love to be a writer, or a journalist. I have vague flirtations with more sensible career options like publishing, and a part of me would love to teach, mainly because I still remember that amazing impact some of my teachers had on me, and I'd love to think I could, in turn, capture some of that enthusiasm and inspiration and bestow it onto others. But I don't know. Hell, a part of me still wants to be a rock star (musical talent pending.) All the way through school, I figured I'd work it out whilst I was at uni.
Uni came and uni went. I miss it a lot now it's over; you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. I don't think I got as involved as I should have done, I think I wasted a lot of opportunities, not even necessarily on purpose. I had to work part-time alongside my studies to pay my rent, and spending twenty hours of my week in a bookshop didn't really leave a lot of time for practical work experience in between lectures and shifts, pints of Diesel and walking home through Sandyford at 5am with a traffic cone on my head. I'm not bitter, and I had a fantastic three years at university, but I guess, with hindsight, I should have gotten more involved. I think it was mainly a confidence thing, but that's no excuse. I guess I always just figured that my grades would get me through, secure me the job I wanted easily and life would be grand. But that's not quite how it works.
When you go through school with top marks, you're untouchable. In the real world, it doesn't count for shit. I see all of these kids in the Chronicle, jumping up and down celebrating their own 4 As at A-Level, their own GCSE constellations, bursting with stars as far as the eye can see. They remind me of me, so happy, expectant and proud of themselves. Pride with good reason, don't get me wrong - I'm so happy for every single person who had the courage to rip that envelope open, heart beating in their throat and blood pulsing in their ears and behind their eyes, especially those who got just what they wanted. Even more so those who exceeded their own expectations. I am happy for them, and proud of them... but it also makes me feel so, so sad. Five years later, what have I got to show for it? I look at these kids, swollen with pride, and it breaks my heart to think of how many of them will be in my position in fiv years time... how much potential is just going to get crushed under the weight of reality. You can't live in a dream world forever, and I know there's more to life that school (thank God!), but I guess I always thought it's count for at least something. Now? I look at my achievements, my qualifications, the letter A photocopied ten or eleven times, and I don't feel proud or superior. I know it doesn't put me in any sort of advantageous position. I just feel empty. And cheated. You work hard, you pass your exams and you get a good job (I don't necessarily equate 'good' with 'well paid'... to me 'good' is synonymous with 'enjoyable'.)
She's going to go far.
You've done amazingly well.
Congratulations.
Congratulations.
Congratulations.
All of the accolades fade away to nothing. My life support machine's gone flatline.
I know you meant well at the time, and at the time I believed you... but it doesn't mean anything any more.
The reality is this: I can't find a decent graduate job in this city, and I have far too dense a social network here to allow myself to think about leaving. It would be a very selfish thing to do, and probably not even something I'd want to. I love it here, the people are wonderful. Due to a lack of viable employment prospects, I am currently stuck in a degrading job that fails to motivate me in anyway whatsoever, where I work in constant fear of a berating at the hands of a monster constructed entirely of hormones and overdosed on power. I am sick to the back teeth of filling out application forms for jobs that I know I'll get no reply from, and it's starting to really grind me down. I am Joseph Heller and this is my very own Catch 22. I can't find a new job because I don't have any relevant experience for the limited opportunities that there are. I couldn't get said experience because I was always working to fund my way through university.
Work experience trumps work ethic every single time.
And I'm drowning in a sea of application forms, and not one single employer looks likely to throw me a rope. Take off your A-Level flotation device and your GCSE armbands, and you'll find out that you can't swim after all. My degree is the fucking Titanic.
Help me. Please.
I'm so adrift, I can't even write anymore. That is why I started this blog, and so far nothing I've written has been of any value - entertaining, informative, whatever. That's just a list of things it isn't. I need to step this up a notch, because I hate feeling useless and I loathe my self-redundancy. If no one wants to employ me, I guess I'll just have to work a zillion times harder at the writer thing.
Or marry rich (!)
"I've passed Maths!"
"I've got AN A in Maths!!"
"Me too!"
"Haha, I think I've failed R.E.!"
