Well, I was just reading another writer's blog - not that I can officially call myself a writer, since I've never published any work - and I realised something. Throughout the writing of this blog, I have been making the pre-assumption that writing is not as connected to a writer as dancing is, to a dancer.
It may seem obvious, but there are subtle stereotypes that imprint on a person's mind (perhaps mine, perhaps a million others in the human population) as an individual of society. One of them may be that writing for a writer is: a job. To some - lawyers who write appeals, suits, whatever (I watch Suits on Netflix and I'm still stiff with the semantic field of law!) - writing is a job. What the majority of them, potentially, love most is serving those in need, inside the courtroom. But with writers, we know that writing in a blog, newspaper, novel and so on isn't going to provide us with lots of money. Only novel-writers have high future, financial prospects. No one pays to read your blog. The cost of a newspaper is very little - it's not going to boost your bank balance much.
But we do it anyway.
In the past, during the times I've experienced Writer's Block, I have tried to explore art or music. But I always return to writing. The pen starts singing to me when I settle in front of the piano. The paper is so fresh and white - I mean, how can I resist? Sometimes it is merely the feel of the blank page, being filled up with your thoughts, an outlet for your imagination. Even during the writing of my novel, I questioned myself: if I'm so susceptible to Writer's Block, why am I even so passionate about finishing this novel?
After giving it some thought, I realised that Writer's Block is perfectly natural. Just like periods of dark depression are, and panic attacks. It's like acid reflux. Everyone experiences it at one point in their life. Stress, anxiety, anger: these feelings and emotions can all distract you from your writing. And why would you want to write anything - with hopes of publishing it - if your heart and mind wasn't truly set on it?
Writing is an art. The metaphors, similes, rhyme, semantic fields, oxymorons... They are all different coloured paints, different hues of green, brown, blue, red. You can paint a wonderful picture in somebody's mind with just words, strung together with skill, yes, experience, yes, but also...passion. Passion for inspiring truth and feeling in the reader. Excluding those who write for money, why else do we write? I, myself, write to reveal truths that I have realised as an individual during my experience of life, so that others can realise them, too. To create change - a ripple in the waters of humanity.
I have a great admiration for many species of animal - tiger, lion, cat, dog, rat, hawk, eagle. Even guinea pigs! You are probably wondering what the last two sentences have to do with this post. What I'm trying to say is this. I cannot connect with animals through my writing, although I would like to. I cannot affect worldly forces; only the thoughts and actions of humankind. I may not even be able to do that. Writing is a human activity. We are held together by it, just as we are held - connected - to one another by our ability to speak.
It is special, and I apologise if I have ever implied that it is merely an occupation. Something to 'get done and over with.'
I suppose I have not been posting for a long while, as well as inconsistently, because of my recent Writer's Block. I am writing a scene, at the moment, about one of the dragons flying. It's the first time the main character has ever gotten to fly this dragon. I struggled for about an hour, trying to establish that connection with my writing, but it was all stilted. I couldn't feel that true connection with what I was writing, and I realised that it was because I had never experienced riding on a - flying - dragon's back. I can imagine what it would be like, but I cannot write the scene with confidence as I've written the rest of the book. How can anyone experience riding a dragon? It's impossible.
I know I'm sounding very hopeless, but this Writer's Block is probably caused by the stress that I'm starting university at the end of the month. As I stated before, stress can inhibit creativity, because your focus is lost. If I had the money and resources, I would overcome this hurdle with replacing my lack of experience - with dragon-riding - with another, similar one. Perhaps riding horses, camels, maybe even sit on a crocodile! I'm sure you can pay to do that.
Well, that's something to add to the goals: ride a crocodile's coarse back. Can't wait to tick that one off (!) See ya!
Friday, 15 September 2017
Monday, 21 August 2017
Greetings & more inspirational tracks.
Greetings!
I am obliged to apologise for not posting in so many months. I was very caught up in my A Level exams. It fills me with a vague concoction of dread and excitement when I think: I will be at university in October! Well, anyway, enough about my personal life, that's boring.
