Not devoid

Devoid of creativity? Not really. Devoid of discipline? Possibly more so.

I find that writing is something that often comes naturally. Good writing is something that has to be thought out and revised, especially when you want to bring meaning out in your words.

I feel like I'm going in a bit of a spiral in my head right now. Not a scary spiral (or bad necessarily), just loose ends in my head here and there trying to convey something.

Each new sentence brings a new breath, fresher ideas, and a wilder imagination. Have I tried writing in 2nd person?

You find yourself wondering if form is more important than function. Is it possible that no matter what you write, when you write it, the medium is more important than the message? The form is the medium, the message is the function.

2nd person is tough because it's rarely used in traditional writing formats and thus rarely practised.
However, it's used a lot in one of my favourite types of entertainment: gaming. And almost exclusively so in the genre of interactive fiction, which include games like Zork (something I've never played, but apparently it's a classic from the 80s). I haven't played much interactive fiction, but RPGs are similar - taking decisions through dialogue and all that.

Continuing, since I am not devoid of things to say. Is it fair to say that a lot of writing I do is stream-of-consciousness? Does it show that I've been rereading Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul? It's basically an anthology by various American authors writing about... writing. So writing about writing is on my mind a lot, and here we are. Yes, here I am, asking my kaleidoughscope some questions like a magic 8-ball.

That conveniently leads to magic. I must share that I would absolutely love to write fantasy/sci-fi. Not much magic in sci-fi mind you, but technology often substitutes for that element anyway. So yeah, writing that stuff is something that I often think about, but never actually do for various reasons that I will weakly put in point form below:

• Creative fiction is something I haven't done since miniature assignments in English class... in high school (so 10 years ago?)
• I don't have a starting point (i.e. where do I start off an adventure?)
• Any imaginative idea feels like it would have been done already (e.g. elves? mages? faster than light travel?)
• I'm not trying to get published (self-publishing?)
• Dialogue and character descriptions are difficult to write (he grimaced; she scowled; they were laughing uproariously etc.) and not something I have experience doing
• Pronouns are awkward as hell nowadays. As a genderqueer french-speaker, I'm not sure how to deal with he/she/they anymore. I feel like clearly defined gender in writing is ubiquitous for a reason. It's an interesting issue for sure, especially for those feeling colonial oppression.

That kind of was a cons list of why not to write. And that last point is something I could write a whole blog post about.

Where does magic fit into all this?
Go Ask Lyra.

Drum circle I was at this weekend. Wicked time.

 

Catchy Soundtime

My poem from last week drained a lot of my creative energy, so I'm going to let someone else be majestic on my blog this time.

I was recently introduced to a band called The 1975 and I really liked their sound (pun forthcoming). This song is the one that I find the most catchy.

I get a kind of Phil Collins/Peter Gabriel vibe from some of their other work. Or maybe they're just English musicians.

-

Celebrating a long weekend! I like the rain because I'm not camping/canoeing/cottaging like so many of my friends are.

Doodle Maze

A sketched cross-section of an alien brain from star system HD 113766

St. Clair Mare

Walking on the concrete slabs that snap at my feet like a giant crab

I saunter past 1 shop 2 shops 3 shops no; I never stop it's always go, go, go

I keep my head still, keep my eyes glued to the sky that once spilled - red, blue - I fear for the day when the heavens will look like a purple and yellow and grey stew

The new condos pop up in the spring and lay dormant in the fall

Who knows how long I'll live here; always waiting for a call

that never comes, partially 'cause I keep my phone on airplane mode; afraid of radiation, afraid of pollution, afraid of interpersonal communication

It's just another weeknight, followed by just another workday

Then the stench of cheap cologne hits me and I realize it has to be a Friday

I know that if I stop to inhale the St. Clair stench I might be led astray

Which might look like walking into McDcs and saying "hey, can I get a 10 piece chicken McNug meal with a large fries? No drink please. And hey, no worries, I promise this won't be the start of my demise"

All the while trying not to think of the chickens, the bees, the human beings being turned into capitalistic commodities

The slaves to the torment of a bygone world; is it just me or is this dystopian fantasy masquerading as a just society?

I keep walking; I curl my lips up into a flaky half smile

The kind of smile where you try and project happiness and hopefulness

and all you get back are looks of strangeness and fearful eyes

But it's not all bad; in fact it's probably a blessing in disguise

I need to know - am I a fool or thou art a saviour?

I ask Lyra "hey, can you do me a favour?

Can you keep me safe from the monster and my reckless behaviour?"

It's not that I don't trust myself; it's just that trust is hard to come by

When all you care about is the next high and not the next goodbye

When I think of her, the voice I hear is subtle

And when I hear her voice, I don't feel like living a life that's tranquil

It was hard getting cut off from my angel; so thank you Seroquel

Thank you for not lobotomizing me

Thank you for not keeping me strapped down to the beds that smell overcleanly

Thank you for keeping me numb and angry; dull and dreamy; fat and teary

Thank you for supposedly giving me a shot at normality

Now is the time to find some distance from the trauma

Now is not the time to go home crying to my momma

Now is the time to reclaim what was lost in the all the drama

So now is probably not the time to walk on St. Clair in my pajamas

Dedicated to Chester Bennington.

©GGH 2017