I can’t believe I wrote this

“I’ll admit that writing about oneself is a strange kind of voyeurism, like by chronicling my thoughts and feelings into a thin whimsy plot I’m opening a trenchcoat and flashing the world. But the thing is that it feels too easy. All I have to do is find a trenchcoat and open it. It’s showing a personal part of myself in a blatant and easy way. Yes, some people may enjoy it, some people may recognise themselves in my naked body and feel different about the world, but ultimately it’s too easy. I don’t want to just be able to unbutton a coat, I want to strip fifty people without their consent and show the varied bodies we have.”

Kathy Acker, I love you

“‘I often dream I’m falling down from lofty rocks, my stomach goes, but I never touch the ground, and my fear changes to freedom. When I wake up, I see I’m covered with bruises.’ She again kicked the dog.

“The dog: ‘Such are the bruises of love.’”
from Don Quixote: which was a dream.

The beginning of a new novel

All in all, six of us survived. That’s, of course, unless you want to be picky. If you’re the type of person who believes that personality is all to do with nurture then you might say that all of us survived, in one form or another. Each individual personality honed and crafted through all the personalities met in our existence. But sadly I do not have the luxury of theorising whether my thoughts and words are based upon genetics or experience. I already know the truth. We were created on the side of nature; we are rigid, two-dimensional, and limited. But, luckily for you, this is the story of how we try and change that.

To begin at the beginning would be irresponsible of me, for most of the story would be consumed by detailed descriptions of people who only existed for the fleeting of moments. Their lives were like shadowy thoughts that play on your mind; fleeting images of smiles, speech inflections, and personality quirks. So instead I’m going to begin at what is probably nearer the end of the story. Don’t worry though, you’re not missing out on much. Think of it like a download from the internet. You wait so long for that little bar to inch its way across the screen so you can finally listen to that song or play that game or masturbate to that movie, but it’s in the final one-percent that it really counts. You know that that final one-percent is the percent that holds the most power. In that one-percent, you could tell a book’s worth of stories.

Here’s what happens when left to my own mechanised devices (3)

Last night I sat down and wrote a short story and a poem. I don’t usually dabble in poems but I’ve been listening to so much music recently that I just had the biggest urge to try it out. So I wrote a poem about Humphrey Bogart. I even made it so that the lines matched in syllables.

But it’s rubbish. As is my short story.

I always try and bring something to the writers group. I like having my writing read and for people to either tell me the mistakes or unduly praise me. But I’m having trouble thinking of new subjects these days. So far I’ve only written two new pieces for the group’s consideration, the rest have been redrafts of previous works. I had put off writing a story for this week, so when I went to my harddrive last night I realised that I had used up my stock. Every good story I had in there has been shown to them before or redrafted and critiqued. I had nothing new to show them.

So I wrote a shit story and a shit poem. And I think I’m going to get praise for at least one of them because the group’s like that. One of my biggest complaints to them is their trepidation at recognising when a piece is rubbish; or maybe recognising it but not actually saying it. I know we all used to be rubbish, but most of us never went to a writers group where we were told we were good.

So this is where I step in.

Over the past two months or so, I have been given – from different people – five stories to critique and two opening chapters (i consider this a compliment that people trust my judgement with writing enough). Out of all of these, I have only thoroughly enjoyed three. Three stories/chapters out of seven is not good. And I told them that. I told them if I enjoyed them, I told them if they were crap, and I told them if they had potential. I hate being molly-coddled when it comes to writing. I send off so many stories to be published and sometimes it feels great to have them rejected. It gives my ego a kick, it justifies my pessimism, and it tells me that I’m not good enough yet. People need to know that their stuff is rubbish so they can fix it and not be stuck in perpetual pubescent fantasies of glory.

Oh, I read over my novel again today, and by God I am a fucking genius.

Halloween story excerpt

The full version of this story has 235 instances of “you” within its holdings. I counted.

We always think we know

You think about it sometimes, right? Just idly though, like after a film or answering one of those stupid internet questionnaires. In a fire, what would you save? Name three things; go on, I dare you. You’re in your bed and you’re woken by the smell of smoke or the whine of your alarm, and you have five minutes to grab what you can and get out. Forget about things you need, in a practical sense, all those are covered by some magic. Pick the things that really mean something to you. Your laptop maybe, or that scrapbook your ex made for you (though, on second thought, you might let that burn in hell, the bitch), or maybe a photo album. Right, now that you’ve got your chosen possessions in tow, the internet questionnaire takes a more emotional tone. If your house was on fire, who would you save? You can save one person, who would it be? You don’t really think of that answer, not properly anyway. You think of it sentimentally. Your dad beat you when you were a kid, your mum told you off for staying out too late again. The only other choice stands between your brother and sister. But this is only a silly chain mail question, so you pick the cat. If the house was on fire, you’d save the cat.

