Lacking Passion?

My eyes were colored by the habitual disuse of the night – every night in fact, for two weeks. Even being someone not unfamiliar with insomnia, the lack of sleep I had been having was all too clearly caused by some deeply rooted stress. I find myself now, still toiling over what to write as my coursework. What is it about having to write for someone else – having to write within a genre or for an age group that makes putting pen to paper (or in my case, fingers to keyboard) so difficult – am I so egocentric I can only write for myself?

The words still ring in my ears from time to time – haunt my memory from a not so distant past – someone saying to me: “perhaps you’re more in love with the idea of being a writer.” I ignored the remark at the time, then thought on it later. I still do not know if it’s true, maybe I only fear that it is, without knowing until a time when I am older – old enough to regret devoting so much to an art, to then find it isn’t my true passion. That is what I fear.

Then again, I am someone that finds it difficult to stay motivated without encouragement – and it has been such a long time since anyone encouraged me to write, to talk about my writing, to show my fiction. I cannot say the feedback from this site makes me optimistic – take the findings from my stats page as an example – today someone stumbled upon WordShock by searching for “blowjobformoney” on Google.

An audience member pissed me off at work tonight, this is for her: Fuck you Xx

One positive from the late nights; I found some old photos from my childhood, some quite amusing:

The Experiment

I was sitting opposite a man and with a row of train seats between us, but through the gap I could still see his bulging stomach and the dull carriage light bounching off his balding head. I thumbed my phone hastily as he made a call on his, I pressed record and tried discretely as I could manage, to bed it between two seats.

My intended experiment had now gone into practice. I was without question pleased by this. For the entire afternoon, since the idea had come to me, I had been meaning to use my phone to record conversations between people, whether they were a couple, a group or someone on the phone, such as this man. The experiment had no real hypothesis – no results to evaluate other than to stimulate my interest in language, in speech and the way in which people really talk.

Ever since I saw The Girlfriend Experience (by Alecky Blythe) I realized the pronounced difference between dialogue you read in novels or see on the screen and real dialogue – real words. You sometimes forget. Although, I was not about to make a new play in the form of Verbatim Theatre.

For any writer it is essential you can convince a reader that your characters are real, if not then that they are engaging enough to draw the reader into their world. This had something to do with my new voyeuristic hobby, but to be entirely honest there have been so many times I have overheard a conversation or argument and wished I could have recorded it. To use it somehow and if not then at least post it on Youtube!

“Hiya, Mark? Y-yeah…it’s me” The man on the train said. It was working, it was going well; so so well.

“Yes…yes, look I have just come back from there – yes…I’m afraid I have to tell you, that your mother has passed away…”

I pressed stop. I deleted the recording and stuffed my phone back into my pocket – then I looked behind me, for judgmental stares I suppose if anyone had spotted what I was doing. I wondered what the man was doing, telling someone such news on a train, but I was then distracted by another man – a short drama teacher shouting down his phone, perfect. UPDATE: As it was my first attempt at recording, the sound quality was awful but be sure to check out recordings I’ll post via Youtube on here, soon

(P.S. I know this is could be considered, somewhat illegal – but it is purely a study and no personal information of anyone recorded will be shared or their identities revealed)

The Writing Course

Click HERE To Read My Previous Blog Entry: The Mugger

 

Week ONE

 

I’m sitting next to Sherii, she is telling me all about her work. Work as in works of fiction. I didn’t actually find out what she does for a living. The room is small and square. I’m the only person under the age of thirty-five. The men (consisting of two in numbers) huddle in the furthest corner, the women the opposite. Another man enters. There is a moment of panic for the writers as they wonder if this man is their new tutor. He has bushy hair and a bright yellow jacket and asks, ‘Is this room for the course in textiles?’

‘No,’ a fifty-something answers. ‘This is: How To Write Fiction.’

  The man in the yellow jacket smiles and takes a seat.

Later, another man enters. He is the tutor we presume, as he stands at the front of the class. He draws a page onto the whiteboard with a person either side. On the left is the writer, on the right a reader. He asks us what we, as readers (as well as writers), look for in a book. The answer is emotion. It is not the author that makes us pick up a book from a shelf (a cross is drawn over the stickman on the left). I hope it is not the cover that makes anyone buy a book. No, for your fifteen odd pounds, it’s me, or you, the reader – the reason why we buy books. What we feel from reading a story. How we can relate to its characters. Whether we cry, laugh or think. We’re indulging in novels to glean an emotion through whatever type of story that interests us.

Then we’re asked what we’ve read recently and if there has been a book that we would have liked to have written. A few come to mind, and as the topic moves onto wanting to write like a particular writer, I think of Don Delillo. I recently finished reading White Noise, but I should say I finished studying it. It took so long to read as I was taking in every word so meticulously, trying to understand the mastery behind each paragraph and the ease at which Delillo develops such natural characters.

One idea of particular interest to try, is copying the writer. Not just writing in his style, but copying out entire pages of his books to get an understanding of how he works as a writer. My assignment over the week is to write a third person story about yours truly. A scene in my life written without dialogue or thoughts, just objects – as the tutor says. I’m lucky to have so much material, but I fear that it may not be appropriate for the class.

At the close of the session, the class rose. I noticed a moment where everyone seemed to be looking at one another. Sizing up the talent across the room; whether Jenny is worthy to read John’s manuscript. Or if Marie would be able to understand Sandra’s short story. There was a silence thick with the clot of egos. 

Click HERE To Comment