The Take Off & Landing Of Almost Everything

After what seems like an age, I have decided to get back to my blog. Whole galaxies of experiences, emotions, and thoughts have passed through me like an existential shuttle weaving a myriad tapestry of the unsexy, the common, the tedious, shot through here and there with something so extraordinary I don’t think I’ll ever find the time to write about it.

I’m thinking big, but staying particular, so as I write this blog, I have my headphones on, listening to Beck’s new album Morning Phase. I’m in love with it. There is something perfect about it, the way any mastery of an art form allows a person to slip free from the mortal coil and enter some place you never thought you ever would.

Today my eldest daughter, Vienna, learnt how to knit. She sat on the couch and the only sound that came from her was the clicking of needles. By the end of the afternoon she had knitted a coaster. I felt a surge of fatherly pride, such a strong feeling I hope will carry me through life’s crush of circumstances and little waves of elation. I loved just watching her, so absorbed, not caring about the coaster’s perfection, just lost in the creating of something. For me, that is the truest sense of art: the sense of being lost to everything but this unending sense of love for what might happen, the unexpected that will bulge over the brim.

Here’s a fantastic quote from the great Ted Hughes: “You spend your life oscillating between fierce relationships that become tunnel traps, and sudden escapes into wide freedom when the whole world seems to be just there for the taking. Nobody’s solved it. You solve it as you get older, when you reach the point where you’ve tasted so much that you can somehow sacrifice certain things more easily, and you have a more tolerant view of things like possessiveness (your own) and a broader acceptance of the pains and the losses.”

Today I dashed around a corner and ran into the writer I’m supposed to be. I came away with two black eyes, broken ribs, and guilt. And that’s the greatest threat to a writer’s life, isn’t it, the guilt. It will do you in. It will stop you writing. And you’ve got to write, whenever you can. That’s the writer’s life in a chestnut, myth, proverb, cliché, epigram, parable; it’s the biological source of every great story. And most of us have to have jobs in the day-to-day trenches of adult experience. Okay, there are some writers who need no day job, but I’m sure they have either inherited money, are supported by a spouse, or are a freelance writer working for a big company. I think it’s almost mission impossible to get to do nothing but write what you really want to write.

Wasn’t it Ted Hughes who said we are all little creatures sitting behind armour, peering through the slits.

The big question for me is always: How do I stop doing everything else and just concentrate on my writing? But because all I want to do is write, I wonder if I will disappear into the blank page. But I always feel so renewed, living boldly with each moment when I’m so deep inside a story, living it as I write it and not knowing what will happen next, just trusting to the inevitable. And even though it’s hard, I try not to play God, because that gives me a complex, and that never helps the writing, ever.

Fuck, actually that is probably good advice to take into my other life: not to try and play God, to start really exercising some control over what I think. That’s my wooden leg, I tend to over-intellectualize everything known thing under the sun, moon, all the planets, including forgotten Pluto, instead of paying attention to what is actually going on in front of me. God knows there are so many more people whose lives are harder, more painful, complex, tedious, and all the other awful crap.

It’s like David Foster Wallace wrote: “The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.”

Sometimes I try hard to get back on track to a normal life, you know, and then something kicks up the dirt into my eyes and I see clearly that there is no such thing as a normal life. Well, maybe on TV or in adverts or in some deepest despair. But the TRUTH is normalcy is like an addiction: the more you need it the more fucked up you become and the more the addiction takes hold of you the more you become nothing but the drug. Nobody, not artists, not anyone is normal. We just pretend we need to be in order to spend and get and think happiness this way leads.

I want out of my mind. Is it possible? Because I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not really seeing the prison I’m getting myself locked within. Like that cliché says, the Mind is a really terrible master.

Again I’m turning to Wallace, but I want to see the world “with the same force that makes the stars, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.”

This is why I have to get back to the writing. I have abandoned it recently as my life has taken on new upheavals and changes. But writing is the only way for me to come to terms with the world. It’s the only way I have to live a real life so that the writing will turn out to be real for someone else.

The screenwriter/playwright, Martin McDonagh wrote something that caught my eye the other day. He basically said that it helps to be a writer in some way if you’re not quite connected, that you see things from a skewed point of view. I think he’s right. In fact, I think that too many of us have become over-educated at the expense of wisdom and art and life and that the rest of us have become pitifully ignorant and simple doppelgangers of the lowest interests and intellect that’s killing the heart and soul of our humanity.

But what do I know? I’m a Welshman who can’t even land a job doing something he would enjoy. What can I say? I’m tart and ruthlessly independent like Little My and have a will that would rather do whatever the hell I want. Who am I kidding? If I was anything like that, I’d be making my writing work for me or else editing or something, so I must not be doing enough to make it happen. Maybe I’m too lazy or not as driven as other writers seem to be. In fact, as much as I strive to be like Moominpapa (easygoing and enviably hopeful), I’m more like Jansson’s Little My, who drowns the ants in kerosene and when Moomintroll is shocked, she replies: “You knew exactly what I was going to do with them! All you hoped was that I shouldn’t tell you about it. You’re awfully good at deceiving yourself.”

And I am so “awfully good and deceiving” myself. I’ve always thought that because I have a spare bit of talent for writing (especially on toast) that someday I would be a writer. But I’m learning that that is an immature outlook. There is always so much more to writing than just writing, especially in this Age of Distractions. A writer, it seems, is expected to create something for absolutely nothing, and lots of it. We are all waiters now, dashing from reader to reader, imploring them to eat our tasty escargot or frogs’ legs when once we sat at the moveable feast and even designed the menu.

