I recently read that writing is all about telling stories. That good story tellers have the potential to become good writers. It makes alot of sense. All of the good writers I have met have been good story tellers. They revel and excel in bringing events to life verbally as well as via the written word.

I am not a good story teller. Describing a story does not come easy. Yet, I am interesting in writing. I think my interest lies more in communicating than telling a story. But the more I try to introspect what the exact motivation is, the more of a mystery it becomes. It is a complex area because the answer is deeply entwined with so many things. Seeking the answer requires me to go far back into my memory and challenge why things happen, and the effects they have had. It means trying to work out how I have grown, and identifying abilities that have stilted. At some time in my life, my ability to communicate stopped improving. Perhaps even went backwards.

Throughout my childhood I had very little sense of self so it is difficult to look back in retrospect and come up with a realistic picture of how it was, and when things began to change. During early childhood I remember I found it easy to make friends, so when did it start to becoming more difficult. Was it I who changed, or was it those around me. Perhaps as others matured, I didn’t. Perhaps traits I have always had became more disabling during the teenage years. Whichever way around it was, as I reached the final years in high school I started to become more of a loner. A feeling I didn’t belong began to surface, and my desire to steer clear from people started to thrive. By the time I reached adulthood, my social skills were seriously underdeveloped, and some of the character building that generally occurs prior to the work years didn’t happen.

The less I fitted in, the more I repelled against social opportunities.

As I write this now, the more I realise that a strict upbringing also has had a big impact on my growth. Not being able to go out and socialise during the teen years, worked as a catalyst to socialising with my peers. This accelerated my alienation with my friends. I didn’t go out with friends, I didn’t go out and push the boundaries that kids my age were pushing. I was instead almost confined, in an articial environment. It wasn’t long before the protective surroundings became walls of a prison. By the time I had the courage to get over the wall, I didn’t seem to fit in with the real world. My social skills were underdeveloped, I found it difficult to communicate. I had no confidence and each time I made tentative first steps and got my fingers burnt, I would scurry back into my shell; my cave.

Now just over 30, I wonder how those years have shaped me. I have certainly adapted, I get by and certain social skills have improved however I thing it is a crude adaption. The basic foundation of communication is weak and unstable. Certain muscles used for communication have wasted away through lack of use. It is an Achilles heal, something that feels more like an affiliction than simple lack of skill or experience.

So, I think my desire to write is born out of the desire to communicate, to touch people - to be noticed. Not necessarily to tell a story. Perhaps thats why I have often been drawn to capturing snapshots of emotion, or poetry. When it is more about condensed energy, than a story. Perhaps also, not communicating leads to pent up emotion, and writing is just a release.

Do the reasons above invalidate my wish to write, or entirely the opposite.

I have no desire to get something published, but my motivation to write remains mostly extrinsic. That is ultimately why despite any craft or skill I still feel compelled to have a blog. It is a slightly strange situation, that whilst I use my blog for writing practice, the ask of putting it in public view can also trigger self censorship. I would be better off keeping a private journal, were there is more freedom to create. To make mistakes, to expirement, to grow. Somehow the intrinsic motivation isn’t strong enough to do it.

If writing is communicating, and I do it in private, it seems almost too solitary an activity.

So at this crossroads, do I choose to keep a purely private journal, or am I bold enough to keep my blog and work at being less inhibited.

Journal | 1 Comment »

It was New Years eve, I was sitting on a remote beach searching for the ultimate solitude. I thought I had found it. I was looking out over the ocean, sitting down as its raw beauty washed over me. I wasn’t alone I soon realised. As I sat against a sand dune, numb to the world, my eye caught movement to the north east. Almost like a ghost, a dark figure appeared, walking out to sea. My sanity had already been battered and bruised by having to sit there whilst the waves revealed my own self to me. Secrets and truths I had long kept buried, began to work themselves free; coaxed to life by the chattering of the waves as they breathed in and out of the shore. Was this a ghost? Had the waves succeeding in breaking me completely.

