I appear to be taping in to a good part of me thats been lying dormant for a decade or so. I used to write at work when I had time (which was frequently) .. mostly lyrics for a mythical band I once dreamed of being part of. Those words are still with me, kept in a folder in my cupboard (just in case).
Now I spit my qwerty old school stylee in Moleskin notebooks – which I love. I use the reporter type and write in my own style. By that I mean always towards the spine. Which means I have to flip the book upside down for every other page. I do this because I hate writing right off the edge of the page. Having a solid edge to perch my resting hand is more comfortable. I choose the reporter type because I’m left handed and have trouble writing up to the spine on regular notepads. Ergh I’m not even sure that sentence made sense there – but I think you get me.
I’m writing shorts and thoughts and still reading loads and loads. Trying to make up for lost time as a colour and whitespace designer, getting creative with words is a wonderful change.
I know I mostly write shit tho. I’m fully aware of it. But I have to go through this pathetic creative wanky style in order to discover the good stuff.
take this passage for example:
Recycled oxygen from the air conditioned office atmosphere consumes the world I exist in. The even, consistent, chilled pressure, suspends all fixed objects perfectly, as if without it they would break free causing untold chaos whereby staplers crash into photocopiers and monitors fight to the death with fire extinguishers. The air is the container for my everything, yet not thin and transparent, but dry dusty and grey with weight, like a quicksand flood had sucked itself up through the carpet tiles, similar to drawing liquid up through a syringe, causing everything electrical to fizz and pop in its mass until reaching the false ceiling and fossilising the noise into silence.
Within this dry, grey air, my coffee mug sits steaming, barely, as if trying to breathe, just like I am.
Its pure selfish indulgance. Nonsensical and directionless. I was bored and it came to mind to describe the coffee on my desk. When I reread it, I laugh at how silly it is. But have hope.
My first draft of my first book… was all function, no prissy arty creativity, it just told the story, I didn’t even enjoy writing it particularly, it just needed to get out of me. Now I’m going the otherway, writing pure creativity for the hell of it. Because I want to, and because I can and because once I’ve gone OTT, once I’ve unleashed the driveling beast from within, I’ll be able to tame it and pull things back into line with the ‘function’ to make something of sense to read. That’s the plan anyway.
So, that’s me for the time being – and I’m loving it. 🙂