My necessary tools for writing have always been a blank notebook and a pencil. This has always been the way. In the past I have been given notebooks for birthday or Christmas - beautiful notebooks, but I have put them away on a shelf because the pages are lined.
A couple of days ago I found myself writing fervently... with a Bic biro in a lined, spiral-bound notebook taken from work.
Why is this so odd?
I have always shut out the possibility of using anything but blank paper and an HP pencil because I thought anything else would quell my creativity. I built up this wall hoping to protect what I thought was my creative mind. Breaking through seems to have released something. Apparently not poetry, but certainly prose.
It seems my friend was right. I am now looking at the world from a different creative direction. Having this blog in mind I try to make everything interesting so I can write about it. Okay, sometimes I fail on the 'interesting' scale, but for me this feels creative. And this makes me feel good.
I even attempted opening a blank MS Word document to see if this encouraged anything more than a blog entry. Not yet, but perhaps I will keep trying. I can't limit myself and still expect great things to happen. I need to be open to anything, as long as it allows me to express myself.
Perhaps I shouldn't limit myself to the label of 'poet'? After all, poets write poetry... what I am is a creative mind. I just need to find my direction.
Showing posts with label Writers-Block. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writers-Block. Show all posts
Monday, 30 April 2012
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
Books in the Basement
Today in town I ventured into another Waterstones bookshop – one I do not often think about. This one has a basement. Not a ‘downstairs’ with windows and a revolving door – this place has no windows. No doors. Just a creaky staircase leading to the outside world.
The muffled pressure of thousands of voices bearing down on my from every direction… the smell… the rows upon rows of colourfully bound words screaming silently… I feel strangely overwhelmed. There is non-descript music droning in the background which drowns out the beautiful hush of the books.
It is interesting to see the people climbing down the creaking staircase; the students heading for the academic guides; the suited businessman towards ‘business management’; the grungy boy in glasses drawn to the sci-fi section (this may seem stereotypical but it is simply a current observation - I myself enjoy this genre). There is a tanned man in shorts (despite the rain) perusing the travel section, undoubtedly planning his next adventure.
All the while shadows in Waterstones uniforms move quietly between the shelves, their trolleys piled with lone copies of books gone awry. They pass unnoticed by shoppers consumed in their chosen pages. I feel a pang of jealousy for these ghosts in black.
And then there is me. Sitting, neutrally in the centre, not belonging to any section, any genre, in a slightly uncomfortable cushioned and for some reason animal-print armchair. I must look out of place, but I feel like I belong.
The muffled pressure of thousands of voices bearing down on my from every direction… the smell… the rows upon rows of colourfully bound words screaming silently… I feel strangely overwhelmed. There is non-descript music droning in the background which drowns out the beautiful hush of the books.
It is interesting to see the people climbing down the creaking staircase; the students heading for the academic guides; the suited businessman towards ‘business management’; the grungy boy in glasses drawn to the sci-fi section (this may seem stereotypical but it is simply a current observation - I myself enjoy this genre). There is a tanned man in shorts (despite the rain) perusing the travel section, undoubtedly planning his next adventure.
All the while shadows in Waterstones uniforms move quietly between the shelves, their trolleys piled with lone copies of books gone awry. They pass unnoticed by shoppers consumed in their chosen pages. I feel a pang of jealousy for these ghosts in black.
And then there is me. Sitting, neutrally in the centre, not belonging to any section, any genre, in a slightly uncomfortable cushioned and for some reason animal-print armchair. I must look out of place, but I feel like I belong.
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
Broken Pencil
I was on the bus tonight and had the somewhat unfamiliar urge to write. I have unfortunately fallen out of the habit of carrying a proper notebook, however I always have a pencil - I find pens rather uninspiring. I did have a small, lined 'shopping list' pad with me and the urge to at least hold the pencil over the paper, if nothing else.
My pencil broke.
I have misplaced my pencil case, including my pencil sharpener. This realisation was strangely affecting. The first night in a long while I suddenly have the urge to do something remotely artistic and all I have is a small lined pad and a broken pencil.
My heart sank.
What would I have written had I the right implements?
I always find it strange travelling by bus at night - windows turn to mirrors. I try to look outside and all I see is myself. This has always fascinated me in a creative sense - trying to create some sort of metaphorical insight from this concept but I have no idea how to use it.