The figure carried on moving towards the sea, until reaching just short of the waves lapping in, it was then the figure began drifting slowly parallel with the sea, stopping when in line with me. The ghostly black figure was now about 100 steps away from me, and yet was completely unaware of me. I began to focus in through the mist. It was a woman, dressed in a black dress, holding her black high heel shoes in her shaking hands. I held my breath as she turned, she still hadn’t seen me. For a brief second she went rigid, before exploding fury shook her lose and she launched her black shoes into the Sea.

“Whhhhhyyyyyyy” she screamed to the sea before collapsing into the sand.

I could only see her curved back now, a fragile figure beside the vast power of the sea. Emotion emanated from her like a beacon. I took a deep breath and could taste salt water on the ocean breeze. I couldn’t tell if I was tasting the oceans tears or hers.

Freewriting | No Comments »

Through the apple tree’s upper branches, at the foot of our garden, is the sight of a distant quiet paradise. In the early evening, when the sun is out, the woods and fields light up as if they were lightly covered in gold. I feel the potential of a 1000 journeys through that unspoilt land. There are no houses to be seen, no cars or traffic to be heard.

It is an ever changing landscape portrait; alive but serene; in this floaty moment I wonder at how I spend my time, how I prioritise the important. How I look so intently at the close-by and don’t often look afar and take time to relax. This view is more real than computers, the internet or watching X Factor. All of which I enjoy, but my impulsive or obsessive personality leads me to binge on one thing at a time, before seeking the next best thing.

This golden view both from afar and closer by should be my centre; with its freedom, serenity and vastness; always polite in giving you space for your thoughts. Today is sunny but even in less ideal weather the beauty of this place never tempers, it just takes on another flavour.

I would be just as happy walking through the woods as torrential rain crashes down, causing mudding paths and the pitter-patter melody. When I am at home, there is always a chore, a compulsion to check email, surf the net or watch TV. The more immersed in technology I become the more important it becomes to have a centre, a piece free from clutter and distraction.

Journal, Freewriting | No Comments »

Modern Etiquette is a tricky beast these days, and only yesterday I found myself facing a difficult dilemma. I generally try not worry too much about what is the conventional norm within society, but there really is no escape. We are shaped by our environments, by our upbringing, we are wary of what social behaviour is acceptable at any given time. Of course this is all second nature and we rarely give it a thought. Most of us have adapted to society, and decided which rules of etiquette to stick by and which to give a miss. Saying please, not pointing at somebody, holding open a door, not chatting when you are eating. A lot of these manners were passed down from our parents, and their parents – but this generally only covers the most important areas of etiquette, what happens when you stray into a grey area?

I stumbled in to such a grey area yesterday. Maybe by sharing my experience I can help others who bump into a similar experience. My ultimate aim is that together, we can work at passing our newly discovered wisdom down to our children. Before you know it this could become part of mainstream etiquette.

Okay, so here is the scenario: -

I live in a small village in East Sussex with my lovely girlfriend. Diagonally opposite is a petrol station with a little SPA shop. It is 9:50 pm, and we are out of milk. The shop shuts at 10, and I am dressed in my pyjamas and neither have the time or the inclination to get changed into something more suitable. Fair enough, I grab some money, open the door to the porch….and here comes the dilemma - what choice of footwear do I go with!? After all I am wearing pyjamas and going into the outside world, I haven’t been trained for this.

I very quickly get my choice down to 2 pairs, ruling out my hiking boots and my work shoes (I’m no idiot). This leaves me with my running shoes (trainers) or my slippers. There are pros and cons to either. Take trainers for instance, they were made to be worn outside, and have been designed for speed. However, trainers are the easy option, the obvious option – but also the wrong option. I mean, imagine walking into a shop with pyjamas and trainers on, you would look ridiculous, and quite probably be picked out as some sort of mental case. I wonder how many poor unguided souls have fallen into this trap, all because we haven’t as a society established some sort of ‘outside pyjamas usage’ etiquette.

Anyway, with trainers ruled out, this of course leaves slippers - our footwear of choice. Okay they are a little bit of a compromise as they were designed for indoor usage, but on the plus side they were also built for comfort. The biggest plus for slippers is they fit perfectly with pyjamas. Now picture the image, you walk into the shop wearing a matched outfit, stylish but subtle - and standing out at all. Thus through a newly established etiquette, you will have cunningly side-stepped looking like a complete fool.

