The dark places
Monday, November 15, 2004
A long week without a post. I have done work on the novel for the NaNoWriMo but I even missed a couple of days there recently, putting me behind schedule for the 50,000 target: I'm around 19,000 and half way through the month.
An interesting piece in The Observer on Sunday about Des Hogan, a writer I knew in London briefly back in the mid 80s. He was a tutor at the City Lit and living in Catford then and I met him a few times after his classes when I met up with a mate who was learning from him. We got on, I guess, and I showed him some stories and I went to Catford to visit him. That was about it. Reading of his 'disappearance' brought back a lot of memories of that time - not many of Des himself but of drinking and trying and failing to write.
It's been that sort of week; one for memory and regret and looking at lost chances. I went through a period of about two years where every story I wrote was done in the style of Hogan's 'Diamonds'. My take on the style, of course, and missing all the subtlety and beauty of Des's unique way of seeing things. For me it was a way to write lazy, skating over feelings and hiding shallows under portentous statements.
All of this has led me for the first time in the last few years (it's a cyclical thing!) to revisit the abuse I suffered as a child and to wonder how much that lies at the root of my inability to get words down. I can see how it affects most of the other parts of my life and many of the ramifications I have dealt with but the war with writing never seems to end. My mind throws up idea after idea on an almost hourly basis but when it comes time or I have the chance to start putting the ideas into words the wall comes up. This is no procrastination, this is serious neurosis!
That's the self-pitying post of the month. Tomorrow - how to make a cage for your hamster.
An interesting piece in The Observer on Sunday about Des Hogan, a writer I knew in London briefly back in the mid 80s. He was a tutor at the City Lit and living in Catford then and I met him a few times after his classes when I met up with a mate who was learning from him. We got on, I guess, and I showed him some stories and I went to Catford to visit him. That was about it. Reading of his 'disappearance' brought back a lot of memories of that time - not many of Des himself but of drinking and trying and failing to write.
It's been that sort of week; one for memory and regret and looking at lost chances. I went through a period of about two years where every story I wrote was done in the style of Hogan's 'Diamonds'. My take on the style, of course, and missing all the subtlety and beauty of Des's unique way of seeing things. For me it was a way to write lazy, skating over feelings and hiding shallows under portentous statements.
All of this has led me for the first time in the last few years (it's a cyclical thing!) to revisit the abuse I suffered as a child and to wonder how much that lies at the root of my inability to get words down. I can see how it affects most of the other parts of my life and many of the ramifications I have dealt with but the war with writing never seems to end. My mind throws up idea after idea on an almost hourly basis but when it comes time or I have the chance to start putting the ideas into words the wall comes up. This is no procrastination, this is serious neurosis!
That's the self-pitying post of the month. Tomorrow - how to make a cage for your hamster.
