Friday, June 29, 2007

Every serious writer has their own unique story of how they fell into the craft and some will love writing more than others, and what is this love of writing?

Loving a Muse. That's it, simple when you get to understand this, but it's the getting "there" that causes upset.

"There" is a place within one escapes to when their fizz of literate creation is on, and poets discover that one does it for Love over money, practicing along the lines of the excellant Beth Webb.

And there are two sides to writing i think. The creative side - the act and art of fiction - and a critical side. The prose one creates when talking seriously of Art. The critical side is a logical aspect, the argument/s we rehearse in print which prove - or nea - to oneself that ones writing venture and journey is a natural/sensible/logical reality; as it is this activity of printing an analytical response to the Art we create, the proclamation of ones authorial sureness and writerly faith, which decides - in ones mind - how we are getting on in the task of acheiving the goal we set ourself when starting out with but a dream, talent and instinct, most with no idea of how to realise it, certainly me.

This is the pyschological edifice built as we blather. An ivory tower of ever increasing standards being set and reached, with a consistency whereby intellectual faith accrues within the box of smoke and mirrors in ones mind, in a manner which - hopefully - we are happy with to broadcast and defend publicly in the act of "publishing" - preferably - Art.

Are ones Art targets met to whatever average one sets in print and - crucially - satisfying the artsy inspector within us all. The officious LUAS tram ticket-officer, the post-modern - po-mo - character pro-actively seeking fault and reason to fail or "reject" whatever piece of litereate art is on public display by, "others." Can s/he prove you need ejecting off the tram of literacy for being a useless writer?

Sod s/he windbags unite, the cry goes up to the braying pack of hacks happy to stick a stilletoe in you, mob handed if the order comes from whoever has most authorial gravitas in the office, whoever's dishing out the ruperts' order to the send out slave learning how to get on in journalism.

The basic training of a writer is learning how to love ones Muse, by setting aside time in the day for s/he worshipping, and do it until it is second nature, no matter who laughs. Few get this very simple understanding and logical premise of a solid practice.
What is a love of writing but loving ones Muse?

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