IF YOU DON'T THINK, THEN YOU SHOULDN'T TALK
I appear to have lost the threads of writing this week. The tighter I hold onto the rope, the more frayed ends seem to be sticking out of my white knuckled fist. Such is writing I guess. Not every day gets to be a leisurely walk in the park with the sun on your back, though it does make me wonder. Day in, day out, I see guys tattooing original art (at least up at the top end of the scale) and I sometimes wonder where it all comes from? Is it easier to create a single image than it is three thousand words? One certainly doesn't take more time than the other. Maybe writers would generally be more productive if we knew somebody was going to hand over a fistful of crisp twenty pound notes at the end of the day. That would be an interesting experiment don't you think?
Would you cough up £300 for Stephen King or Neil Gaiman to write a short story for you and only you? What would you do with it when the author handed it over? Scan it and post it online for all to see or stash it away somewhere you could purr over it in private? How long could the author keep it up? Indefinitely? Who knows.
It's funny how different types of art prompt a different response but I'm not going to think too hard about it because it hurts my head.
To relieve the hurt behind my eyes, some lovely person released the teaser poster for SPECTRE this morning. If it's anything like the last three Bond films, this is likely to be the highlight of my cinematic year. Sadly, it's not out until at least early November (or October 23 if you happen to be in Denmark) which is kind of wishing my life away but I'm not holding my breath over anything else... and that includes the ruck of movies from the Marvel camp.
Here's that poster... plus another that I kinda like too:
After a day of 'engineering' tracks in GarageBand - that podcast is still on its way - and proofing The Family Of Noise, lying around in front of Casino Royale sounds like lightning hatched in a bottle.
Despite - or should that be in spite of - my earlier statement of writing being like trying to hold on to an unravelling rope, now that I look closer at one of my notebooks on the table, I find this to be a huge lie.
Two poems have been written this week. I'd forgotten I had done both, possibly because of the hour of darkness at which they were created. These are both headed for a collection called (forgive me if I've mentioned this already) Fear Makes The Wolf Look Bigger.
Actually, I use the word poetry loosely here. If you consider the thousands of words Bukowski laid down to be poetry, then yes it is, but maybe it would be more honest to say they were short stories without a structure. Fragments of a narrative.
Yeah... That sits a lot more comfortably with me.