Monday, 27 January 2014


Well… ba ba da ba … pfffffffffffffff

The topic of … writing.

Well you see the problem here, is exactly that!

It is unpossible for me to write sensible about writing. (See?)

It’s all alright to think a thing and maybe get enraged about it or just become bewildered and have these fuming thoughts swelling in my brain and then they sort of burst onto the page, like lancing a boil. Although lancing seems like such a tame way of saying tearing open your flesh to release the pus and make it all gush out, but in a slow, drippy, oozy sort of way, until it… plonks.

I never said writing was a pretty business.

But it seems like it ought to be easy enough!

To just have a thought and then turn it into these strange symbols on the com-poo-ta (or, if I’m feeling really clever I can write the thoughts with a pen! All sort of copperplatey, only ‘sort of’ though, don’t get excited) seems like it ought to be remarkably straightforward!

But then to talk about it!

To explain what I have just done… in words. Well that is fracking madness! Apparently ‘I fawt it, so I wroted it’ won’t pass muster in the oony-ver-city, they want all the why’s and wherefores that they drone on and on and on and on and on about.

I hate them all and their irksome talky-ness!

But they know something I don’t.

At least I think they do (I bloody hope they do, I’m paying the buggers enough). They know the secret of taking the pus (I could change the metaphor if I wanted to, but I won’t) and moulding it into something interesting… even more interesting than fresh pus! (Did you giggle when I said 'taking the pus'? Did you? Did you? No? just me then...)

So I should listen to them, I should look at their faces and let their words sink into my brain of thoughts and let their thoughts mingle with my thoughts and then learn from their words of wisdom which had been hiding somewhere in their floaty brains and poured out of their faces in the form of long droning speeches about poetics.

That's what I should do... but ALL I can think of, all that consumes my brain, taking up all the places in my head which should be reserved for thinking about things like Margaret Atwood and Odysseys and Kafka turning into a lady bug, is the blinding, all-consuming thought, ‘I want jam sandwiches!’


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