To Be Continued?

Inspiration and influence, the ammunition needed for any writer or artist. For many it can be born from either reading or seeing, traveling to far off lands where the scenery would be stupendously beautiful or hideously scarred. That it is up to any writer to judge for themselves on what would innovate them to create anything, be it a crafted stanza of a poem or that really good line at the start of a book. All that people or artists need to start with is a blank canvas or blank piece of paper, since my major passion is to draw so I can relate to that.

Everything starts with a scribble, a scrawl, a slightly skewed like; “Faces in the Wall” dashed in a note book. The images (however cliched or not) conjured up by such a line, your imagination can be swept away to the writing or the paper drawer (failed ideas the first time aren't fail ideas the next time). I guess for John Cheevers and Emily Dickinsons it were emotions and actions that happened in their once daily lives that might have inspired them, the mundane for Cheevers or the private matters for Dickinson.

But what inspires me? History and my drawings, some books I might read along the way. I was always very much wary of being “ influenced”, teased recklessly of stealing ideas. I hated the thought, making my stomach turn when it was suggested I gained influences from other people's stories. But then again I did come with some interesting notion, but that's for later? 

Stories and letters, and letters and stories

I was sick last monday and the time between then and the moment I began to scribble this blog was filled with dread. Then I finally got the question, and that moment I was stumped; are our stories or  others' stories “letters to the world”? It can be said that a person's literally output can be a reflection of him/herself emotions and thoughts, but for some authors, notably Emily Dickinson whose work was entirely a personal endevour. Her commitment to privacy led to a unique collection of her poetry. While she considered her work more of a private hobby or a means to “exorcise” her feelings, it produced statements or reflected her thoughts on matters that surrounded her. In a way it can be said that they were a form a personal correspondence to herself.

So from the point of views of people who think that most stories are letters to the world, I would tend to agree with their point of view. Yes, stories can be our letters to the world, telling of  the accounts that could happen to people in reality and merely change it to suit what you or I as a writer can create from that.  

Trauma

Did Emily Dickinson write about the war?, specifically what was termed calmly the 'American Civil War' . In some respect it raises the question if writers faced with the trauma of a conflict raging in the world somewhere today or in their own backyard, have to in some form or another convey what they feel about that conflict.  With the American Civil War it was a very harsh trauma as the title describes for this blog, the number of deaths caused by Americans killing Americans were in the most part, stupendous. The level of violence exposed to the public was greater than anything imagined in earlier history.

So it would perfectly acceptable for Emily Dickinson to write about what was happening around her in real time. As well her poetry did have vivid description relating to certain instances of the war, notably her poems '409' and '656' which describes the violence. '656' express the amount of blood shed in the war, particularly in one battle; most likely the reports on casualties greatly affected her imagination. With the other one there is one line that resonates within me greatly;

“They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,
like petals from a rose,
When suddenly across the lune
A wind with fingers goes.” The most vivid description of the method of violence to only which the horror stories and anecdotes of veterans of that war can described, to which one remarked ,“and men were cut in half in the volleys of fire.” 

Escape (minute novella?)

I ran away to Paris, sketchbooks and journals bulging in my backpack, and clothes leaking from my suitcase. I let my finances build up for several months, not eating nor sleeping for the anxiety of this plan burned my mind at night. I would be leaving my old life behind, the impending dull servitude of the family; stamping, taxing, lifting, paper and paper, suit and tie, 8 to 4. I wanted out from this impending psychological prison and so I fled.

I became the artist, living in a low rent studio making ends meet, no laws, no guidelines to follow. Where dreams can come to fruition and my linguistic skills improve (hopefully). With dirty house parties and where drunk nerds will stumble and singing 'Les Marseilles', their sweet faces kissing concrete in euphoria. My name oozing through the confines of ears in the clubs and cafe discussions , egos rising and falling in tibal moons. All the while shut away typing away at my desk, the crunch of pencil on paper scribbling; in quiet solitude or with the sounds of angry French smattering from the street below.

Living cheap with old jeans and a leather jacket lurking where the beatniks and futurists roam, cafes and clubs; I'll be there with a coke and a pen. Crooning in broken French or in indignant English  the smell of paints and graphite on my jacket and collar. Knowing full well that I ran away to Paris; that was until my father stepped through the door.  

art for the sake of art?

Me? - Week 2 guh

Week 2 rolls by quickly with my avid gaming and incessant lying in bed staring at the ceiling;the previous line that was written was terrible. Glenn again has given us a series of choice question to answer in this current blog, as the world swirled in a bloody ooze and the light in my room decided to die a horrid death. Well let me begin to say that I grew up on the isolated archipelago of The Seychelles (the hardest thing for British people to pronounce), and for practically most of my life this sun swept oxymoron of a life has been perplexing. I have 4 interesting characters in my life including my grandmother and my aunty Meher, both have considerable opinion and energy. My grandmother is a person who sees a person being more useful doing something practical, which I resented when my interest in artistic endeavours were passed over nor acknowledge by her. While my aunty Meher, the grammatical Nazi and imposing nature of correctness, discussing anything with her is a challenge and a war.

In reading I found comfort and solitude in tumultuous times during my youth; I read Frank Herbert's Dune, Science fiction short stories, fantasy (child and adult fiction), and alternative world history. I fell in love with stories that made the world didn't seem quite right. These stories tickled my mind and what I drew/wrote, making me dream of unrealistic futures and worlds unseen. The latest idea to crop up is of Gor'Ve'Dar, something which I have to discuss off topic. 

 

Week 1 - ...No Comment o.o

Week 1 has gone by and I'm left wondering how and what do I have to deal with for the coming months of this new semester. We came out of Glenn's first class with a series of questions to engage our thoughts (I hate people who poke into my brains) on what our perceptions on writing are and how we are as writers; here is the list of the following. How I became a writer? (oohh a doozy), no writer emerges from childhood into a pristine environment free from other peoples biases about writers, and is the 'writer' as an 'artist' special? and so, how?

As a writer? The honest truth is that I became a writer as a fault of my early incessant drawing where I were creating worlds and characters of history, and I wanted to tell the story, so I began writing the background stories (even though I was hounded for plagiarising) and that facilitated an interest in creating bigger backdrops and universes. But I always had a fear to write or express myself when I was younger in relation to the second question Gave gave; I was given the impression that writers were gods when it came to the literary field especially from one aunt of mine! Also that being a writer rather than a businessman was a disappointment;  and with being considered “special”, Nope! Writers and Artists are burdened with the proof that they are human and end up doing the same fallacies that humans do every-time.