There were hugs and tears, jumping up and down, smiling and celebrations. Almost everyone got what they wanted, and we talked our less fortunate friends through their options, too (it all worked out okay in the end.) It didn't matter. We were all off to Sixth Form, full of hopes and dreams and expectations. Vague imaginations of the similar ordeal on A-Level results day were put to one side, as we advanced one step closer to University and all that entailed. Halls of residence, three hour lectures and nine-pence Asda own brand noodles (just add water.) There'd be new friends and old friends, boyfriends and "special" friends, or as was my understanding of it, and it all seemed terrifying, but in the best possible way. All we wanted to do was enjoy ourselves; we had all the time in the world, right?
"So, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
I'd love to be a writer, or a journalist. I have vague flirtations with more sensible career options like publishing, and a part of me would love to teach, mainly because I still remember that amazing impact some of my teachers had on me, and I'd love to think I could, in turn, capture some of that enthusiasm and inspiration and bestow it onto others. But I don't know. Hell, a part of me still wants to be a rock star (musical talent pending.) All the way through school, I figured I'd work it out whilst I was at uni.
Uni came and uni went. I miss it a lot now it's over; you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. I don't think I got as involved as I should have done, I think I wasted a lot of opportunities, not even necessarily on purpose. I had to work part-time alongside my studies to pay my rent, and spending twenty hours of my week in a bookshop didn't really leave a lot of time for practical work experience in between lectures and shifts, pints of Diesel and walking home through Sandyford at 5am with a traffic cone on my head. I'm not bitter, and I had a fantastic three years at university, but I guess, with hindsight, I should have gotten more involved. I think it was mainly a confidence thing, but that's no excuse. I guess I always just figured that my grades would get me through, secure me the job I wanted easily and life would be grand. But that's not quite how it works.
When you go through school with top marks, you're untouchable. In the real world, it doesn't count for shit. I see all of these kids in the Chronicle, jumping up and down celebrating their own 4 As at A-Level, their own GCSE constellations, bursting with stars as far as the eye can see. They remind me of me, so happy, expectant and proud of themselves. Pride with good reason, don't get me wrong - I'm so happy for every single person who had the courage to rip that envelope open, heart beating in their throat and blood pulsing in their ears and behind their eyes, especially those who got just what they wanted. Even more so those who exceeded their own expectations. I am happy for them, and proud of them... but it also makes me feel so, so sad. Five years later, what have I got to show for it? I look at these kids, swollen with pride, and it breaks my heart to think of how many of them will be in my position in fiv years time... how much potential is just going to get crushed under the weight of reality. You can't live in a dream world forever, and I know there's more to life that school (thank God!), but I guess I always thought it's count for at least something. Now? I look at my achievements, my qualifications, the letter A photocopied ten or eleven times, and I don't feel proud or superior. I know it doesn't put me in any sort of advantageous position. I just feel empty. And cheated. You work hard, you pass your exams and you get a good job (I don't necessarily equate 'good' with 'well paid'... to me 'good' is synonymous with 'enjoyable'.)
She's going to go far.
You've done amazingly well.
Congratulations.
Congratulations.
Congratulations.
All of the accolades fade away to nothing. My life support machine's gone flatline.
I know you meant well at the time, and at the time I believed you... but it doesn't mean anything any more.
The reality is this: I can't find a decent graduate job in this city, and I have far too dense a social network here to allow myself to think about leaving. It would be a very selfish thing to do, and probably not even something I'd want to. I love it here, the people are wonderful. Due to a lack of viable employment prospects, I am currently stuck in a degrading job that fails to motivate me in anyway whatsoever, where I work in constant fear of a berating at the hands of a monster constructed entirely of hormones and overdosed on power. I am sick to the back teeth of filling out application forms for jobs that I know I'll get no reply from, and it's starting to really grind me down. I am Joseph Heller and this is my very own Catch 22. I can't find a new job because I don't have any relevant experience for the limited opportunities that there are. I couldn't get said experience because I was always working to fund my way through university.
Work experience trumps work ethic every single time.
And I'm drowning in a sea of application forms, and not one single employer looks likely to throw me a rope. Take off your A-Level flotation device and your GCSE armbands, and you'll find out that you can't swim after all. My degree is the fucking Titanic.
Help me. Please.
