To refer to me as an abstract writer would be quite on the button. However, what is abstract for one is simply a stepping-stone to the truth for another. Strange as that might read, it is undeniably true, and owing entirely to the way that my mind just does not seem to sit well with the use of everyday language and sentences in books, etc. For instance, say I were to open a popular book of a day and to start reading the first sentence, which in this case reads “Mae Mobley was born on a early Sunday morning in August, 1960.” then I am immediately thinking “that is not a very interesting sentence at all. No room for any kind of rhythm whatsoever. How the hell is this a bestselling book, let alone this sentence chosen to be it’s forever opening runner!? How is this anything of any sort really? They even made a bloody Hollywood film of it!” So, safe to say, I am straight in on top of the defensive, jumping down the sentence’s throat in spectacular fashion, shredding it apart word for word. Minutiae to the detail. And all that that can ever really do is to leave absolutely no room whatsoever for my imagination to work. When it comes to reading, my particular imagination really does not work at all regards creating any kind of a visual up inside of my mind. And a lot of this, I can only, well, imagine is due to… hmm, I actually don’t even know, therein might just lie the very problem I speak of. My tendency toward the abstract, I guess, could actually be owing to the fact that for me the words – all of the words when applied at all the right places and points – literally need to fly from the page. To somehow, not going to happen, create an actual living, breathing visual rather than simply just ink on a bloody docile dull and boring page. I know that most readers do not see it like this, but I also get the comfortable feeling that some will. Books are a strange, strange breathe of thing. I believe. I don’t think any of the readers, for the most part, can ever truly say that, hand at their heart, they mean it with full sentiment when they say that they love to read. I see a person sitting on a park ground reading, legs folded one over another in a meditative state, and I am befuddled. Completely. Commonplace perplexed. And why might this be? Well, again and safest to say, because I do not know, nor do I ever think that I will manage to do, why on earth they are deciding to spend their precious time doing this with it. Also, how many of those who do actually claim to “love to read” only ever end up laying in the grass with their eyes wired to each and every passing page because there was absolutely nothing else on offer when it came to do with the workings of their day? All fair call questions, I feel. Because, odd again, that is all I seem to really see when it comes to writing in general. Doesn’t mean that my style of writing is any better, or any more visual for it, but it is the only way that I know to have incorporated so as for my mind to feel settled regards the choice of words sitting still or even dancing about beautifully upon a page for a reader to… inhale. Yes, I said, and why stop myself anymore, stop every part of me that wants to come to the fore of it all? Bottom line, but the definition of the word abstract (existing in thought or as an idea but not having a physical or concrete existence) almost goes about perfectly defining my particular problem with not really being able to enjoy my writing approach to the fullest most comfortable extent. Or maybe I do only I am worried what others may think. Not that odd a thing to do for any writer, really, seeing as these are the only other people besides yourself who might ever be reading it. Obviously. I have to be honest with myself, all in all, to actually manage to get to the bottom of this damn intriguing yet all of the time frustrating thing. At least with a picture or a painting, you get to literally see what you have created, whereas with a book and styles of writing, etc. it seems to be the oddest imprisonment for a writer to have to deal with. Relying wholeheartedly on another person’s eyes, their imagination, their eager or otherwise mind. All aforementioned will only ever get to be my own strange opinion of course. Decidedly left of centre, you could go so far as to say. No real reward for all of the waking hours that you jadedly opt upon turning your mind toward the working’s and structuring’s of hoped for invaluable sentences, lines, poems, etc. Stories. It just never made the right kind of sense for me and neither would I have ever wanted to be seen as the writer who has created an utterly punishing poetry style. A style that can either leave the reader a) completely bewildered by the shooting off of far too many descriptive worlds when placed within a small space of place, i.e. the page of a book, or b) a little intrigued with the whole thing, wherein I am creating too many poems to wrap your eyes right round, albeit there is just something, shall we say for arguments sake, negotiable enough that manages to make it too highfalutin perhaps to be entirely referred to as “pure encyclopaedic coughing of words upon said page of said book”. Also, I do loathe to call anything that I write poetry. It is just too goddamn empty a word to apply, in my mind anyhow. Not the right word but, then, if you think that ultimately all of the applied words are wrong then it isn’t so ridiculously askew to think such a thing, I am sure. Remains in the line of peculiarity regards your specifically tailored approach. So perhaps that is just another wrongly utilised word midst the millions I work my way through over the years. I have a sentence for you. My sentence. Nothing too exceptional but nice no less. I think. “There are no bad words just badly displayed sentences.” Even if that doesn’t sound unfamiliar, that is because all of the words have been used, and I, or rather my bustling mind inside deep down, is craving to create new sentences, the kinds of eagerly set up sentences that go in crazily different directions for themselves and of their own open-minded accord. Although, that said, recall what I said about my not having any visual picture in mind when it comes to attempting to use that part of my imagination. So, in the truest sense, it is all word-working. In other words, literally in this instance, I don’t have any real clue where a character in any given story is ever going to appear next in the following