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Writer rambles about being a writer and writing

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The art of writing combines dexterity with imagination, stamina, procrastination and insane mental journeys. You have to be worthy of being a criminal mastermind as well as be worthy of an asylum [at times]. You must also write. A hurdle in the process, but one necessary. Be prepared to feel bewildered, afraid and feeling the sweat of anticipation, precipitate on your brow. New life flows from your fingertips, so you may need to relax before you release the hidden truths locked in your very universes. Writers are gods of the hidden realms and the keeper of the keys of knowledge. Weavers of magic and wonder, the storm winds of change. They are the ones that have made history and recorded it. The beginning and the end. 


Your very body is composed of words in your own language spoken internally, a voice that never stays quiet. Writers are the ones that can transmute that disquiet into something new, something real. 


So as a writer, I live in those pockets between existence and ethereal. I fall into them without trying to. New voices and destinies cascade across my very dreams. Their lives live out in disquiet, wanting their truths known. The living and dead exist together, like threads bound to this world. One golden thread shimmering with breath, heartbeat and roaring noises screaming to the sky. The other, a thin translucent line, glittering like glass, whispering like the wind. The hidden. Clinging together and staying true to its course. I write for the whispers because it is only then, that the noise makes sense. 


You. You fascinate me.


We are our own universes… how you live, who you are, the things you love, your day… everything is beautiful and unknown to me. I want to know. I want to watch you. I want to breathe you in. I want to love your ways. You are like a veil; I want to see what is underneath. Yet, I do not want to move amongst you, I am comfortable, happy even, in my own cave. I am a child of heavy black curtains drawn, and candle light at all hours. The light is not the friend of my own church – the place I get to, to fall into the mode of just writing. 


As you can see, I have free wrote. I have simply sat here and let my hands and mind speak, freely. Post Malone playing in the background. My heart and soul lay open. Awaiting the crows to peck out my soul. Each crow wears my face; the face of extreme exhaustion, the face of distraction, the face of time going to fast. Deep breath. Stop. Now go. 

Permalink 1 comment (latest comment by Philip Mwarabu, Saturday, 4 May 2019, 22:21)
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Worked on a serial killer and weird dreams

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So this week, I have chosen to write [for week 2: character study] about  a serial killer/artist called Evelyn D'Lancey who has attended Birkbeck for the BA in Fine arts and currently is working on an MA in Fine Arts from St. Martins. Who, through her own traumas, ends up becoming a serial killer who produces art based on the murders; mostly abstract. And can only find true pleasure and passion through killing. She has a sociopath, narcissistic personality, yet knows how to hide her true nature with scientific precision. Like any true hunter, she knows that it is necessary for her survival. As a natural planner with slight obsessive compulsiveness, she prepares for everything. Even her own downfall.

I have found it all encompassing to write about; to do her justice with so little words [500] has been a difficult task in itself. But then you read others' work. They are all blooming fantastic, then you question yourself. Yes, us writers have the biggest ego's, i am certainly no different. I call myself an artist because, whilst writing is my truest love, photography and creating art through that medium, is my freedom. I get my writing. I mean, it comes from somewhere, and i love my characters. To me, each one is real. They live somewhere. Somewhere i tap into and reveal. Then, i read the wordiness and hyper-descriptions and think - am i too basic? Do i sound stupid? Easy to feel insecure. What if everything that i am, believe in myself and work is wrong? WHAT IF IT IS A PILE OF GARBAGE. WHAT IF... *silent scream* I over-think. If you care to learn about me, you'll find that. I have also never forced my writing. It is wholly organic, i free-write a lot and began with the character. As the protagonist becomes real, the rest come into view. Or an idea will be digested over a period of time until the voices begin. Then boom... pages, pages, more pages... until, silence.

My dreams tend to become quite adventurous as my subconscious tries to disseminate these stories. Take last night; I dreamt that i was in a pawn shop, looking to buy something. I did not have much money, and behind the till was the most unusual and beautiful instrument that i have ever seen [I do not play anything, i sing sometimes well. But love violin music as well as the modern stuff]

It was a twisted violin, with gold carvings from the neck to the sides. The wood was maple coloured yet glinted. It was a little Gothic in it's appearance, yet without being all black. Renaissance without the perfect structure. Twisted and dark with edges of light. Above it was the part used to play it, do you want to know what it was? A meat-clever, equally decorated. That's right, you would play this stunningly beautiful and twisted instrument with a gilded meat cleaver. In my dream, i really wanted it, but it was £99.99 and I had £20. I couldn't leave the shop, i was trying to work out how i would make it mine.

I woke up, to the shrill ring of my four alarms. Time to go back to the routine of my life.

What would you make of it? I know some of you are into dream stuff and psychology. I always found it hard to analyse myself.

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