I'm so adrift, I can't even write anymore. That is why I started this blog, and so far nothing I've written has been of any value - entertaining, informative, whatever. That's just a list of things it isn't. I need to step this up a notch, because I hate feeling useless and I loathe my self-redundancy. If no one wants to employ me, I guess I'll just have to work a zillion times harder at the writer thing.
Or marry rich (!)
Thursday, 21 August 2008
Random irritation
Last night I managed to park my car under what I can only assume was an Albatross's nest, and apparently they mistook my poor little car for a toilet. I wouldn't have minded so much if they hadn't clearly gorged themselves on a curry first.
Poor Molly.
Poor Molly.
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
My new best friend
Sitting on his doorstep the other night, we looked up at the sky. The purple of night struggling to push through thick cloud, scarred a dull, artificial orange by the neon street lamps all around us. There's something intrinsically wrong about something on our level managing to impact on something as awe-inspiring as the sky. It seems like we're tampering with some sort of natural balance. Earth continued to violate the Heavens, a tower block puncturing the horizon, lights randomly illuminated within its heart; no one within aware that they're altering nature, obscuring the sky and inspiring two people on a garden step. No one within aware of their power.
We picked out cloud shapes as they distorted and danced above us, exposing and obscuring different parts of the sky behind it, like some sort of celestial peep show. Dog, cat, tortoise on roller skates. A man lying down, a huge rabbit's face and a map of the world. Everything you could ever have wanted was in the sky that night. We sat on his porch, huddled under a jacket; so lost in conversation, so humbled by the beauty of the sky, that neither of us noticed the light rain starting to fall. We imagined we were flying above the clouds, looking down through the gaps. We were the sky and the sky was us.
There were no stars; it was too cloudy. I remember the stars, though. I remember nights standing in car parks for far too long to be 'normal'. Looking up at the sky, picking out constellations that have since been branded into his skin, becoming part of his very being. Tarmac crunching under my feet as I shift from side to side, snuggling further into myself and rubbing my gloved hands together to generate some heat. The only thing close to a cloud that night was my breath; crisp and white, swirling upwards and intermingling with the atmosphere, just for a moment before it acclimatised and evaporated into the winter air. That night was me, and that night was him, and we were that night.
This time, there were no stars, but suddenly, as we looked up something caught our eye. The Heavens greeted us, and the sky said 'Hello!'. The neon clouds parted to expose the word HI in the purple of the hidden sky. All capitalised, shouting to get our attention. Now I don't believe in angels or aliens or ghosts or heaven, but I like to think it was a message; for me, for him, or maybe for the two of us. Maybe it was a message for everyone who can spend hours on end looking up in complete awe and wonder at the sky. Who it was for or from whence it came I guess is wholly irrelevant, these things can be whatever you make them and we both took comfort in it. Nature never fails to amaze me, to inspire and to astound me. The sky has never introduced itself to me before, and as I sat there, looking up at this greeting from something much greater than me, I couldn't help but look at him and smile. How many other people do I know who get to spend their evenings sitting on the porch gazing upwards in the best of company? Not many. There's always something better on the television I guess (!)
I am so, so lucky.
And then - just for a moment - I had this moment of total clarity; I realised how wonderful my life actually is. I have everything I could ever want, and I'm surrounded by amazing people who love me unconditionally and care about me so, so much (despite the fact that I am - in fact - the world's biggest scope), and now, even the sky wants to be my friend. And for the first time, maybe ever, I didn't feel worried about my contentment; no panicking about when it was all going to come to an end. There was no worry, no gnawing sense of foreboding. I felt - for the first time ever - completely at peace, completely happy. I felt nothing but an affinity with nature and with man (which was a pretty big deal for me, considering some of the experiences with people I've had lately) and a huge rush of love for those around me. I think it's all too much for me to comprehend sometimes, and I invert into myself to try and clarify it all. I am in love with this world, and I feel privileged to be a part of it. Now all I need to do is to convince everyone else just how lucky they are. Inspiration is everywhere. Beauty seeps from every pore of this planet, and the thing is, nobody seems to realise it.