One night inspiration might strike, hopefully when I have remembered my pencil sharpener...
My pencil broke.
I have misplaced my pencil case, including my pencil sharpener. This realisation was strangely affecting. The first night in a long while I suddenly have the urge to do something remotely artistic and all I have is a small lined pad and a broken pencil.
My heart sank.
What would I have written had I the right implements?
I always find it strange travelling by bus at night - windows turn to mirrors. I try to look outside and all I see is myself. This has always fascinated me in a creative sense - trying to create some sort of metaphorical insight from this concept but I have no idea how to use it.
One night inspiration might strike, hopefully when I have remembered my pencil sharpener...
Sunday, 8 April 2012
Blank
I was told this blogging thing would help my writers block. The word 'blog' is forever spinning around my head but nothing comes from it. I keep thinking "no one will want to read about that" but I need to get it into my head not to write for other people. This is about me. If other people are interested that is just a bonus.
I have told people to burn my notebooks when I die. No one can ever read the rubbish I have written over the years. How can I be embarrassed or ashamed to read MY OWN work? I have written a couple of pieces I am proud of but most of it is just painfully desperate.
"every answer that I find is the basis of brand new cliche" - Tim Minchin
People have told me that many famous artists did not find fame until after death. How is this comforting? Fame is not really what I want - I just want to be happy with my writing. If other people think it is worthy of note then I would be happy with that.
I like the idea that poets don't really achieve 'fame' in the way other writers do. The idea of fame scares me. I am ridiculously shy and the idea that anyone would want their life to be open to strangers blows my mind. At least as a writer people would only know a name and whatever might be written on the dust jacket of a book.
Why am I talking about the possibility of a book? Really?
Stupid.
I have told people to burn my notebooks when I die. No one can ever read the rubbish I have written over the years. How can I be embarrassed or ashamed to read MY OWN work? I have written a couple of pieces I am proud of but most of it is just painfully desperate.
"every answer that I find is the basis of brand new cliche" - Tim Minchin
People have told me that many famous artists did not find fame until after death. How is this comforting? Fame is not really what I want - I just want to be happy with my writing. If other people think it is worthy of note then I would be happy with that.
I like the idea that poets don't really achieve 'fame' in the way other writers do. The idea of fame scares me. I am ridiculously shy and the idea that anyone would want their life to be open to strangers blows my mind. At least as a writer people would only know a name and whatever might be written on the dust jacket of a book.
Why am I talking about the possibility of a book? Really?
Stupid.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Fridge Door
One thing that creates a crack in the locked door of my creative mind is magnetic poetry. It has provided much-needed inspiration, even if it leads to nothing more than a few lines of... anything.
My fridge stands next to my kitchen window. I can spend hours standing or sitting in front of it. It must seem very strange to onlookers, a girl (usually in her pajamas) staring intently at a kitchen appliance.
Hundreds of little magnets to move around to make 'poetry'. It is a great creative exercise. I make space on the door, stand back and look. I don't look for anything, I just look. Soon random words will start to stand out and I will attempt to use these as a basis for something.
My Dad came around once and read a poem I had assembled, about war. He always complains that my writing is too dark - why can't I write about happy things? I tried to explain to him that I don't have a choice. If inspiration strikes, no matter what the subject, I have to grasp it before it disappears.
I keep all my pieces on another blog: www.thefifthline.blogspot.com and I will sometimes revisit them to see if anything will evolve...
I can hope.
My fridge stands next to my kitchen window. I can spend hours standing or sitting in front of it. It must seem very strange to onlookers, a girl (usually in her pajamas) staring intently at a kitchen appliance.
Hundreds of little magnets to move around to make 'poetry'. It is a great creative exercise. I make space on the door, stand back and look. I don't look for anything, I just look. Soon random words will start to stand out and I will attempt to use these as a basis for something.
My Dad came around once and read a poem I had assembled, about war. He always complains that my writing is too dark - why can't I write about happy things? I tried to explain to him that I don't have a choice. If inspiration strikes, no matter what the subject, I have to grasp it before it disappears.
I keep all my pieces on another blog: www.thefifthline.blogspot.com and I will sometimes revisit them to see if anything will evolve...
I can hope.
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