Having been absent for months, you would think I would have some ideas to give you on story-writing. My own novel, which I have been writing for more than three years now, is almost finished. I have 1/4 to complete - but you never know with these things, your story changes all the time. Well, I was thinking, as I was redrafting a chapter yesterday: wow, I actually feel like these characters are real people that I know. I think this is very important, because it allows you to develop the characters with more ease, which is vital to your story.
To keep my story-writing skills and techniques flowing, I have read about ten novels: most of the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon, the second and third Game of Thrones novel by G.R. Martin, and I have just recently begun reading Jean Auel's Earth's Children series. The latter is a very interesting series about human life during the Ice Age and the doomed reign of the Neanderthals. I won't say anymore, because I do not wish to ruin it for anyone else! However I do recommend them, they are all inspiring, exciting, wonderfully written series.
Another story-writing tip: there must be a structure to your story. I'm not talking about the 'beginning, climax, end' structure, no, suit it to yourself and your story. A story that follows the same mood and pattern for too many pages will soon become boring. It needs a collision between characters, a death, a betrayal, drama, you name it. I call it a 'climax.' A bit like the structure of a play - it keeps readers hooked. The structure of my story has many minute climax points, which lead to the main climax at the very end. Perhaps this structure would fit your story better? Remember, it's all up to you. Writing a story is a creative, unique process to every individual.
At this moment, I cannot conjure any story-writing techniques - that I haven't mentioned already - to mind.
But I have some beautiful tracks I have found, here, to inspire you whilst you are writing your own story:
This one is by Birdy, called 'Shadow'. Sorry about the Spanish subtitles, it's the only video I could find on YouTube. But this is an emotional, ethereal track that describes the relationship a woman (or man) has with her lover. Their strong, unbreakable love is powerful - she has become their shadow in falling in love with them - but it was overpowered her as a person. She is controlled, influenced too easily by this person she orbits around, held there by her love. A very dark, emotional song that instantly tugged at my heart strings... :')
Another track by Birdy. It addresses a person who "wait[s] on [the speaker's] defeat," telling them that this emotional battle is not over yet. I think it is a song that uplifts the soul and really gives the listener confidence in whatever situation they are caught in at the moment.
Birdy again! She is one of my favourite artists. This is a song she wrote for the film 'The Edge of Seventeen' a while before the previous songs. It is about being lost. Its raw honesty draws you in, exposing you to the heart-wrenching vocals and lyrics. I think it is a very healing song :)
This song is by Simon and Garfunkel, two older artists, who focused on society and drew their ideas from the cracks and flaws they saw within it. They were fascinated with the doom humanity brought upon itself in order to survived, and also to be loved. This song expresses the harshness of life itself, and evokes a raw need to be free, to be who and what you want, which society strictly restricts people from. They address 'man' who is 'tied down to the ground,' giving 'the world its saddest sound.' A sentimental track that really loosens the mind, allowing new ideas to flow in.
I am obliged to apologise for not posting in so many months. I was very caught up in my A Level exams. It fills me with a vague concoction of dread and excitement when I think: I will be at university in October! Well, anyway, enough about my personal life, that's boring.
Having been absent for months, you would think I would have some ideas to give you on story-writing. My own novel, which I have been writing for more than three years now, is almost finished. I have 1/4 to complete - but you never know with these things, your story changes all the time. Well, I was thinking, as I was redrafting a chapter yesterday: wow, I actually feel like these characters are real people that I know. I think this is very important, because it allows you to develop the characters with more ease, which is vital to your story.
To keep my story-writing skills and techniques flowing, I have read about ten novels: most of the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon, the second and third Game of Thrones novel by G.R. Martin, and I have just recently begun reading Jean Auel's Earth's Children series. The latter is a very interesting series about human life during the Ice Age and the doomed reign of the Neanderthals. I won't say anymore, because I do not wish to ruin it for anyone else! However I do recommend them, they are all inspiring, exciting, wonderfully written series.