“The analogy between the artist and the child is that both live in a world of their own making.” Anais Nin.

I Got Ants in My Pants and I Want to Dance

It’s time to write a little reminder note to myself to remember to watch my two children walk across the fresh-cut lawn in bare feet.

When I read interviews with writers bitching about how hard it is to write, rewrite, how the writing profession is like some kind of density of misery with no space for relief, I wonder what’s the point of writing if all it ever does is make you feel bad, bad about it, as well as put a bad taste in your mouth.

Today I overhead 2 people reminiscing about their youth. Remember when we….Remember how we…. Remember that girl who lived in the next town…. Remember those fantastic empty relationships with anything or anyone…. We drank so hard, I remember nothing….

I wouldn’t go back to those days if you paid me.

I just finished Edward Carey’s amazing Observatory Mansions. It is one of the best books I’ve read in a long time. Pithy, clever, unusually constructed, non-linear, comic, dark, depressing, bathetic, easy on the pathos, not trite with honesty, and wholly human in its depiction of fictional characters. I loved Francis Orme for his wickedness and his compassion for saving his dead brother’s remains. I have already requested his novel Alva and Irva from the library and look forward to reading his YA novel Heap House set to come out in September.

Last night I pitched our tent in the back garden as a way to get away. And next week, I’ve booked a 2-day camping adventure for my family at Lake St. George. We haven’t gone anywhere in years. Not since the children arrived with their soft toys. Sometimes I tell my wife, let’s pack our portmanteaux and move to Normandy. I could teach English to existential street kids. But we have no savings. And my wife doesn’t speak French. Neither do I, but that wouldn’t stop me.

It’s raining here in Maine. Grey sky like liver and clouds like onions.

I must go and clean my house. I never knew household chores could be such work. I think I was swapped at birth with a working-class baby. I want a castle, no disposable income, and some national trust to turn my castle into a tourist attraction while my family and I live in 10 rooms and I proudly state that all I can do is write, stoke the fire, catalog the inherited treasures, and never get involved with casual work.

Here’s some Iggy. And if this song doesn’t make you dance wildly, then you really have no lust for life. And shame on you.

If You Liked School, You’ll Love Work

I’m always looking for ways to be surprised out of propriety; to be astonished. And you may ask, Why? Well, “Blessed is the day when the youth discovers that Within and Above as synonyms.”

I never liked school. I was always trying to invoke a demon or an angel to unleash their primal force into my skinny little self and help me soar to some world beyond the temporal, to face death and my teachers and say, “The sublime is now!”

Hey, every woman and man knows that art is born from struggle, right?

I’ve never liked work, either (I’m talking the nine to five affliction of unfortunate events). Why do we keep thinking that capitalism is a material force that is meant to free us from the worry of poverty? Surely all it really does is create more of a chasm between those who have, and those who don’t. Because no matter how much material wealth you own, no matter how much private property you covet, you’re still forced to admit that time is not your own and everything you posses is there by the arbitrary goodwill of someone else.

Maybe Marx was right when he argued that the exploited proletariat should unleash their power and topple a state that inflicts unnecessary suffering. Can an ideological doctrine of shared wealth be really worse than a realpolitik principle of lives spent working to simply survive in a world whose reality has only come about through the continual power of the few who lack any kind of vision?

Hey, every woman and man knows that making a living is not the same as living, right?

The Golden Grip

I have written a YA Fantasy novel THE GOLDEN GRIP. It’s online at Authonomy.com. Authonomy is the creation of UK book publishers HarperCollins. It’s a site for aspiring writers to develop their books and connect with the literary community. The top 5 rated books every month win a critique from the Harper Collins editing staff. This from its site: “Authonomy is on a mission to flush out the brightest, freshest new writing talent around.”

Blake's Ancient of Days

Blake

Please visit this site and read my novel THE GOLDEN GRIP, book one of THE CHILD ENTHRONED trilogy. And review it if you please. Feather your nest with it by placing the book on your bookshelf. I appreciate your help in this process on the road to publishing THE GOLDEN GRIP.

http://authonomy.com/ViewBook.aspx?bookid=190

Here’s a synopsis for THE GOLDEN GRIP, book one of THE CHILD ENTHRONED trilogy:

Ordinary London boy Dylan Sloane has no idea he is the Sun god’s heir, chosen to rule the sun realm Albion. On an outing to the Tate museum, he is warned by Professor Gideon Spurne to keep away from the Pre-Raphaelite masterpiece The Child Enthroned. But the moment Dylan locks eyes with the mysterious girl in the portrait he is snatched into Brim Umbra and into the centre of a usurper king’s deadly plot to overthrow the Sun god.

Trapped in the Electric Body Cages by the Brotherhood, a band of wolf alchemists, Dylan is rescued by Nessa Icon, the king’s exiled daughter. Fleeing Brim Umbra, the children steal the Golden Grip, a powerful amulet shaped like a child’s clenched fist, and capture a Helios, a fallen star and legendary solar vehicle to the sun realm.

Pursued by an alchemical Golem and a Dream Hunter, the children trust unexpected new friends: the Moon god and his feisty albatross, pirates of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Skellig Solitaries, awakened marble statues, an ex-highwayman, and a serendipitous winged woman.

Can Dylan and Nessa save the Golden Dawn before the Black Beast devours it and the Sun and Moon gods fall from their celestial thrones?

Fans of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, Winterson’s Tanglewreck, Mervyn Peake, Frances Hardinge, and Alan Garner should enjoy THE GOLDEN GRIP!