On Not Writing

So it's about four hours since I posted that last blog entry. You know - the one where I swore I'd write 1000 words a day. So far I've looked at a couple of 'finished' stories I had - they're both over a year old. At the time I thought they were pretty good and even now I can see some value in them. But the thing is that neither story has any real purpose. A story should have a beginning, middle and an end. It should be about something. It should have a story! Both pieces of writing are incomplete. They are small sketches. Short set pieces about nothing. Perhaps this has been my failing all along - maybe I simply write things and miss the entire point.

I need to draw myself away from the abyss of self-pity here, it can be found alongside the sea of pretentiousness - a place I know well.

Maybe I would be better served by my old Question of the Week answers - perhaps some of them could simply be shaken up a little and turned into pieces of fiction....

And then again, I'm sitting here, in someone's flat, I'm looking at their trainers on the floor in front of me. Shoes conjure up the spirit of someone so much better than their clothes for some reason. Why are shoes thrown out of cars? How often do you see a single, solitary shoe lying by the side of a dual carriageway. There's a story in that.

Bibliophilia

No real secret about me – my love of books. It’s something I share with many of my closest friends and in many ways marks out individuals with whom I’m more likely to spend time.

Descartes said “I think therefore I am” for me I would alter that to “I read therefore I think”. In my opinion reading is an active pursuit not a passive one – when I read I am the author’s audience. I am the screen upon which the author’s imagination can project its images – yet they are always my images. Have you ever seen a film of a book you’ve read? Then you’ll know what I mean – you watch and think to yourself, ‘But that’s not how it was’ or ‘That’s not how they looked’. Reading is an active pursuit because one needs to conjure up the images in ones head – the author suggests them but the reader makes them real, fleshes them out in their head. Readers are also active in piecing together the clues left in the plot – even when the story isn’t a mystery or crime novel. All stories are mysteries – what will happen next? How will things turn out? Will it end happily? As readers we are constantly watching for clues and signs – even when we think we’re not. I could go on at length now about semiotics – film semiotics in particular is a love of mine. It reminds me of crossword puzzles – something in truth I’m lousy at – but the semiotics of a film – the why and how, the grammar and language of film – that gives me a perverse kick. Likewise the critical examination of a good book is something I have come to appreciate over the years.

But it’s not just what’s contained between those cardboard leaves but the actual bookishness of the book itself – its form, its smell – the promise of far off lands, other times, other lives, new ideas, new adventures, new people – all those things and the weight, the smooth page under my fingertip, the small file filled up in my head once I’ve finished the story.

Is it any wonder I once made an art installation of a book repository – a storage room full of shelves and on each shelf row after row of neat piled shoe boxes – each with details printed on the outside of a book I had read, the main or most resonating character for me and the age at which I was when I read it. Small children’s shoe boxes for “What Katy Did Next”, “Ballet Shoes” and an entire shelf devoted to Enid Blyton. One thing I forgot until the piece was being shown was a dark corner where I could have shoved all the Jackie Colllins and Danielle Steele boxes so they would have been almost out of view, my shame nearly hidden…

And then today I came across this wonderful bookcase/staircase – if ever I have the opportunity to design a staircase I want one of these!

And you can see more details of the staircase here.