Another story-writing tip: there must be a structure to your story. I'm not talking about the 'beginning, climax, end' structure, no, suit it to yourself and your story. A story that follows the same mood and pattern for too many pages will soon become boring. It needs a collision between characters, a death, a betrayal, drama, you name it. I call it a 'climax.' A bit like the structure of a play - it keeps readers hooked. The structure of my story has many minute climax points, which lead to the main climax at the very end. Perhaps this structure would fit your story better? Remember, it's all up to you. Writing a story is a creative, unique process to every individual.
At this moment, I cannot conjure any story-writing techniques - that I haven't mentioned already - to mind.
But I have some beautiful tracks I have found, here, to inspire you whilst you are writing your own story:
This one is by Birdy, called 'Shadow'. Sorry about the Spanish subtitles, it's the only video I could find on YouTube. But this is an emotional, ethereal track that describes the relationship a woman (or man) has with her lover. Their strong, unbreakable love is powerful - she has become their shadow in falling in love with them - but it was overpowered her as a person. She is controlled, influenced too easily by this person she orbits around, held there by her love. A very dark, emotional song that instantly tugged at my heart strings... :')
Another track by Birdy. It addresses a person who "wait[s] on [the speaker's] defeat," telling them that this emotional battle is not over yet. I think it is a song that uplifts the soul and really gives the listener confidence in whatever situation they are caught in at the moment.
Birdy again! She is one of my favourite artists. This is a song she wrote for the film 'The Edge of Seventeen' a while before the previous songs. It is about being lost. Its raw honesty draws you in, exposing you to the heart-wrenching vocals and lyrics. I think it is a very healing song :)
This song is by Simon and Garfunkel, two older artists, who focused on society and drew their ideas from the cracks and flaws they saw within it. They were fascinated with the doom humanity brought upon itself in order to survived, and also to be loved. This song expresses the harshness of life itself, and evokes a raw need to be free, to be who and what you want, which society strictly restricts people from. They address 'man' who is 'tied down to the ground,' giving 'the world its saddest sound.' A sentimental track that really loosens the mind, allowing new ideas to flow in.
Tuesday, 20 December 2016
'If I Met The First Man On Earth'
If I met the first man on earth -
not that I will, for I am one of the twenty-first century,
and we have not learnt yet how to trace back
through time -
I would ask him what his name was
first. Who
was his creator?
Was there any at all?
Would their limbs resemble my own,
like a brother resembles
a brother or
like a thorn resembles a rose?
At least I would know
if the bible were true to its word
and if everything I'd ever known and
believed in was a lie.
Questions would bloom on his lips,
decaying in their curiosity
and leaving the sour taste on his tongue: what
are we to become? Will my
actions determine that? Will I
live long enough to see your
generation or will I die,
to be buried by my children's hands,
with whose own death I will be
forever forgotten?
And if
I told him what his sons, daughters,
descendents were to
become and what they
will do and what they
could do, would he weep
with guilt or
would he scream, petrified? For
the earth is on his shoulders
and how could bone, flesh,
held by all but each other, stand
and live beneath such weight?
Why don't
you end it, right
now, I might ask him. Save
the world from the
putrid greed that grows in so many
it reaches the clouds. Clouds
that reach mountains we have
reached. Reached so high we
salivate for the possibility of flying
in the black vacuum of space pricked
with dim stars, over and over and
over again. We will suck our
home dry, until it becomes a glassy,
limp prize, like an insects body, wingless
in the lonely night. Why not save
all those souls, fiery in kilts and glittered
armour, blind with glory - yet deformed with
violence? Why not save those lovers and wives,
estranged and lost as knives without sheaths, their
cheeks streaked with tears over pearl and brown flesh over
bones that creak, with age for the old and
for the young, that they cannot speak with the grief? Why
not save those tortured spirits in the ocean, to become
slabs of meat on the cold wooden deck
of a ship, that will travel to retrieve
slaves in shackles that draw blood, blood
that will be swept up nonchalantly? Why
not save those butchered animals, betrayed
by their masters as lambs to the slaughter? Why
not save those punctured hearts? Why not
save
Me?
not that I will, for I am one of the twenty-first century,
and we have not learnt yet how to trace back
through time -
I would ask him what his name was
first. Who
was his creator?
