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 Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. 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, 18 March 2012
Labels
Pencil to paper. Surely that's all you need to be a writer? But even the act of making that connection now feels alien to me. I had no idea as a child just innocently putting ideas down on paper would come to anything - writing so hard I couldn't get it all down.
I wasn't a writer then. Children can't be labelled as 'writers' - they just have a delightfully active imagination. Just like a child who can play the piano is not a pianist, just a child who can play an instrument. At what point do we attach labels to talents? When do hobbies become something more? When do they become a part of who we are, not just what we (think we can) do?
I wasn't a writer then. Children can't be labelled as 'writers' - they just have a delightfully active imagination. Just like a child who can play the piano is not a pianist, just a child who can play an instrument. At what point do we attach labels to talents? When do hobbies become something more? When do they become a part of who we are, not just what we (think we can) do?
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