One of the reasons I keep a diary is in an attempt to grow
and develop. I can look back and see
where I was a year ago; emotionally, physically, mentally, geographically and
it helps me see the changes. When we
don’t see a friend or a loved one for months or years perhaps, by the time we
see them again or speak to them again, you can see the ways in which they’ve
changed. Part of the problem with being us is that we have to be with ourselves
all the time. I feel pretty much the
same as I did when I was 12 or 13. I
don’t feel massively different. I’ve
been very much present for all the developments and changes in my life; it’s
only natural that I wouldn’t feel different.
I’d pay good money to read back the diaries I kept when I was a teenager
and see how far I’ve come. Recently,
I’ve had the grand misfortune of reading some of the “poetry” I wrote from that
time period of my life. I have indeed
changed. Mostly for the better in a
hundred different ways.
I also try and work through things in my diary. Things play on my mind a lot – ideas for
stories, things at work that are bothering me more than I ought to let them,
concerns about my family, my future.
Anything that might be playing on my mind, I try and put away on the
page. It helps.
Sometimes, the process can be frustrating and tedious. Most often it is frustrating when there is a
truth nagging me which I just don’t want to deal with. I’ve
ranted before about how I don’t let myself off with things as much as I used
to. The diary, though I offer it
petulant resistance, forces me to accept truths I don’t want to acknowledge,
examine them and “put them away”; process them, deal with them, whatever they may
be.
There is one I don’t often write about; a side of me or a
part of me that I’ve been confronted with today; a side of me I don’t like; a
side of me – given the chance – I would remove completely.
I want to write. More
than anything in my life that I get to do, I love it. If it be in my notebook and keeping my diary,
sharing my endless crap with you lovely people, or a shorty story I’ve been
working on, I want to write. I don’t
necessarily want anyone else to read it – particularly not the short fiction,
but that’s another story entirely. I
get a great deal of satisfaction by “making shapes”. It can be drawing, painting, doodling over a
side of A4 for hours, writing and blogging, anything. I like to fill a blank page. I find it daunting. I find it intimidating. I’d go as far as to say I even find it
frightening on occasion. Once you start,
revealing the truth of yourself to a screen it can be difficult to stop. To me, that can be frightening.
For that reason (mostly), I’m never keen on going back and
rereading something of my own. I know I
have to; I babble too much for starters.
There are phrases I repeat too much as I’m writing – they need to go. I have a terrible habit of mixing my “there”
and “their” when I type, but not when I use a pen. Anyone who can answer me why I do this,
answers on the back of a self-addressed envelope please.
Studying English Lit, it came to my attention that it is not
uncommon for writers throughout history to have run in packs. They had writing groups. C.S. Lewis and Tolkien founded The
Inklings. Woolf, Sackville-West and
Forster has the Bloomsbury Set. More
recently, it doesn’t take a great deal of effort to connect a number of artists
and musicians, actors and producers all together in a nice Artsy Bundle.
Cliché and convention would have us believe that, writing
more than any other art, is a solitary one.
Writers sit alone. They agonise
over their type writers (or shiny red Toshiba laptops…), yearning to find that
one word; that one expression that can paraphrase a feeling; a feeling so deep
and complex that thousands of men and women have tried. We want to give it a different spin or
interpretation. We want to show the
world how we feel with those few words that sum it up in a completely different
way to any other way the world has tried.
And we do it alone. In a cabin in
the woods… No, wait, that was Johnny
Depp in Secret
Window. The point is, I can name you
many examples in art of artists struggling alone. Often, when collaboration or group efforts
are explored, you get the question of ownership and even theft; whose idea was
it? Who does it belong to?
I was visited this weekend by a friend; an aspiring writer. We’d shared a few snipits of our work with
each other, but not much. For me,
sharing work is an embarrassing experience, unless I know for certain that it’s
good. That might sound arrogant. Another way to put it better might be that I
only want someone else to see it when I’m happy with it – for me, that’s what
makes it good. For the first time, he
let me read some of his work; a large labour, ongoing, on his part.
He’s good.
He’s really good. In
fact, incredibly talented.
Bastard.
The reason I would suggest
that many artists like to be alone with their work is not to avoid tainting
their imagination with someone else’s ideas or worry that someone might steal
them. They’re worried about their
ego. They’re worried about being shown
up by someone else’s talent.
We compare ourselves all the time. We compare our face to our own face in a
mirror. We examine how we looked in a
photograph five years ago then look for how we’ve changed. We look outwards to actors and yearn for
their physique (come on now, I can’t be the only one, surely?) or their hair
style, or their wardrobe. More likely
than not, we’re being misdirected and what we really want is their makeup
artist and photoshopper.
I digress.
What has a friend coming to stay thrown up for me that I felt
the need to rant about? Jealousy. I’m a jealous person. Of all the things about myself I wish I could
alter, I’d take the jealousy dial on my personality and turn it all the way
down; mute it even. Whilst I sat and
read his work in progress, I was moved and impressed.
Whilst all of that is true and I do wish he would hurry up
and write more so I can read it all together, it was incredibly hard for
me. I can separate the talent and the
skill of Stephen King or J.K. Rowling or F. Scott Fitzgerald from my emotions
in my head quite easily; I don’t know those people. Why should I envy them? Talented role models to me they might
be. But I won’t ever have them round to
my house for a Chinese and wine night.
Having someone sat on my sofa, watching me read his arrangement of words
on a screen and knowing how incredibly talented he was made me so happy. At the same time, it made me jealous.
Rationality descends.
He is a different man to me. He
has a very unique and different style to me.
He draws on very different influences and writes about very different
things. Whilst it’s natural for us to
compare ourselves, it isn’t always an accurate basis for comparison. If he wrote a piece about bullying, it would
draw from his own experiences of that given situation. Comparing anything he writes to mine is chalk
and cheese. You could compare Ann Rice
to Stephanie Meyer because they’ve both written about vampires but the analogy
is lost in translation. There wouldn’t
be any point.
All of that I know to be true.
All of that is the case.
All of that isn’t helping me right now.
I’ve come to the point of starting a new piece. I know some of the ins and outs (I don’t like
to plan too rigidly when I write). I
know the major events. I also know how it’s
going to end. That makes a massive
change for me. Sometimes, at the
beginning, I hardly even have a clue about how it’s going to go, let alone how
it will end. Having read my friend’s
work and then trying to start something new of my own, I don’t feel inspired or
enthused. I feel jealous. Even though I don’t want to, it’s still how I
feel.
One good thing about my evolution from a 15 year old, who
would have given up, thrown down the pen and paper, swearing never to take it
up again, into a 27 year old male is that – despite being jealous – I know that
I won’t get anywhere being jealous. I
won’t improve in the skill I want to develop.
I won’t ever write a novel if I sit and dwell. I won’t even make a cup of tea if I slip into
a full on sulk.
We’re complicated.
We’re multi-talented. We are who
we are. We’re human. We’re different; from moment to moment we’re
changing and growing. I’m jealous,
yes. Will I always be? No.
Should I be? Definitely not. Where’s the point in envy? It won’t get me writing. Neither will putting on the kettle, but that
isn’t a negative emotion, so I’m going to let myself get away with that, call
this a day and enjoy a good cup of tea… Then, maybe, I’ll bite the bullets and
make some new shapes.
Wish me luck?
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