Was there any at all?
Would their limbs resemble my own,
like a brother resembles
a brother or
like a thorn resembles a rose?
At least I would know
if the bible were true to its word
and if everything I'd ever known and
believed in was a lie.
Questions would bloom on his lips,
decaying in their curiosity
and leaving the sour taste on his tongue: what
are we to become? Will my
actions determine that? Will I
live long enough to see your
generation or will I die,
to be buried by my children's hands,
with whose own death I will be
forever forgotten?
And if
I told him what his sons, daughters,
descendents were to
become and what they
will do and what they
could do, would he weep
with guilt or
would he scream, petrified? For
the earth is on his shoulders
and how could bone, flesh,
held by all but each other, stand
and live beneath such weight?
Why don't
you end it, right
now, I might ask him. Save
the world from the
putrid greed that grows in so many
it reaches the clouds. Clouds
that reach mountains we have
reached. Reached so high we
salivate for the possibility of flying
in the black vacuum of space pricked
with dim stars, over and over and
over again. We will suck our
home dry, until it becomes a glassy,
limp prize, like an insects body, wingless
in the lonely night. Why not save
all those souls, fiery in kilts and glittered
armour, blind with glory - yet deformed with
violence? Why not save those lovers and wives,
estranged and lost as knives without sheaths, their
cheeks streaked with tears over pearl and brown flesh over
bones that creak, with age for the old and
for the young, that they cannot speak with the grief? Why
not save those tortured spirits in the ocean, to become
slabs of meat on the cold wooden deck
of a ship, that will travel to retrieve
slaves in shackles that draw blood, blood
that will be swept up nonchalantly? Why
not save those butchered animals, betrayed
by their masters as lambs to the slaughter? Why
not save those punctured hearts? Why not
save
Me?
'That Flying-Dust'
Perhaps, I think I should start off with, I will
never be a good poet and
perhaps I will never write poetry.
It's another butterfly I
cleave onto. I know the
magic dust will smear off onto my fingertips with
the first touch, though.
Just like the time
in Freya's garden, the girl next door, when we
clapped our hands around the blurs of yellow and
red and black, purple, and blue; a crushed wing,
a dislocated stem-like leg, whiskerlike antennas torn,
and a silence tainted by
guilt would fall on our chests
and we would drop the body. Pretend
it had never happened, even when at
night, in bed, I would roll my fingers over
the dusty, musky powder, as
though I'd been handling a gun. I would fall
into sleep, guilt evaded and peace found,
the temporary peace one finds in ignorance, Ignorance
is bliss, they will say, but the bliss never lasts, like
the paintbrush in my hand fell out
of my grasp
like an autumn leaf, old, rotten in water,
my mind cold and bruised
after being beaten for imagination,
whom Bastille takes out for tea
Perhaps I'll see them one day
the two of them
talking
from the shadows
and see their, Imagination's, face
write about the creases by their eyes
the music of their voice
the gleam of their lips in the
summer light, animated with words of
inspiration
that I never gave birth to,
never carried in my arms
and loved and cherished
but glimpsed in snippets
from my finger-smeared window,
at trees silent as me
and a sky just as
empty. They never helped.
never be a good poet and
perhaps I will never write poetry.
It's another butterfly I
cleave onto. I know the
magic dust will smear off onto my fingertips with
the first touch, though.
