I dream of writing both awake and asleep, it’s something that reaches into my soul at all times. Both sides of the same coin it doesn’t matter which side that pops up head or tails . The two side being reading and writing. I don’t feel I have achieved any real quality in my writing but I do sometimes see where I want to get to as a tiny pinpoint far distant in my horizon. I stretch and reach for it and someday I hope I get to it. If it turns out good then I will look to the next horizon but I know it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. That’s the aim of course to be different so that those who like it love it and those who dont well they can only hate it because of its distance from the norm of warm comforting sunsets.
I was listening to stories and thinking to myself sure wouldn’t it be great to be able to write them lovely tales of times gone by or of lovers in fields of gold or of a fisherman sailing across the broad Atlantic foam.
Then I realised the reason why I cant tell you about the green leaves melting into the crimson beauty of autumns rain. Why I can’t tell you how the sunset looked of a winters day as the purple of the evening sky faded into the star filled world of dreams. I also realised I didn’t want to tell you those things because I have read stories by people much more talented than me who have in beautiful prose and with elegant sentences alreadydescribed the sentiments and the beauty.
I want to look at the other side I want to see how the moon looks on the dark side away from the earth. I want to tell you how the drug dealer feels as he put a bullet into your knee cap. Its my job to tell you how the mind of the crazy person works as he stumbles along lonely roads stretching his hand out to spread his madness.
My stories want to lie in that rat infested corner where damp seeps into the lost child’s clothes and tell you how he escapes from the crap the world throws at him but maybe he doesn’t escape.
When the hunter is standing over the dead prey I want to tell you the feeling in the jaws of the lion as he attacks and tears his skin from his bones.
But then I want to tell you how the lonely man feels inside how his hearts yearns for the plain girl with the cross eyes and the pimples. If you want to read about the blonde blue eyed girl and the handsome lover then mills and boon is awaiting for your money
Most of all, I say most of all I want to write what the people inside my head tell me to write which from the echoes i am hearing is different to what I expected and sure isn’t that something to aim for. To meet the definition of normal is a boring objective but to look at things from the inside out while hanging upside down well then that makes me want to tie a rope to my feet and jump of that bridge.
You sit and listen and learn and the desire to write builds up inside of you. She has a look about her and a way of talking that makes you wonder. The words of another resonate in the air and you wonder could you ever, would you ever write as well.
Then you realise you wouldn’t want to because it’s not you. You write your way and yours alone which mightn’t be the best or even that good but by jaysus it’s your own. As wilde said be you own person because all the rest are taken or something along those lines.
You come home and what you write is different and perhaps mysoginistic and definitely violent and perhaps loving and yet you like that character and you want to hear his voice as he talks to you.