*sigh*
We picked out cloud shapes as they distorted and danced above us, exposing and obscuring different parts of the sky behind it, like some sort of celestial peep show. Dog, cat, tortoise on roller skates. A man lying down, a huge rabbit's face and a map of the world. Everything you could ever have wanted was in the sky that night. We sat on his porch, huddled under a jacket; so lost in conversation, so humbled by the beauty of the sky, that neither of us noticed the light rain starting to fall. We imagined we were flying above the clouds, looking down through the gaps. We were the sky and the sky was us.
There were no stars; it was too cloudy. I remember the stars, though. I remember nights standing in car parks for far too long to be 'normal'. Looking up at the sky, picking out constellations that have since been branded into his skin, becoming part of his very being. Tarmac crunching under my feet as I shift from side to side, snuggling further into myself and rubbing my gloved hands together to generate some heat. The only thing close to a cloud that night was my breath; crisp and white, swirling upwards and intermingling with the atmosphere, just for a moment before it acclimatised and evaporated into the winter air. That night was me, and that night was him, and we were that night.
This time, there were no stars, but suddenly, as we looked up something caught our eye. The Heavens greeted us, and the sky said 'Hello!'. The neon clouds parted to expose the word HI in the purple of the hidden sky. All capitalised, shouting to get our attention. Now I don't believe in angels or aliens or ghosts or heaven, but I like to think it was a message; for me, for him, or maybe for the two of us. Maybe it was a message for everyone who can spend hours on end looking up in complete awe and wonder at the sky. Who it was for or from whence it came I guess is wholly irrelevant, these things can be whatever you make them and we both took comfort in it. Nature never fails to amaze me, to inspire and to astound me. The sky has never introduced itself to me before, and as I sat there, looking up at this greeting from something much greater than me, I couldn't help but look at him and smile. How many other people do I know who get to spend their evenings sitting on the porch gazing upwards in the best of company? Not many. There's always something better on the television I guess (!)
I am so, so lucky.
And then - just for a moment - I had this moment of total clarity; I realised how wonderful my life actually is. I have everything I could ever want, and I'm surrounded by amazing people who love me unconditionally and care about me so, so much (despite the fact that I am - in fact - the world's biggest scope), and now, even the sky wants to be my friend. And for the first time, maybe ever, I didn't feel worried about my contentment; no panicking about when it was all going to come to an end. There was no worry, no gnawing sense of foreboding. I felt - for the first time ever - completely at peace, completely happy. I felt nothing but an affinity with nature and with man (which was a pretty big deal for me, considering some of the experiences with people I've had lately) and a huge rush of love for those around me. I think it's all too much for me to comprehend sometimes, and I invert into myself to try and clarify it all. I am in love with this world, and I feel privileged to be a part of it. Now all I need to do is to convince everyone else just how lucky they are. Inspiration is everywhere. Beauty seeps from every pore of this planet, and the thing is, nobody seems to realise it.
*sigh*
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
Absolute zero
I always find it really difficult to start a new blog. You have no point of reference, nothing to refer back to. It's absolute zero. Diving straight in and writing a 'proper' entry straight away seems, well, inappropriate, there's no means of introduction... but how does one even go about starting these things?
I'm not very good at fresh starts. I almost always make an awful first impression. The first time I met my best friend's boyfriend, I managed to tell him I'm lazy and disabled (I'm neither, just a little politically incorrect and prone to severe verbal diarrhoea after one too many glasses of rosé.) But then again, this isn't technically a 'fresh start'. It's not like this is the first blog I've ever had, and it won't be my exclusive creative outlet throughout the course of its life, either. I have one other active blog, and a plethora of notebooks dotted all over the place. I hope to encourage others to contribute to this, too, which again negates the need for me to formally introduce myself here. My name, shoe size and favourite colour Smarite (orange - by a mile!) are wholly irrelevant. This isn't about me as a person, but the world around me. The world as I - and others - see it.
Basically, I want this blog to be an exercise in writing. The initial idea is that I will update it at least once every single day for the next 365 days (with the exception of any holidays I take, hmm, I'm going to France in just over a week and really haven't thought this through... I guess I'll jot things down in notesbooks and store up days in lieu. Or something. What? Stop looking at me like that! It's my idea and I'll do as I please!) The posts won't necessarily be about anything in particular, and by the same token they just might. They can be about, well, anything. I'm incredibly happy with the way my life is wired at the moment (which is a shame as writing is so much easier when you're feeling misanthropic!), so I've nothing to complain about (in the traditional sense), but there are some negative influences around me that have been making me, for lack of a better word, miserable. This has subsequently impacted upon both my desire to write and - possibly - the quality of pieces that I've produced. I've felt downtrodden and repressed and it's had a detrimental impact on my creativity.
