3 Easter stories:
Monthly Archives: March 2018
Where I had breakfast yesterday.
…is These Hands.
Rule number one: you teach yourself to write. No one else can teach you. Writing is as personal as eye colour. Your style of writing is as individual as your fingerprint. And you learn to write by writing. You discover your style by developing your style. By writing. No one can teach you that stuff.
There are rules about grammar, some of which I’m yet to master – I use far too many commas, and the more I think about trying to reduce them the more I use them – and there are preferences and guidelines too, Hemingway’s disdain for adverbs for example, which I mostly agree with, though there are plenty of quality novels with plenty of quality adverbs, so it’s not a rule. Though it was for Ernest.
Actually, on reflection, there is only one rule for writing. It’s this: you sit down at a table with a pen and a sheet of paper.
And you write.
Lately I’ve been doing a lot less. Just choosing to let things go when normally I’d be getting after it. Choosing to be less intense, less driven. Enjoying the feeling of barbiturate-smooth empty space in which I choose to do very little.
Waking early, walking the dog to the beach, stretching, meditating, mooching round the home doing odd jobs, and work only takes up two days a week at the moment,
It’s a pleasant feeling.
Not in the religious sense, but more a way of reducing harm by reducing things in general, lightening the load.
Fewer barnacles to slow down the ship.
Reduce the unPlans.
Remove the stupid.
It’s just after 6am and I’m sitting in MaccyDs writing. It’s three degrees out there, minus one with the wind chill. The sky has changed from black to a clouded slate grey.
It’s Spring in the north.
I chase the moon.
Hunt: night after night, following the cinders scent and the cool starlight and the desire that burns. No one can stop me. I chase it forever.
One day I will catch and devour the moon. The end times. The one-eyed god will die. They call me Hate, but they are wrong. I am Hunger. I am Desire.
For what I can’t have.
For what I will have.
My girl Ruthie likes to keep our home looking nice. She puts time into it and the place looks good. She laughed the other day and said it was just an adult sized doll’s house, really.
I got to thinking: when I was a kid, my bedroom was a little boxroom with a large cupboard that occupied the space above the staircase. I can see myself at six or seven years old, lying in bed at night, telling myself stories about how the cupboard was a portal to adventure and excitement, and all I had to do was let my mind wander free and I’d be there.
That’s all I do now. I tell myself stories. I imagine what’s on the other side of that large cupboard door, in my little bedroom, at night when I was small.