I have made a pact with myself to stop starting half arsed attempts at stories and work on the legion of word monsters that lurk unfinished and unloved in the dusty recesses of the internet. Of course the best way to avoid actually doing that is to write in my journal instead. Which is why, if I'm to be honest, I'm here. But heck, why not warm up the engines first? Get the ink flowing and grease up the rusted old cogs in my brain. Would want to pull a muscle.
Currently listening to Savant. The man's a glitch genius. Also reading He Died with a Felafel in his Hand. Solid book. Birmingham has a colloquial and charismatic charm to his writing that makes stories about overdosing on heroin and beards of cockroaches somehow easy on the eyes. This, of course, as with any writing I admire, brings out my insecurities. Luckily I am at a point now where I have been through the process a number of times and can recognise it for what it is. Like poison ivy on the side of the road, you eventually learn to avoid it.
An essay I read by George Orwell the other day has been orbiting around my skull for the last week or so. I can't remember what it was called, but the gist is that writers have become lazy, and rely on tired turns of phrase rather than constructing fresh metaphors with which to better relay their intended meaning. English has a talent for smoke screens and murky water, and apparently we keep pissing in the pond. I can never resist the words of Georgie Porgie, so hopefully in the coming days we will see some fresher metaphors sprouting up through the smog.
Stories to work on:
Dare screenplay
Doof screenplay
Persuasive writing assignment - Goldfish.
Non Fiction review assignment - ?
More than anything, I must keep writing.
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