Just like the time
in Freya's garden, the girl next door, when we
clapped our hands around the blurs of yellow and
red and black, purple, and blue; a crushed wing,
a dislocated stem-like leg, whiskerlike antennas torn,
and a silence tainted by
guilt would fall on our chests
and we would drop the body. Pretend
it had never happened, even when at
night, in bed, I would roll my fingers over
the dusty, musky powder, as
though I'd been handling a gun. I would fall
into sleep, guilt evaded and peace found,
the temporary peace one finds in ignorance, Ignorance
is bliss, they will say, but the bliss never lasts, like
the paintbrush in my hand fell out
of my grasp
like an autumn leaf, old, rotten in water,
my mind cold and bruised
after being beaten for imagination,
whom Bastille takes out for tea
Perhaps I'll see them one day
the two of them
talking
from the shadows
and see their, Imagination's, face
write about the creases by their eyes
the music of their voice
the gleam of their lips in the
summer light, animated with words of
inspiration
that I never gave birth to,
never carried in my arms
and loved and cherished
but glimpsed in snippets
from my finger-smeared window,
at trees silent as me
and a sky just as
empty. They never helped.
'New Times Roman'
New Times Roman
I have lonely hands
Plucked from my body.
And the words are gushing out my wrists.
Yes, I know there's no way back
'cause the flow ain't gonna slow down...
Down...
Down...
New Times Roman,
Cuts into the page.
I will myself to open,
Maybe it will come with age.
New Times Roman,
I let my will be broken.
And now there's nothing left to open...
Oh, tried tying my hands in prayer,
But they still don't work.
Guess the Lord could have a different path for me,
One that isn't so vain.
I've said it 'til my tongue's gone dry.
Why the pain, the strain?
What do I have to do?
New Times Roman,
I need to make something new.
I see you cut into the page,
And I will myself to open.
Maybe it'll come with age.
New Times Roman,
I let my will be broken,
And now there's nothing left to open.
There's nothing left to open...
Words have slain,
Words have swayed.
That's all said and done.
The only thing I'm afraid of is absence,
That there's nothing on the page...
New Times Roman,
I'm begging for something new.
Oh, you're cutting into the page,
But not into me...
Don't think it's gonna come with age,
Because I lost the key.
New Times Roman,
I let my will be broken,
Now there's nothing left to open.
Nothing left to open!
New Times Roman,
I let my will be broken,
Now there's nothing left to open...
I have lonely hands
Plucked from my body.
And the words are gushing out my wrists.
Yes, I know there's no way back
'cause the flow ain't gonna slow down...
Down...
Down...
New Times Roman,
Cuts into the page.
I will myself to open,
Maybe it will come with age.
New Times Roman,
I let my will be broken.
And now there's nothing left to open...
Oh, tried tying my hands in prayer,
But they still don't work.
Guess the Lord could have a different path for me,
One that isn't so vain.
I've said it 'til my tongue's gone dry.
Why the pain, the strain?
What do I have to do?
New Times Roman,
I need to make something new.
I see you cut into the page,
And I will myself to open.
Maybe it'll come with age.
New Times Roman,
I let my will be broken,
And now there's nothing left to open.
There's nothing left to open...
Words have slain,
Words have swayed.
That's all said and done.
The only thing I'm afraid of is absence,
That there's nothing on the page...
New Times Roman,
I'm begging for something new.
Oh, you're cutting into the page,
But not into me...
Don't think it's gonna come with age,
Because I lost the key.
New Times Roman,
I let my will be broken,
Now there's nothing left to open.
Nothing left to open!
New Times Roman,
I let my will be broken,
Now there's nothing left to open...
'In The Morning'
Feelin lost in time,
Think I invested too much,
in the wine of the keyboard.
Being stuck,
is the worst thing,
when you know you've gotta go,
And I know,
I've lost home.
Itchy dresses, concrete feet,
whiny voice, and it's all retreat.
Well I've come to accept that it's not my fault,
and no one else's.
Just gotta live it out,
Buy a little house,
Cleanse the keyboard,
Fix my head.
Oh...
And I know,
I've lost home,
but I'll be back in the morning.
Singing sad tunes,
Seems such a waste of time,
Would you prefer it if I sang the blues?
Do I have to make this rhyme?
Got no more sense,
Got no nonsense,
just me.
How do you love yourself,
when you don't even know them?
Should we marry, should we befriend?
But she's all I got, so
Leaving the lights on behind me,
You can follow, see,
Where I go,
it might be home...
Itchy dresses and leaden hands,
Whiny voice, not knowing if it's a choice...