Just to ensure that you know this addition to modern etiquette has been tried and tested. It was a successful mission - I got the milk, and nobody noticed a thing.

Journal | 2 Comments »

Ayyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeiii oh eeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeee ayyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiii

Enigma

I turned 31 last Thursday, and sometime later in the week I was wondering how I had changed? Without reflection, it seems like age creeps upon us - catching us completely unaware. I don’t feel any older now than I did when I was in my mid-20s. I was thinking whether my writing had changed much. I thought it would be a good barometer of the subtle progress I made if I compared some old writing with some new. I made a mental note to go on an expedition to the garage and to try find my old journals that are buried away there.

By some small coincidence, this weekend, I stumbled upon my first online journal whilst I was doing some housekeeping on my computer. The first entry dates back to September ‘98 - almost 10 years ago. I read through some of the entries, and it was a very strange experience. My signature is definitely threaded throughout the writing but there were some things that surprised me. I had preconceptions that the writing would be stilted, primitive and more grammatically imperfect than my current blog writing. What I found was almost the opposite. The writing seems more fluent. It appears more honest and straight forward (though a bit flowery). The imagery is basic, but more imaginative. A part of me felt disappointed that here I was 10 years on and no progress. If anything I may have gone backwards. Grammatically my writing seems even worse now. I have taken a poor grounding in grammar and added some bad habits in to the mix. In regards to the actual prose itself.Maybe I am over-analytic these days, my writing may not be any more primitive now, but it is certainly more stilted. I think a mismanaged life/work balance has a lot to answer for.

Here is my first entry, from my first online journal - a return to innocence.

Momentary dance of my heart

Here is the feeling again, this time its a movie on TV that sparked me off. Its a feeling that’s pretty hard to explain, the nearest I got to it in a poem is one called Momentary dance of my heart. I think must be linked with escapism, getting captured in a story forgetting about your own life and its troubles. Is it a nice feeling or a bad feeling, well I think its a bit of both. I’m alone and all these thoughts and emotions seem to be racing through me. Barriers which seem 16ft which forever surround me and hinder my progress in life, suddenly only seem 4ft tall. For a brief moment I`m peering over the barrier looking what’s on the other side at all the possibilities. Nothing seems so difficult, the things which usually seem impossible for this brief moment feel within my touch. I want to run out the house and dance in the cool of the night, be spontaneous, forget about the usual shackles which tie me rigid.

This feeling usually always hits me when I’m alone, later at night. Not being able to do nothing but watch this brief state of mind slip from my grasp. I know come tomorrow morning those big barriers will be up and as strong as ever. I will wake up and everyday nothing will be sitting on my door step telling me that this Sunday will be like every other. But the foggy memory of the night befores clarity will signify that there is hope, that potential is inside me,….. somewhere. I just have to find a key and these teasing glimpses of the other side of these barriers gives me extra motivation. Now I’ve started this journal, this will stand as a reminder for what I’m searching for.

Well its past midnight here, I`m sleepy and full of a cold. Maybe if I re-read this tomorrow it wont make any sense at all. But its a journal, no-one says it has to make sense!

Journal, Writing | 6 Comments »

One of my worst habits - of type procrastination - is habitual skipping. Not skipping skipping of course, but the skipping of exercises. If I am reading a book on creative writing or studying a course book, usually at the end of a chapter I will find a writing exercise. Without giving it a second thought, I skip it. A dreamers way of learning to write - not learning at all. It didn’t always used to be like this. Once upon a time, I use to read the exercises and make a vague mental note about coming back to do them later. I never would come back to them later, but at least I gave it some thought…

Anyway, this blog entry is both a confession, and a statement of intent. I do declare that from now on, I will do the exercises (At least most of the time).

‘To give up a habit, repetition of the preferred behavior is required’

…

UPDATE: Shortly after I wrote this entry I was sitting on the train reading through my Creative Writing course book and got to the end of the chapter - low and behold there was an exercise. This is what I had been waiting for, my first opportunity to shine - to think of my statement of intent and boldly begin to pause, reflect and write write write. I would be a hero…

F- Could do better!