Which is never a good thing.
I am in love with language; it's always been there for me. It facilitates my one talent: writing. It's the one thing I can do better than anyone else (or maybe not; read the blog and judge that for yourself.) I've come to a point in my life where I realise that I'm always going to be pretty average, plain. Beige. This isn't a bad thing, I've accepted it. Some people just aren't that special. But when I write, sometimes, I feel like maybe I do have that little extra something about me. The ability to manipulate and shape language, mould it into the form I want and express myself coherently. Sometimes I feel like it's all I've got, and I don't want to lose it.
Why this blog? Why now?
I need to reignite my affair with the writing, as over the past few weeks I've been feeling like it's abandoned me; packed up and left without even so much as a goodbye. Maybe I drove it away, maybe it had been unhappy for a while, or maybe "things just weren't working out". I don't know. All I know is that I'm broken hearted at the thought of it never coming back.
So, with that in mind, welcome to STORIES ABOUT ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING AND NOTHING: 365 unique stories, none of which have even been written yet. It's an exercise in creativity and language, and I hope I remain as committed and excited about the whole thing as I feel right now.
I'm not very good at fresh starts. I almost always make an awful first impression. The first time I met my best friend's boyfriend, I managed to tell him I'm lazy and disabled (I'm neither, just a little politically incorrect and prone to severe verbal diarrhoea after one too many glasses of rosé.) But then again, this isn't technically a 'fresh start'. It's not like this is the first blog I've ever had, and it won't be my exclusive creative outlet throughout the course of its life, either. I have one other active blog, and a plethora of notebooks dotted all over the place. I hope to encourage others to contribute to this, too, which again negates the need for me to formally introduce myself here. My name, shoe size and favourite colour Smarite (orange - by a mile!) are wholly irrelevant. This isn't about me as a person, but the world around me. The world as I - and others - see it.
Basically, I want this blog to be an exercise in writing. The initial idea is that I will update it at least once every single day for the next 365 days (with the exception of any holidays I take, hmm, I'm going to France in just over a week and really haven't thought this through... I guess I'll jot things down in notesbooks and store up days in lieu. Or something. What? Stop looking at me like that! It's my idea and I'll do as I please!) The posts won't necessarily be about anything in particular, and by the same token they just might. They can be about, well, anything. I'm incredibly happy with the way my life is wired at the moment (which is a shame as writing is so much easier when you're feeling misanthropic!), so I've nothing to complain about (in the traditional sense), but there are some negative influences around me that have been making me, for lack of a better word, miserable. This has subsequently impacted upon both my desire to write and - possibly - the quality of pieces that I've produced. I've felt downtrodden and repressed and it's had a detrimental impact on my creativity.
Which is never a good thing.
I am in love with language; it's always been there for me. It facilitates my one talent: writing. It's the one thing I can do better than anyone else (or maybe not; read the blog and judge that for yourself.) I've come to a point in my life where I realise that I'm always going to be pretty average, plain. Beige. This isn't a bad thing, I've accepted it. Some people just aren't that special. But when I write, sometimes, I feel like maybe I do have that little extra something about me. The ability to manipulate and shape language, mould it into the form I want and express myself coherently. Sometimes I feel like it's all I've got, and I don't want to lose it.
Why this blog? Why now?
I need to reignite my affair with the writing, as over the past few weeks I've been feeling like it's abandoned me; packed up and left without even so much as a goodbye. Maybe I drove it away, maybe it had been unhappy for a while, or maybe "things just weren't working out". I don't know. All I know is that I'm broken hearted at the thought of it never coming back.
So, with that in mind, welcome to STORIES ABOUT ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING AND NOTHING: 365 unique stories, none of which have even been written yet. It's an exercise in creativity and language, and I hope I remain as committed and excited about the whole thing as I feel right now.
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