***
First and foremost I write for myself,
and I’m being quite serious when I say I quantum leap into the (fabricated) worlds
I create when I do.
‘Whaaa…?’
You heard.
But easy to do when you know how;
understand our planet’s indentation upon the fabric of space and therefore the
gravitational pull of the various dimensions ensnared by it that enables a
creative mind to traverse with a hop, skip and a… well… quantum leap… into the elementary;
the ability to connect everything in the universe between A and B let alone all
the way to Z making for interesting inventions indeed. How could they not be told?
“Is
this guy for real?”
I’m afraid so, but only in the literal
sense, otherwise I’m largely considered a weirdo anomaly, so much so that when
I enter a room I cause it to become lopsided.
But I like to think of myself as a wonderful eccentric, even though I’m
not; better than my artistic sensibility becoming mistranslated. But that’s what a black hole where the
unknown dwells in infinite state will do for a writer such as me; one who
strives to try and be unique; shock a little here and there; simply futile to
even try and resist the gravitational pull because somewhere therein, for such
a person as I, lies home, and everyone needs a place to relax? Right?
“Huh?’
Please keep up. In other words, the need to express the
gift of an unusual imagination in storytelling is inherent; affords an escapism
that can’t, at least for me, be found on our four-dimensional plane. Such a mind is so fully integrated in
alternate existence that the impossible is the only place where a lone-wolf might
feel they belong – and wolves can do
that these days, can’t they; space
travel? Or at least, werewolves do -
even though I’ve never seen any of those particular creatures when I’m flying around up there - but an irresistible
pastime; writing; the den of the universe calling me to mine its abyss of ingenuity, where, what hopefully emerges on paper upon my return, is new life, new
worlds and a story that no man has written before. Enterprising indeed. Yes, I like to think of myself as Ashtar,
spreading stardust wherever I go.
Who?
Oh… nobody; just some alien from the 50s, I'm sorry if you expected Picard.
But trekking through the stars and
cheap metaphors about a popular TV franchise and an entity that people channel
on New Years Eve aside, I’m an introvert, a true lone wolf, a little bit
strange, and writing allows my soul to bare its teeth fully in a way that’s
just not acceptable in person – but then that might be my propensity for
dressing up as Mediaeval French royalty, I don’t know. But as a fairly complex person, apparently, I
couldn’t possibly go into the ins and outs of who I am fully here, but I did
write a very heartfelt piece about what makes me me, entitled ‘Precipice
of an Alternate Plane’, a few months ago, that attempts to explain away the
strangeness of me as well as anything ever could I guess; inspired to write
something from my heart by the late Nora Ephron’s piece on death, which really
touched me in that how honest it was.
But it’s a piece, if you were to look closely enough, that might explain
just how I, and no doubt, many other inspired anomalies, see the world differently
from most; literally not taken in by it, not feeling embraced, possessing a
kind of x-ray vision, allowing us to see it being played out very differently, insisting
on keeping us at arm’s length despite our best efforts of, as the song goes, putting
the right one in in the first place, followed by an awkward left leg;
everything, seemingly basic at every turn, with alternate essence, simply begging
to be reinvented by the art of storytelling.
“Oh…
I see…,”said the blind man.
No you don't. But anyhoo, we simply can’t help it; and even
though it can often be to our detriment; becoming even more ostracised; obsessed
to the point where we allow it to affect our health and listen to its
insistence that we forego other perhaps more financially promising careers, an
artist does what an artist does because it’s truly a calling – unlike the cameo
character, Sister Betty in Prickly
Scots, who, for the want of anything else to do, only became a nun after
her husband left her penniless and nowhere else to go, but still she manages to
find a way to buy cigarettes, crafty bitch.
But there’s an honesty that we can get
away with in fiction that’s perhaps by-the-wayside in real life; society, and
very much so in art, inclined to be automaton, and so recreating it somewhat
satiates my need for humour, which even my more literary works are filled with,
and a perfect way to not get into trouble with my ‘say it as is’, ‘no nonsense’
attitude that I’ve needed to learn to curtail somewhat. The small hope is that, should they become
successful enough, they might influence others into thinking along new
lines. In writing, people tend to find rudeness
amusing, a tad outrageous, admirable even, and that's great, I think that we should laugh at
ourselves more; our current climate far too politically correct sometimes.
In fact, total honesty is a prerequisite
for every aspect of my life, sometimes to my detriment; a tad obsessive
compulsive about it, I know; intolerant of anything that doesn’t ring true,
even in fiction, for I cannot read, and certainly not write that if I can’t see
it being played out authentically in my mind’s eye despite the fabricated
nature of it.
I think my approach affords my
characters an interesting angle though, regardless of whether they’re aliens or
monsters, a nasty old lady or a precocious child, whatever, nothing and nobody as perfect as a lot of writers seem to
want to make their worlds and their protagonists because, in general, that’s how
its always been. And so I feel, with my sometimes completely annoying ability for omniscience,
‘seeing’ people the way I do, that this translates into believable eccentrics
that the reader can, on some level, identify with better while still maintaining
a degree of awe for fictional characters, and it also affords abundant
opportunity for me to develop them in a way perhaps readers might secretly
relate to outside of our largely sugar-coated world.
“Did
he just digress to the point where I have no idea what he’s talking about
anymore?” Probably, I do that; makes
you read pieces like this more than once; get over it. ”But most people might
just say they write because they love to, for fuc… I mean… Heaven’s
sake.”
Yes well, I’m not most people; please
pay attention… and there’s absolutely no need for expletives or blasphemy…
thank you very much.
But I guess my point is, I see
inspiration everywhere, and I mean absolutely
everywhere; cursed, it feels like sometimes, but it all builds up into what I
call ‘FBI’ profiles for my characters/stories, and so I hope that those who dip
their toes into the extra-terrestrial tides of the oceans I swim, that it will
ultimately entertain them too.
“Whaaa…?”
Yeah, you heard, get over it; I’m a
writer; I’m allowed to get like, all fancy… and shit.
Hardly mainstream though, and I won’t
compromise, but that’s another matter; whether people like my writing or not,
is, quite frankly, largely irrelevant to me; and even though I’d really like
them to, again first and foremost I do write for me, myself and I. It is
always a pleasure though, when I see readers gain some unexpected delight from
my unusual style, and I really appreciate that. Discerning types, obviously.
I
believe writers are therapists, psychologists and comedians, gatekeepers to
Escapasia, inventors (obviously, ‘cos I just made that last word up lest you
couldn’t tell) books, simply portals to other dimensions where anything is
possible. They’re educators, motivators and inspirers. Who knows what a good story teller arouses in others,
what dreams they elicit, the wings of imagination that they set in flight.
“Okay, puke... enough already; I get it.”
Yeah…
I agree.
But
what really motivated me in the first instance, was the worlds I became lost in
in my childhood; reading every Enid Blyton book I could lay my hands on; a
writer that transported me into her exciting worlds in the same way, I guess,
that JK did for a whole new generation. And
despite writing first and foremost because I love to do it, I would also love
to think that someone, somewhere, got the same experience as that from something I’ve
written.
“Aww… I actually understood that bit.“
Uh
huh.
