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 |   A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| Sociopath Explained A couple of days ago, I told another member of WdC that I didn’t agree with explaining art of any kind. If a piece requires that someone stand next to it, pointing out meaning and hidden subtleties, then it isn’t art. If the piece cannot stand alone, then who will speak up for it when this generation is dead and forgotten? It becomes dumb, without possibility of speaking to us. Call it karma or whatever you will, today I wrote something that urges me to add a note to explain it, insisting that they will miss its clever nuances. I resisted its blandishments but, moments before submitting it to the appropriate contest, I added just a pointer, a signpost about where to look. My note said this: punctuation or lack of it intended. But the poem still nags at me for a fuller exposition. The darn thing is tiny (it was written for the 24 Syllables Contest) but its meaning hinges on an important point that is too easily missed. I figure that here, in my blog that no one reads, it is safe to explain in full. Here’s the poem: Sociopath You need catharsis to empty the emotion from the depths within the cold voice responds, “And then?” The crux is that middle line, “from the depths within.” It is deliberately ambiguous, being able to be read, “to empty the emotions from the depths within,” or “from the depths within the cold voice responds.” Both meanings are intended, so the central line does the work of two, initially assisting what has gone before but then, like an optical illusion, joining forces with what follows to create an entirely new perspective. All that is needed to swap between the two meanings is a full stop (period) after “within.” But then, to preserve the ambiguity, the stop would have to flash on and off like a failing neon sign. I could, of course just repeat the line to make its dual nature quite clear, but that ignores the limitation of 24 syllables. In the end I am drawn to do exactly what I have done - to remove punctuation apart from an initial capital, a comma and the spoken question at the end. They won’t get it, I know. But principle dictates that I keep silent on the matter, apart from my hint about punctuation. It’s a pity in a way, since I’m beginning to quite like the little thing. Word Count: 408 |
| A Trident of Laws When I was young and had just half a novel and a collection of pretty awful poems behind me, I decided that no one had anything worth writing about until they were at least forty years old. This did not stop me from trying but it proved pretty true in my case - everything up to that age was basically teenage angst and getting rid of ideas that were as practical as a cardboard swimsuit. In my early twenties, I had a friend who was studying for his master’s degree in English Literature. He wrote a lot of poetry, even more than I did, and his stuff was beautifully constructed and polished, like a favourite old car lovingly attended to. I was less aware of it then but now, on looking back, I realise that the great weakness of his writing was that he didn’t really have anything to say. His poems were gorgeous constructions of delightful words but they contained nothing. I think my theory on writing and age was a subconscious recognition of this. At the same time, I had another friend, an artist aged just over forty. He was known as the finest painter in the country where we lived and his technique was indeed phenomenal. He had the ability to paint anything he could imagine. I understood this because I was in the last throes of trying to be the greatest painter in the world. It was partly my inability to reproduce the paintings in my head that stopped me in my ridiculous ambition and enabled me to turn to writing. There was a problem, however. Although my artist friend produced some brilliantly executed stuff, it was empty and pointless. He once admitted to me that his latest painting was based on an idea from a book his wife was reading. When your ideas are second- or third-hand, it’s time to find out what’s wrong. Everything became clear to me when the guy showed me some of the paintings from his youth. They were messy, imprecise and careless in style, but showed enormous passion and depth of emotion. They were far, far better than anything he had done in the last ten years and I suspect that he knew it. Certainly, he was aware that he had controlled his creative urges during that period while he schooled himself in technique. He wanted to be able to paint absolutely anything and was prepared to sacrifice the time to gain that ability. The trouble was, by the time he got there, he had forgotten what he wanted to say. It became clear that the road ahead was like a narrow path between two precipices - what mountain climbers call an arête. On the one side I should forget writing anything worthwhile until I was much older and, on the other, I should not chase after technique but allow it to come naturally through experience. To some extent, at least, I have kept to this intent. For many years I wrote very little creatively, although it has always been impossible to stop myself honing whatever writing I was doing, even business letters and notes to myself. They told me this blog should be informal and not to bother too much about grammar and spelling. Hah, as if that were possible. I suppose that I could say that I’m old enough now to have a few things to say. A very good internet friend of mine taught me that memory is a wonderfully rich mine of stories that others find interesting (to us, they’re just what happened). And the silly philosophies of youth are long buried in the long march through reality. At the same time, I have not been swayed to acquire technique and I still have no idea what the various names for poetic meter mean. One has to stay at least a little wild or become tamed and boring. And now, at the age of seventy-two, I find there’s another matter to be attended to. I learned it in the course of writing The Gabbler’s Testament twenty years ago but only recently have I understood it in relation to my other “laws.” There is a chapter in that book that required me to bare my soul in a way that I had never done before (it also required me to write the longest sentence known to mankind but that’s another story). It was pain to write it but resulted in the best chapter in the book. So I have a trident of laws for writing: leave it until you’re ancient and have something to say (check), don’t go running after perfect technique (check) and your heart, your deepest secrets, are where the best stories are (well, that one’s being checked). You’ll just have to read me if you want to find out if it all works. Word Count: 807 |
| When the Block Drops I’ve often heard it said that, if inspiration doesn’t come, the writer should press on with determination to break through the dry spell. Yet, I know this for a fact, that, if my heart’s not in it, I produce substandard stuff. Is it really a case of one or the other, keep going regardless or sit and wait for that moment when the way ahead is clear? Having tried both solutions, I think it’s best to continue to write, even if the product is hardly worth the trouble. Very often, it’s the act of writing that seems to reignite the fire of inspiration. This may be because, in writing, we remember the good times it has given us, those moments when the words poured from us and created magic on the page. Or, perhaps, it’s that, in writing down our thoughts, we notice side alleys that lead to other thoughts and that, sometimes, these spark into life, revealing a new approach and reason to write. The best moments, however, come when we least expect them, when we’re minding our own business and not “being a writer” at all. That’s when the genius ideas, the flashes of insight, creep up behind and pounce suddenly, leading us into a world where it becomes so easy. Or maybe it’s just that writing is a complicated process and we’ll seize upon any excuse to get away from it for a while. In which case, writer’s block, my ass. Word Count: 244 |
| Another Idea I don’t go for all this muse stuff. Occasionally I get inspiration that leads to the production of some writing but I’ve never detected the influence of some weird and shadowy Greek lady in the business. Although I do admit that my first schoolboy crush was on a Greek lass by the name of Zoe. Totally out of my league, of course, and she never gave me any ideas for writing. More often, inspiration seems to come from thoughts that bend away from the usual paths, finding routes of their own and winding up in unexpected and unusual conclusions that demand to be written. There’s always a thought process involved and, if I’m quick, I can trace the evolution of the idea back along its track to its origin. So far, I’ve seen no Greek ladies. After a couple of dry months, last night I had inspiration for a poem. Got up this morning and wrote like my life depended on it - you don’t allow inspiration to hang around waiting or it’ll clear off into the great forgetory of life. It’s quite long, being 66 lines in all and, of course, it’s my favourite of the moment. That could even last until the next inspiration comes along. Anyway, it’s had no readers as yet so, if you’ve a few minutes to spare, have a read and, if time still hangs heavy on your typing fingers, tell me what you think. Here’s where you’ll find it:
Word Count: 245 |
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I've always remembered that episode and thought that was a fun idea.
Quite good is quite a good compliment 
As someone who just reviewed an item in your port, I can't help but wonder, Did I pick an item that you'd throw out? 