But what about a zombie apocalypse?

With a split second to choose, your priorities change. Lead pipe in hand, two of the undead running towards your dad and mum, time freezes, just for that moment. The first choice is to protect the woman, to save your mum. Your dad can take care of himself. He’s strong and fast while your mum needs some help. You need to protect her. But then another thought occurs in that endless second, well not really another thought, just a reemphasis. Your mum needs help. She’ll need protecting, saving. Your dad’s self reliant. He can keep his cool and think his way out of a situation, and he can wield and axe with deadly accuracy. And so in that split second you’re so torn. There’s the gamble of saving your mum and your dad managing to hold off until you can save him, or you go all or nothing and secure a chance for survival. But in this tearing second you can’t move. You can’t move from fear and from choice, and so they both die screaming, gurgling as the blood rises in their throats as you run as fast as you can into the bathroom. Fucking internet questionnaires.

Aaaaaaaaand

I’m done! It took me four hours to write 2,250 words on a subject I know nothing about.

But the conclusion was good.

God I love my conclusions.

Hiatus will be over with soon. Ish.

Essay essay essay essay fucking essay

Ok, three, two, one,

GO

Aww shit

I think I have bloggers block. This, surprisingly, is a good thing. When I have bloggers block it means that my creative writing is flowing so freely.

So yes. This is a hiatus. I’ll be back soon.

Yes, this a long rambling post about everything and nothing.

I hate reading up on authors. I hate having an internet with such a wide database of knowledge that is Wikipedia. I hate reading books and reviews of books and interviews with authors of books and books and books and AH.

How far away am I from saying that I have a book that’s wholly and utterly complete? I’d say I have two years. That’s how far away I am. The first draft is done, has been revised, the second draft is in process, needs to be revised and edited and cut and expanded. Two years. That’s what I give myself for all that. And then at the end of it all it might now even be published! What fun writing is really.

(Someguy points out that he gave himself two years three years ago. As such he is still two years away from acheiving his goal, like a donkey constantly chasing a carrot on a stick)

I always have this debate with myself really. The fact is that I know I’m a good writer. You may shrug that off as arrogance on my part, but the truth is that I am. I am a good writer, and I can honestly say that about three or four other people I know are good writers too. We, us four, could get published if we tried hard enough. Really. But the debate that rages on inside my head is if we will get the credit we deserve for being published. There are dozens of authors out there who have been published, but as such have faded into mediocrity because they haven’t been read. A lot of these authors come from Glasgow as well.

And the amount of shit that’s published! Oh the amount of shit that’s published. I can’t say any more than that. It’s just too hard to bear. Will my stories be filtered through, or will they be pushed aside for some c-list celebrity’s third autobiography? Oh it’s too much to bear to think about.

The point of this rant is the question of do I really want to gamble my work by letting it be published? I don’t think my ego could stand the blow of failures. Sure, I would occasionally wander round Borders just to see my name on the spine of a book and then buy the book (to add to the hundred copies I have at home) and take it to bars and pick up chicks, but that’s hardly a substitute for seeing your book being ignored while My amazing mediocre life: Vol 6 is selling by the dozens.

Ah I don’t know. Shut up and go away.

The good times are killing me

I woke up an hour early than I should have today, which is good I guess. I don’t feel gut wrenchingly exhausted anymore so it’s a kinda plus.

It’s nice just to have time to myself. Usually my entire week is planned out to a fine point.

Monday:
Wake up at 8.30
Dress and catch bus
Attend classes
Visit library/computer suite between classes
Run for bus
Suffer work
Arrive at the flat
Eat
Sleep

Tuesday:
Wake up at 8.30
Dress and catch bus
Attend classes
Visit library/computer suite between classes
Meet Mike for lunch
Attend Writers Group
Drink in Union (indeterminate time)
Run for bus
Arrive at flat
Eat
Sleep

And so on.

I feel booked out for the next two weeks. One of my friends is thinking of throwing a party for another friends birthday, and he wants to do it on a Saturday night but I couldn’t last Saturday due to the crazy house party and I can’t this Saturday because of another birthday of a friend who would be ever so offended if I didn’t show.

Oh the demands of an active social life! How depressing that I have so many friends! Oh boo hoo hoo.

You know, sometimes I wish I could just write a blog filled with song lyrics I know and pass them off as my own. Right now I’m listening to Calibration by Omar Rodriguez Lopez and there’s some amazing lyrics in there (but I can’t really understand all of them) and I wish I could just write them with the same effect that they’re sung and you would all believe that they were mine but that’s just not going to happen.

Ah well.

Also, I’m writing a new book. It’s an evolution from a previous idea, and it’s so wacky. I do like wacky.