Journal, Writing | 5 Comments »

I am not blind. My eyes are not closed to life passing by my window. Yet something is impaired. A wealth of stimuli floods my eyes, but then what. My senses itch but then what….Here lies the problem. I have a lot of trouble articulating the ‘feelings’. I observe but cannot capture the sensory perception.

It is both frustrating and fascinating. What is the fix? How much of the solution is ‘training the eye’ and how much is re-sensitising. I have not grown callused eyes, nor callused senses. Yet something inside is lame, but lame through lack of use or through disability. There are so many grey areas, but really the answer is not so important.

Moving forward there is really only one solution. Practise - physiotherapy for the mind. I need to poke and prod, I need to observe and feel, and attempt to make sense, attempt to capture and express. Paint with words that which I see or sense. Most of all I need to be patient when I am painting with a beginners hand, tolerate producing pictures that I cannot match to my vision. Then have faith that I can get better.

It is one of the challenges that makes me want to come back to the page.

“For me one of the joys of writing is articulating something I have felt, but never expressed before”

Julia Bell

Journal | No Comments »

My descriptive writing needs a little work - ‘Her hair is BROWN and she has DARK eyes’. This sort of vocabulary would be barely adequate to play ‘Guess Who’ with. Blah, it is times like this that I would usually just stop - resigned to forever being some sort of inarticulate literary mute. I wonder whether I should push at the resistance, to see if I can make some sort of small progress. Or am I struggling too much? Am I over-thinking? Should I give up and accept what I’ve got. Poor communication skills and very little aptitude for writing.

Then, a terrible thought. Am I the equivalent of a fame hungry auditionee on a reality talent contest like X Factor. Not only no-talent, but a combination of freakish incompetence and no self-awareness to realise it. Is my blog screeching out over the internet tannoy system, making ears bleed everywhere? I know I do not write well, and know I am unlikely ever to reach a publishable standard, but should I even bother blogging at this point on my journey. Does the internet need one more pollutant, does it need an increase in noise - will I have the bleeding ears of every visitor on my conscience?

On reflection…I do at least want to record some sort of journey, even if it all about the experiences along the way rather than reaching some sort of goal. I like a challenge, and would like to walk through life with the tenacity to push against every barrier. Even if sometimes I will have to expose myself to criticism and risk potential embarrassment. To have a journey, rather than shackle myself static with unrealistic self imposed restrictions and expectations.

Journal, Writing Scraps | No Comments »

I knew I shouldn’t have come. The orchestra begins to play the gentle introduction; my ears succumb and the notes I have heard so many times before expertly unknit my defenses. I am not ready for what comes next, but I long for it and crave its violence. It arrives with perfect timing; the Cello. As the bow draws across the Cello strings, it is like a knife against my skin. I am cut, my wound screams out with emotion that has long been trapped inside. I expect the audience to turn towards me, aghast at the interruption. Nobody sees or hears, and the Cellist plays on unaware that she is ripping me apart with each stroke.

My first tear is involuntary but I would not stop it. I had feared she could touch me no longer, and prayed she could touch me no more. The Cello has brought her back to life, and made live once again the connection from her heart to mine. 

Freewriting, Writing Scraps | No Comments »

What am I doing here? Day 3 of my Starbucks experiment; getting up extra early to do a bit of writing before work. I haven’t yet adjusted to getting up at 10 past 6. I was fiercely resistant to coming to Starbucks this morning, let alone trying to do some writing. With this amount of lethargy and sleepiness in my head, there is no room left for anything to write about.

After writing very little yesterday morning, I thought I would attempt to write more fluently this morning. Sadly, I didn’t account on having nothing to write about. I am void of ideas. To be honest, even if I was stock full of ideas, they would probably all be asleep now anyway. What am I doing up at this time. It takes a special person to be able to write in the morning. This early in the day I struggle to make sure I put my trousers on the right way around, and that I get on the right train. To then try to be half articulate is asking the impossible. To circumvent hitting this wall tomorrow, my strategy is to have some ideas or prompts ready just in case my idea department is still asleep.

Of course, if things go really badly tomorrow - we are talking worst case scenario - I could always write about the strange reactions I get from commuters when they see I am wearing my trousers back to front. Nothing is off limits eh?

Journal | No Comments »