Wednesday, 20 August 2008


Aggressively self-conscious, my words sit uncomfortably on the page as if wrestled there, shouting "Listen to us! We evoke!"

Aggresively self-conscious, I cringe at my clumsy attempts to write; at my pleading apologies.

I cannot tell a story. I can give you the bare bones of a story, but I cannot make it real, worth experiencing. I cannot make the words dance. You can come along for the ride, but the words will not carry you: you must work, too.

Pleadingly self-conscious as this is, I do not mind that people will see this writing. I mind that you will think that this is the best that I can do, or that I am invested in these words. I mind that you may see my self-criticism as a transparent device to gain praise*; or that you will see this displeasure as despair, not as a holding pattern, waiting for better things.

I am detached.

I intend to look back at this with relief, knowing that I no longer roughly shove words into place; able to set them down gently; content.

Do I even want to aspire to a style such as this? Does my interpretation of it have any merit? Yes, I want to fit words neatly and efficiently into order, to amuse and to evoke, but do I want my words to dance like this**?

The answer to these questions will come in time***.

So I play. I think that one day I will tell a story to draw you**** in, to make you want to hear more. Meanwhile, I take baby steps.

* It's actually a poor substitute for content worth reading - I ran out of things to say.

**"like this" refers to how they would dance had I actually managed to make this writing work; an improved version of this, i.e. the style for which I appear to be aiming in this post. Obviously I do not want to make them dance like they do in this passage. That would be stupid.

*** I rather suspect that it will be "No."

**** Assuming, of course, that you come back.

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