Well I've come to accept that it's not my fault,
and no one else's.
Just gotta live it out,
Buy a little house,
Cleanse the keyboard,
Fix my head.
Oh...
And I know,
I've lost home,
but I'll be back in the morning.
I'll be back in the morning.
I know I'll be back, in a thousand mornings,
or one.
I've lost home. But I'll be back...
in the morning.
Think I invested too much,
in the wine of the keyboard.
Being stuck,
is the worst thing,
when you know you've gotta go,
And I know,
I've lost home.
Itchy dresses, concrete feet,
whiny voice, and it's all retreat.
Well I've come to accept that it's not my fault,
and no one else's.
Just gotta live it out,
Buy a little house,
Cleanse the keyboard,
Fix my head.
Oh...
And I know,
I've lost home,
but I'll be back in the morning.
Singing sad tunes,
Seems such a waste of time,
Would you prefer it if I sang the blues?
Do I have to make this rhyme?
Got no more sense,
Got no nonsense,
just me.
How do you love yourself,
when you don't even know them?
Should we marry, should we befriend?
But she's all I got, so
Leaving the lights on behind me,
You can follow, see,
Where I go,
it might be home...
Itchy dresses and leaden hands,
Whiny voice, not knowing if it's a choice...
Well I've come to accept that it's not my fault,
and no one else's.
Just gotta live it out,
Buy a little house,
Cleanse the keyboard,
Fix my head.
Oh...
And I know,
I've lost home,
but I'll be back in the morning.
I'll be back in the morning.
I know I'll be back, in a thousand mornings,
or one.
I've lost home. But I'll be back...
in the morning.
'The Frozen Lake'
I am drawn to him like a moth to a flame
His voice is sweet poison, drawing me close
I wonder, was it like this when he first came along?
I am breathless, even when he goes
I am lost in the need of him
Rendered a blind slave
Is my love a sin?
But it's too late
I was always the thorn, never the rose
Only pain can be given out by me
And inside I am bro...ken
And in vain I will try to be
something he could love
I am a frozen lake
And my love is dragging me down through the break
I was in a dream
now I'm awake
You could never love me
It would be a mistake
Sometimes I wonder, could I have stopped it?
Perhaps from the start
he was catching my heart
before he dropped it
Oh, I am lost in need of him
lost in this maze of mirrors
why does it sting
that I can't wake his heart
When I've already fallen apart?
I am a frozen lake
My love is dragging me down through the break
I was in a dream
now I'm awake
I am awake
I am awake
Now I can't escape
Oh, could you ever love me?
Do you ever need me?
I was always the thorn, never the rose
Only sorrow I will give
And inside I am broken...
And I'm a frozen lake
My love is dragging me down through the break
I was in a dream
now I'm awake
I am awake
I am awake
Now I can't escape
Oh, could you ever love me?
Do you ever need me?
His voice is sweet poison, drawing me close
I wonder, was it like this when he first came along?
I am breathless, even when he goes
I am lost in the need of him
Rendered a blind slave
Is my love a sin?
But it's too late
I was always the thorn, never the rose
Only pain can be given out by me
And inside I am bro...ken
And in vain I will try to be
something he could love
I am a frozen lake
And my love is dragging me down through the break
I was in a dream
now I'm awake
You could never love me
It would be a mistake
Sometimes I wonder, could I have stopped it?
Perhaps from the start
he was catching my heart
before he dropped it
Oh, I am lost in need of him
lost in this maze of mirrors
why does it sting
that I can't wake his heart
When I've already fallen apart?
I am a frozen lake
My love is dragging me down through the break
I was in a dream
now I'm awake
I am awake
I am awake
Now I can't escape
Oh, could you ever love me?
Do you ever need me?
I was always the thorn, never the rose
Only sorrow I will give
And inside I am broken...
And I'm a frozen lake
My love is dragging me down through the break
I was in a dream
now I'm awake
I am awake
I am awake
Now I can't escape
Oh, could you ever love me?
Do you ever need me?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)