line, and on and on and so forth forward entitled. All I do know is this, that if I strip it all the way back, all of what I am finally realising is over-thinking of a dangerous kind and on a most ridiculously disappointing scale regards interrupting my enjoyment with the actual bare bones of it’s being, then it is rather plain to see that my ability to take any choiced word and apply as many literal meanings to is as humanly possible might either stand to work for me or not at all in the longer run of things, instead scare the reader away. And it is word-use that I adore, and maybe it is not even about the end product. The actual final finished piece of poetry but rather the whole lead up to it and utter ceaseless concentration in attempting to get it all right. Although, minus the end product and it just seems such a sad thing to go to all of that trouble with your mind and to not have it perhaps even getting to be finally finely celebrated. Why do I deserve it to be celebrated more than most? Honestly, because there appears to be no limit with my potential when it comes to my style of writing, crafting and shaping, shaking the words, whichever it might like to be called and on any given day. However, I also want to see and hear my work being spoken, perhaps on a stage, by a good, good actor. I also need to remind myself that I am allowed to be crap, not that I am, I am just… a whole lot different to the usual kinds of stories, etc. out there, and you got to trust your gut if that cliché can be more applicable than any other in my life. Even throughout all of the uncertainty, the eagle-eyed approach still sitting up front and spurring me on like crazy. Even if I am talking to no one but myself with this, then that is fine too. For now at least, because, truth be said, another cliché comes into reckoning in that you do need to love your own work in the beginning. Yeah, I have taken it the wrong way round, but trust all of the upside down silliness, right? Why the heck not, I say. I want to trust my style of writing more than anything else in the world. And I think that I do, or might be coming around to the thought of it, or at least am growing to learn to do so with it’s particularly impressive bear-grip upon my mind specifically. My words might just be incredibly suited for word-of-mouth rather than the frozen nature of the page. I don’t mean to entirely discredit the way a book is displayed, just that it isn’t for me is all. That is a certain given for me, if I do count other people in. All of these millions of people in my head bustling about waiting to take my words to heart and to cause them to inevitably collide with the whole damn awaiting world. And in a most incredible and unmatched way. High standards indeed, but I was taught to shoot for the stars by my parents all the time since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. See, again, having to steal an old and worn-out distinguished phrase – where are all of the goddamn new ones, new phrases that can suddenly, refreshingly be applied to the text? I know that what I am doing is right and I do know that the best way forward is the way of many artists, writers, etc. who want to create beautiful art: They traverse in their minds, they attempt to push the envelope, make their artistic merits mean something entirely different to the norm. Until of course it then gets to become the norm, hence, I guess, the whole “ahead of their time” saying standing perfectly and forever tall. Without these people, we would have nothing, really. True. So goddamn true in my mind, far truer than the untruths in me when it comes to writing. Let’s call it scribbles – wonderful, glorious, lopsided, magically immaculate and decidedly enfranchising scribbles set alight or otherwise upon sinking, singing sentences. I don’t write poems per se, but rather I attempt to go about creating something that attempts to settle my own soul. And why do I do this? Well, because it is my saviour from my dreaded deadlocking brain-locking OCD brain. I didn’t want to have to mention it but, to be fair, I sort of had to because in large part even if it did cause my words to scramble somewhat, really, they aren’t that scrambled at all. Perhaps just waiting for other like-minded people to catch them up. I’ll find my readers, they were always out there, and while that is happening, I will be my own most devoted reader. How it should get to be to give yourself half a chance. And from this article, no doubt I will create my next ponder-some ‘poem’ and enjoy it all. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, hello. You are more than welcome to sit and watch, but be sure as shit to not make a murmur, okay? Scribbles, you are everything to me, for your mighty uncertain yet always promising structure. Of those millions of words I scatter atop the page – and it isn’t THAT abstract all of the time either, so you do know – I goddamn salute you. And those who do read so far, have taken their precious time in doing so, I absolutely salute you too. Of course I do. You are the one thing that truly makes me work at this to a point of no going back. Thank you. And surely that is all that I could have ever wished for. So far. But this story hasn’t even touched the surface yet. Too abstract to ever get to truly stop. To ever even try and go back on your words. Oh how I do love the possibility for literal meaning. It jests and jumps right up at me and begs to be permitted a hand. What a w**k I must absolutely sound like, but, hey, it is me to the core. I mean I probably could, and should, have spent another few hours editing this piece and may well yet do but, know what, it is just an aforementioned stepping-stone in my writing regards its necessity to help me in getting to somewhat understand… me? What it is I want to achieve across the board and not just with the scribbles, even if they live and breathe in me every second of every single whispering day and night. Sleep time too, wouldn’t you know it. One thing I always forget above anything else, too. That it is no one’s business but mine what I write, and I do hope that I can totally get to wonderfully comprehend that someday sooner rather than later because the writing will improve. And with it, god willing, the scribbles too 😉
“You have to completely sacrifice everything about yourself to art. If you really care, you realise you never get to go home again.” – Jack White, White Stripes.